OUR INDIAN SUMMER 



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has its one perfect season ; and the time to see these old 

 timber barns is when the elms turn yellow. The few flowers 

 that linger in the November landscapes are too faded and 

 scanty to hold their own against the brilliance of the foliage 

 and the delicacy of the pale blue sky. The eye overlooks 

 them as it catches the broad outlines of the elm-tops and the 

 pale haze clinging to every horizon. Masses of thistle-down 



THE TALL ELMS AROUND THE BARN 



drifting among the rough roadside herbage shed a gleam 

 like the grey dews and pearly sky ; and the banded crimson 

 and orange of an osier-bed ripe for cutting seize the attention 

 by their very vividness. The only other conspicuous note of 

 colour in the landscape is the smouldering russet of the oaks, 

 or sometimes their dark bronze-green. But while the vigour 

 of vegetation declines, the song of the birds is increasing. 

 In November the song-thrushes first gain the rich winter 

 song, which is not much inferior to their full music in spring. 

 Often they sing from among the elm boughs ; and the con- 



