MINSTREL WEATHER 



coming or going!" The crow does not re- 

 main in the pale North simply out of devo- 

 tion to us. He is above mortal vicissitudes ; 

 behind his demoniac eye dwells a critique 

 of humanity which he would not be 

 bothered to utter if he could. The soul 

 of the satirist once abode in a crow. 



Forsaken nests and rattling reeds along 

 the stream, pools in the hollows edged 

 with thin ice, ragged leaves clutched at by 

 the winds, desperate buds of hepatica and 

 cowslip where a sloping bank catches 

 warmth at noon, fences stripped of vines 

 and ghostly with dead clematis, a few 

 frozen apples swinging on the top boughs, 

 trampled fields and pelting rain and with 

 it all a grandeur more serene than melan- 

 choly. November's lovers are not per- 

 verse, declaring this. They see half- 

 indicated colors and hear low sounds. 

 They love the mellow light better than 

 the blaze of rich July, and they are loyal 

 to November because she speaks in quiet 

 tones not heard through the eagerness or 

 snow silence of other months. It is the 

 sentimentalist who sees only gloom and 

 the weariness of departure now. Novem- 

 ber is ruddier than many a day of spring 



[64] 



