THE PAGEANT OF THE SEASONS 109 



from the north comes a cutting cold wind, and in 

 a few days autumn, as far as its beauty is concerned, 

 is gone and the months of winter are come. 



The pageant has gone ; it has passed " as a tale that 

 is told." In the beauty of the chestnut foliage we 

 saw the seasons reflected. Their tints seemed to 

 include all the colours of the year ; but they too have 

 faded away and now are dead. We watched them as 

 they fell when the leaves parted from the branches, 

 weighted down with the cold, heavy dew of evening, 

 they floated a moment, as if reluctantly leaving their 

 hold, then fell in a tumbling to the ground and 

 added to the decaying slush beneath. There is 

 sadness in dying autumn such as we all must 

 see. The happy seasons now are mouldering to 

 decay; the hours we spent with Nature are now but 

 sunny memories, which are not to be forgotten 

 because their glories are now waning. 



I look upon the empty wood from underneath an 

 old beech; there is shelter here from the wild north 

 wind, and the heavy clouds above look threatening. 

 Here and there a dead leaf, which has clung to the 

 branches, falls swiftly; and one or two snow-flakes, 

 driven by the wind on to the tree-trunks, show spots 

 of white. There is now hardly a sound of bird life. 

 But hark ! A loud clear song is uttered, repeated 

 once again, and then only the moaning of the winter 

 wind is heard. The wren's notes send my thoughts 



