SEPTEMBER 



September : the very name has magic. In 

 an old book, half in Latin half in English, 

 about the months, which I came upon in a 

 forgotten moth-eaten library years ago, and in 

 part copied, and to my regret have not seen 

 or heard of since, or anywhere been able to 

 trace, I remember a singular passage about 

 this month. Much had been said about the 

 flowers of ' these golden weekes that doe lye 

 between the thunderous heates of summer 

 and the windy gioomes of winter ' ; of those 

 flowers and plants which bloom in gardens, 

 and those, as the harebell and poppy and late- 

 flowering gorse, which light the green garths 

 of meadow and woodland ; as the bryony, 

 which trails among the broken copses and 

 interweaves the ruddy masses of bramble ; as 

 the traveller's-joy, which hangs its frail wreaths 

 of phantom -snow along the crests of every 

 hedgerow of beech and hornbeam. Of the 



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