NOVEMBER. 271 



gold ; very beautiful, but with not a trace of springtide 

 activity. And as I walked the air was full of falling 

 leaves. Slowly they floated earthward, as though strug- 

 gling against fate. Who, indeed, could be merry in a 

 shower of autumn leaves ? 



The mellow mist that wraps the hills, 



And floods the blighted meadows, 

 The river's winding valley fills ; 



Fled are the forest shadows. 

 A melancholy ending, this, 



Of summer's wealth of vigor ; 

 A veritable Judas' kiss, 



Forerunning winter's rigor. 



While last these sad November days, 



The leafy rain that clatters 

 About the bosky nooks and ways, 



Wherein the squirrel chatters, 

 Calls back the withered hopes that seemed 



Life's gold in days departed, 

 And endless summer, ours, we dreamed, 



But age, how wintry hearted ! 



And what perfect days do we often have, even so late 

 as in the last week of November ! The white fog, like 

 snow-banks, shuts out the horizon only, making a fitting 

 background for the forest that rims the river's valley. So 

 the rambler had a little world to himself, and though, save 

 the dark-blue sky, there was little color but brown, that 

 little with its scarlet, winterberry and rich red bittersweet 

 were the more beautiful. But why strive to prove brown 

 Nature dreary ? The birds were happy take a hint from 

 them. Nor was it only the many birds that charmed. 

 Among the still clinging, crisply crackling leaves there 

 was piping gayly a hidden hyla. 



I have had much to say, in times past, of the activity 

 of our frogs during the late autumn and winter, and here 



