NOVEMBER 253 



gardeners, as all good men would be if Fates 

 were kind. 



The "broode" of nightingales would doubt- 

 less be silent when November came, even in 

 nightingale land, but for us, who can say 



" I am at one with all the kinsman things 

 That e'er my Father fathered," 



it is no bad exchange to see the blue jays 

 flitting among the moss-grown boughs, or to 

 see a small owl fare forth into the silent dusk. 

 An owl belongs to an orchard. I can think of 

 them as being nowhere else. Perhaps that is 

 because there were owls complaining to the 

 moon that shone through the orchard trees at 

 grandfather's, and because to that lost Eden 

 my homesick thoughts so often fly. 



" Was it always Spring in the long-ago, 

 At grandfather's ? 



Was the orchard hid always in rosy snow ; 

 In its shades did the violets always grow, 

 While blackbirds paced, with crests aglow 

 Under the pines where softest winds 

 Rocked the cradle of baby bird, 

 To tunes the sweetest ever heard ? 

 Tunes that come to my longing ears, 

 Over the silence of many years, 

 From grandfather's ! 



