Sep- to a brief and terrible loveliness on the face of 

 tember. one su dd e nry quiet from the fever of youth 

 and proud beauty. There is not a month 

 when the gold of the sun and the silver of the 

 moon are not woven, when the rose of sunset 

 does not lie upon hills which reddened to 

 the rose of dawn, when the rainbow is not 

 let loose from the tangled nets of rain and 

 wind, when the morning-star and the evening- 

 star do not rise and set. 



And yet, for some, there is no month that 

 has the veiled magic of September. 



'The month of peace,' 'the month of 

 beauty,' it is called in many Gaelic songs and 

 tales; and often, 'Summer-end.' I remember 

 an old rami, perhaps still said or sung before 

 the peat-fires, that it was in this month God 

 created Peace ; again, an island-tale of Christ 

 as a shepherd and the months as sheep strayed 

 upon the hills of time. The Shepherd went 

 out upon the hills, and gathered them one by 

 one, and led them to the fold : but, before the 

 fold was reached, a great wind of snow came 

 down out of the corries, and on the left a wild 

 flood arose, and on the narrow path there was 

 room only, and that hardly, for the Shepherd. 

 So He looked to see which one of the twelve 

 He might perchance save, by lifting it in His 

 strong arms and going with it alone to the 



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