146 FLOWER-FIELDS OP ALPINE SWITZERLAND 



the next, the scythe comes, and, like Harlequin's 

 wand, passes restless athwart the ripe scene — and, 

 hey, presto ! the fields have all the closeness of 

 the fields in springtime, and are studded with 

 countless rosy stars of the Autumn Crocus, just as, 

 in the first days of the year, they are studded with 

 the myriad rosy stars of Bulbocodium vernuvi, near 

 relative of our tardy Colchique. It is September 

 struggling to be May or, even, April. It is the 

 goddess of the flower-fields bidding us to a rosy 

 hope in her recurrent reign. 



And yet, and yet — autumn is noticeably in the 

 blood of things. This is not quite the rosiness 

 of the year's youth. There is something of mauve 

 in it ; something of a becoming consideration for 

 old age. It is obviously an autumnal pink — a pink 

 which falls without ado into the glorious colour- 

 scheme of Nature's kindling funeral-pyre. It has 

 something of the spirit of the colouring surround- 

 ing a Chinese burial. There is sadness, if you 

 will ; but there is gladness, whether you will or 

 not. Chopin's famous Funeral March might have 

 been inspired by autumn's pale-magenta " Crocus." 



