THROUGH THE CHANGING YEAR 129 



looks crude, the sky looks cold. Recently, as 

 I walked along a country-road, there was such 

 a scene on either hand. But, presently I came 

 to some tall trees by the roadside, beech and 

 elm, only the lower part of their grey stems 

 hidden by a grey oak paling. The wet road 

 was grey. Farther on a newly-ploughed field 

 was a rich brown. The grass of a more distant 

 field looked grey, and the trees beyond took up 

 the note. Then two haystacks came into view 

 and added a pleasant dun-coloured note ; then 

 came a cheery-looking, thatched, black-and- 

 white farmhouse. The line of grass in the 

 near hedgerow looked bright not harsh in hue. 

 The whole was enclosed between the grey road 

 beneath and the grey sky above. Nature was 

 playing quiet colour-music and feeling was 

 quick to enjoy it. Such pleasures as these are 

 the irreducible minimum of what the winter 

 has for us. Nay, one should not speak of 

 minimum. The beauty is different from, 

 rather than less fine in quality than, what is 

 given at any other season. 



The reader may well ask to be spared any 

 more attempts to describe in words the beauty 

 of nature. They are inadequate at the best, 



