NOVEMBER 127 



At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves, 



And the breath 



Of the fading edges of box beneath, 

 And the year's last rose.' 



On the other hand, Mr. Bright, almost parodying this, 

 says * the air is soft and warm and still . . . there is 

 an aromatic fragrance everywhere from the withering 

 leaves and from the lingering flowers.' He is forced, 

 however, to add, 'but there is sadness with it all,' and 

 it is the only note of sadness in the Year in a Lancashire 

 Garden. To a great extent I must agree with him. 

 November, especially the latter part of it, is not a 

 bright month in the garden, in some respects it is more 

 gloomy even than December ; but with all its dulness 

 and gloominess I hold that it has an interest and even 

 a beauty of its own. And I am glad to say that I am 

 not alone in my appreciation of the garden in Novem- 

 ber, for among the ornaments of the garden I now 

 reckon the starlings. They have been away for some 

 months, but are now coming back to us. What they 

 find on the lawn I do not exactly know, but they are 

 very busy, and apparently very happy, and I admire 

 them much, and gladly welcome them. 



