THROUGH THE CHANGING YEAR 127 



I shall not have the chance of forgetting, for 

 it is to be seen at not very long intervals, from 

 a window facing west. Close at hand were 

 rich green yew and holly and fir, and a climb- 

 ing rose on the house-wall that had not lost its 

 leaves. Beyond were the giant limbs of a great 

 horse-chestnut, with just a few leaves, dead 

 gold in colour, left clinging to the branches. 

 Beyond again was an oak, of a duller golden 

 hue; with a dense background of bare elm, 

 and ash and beech. There was a slight haze, 

 and the sun was setting behind the trees : a 

 huge, red, glowing ball. This afternoon, the 

 air being clear, the sun and the western sky 

 were golden. The picture from the window 

 was still beautiful, but not so beautiful as 

 before ; the colour-scheme was not complete. 



Trees seldom look more beautiful than when, 

 after rain, the westering sun shines on them 

 from under the cloud. One such scene remains 

 all the more clearly in my memory because I 

 made a rough colour-note of it at the time. I 

 often pass the place under ordinary conditions 

 and think how that one day I saw it transfigured. 

 It was but a large field, with a tree here and 

 there, other trees in the hedgerows beyond, 



