THE PASTURE IN NOVEMBER 263 



If it were not that some of these still cling the 

 illusion might be complete. 



There too, to be sure, are the brown stems of 

 the pasture goldenrod standing stiffly as if to 

 state with grim definiteness that all rainbow 

 hopes are folly and there will be no more blossom- 

 ing for them. Their leaves are dun and sere 

 where they have not already fallen and their tops 

 that in early September were such soft cumulus 

 clouds of golden yellow are but scrawny clots of 

 brown, draggled by the tears in which the sud- 

 den sun has drowned the pasture. Yet these 

 least of all should be pessimistic in November, 

 for as the sun dries their tears another summer 

 comes back to them and to us, Indian summer, 

 which is the finest season of the year. The 

 Indian winter of the dark hours before dawn 

 steals down with all spears pointed for the mas- 

 sacre of the summer flowers that still linger un- 

 protected, and the white magic of its own cold 

 changes the spears to delicate, tiny frost fronds 

 and blooms on all the outdoor world. Then, with 

 the full day, comes Indian summer, slipping 

 along all the pasture paths and lingering in the 

 sheltered hollows among the evergreens. In her 

 presence all the sorrowing plants seem to lift 



