176 Autumn 



like the squirrel who is storing the hazel nut, will 

 sleep through the frost ; and only a few, like the holly, 

 will brave the snow in a dark-green mantle. 



A music sweeter than any bird's song rings from 

 copse and thicket ; for children, whose ruddy faces are 

 tanned with exposure to the hot suns of summer and 

 stained with the juice of blackberries, are laughing with 

 glee and triumph as they crush through the tangle of 

 weeds and shrubs to rifle the hazel bush and bramble 

 of their treasures, stopping every now and then to 

 rush hopelessly after a rabbit that bolts to its burrow, 

 or pelt one another with fungus torn from the rotting 

 elm. Some are only for pleasure, but many that a 

 little may be added to the simple store a widowed 

 mother or disabled father is preparing against the 

 privations of winter. On their brows, however, care 

 sits lightly. The field-mouse does not fill his little 

 granary with a blither heart than do these gather for 

 the humble larder, and all the rest of the year they 

 anticipate with pleasure these autumnal roamings. 

 Close up to the Wolds a line of crab-trees, allowed to 

 grow as a shelter for the sheep, is their orchard ; and it is 

 good to see them climbing and shaking the gnarled 

 boughs, laughing as they cram the bitter fruit into 

 bag or pillow-slip, or wearing themselves out with fun 

 till they are hardly able to toil home under their 

 burdens. Yet next morning, shortly after the misty 

 daybreak, they will be seen quartering the hilly old 

 pastures for mushrooms. 



