CHAPTER XX 



THE PASTURE IN NOVEMBER 



In late autumn the pasture is a place of ghosts, 

 yet ghosts so friendly withal that one walks 

 among them unafraid. November is the month 

 of transition when many of the pasture folk pass 

 on to another, perhaps a better life. The blue- 

 jays stop their harsh teasing screams now and 

 then to toll a clear, musical passing bell for these, 

 and the nuthatches are goblin gabriels blowing 

 eerie trumps of resurrection to which the spirits 

 of the bee people drone a second as they wing 

 their way onward. The great white town of the 

 white-faced hornets is conspicuous on the blue- 

 berry bush down in the far corner and within it 

 are the husks of a few of its once roaringly busy 

 inhabitants. But it is very quiet and only a few 

 of the husks remain. The others are scattered 

 the pasture over and on them the shrubs drop red 

 fruit and wreathed beauty or autumn leaves, in 

 memoriam. The bumblebees, the yellowjackets 



and many another variety of scintillant, fairy- 



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