FIFTH WEEK] 



October 



283 



hard seeds are black and odourless, the drops of sap are 

 hardened. Little by little the wings weaken, the tiny feet 

 clutch convulsively at a dried weed stalk, and the four 

 golden wings drift quietly down among the yellow leaves, 

 soon to merge into the dark mould beneath. As the 

 butterfly dies, a stiffened Katydid scratches a last requiem 

 on his wing covers " katy-didn't katy-did kate y" 

 and the succeeding moment of silence is broken by 

 the sharp rattle of a woodpecker. We shake off every 

 dream of the summer and brace ourselves to meet and 

 enjoy the keen, invigorating pleasures of winter. 



