A MISTY MORNING. 



NOVEMEEE IN BKOADLAND. 



Buy my caller herrin' ! Ye little ken their worth, 



Wha'll buy my caller herrin' ? Oh ye may call them vulgar f arin' ; 



Wives and mithers, maist despairin', 



Ca' them lives o' men.' Lady Nairn. 



COLD, damp drizzle generally ushers in the dreariest of the Broadland 

 months November. It is the month of fogs and mists ; and 



* Driving sleets deform the day.' 



Jim Trett, the fenman's, opinion would be that ' Nowember's neither 

 heer nor theer nor one thing nor th' 'tother a kind o' dade an' alive 

 affair ! ' The last remnants of the sere and withered leaves are stripped 

 from the branches of the woodland trees, and they lie, a natural matting, to protect 

 the tender shoots of a future generation of wild plants which love to spread their 

 flowers in the glade and on the hedgebank. Flora is not dead, but taking needful 

 repose. 



Intervals of pleasant weather occasionally brighten the face of Nature, and 

 the sunlight flings the shadows of the trees distinctly upon the land, and we are 

 tempted forth to lengthy rambles. Such a morning finds us in the train which 

 6 fusses ' along through Broadland. There is scarcely a breath of wind, and the 

 rays of the morning sun are dazzling after days of storm and mist and gloom. 



