The Confessions of a Poacher. 75 



the year has come. The duns and browns are 

 over the woods, and the leaves come fitfully 

 flickering down. Everything out of doors 

 testifies that autumn is waning, and that winter 

 will soon be upon us. The colours of the few 

 remaining flowers are fading, and nature is be- 

 ginning to have a washed-out appearance. The 

 feathery plumes of the ash are everywhere 

 strewn beneath the trees, for, just as the ash is 

 the first to burst into leaf, so it is the first to 

 go. The foliage of the oak is already as- 

 suming a bright chestnut, though the leaves 

 will remain throughout the year. In the oak 

 avenues the acorns are lying in great quantities, 

 though oak mast is not now the important 

 product it once was, cheap grain having 

 relegated it almost exclusively to the use of 

 the birds. And now immense flocks of wood 

 pigeons flutter in the trees or pick up the food 

 from beneath. The garnering of the grain, the 

 flocking of migratory birds, the wild clanging 

 of fowl in the night sky these are the sights 

 and sounds that set the poacher's thoughts off 

 in the old grooves. 



