FOURTH WEEK] September 251 



Here, on my lens, I had a little tragedy of the forest 

 preserved for all time. 



There was no bud, no bloom upon the bowers; 



The spiders wove their thin shrouds night by night; 

 The thistle-down, the only ghost of flowers, 

 Sailed slowly by passed noiseless out of sight. 



THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. 



