ONCE more in the misty air of autumn the woods put on 

 their royal splendours. The wind has scattered the 

 bright colour of the chestnut ; the rain has robbed the 

 lime tree of its gilded leaves. The sullen foliage of the 

 ash, that never gains from autumn skies an answering 

 touch of fire, lies dark upon the woodland paths. But 

 the green boughs of the oak are brightening with rich 

 gleams of colour ; branches of wild cherry seem wrapped 

 in crimson flame ; noble elm trees wear undimmed their 

 crowns of gold. Sheets of bracken, brown with sun and 

 rain, tinge with the hue of heather all the barren hills. 

 Along the hedgerows, and in green lane and coppice, the 

 maples ripen to their prime. Some are lightly touched 

 with colour here and there ; one is kindling in a ruddy 

 glow; here among the wrinkled branches, as by the 

 wand of a magician, every leaf is turned to gold. Bright, 

 too, is the 'tattered foliage of the bramble, clouded with 

 soft shades of brown and crimson, veined with tender 



