A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 263 



POSTSCRIPT. 



MY DEAR PATERSON 



September iotk. The year is going out peacefully : 

 no gales wreck the fading garden, no frost cuts down 

 the lingering beauty of the borders. Yesterday was 

 all pale sunlight, almost shadowless ; wherein Bish, 

 working among the turnips, was but a flat shade 

 among airy spaces of colour, a ghostly gardener in a 

 silent world. To-day the wind blusters from the 

 south; the sky is heavy with grey cloud; overhead the 

 gathering swallows wheel and balance. To-morrow 

 may be high summer again, with the sun of July 

 breaking out of the morning mists. But whatsoever 

 the day may be, summer is gone past recall 



" Scende la vita, ch' alfin cade." 



