THE PASTURE IN NOVEMBER 257 



winged wild bee are with them. Their summer, 

 like ours, is gone, and they with it, though a few 

 of the young queen mothers are safely tucked 

 away in warm crevices, to sleep secure until May 

 wakes them for the peopling of the place once 

 more. 



I had thought May with its tender pastels of 

 young color and its bubbling joy of spring song 

 the most beautiful month in this gentle world of 

 out-of-doors, but that was in May. Now I am 

 convinced that November in its ethereal serenity 

 is loveliest. May held but the vivid joy of 

 ecstatic expectation; November speaks with the 

 peace of fulfilment and the calm understanding of 

 those who look with clear eyes into another 

 world. 



Between midnight and dawn I fancy the pas- 

 ture folk who are still this side the pale get their 

 farthest glimpse into the world which lies beyond. 

 The pasture on whose bosom they dwell sleeps 

 deeply then, its breathing not even faintly rust- 

 ling the frost-browned leaves of the white oaks, 

 not even sighing those ancient, druidical hymns 

 through the pine tops. Sometimes as I stand 

 with them I try to feel this bosom rise and fall in 

 the slow rhythm of deep slumber, but even on 



