DAYS OF AUTUMN 169 



in the rushes. Inset life was on the wane, 

 adventure stirred their little hearts to 

 excitement. Every passing of the wind 

 beckoned a forlorn following of leaves from 

 the trees, a spider seeking hibernation threw 

 a prospecting line of silk against the face. 

 With a tired sound the starred sycamore 

 leaves, each condemned by the black patch 

 of autumn, fluttered to the earth ; by 

 listening closely it was possible to hear the 

 stalks break from the twigs. Flittering 

 like chafer beetles in a dusky summer 

 night the vaned seeds risped and whirled 

 away from the parent trees. As yet the 

 conflagration had not caught the forest, 

 only isolated flames browned a beech tree, 

 scorched the branch of an ash with yellow 

 or made a buff haze in the distant oaks. It 

 seemed as though the funeral pyre of dead 

 summer would blaze in majesty only when 

 the swallows had left. 



One afternoon their shriller notes told 

 that the hour was approaching. So eager 



