io8 HILLSIDE, ROCK, AND DALE 



I am on a small hill looking down upon a piece 

 of woodland growing on a gently sloping ridge. 

 From the lowest bush near the brook to the highest 

 tree on the hill, where the branches seem to touch 

 the dome of blue, there is a soft blending of colours, 

 which in their autumn charm outrival all other scenes 

 in this pageant. It seems to be too fascinating to 

 look away from, yet it is almost impossible to single 

 out any one tree. If we gaze at one only, another 

 near clothed in a paler tint of falling foliage attracts 

 the eye, and looking at that, another rival colour 

 takes our attention. There are not two trees alike 

 in this whole sheet of woodland, and all is so calm 

 and so suggestive of the handiwork of the great 

 Creator, that we may well become lost in admiration. 

 Small flocks of rooks fly over the wood, and now 

 and then a bolt of blue flies from one oak to another ; 

 pigeons are now filling their crops with acorns ; and 

 jays in twos and threes are on the ground nearer me. 

 One comes quite close, and as it swallows an acorn 

 its throat is seen swelling as the large seeds are 

 picked up. Rabbits bolting in the bracken make 

 some noise, for now the tall ferns are drying 

 and their beauty is fading. These clear, still days 

 leave nights of frost, and this does most to destroy 

 the glory of autumn. The leaves drop before their 

 fullest beauty is reached, and the weight of the 

 condensed mists may strip trees in one night. Then 



