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 gloomes 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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