LOCH CRERAfr. 



NOVEMBER, 1881. 



" Ichabod ! Ichabod ! the glory is departed," we ex- 

 claim, while traversing the woods, now nearly cleared of 

 their brilliant apparel. But there are lovely peeps to be 

 had still, although the wind, with the bitterness of jealousy, 

 is swirling even the tenacious leaves of the oak tree after 

 those of the plane tree, the horse-chestnut, the lime, and 

 the birch. The beeches still hang on to their bunting in 

 the sheltered nooks, but the larches have almost been 

 stripped, except where their delicately-pale yellow needles 

 have been well protected. In such cases, the effect of a 

 cluster of young larches around the rich uninjured green 

 of the graceful Douglas pine is most charming ; for this 

 pine, like the spruce, defies alike the teeth of the frost 

 and the sharpened scissors of the east wind. 



Our winter prospects are rather cheerless, for already 

 the snow has crept down to near the foot of Ben Breac 

 not with the surreptitious movement of a visitor, but 

 with the quiet, self-satisfied confidence of a boarder that 

 meant to make itself comfortable; so no wonder the 

 brackens have completely struck their colours, and are 

 retreating into the heath, while the varied ferns are pale 

 with dread, and hang, cold, bleached, and shivering, 

 awaiting the end. How beautiful is death, as it creeps 

 upon them stealthily, and spreads its delicately-graduated 

 tints from drooping frond to frond ! 



" What is it they are talking about ? " asks a friend, as 

 unwonted animation and earnestness pervades the faces 

 of the natives. What indeed, but about the most serious 

 question of the hour. How are your potatoes? Did 

 the June frost hurt them much ? Has the muggy weather 

 of August and September done still greater damage by 



