NOVEMBER 251 



cuplike nest of the vireo? Who guessed 

 that high in the elm the oriole had hung his 

 tossing cradle ? A walk across the lawn will 

 convince one that he is not its only tenant, 

 nor has he the fairest lodging or the nimblest 

 air. 



It is in the early November that we recover 

 our joy in the forgotten beauty of the ever- 

 greens. When beechen leaves were unfolding 

 we did not notice how the pines were pushing 

 out whorls of delicate needles ; and when we 

 were absorbed in the waving of green birch 

 boughs we did not mark the firs or the hem- 

 locks. Now they are old friends, welcomed 

 back, and richer for the experience of another 

 summer. 



There is no need to care if the garden is 

 hidden by the fallen maple leaves, for the day 

 of the red oaks is not here until All Saints' 

 Summer has come. Then what compares with 

 the soft reds and crimsons and purples and 

 browns, softened and mellowed by the ineffable 

 haze of Indian summer ? Seen across a marsh, 

 all brown with wasted grasses, or grey with 

 plumes of seeded goldenrod, and below a sky, 

 soft, distant, pale, there is no vista more to be 



