ATTLS 



THOUGH September is apt to leave us in a stormy mood, 

 it is a month full of gracious days, that to our impatient 

 souls seem doubly welcome after the fickle temper of the 

 summer j days of bright skies and balmy air \ days whose 

 quiet ending wraps the low hills in soft grey vapour, 

 blending with a dreamy haze the border line of sea 

 and sky. The trees seem still to wear the dress of 

 summer; but when we look again there is a tinge of 

 brown among the greenness. The scent of dying leaves' 

 is already in the air. The whole landscape seems to 

 wait for that touch of magic that shall transmute to 

 gold its fading green. 



The flowers of the late summer linger still. The 

 Canterbury bell still hangs its purple blossoms from the 

 hedgerows, and the sweet breath of woodbine still scents 

 the twilight air. Some flowers there are which belong 

 only to this season. It is only at the approach of 

 autumn that the low-lying meadows glow with purple 

 crocus. It is only as the summer passes that there open 



