TITE SUMMER OF SAINT MARTIN 



are midway through the autumn. The time is 

 far advanced,' and winter lingers at the gate. 

 But, as we look across the landscape, we find almost 

 more of summer in it than of autumn still. We have 

 indeed felt the print of icy fingers ; flowers have long 

 been fading at the fatal touch, and hilltops have been 

 white with early snow. But just as we begin to think 

 that winter is upon us, the air grows soft and gentle, 

 and there broods over the land the glamour of the 

 Indian summer. 



' The summer and the winter here, 



Midway a truce are holding ; 

 A soft, consenting atmosphere 

 Their tents of peace enfolding.' 



It is a time of rest and calm. Ended are all the 

 trials and troubles of the wayward season. The har- 

 vest has been gathered in, and in orderly array the 

 corn-stacks cluster round the quiet homesteads. In 



