NOVEMBER 



LATER 



NOVEMBER 



DAYS 



THE PROMISE OF SPRING 



DAYS shorter still, when frost is in the air but 

 when real winter still hesitates, and a ramble in the 

 woods (even if not in quest of rocketing pheasant) 

 has many charms and thrills. Heavy rain followed 

 by frost has stripped the trees and undergrowth 

 of their remaining leaves, and, beneath their 

 naked beauty the damp brown leaves lie 

 thickly on the ground, half covering banks of 

 greenest moss, laced cushions of 'ferny' moss, 

 and acorn cups. The thickened, lengthened 

 twigs are not alone the leaf's past task; in 

 falling from the hazel boughs they reveal the 

 Promise of Spring, a host of baby catkins 

 hang aloft, the little tight grey rolls already 

 half-way grown to lamb's-tails. The sallow 

 buds are fat and plump and the dark-green 

 spurge laurel is almost in bloom. The bull- 

 finch whistles softly to his mate and a school of 

 long-tailed tits are searching the brushwood their 

 hurried stream-like flight would hardly seem to give 

 them time for more than quaint gymnastic exercises. 



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