NOVEMBER 



we heard the sharp report of bursting pod, and the 

 rattle of the falling seed. Nay, Goldsmith, thou wert 

 wrong ' unprofitably gay '--'tis never so. Whene'er 

 we see that sight we link our hearts with great 

 Linnaeus of old; like him, we fall upon our knees and 

 thank God that we behold such enrapturing beauty. 

 Such memories as these ! how they cheer cold, bleak 

 November and w r arm our homew r ard path. 



But frosts on shortening days are fickle ; a late 



and lazy dawn seems unable to penetrate the rain- WET DAYS 



burdened clouds, now so low that they mingle with 

 the driving mists ; all day long the downpour patters, 

 there seems no dry spot to be found while Nature 

 takes her bath ; no sheltering leaves nor screening 

 boughs, only rain, with a penetrating w r etness un- 

 known in summer days, slaking the thirst of hidden, 

 deep-set roots, drenching the shadow r ed nooks and 

 crannies, trickling into the crevices where moss and 

 lichen quickly respond, adding charm to winter days, 

 when the level sunlight glints through the grove 

 and reveals a mossy-land of silvered greys passing to 

 emerald green. Dull, damp, dark days they are in- 

 deed, \vhen the mercurial enthusiasm of the gardener 



187 



