288 THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



the eye is working at a lower focus that the scents of 

 night are far more certain than those of day, or is it 

 that the moisture and the velvet of night keep them 

 in a thicker stream and purer ? Surely, not only is our 

 best smell of autumn the nutty odour of fallen leaves, 

 most companionable now, but we perceive, as though 

 for the first time, that there is one smell of elm, 

 another of the tan of oak, another of hazel, another of 

 maple, whereas in the day we can scarcely tell the 

 difference between larch and beech. And here, at 

 the foot of a clay bank, is the reek of leaves fast 

 turning to mud, and here in the grip is the trail that 

 a fox has left in the air, and through it there comes 

 from the orchard side the acid message of the cider 

 they made a good month ago. The must from which 

 they squeezed every drop of juice lies there in a heap, 

 perhaps for winter fuel, and even three months hence 

 we shall get that acid smell on a favourable night, 

 though it is not there, or passes unheeded, by day. 



The soft brush of our boots on the grass, and the 

 suck with which they leave the clay, prevent us from 

 knowing just how silent the night is. When we 

 stand still, it is as though a clamour had ceased, then 

 we find ourselves listening as though for the fall of 

 the proverbial pin. It comes in the crackling flutter 

 of a leaf in the next tree. Then we hear the rush of 

 the breeze that, in fact, scarcely fans the cheek, and 

 the lift and fall of a bramble-bush responding to its 

 almost infinitesimal pressure. The roar of a railway 

 train comes five miles, and its whistle makes as clear 

 a streak on the silence as the hoot of a tawny owl 

 from the wood a hundred yards away. Then out of the 

 unheard comes the mellow common time of a horse 



