THROUGH THE CHANGING YEAR 151 



only the oak, and a few leaves still clinging to 

 a branch here and there, the trees will have 

 assumed the aspect they will bear, save for 

 snow and frost, until the sap begins to move 

 upwards again in the spring-time. So we come 

 again to the point at which we *'ran in" to the 

 cycle of the year. 



One or two things remain to be said. We 

 ought to pay a tribute to the beauty and pathos 

 of the falling and fallen leaves. We have seen 

 that the trees from which they fall do not need 

 our pity. But the delicately framed and 

 beautifully shaped and coloured leaves, that 

 have served the trees so well, and not the trees 

 alone, and that now are cast adrift and fall to 

 the ground, and when they have fallen, are 

 still so beautiful for a time, spreading a carpet 

 that is pleasant both to see and to walk upon, 

 these no stern reflection that they are uncon- 

 scious both of their glory and their fate can 

 prevent us from pitying, in that, trodden or 

 untrodden, gathered into heaps to be burned 

 or slowly turned to mould, their individual 

 loveliness, their very existence, is close upon 

 its end 



Before we ''run out " of the unending cycle, 



