376 



THE NATURE BOOK 



/'hoto-raf'/: rv S. II. 11 'rn:/!tsi'ii. Strcathujn. 



"RUSSET TINTS AND BROWN DEEPEN IN 

 DYING FOLIAGE." 



lil}' will be but a memory of the October 

 sun. 



These are the heavy, clouded days of 

 dismal dullness, damp and depressing, 

 chilling to the very marrow. Even the 

 least sensitive among us feel the subtle 

 influences of this season of the dun and 

 the decadent, as we plod our way, queru- 

 lous, over the plashy mud, or hug the 

 study fire when the wind is grumbling 

 and moaning in the chimney. ^Man, 

 like the birds, grows fidgety as Winter 

 draws near ; we would seek with them 

 the sunnier clime, we like not the restraint 

 which circumstances impose on us. 



At this period the city reminds one 

 of the feathered communities in the 

 stubble. A crowding together for com- 

 mon benefit ; greater social intercourse, 

 our house to house visitations, our con- 



vivial gatherings ; all sorts of 

 plans and preparations for 

 checkmating the wintry in- 

 cubus. With the last crimson 

 iiush of the Virginian creeper, 

 and the passing of chrysan- 

 themum and dahlia, the outer 

 world is forgotten, living only 

 in the fitful fancy of some 

 Christmas snow scene. What- 

 ever the weather conditions 

 we do not care to think much 

 about them, so comfortable 

 our retirement amid our house- 

 hold gods. There is no 

 denying the citj^'s thousand 

 charms in Winter ; yet beyond 

 the city all is not so lifeless 

 and destitute of pleasure as 

 we are wont to imagine. We 

 who live the town life, seldom 

 communing with Nature, our 

 visions of the country-side at 

 Fall-time are too much the 

 browned, drear waste with 

 Death, the Phantom, over all. 

 'Tis a very different picture 

 which the habitually observ- 

 ant countr}^ dweller would 

 paint, without a touch of 

 autumnal pessimism ; so 

 much to be seen everywhere 

 around him, so many inter- 

 esting changes and happen- 

 ings ; on every hand fresh 

 evidence of a continuance of 

 life, and all to be recorded, with such 

 happy, reverent care, in his calendar of 

 country days. Though the leaves have 

 fallen, the new buds formed some months 

 ago remain upon the branches wrapped 

 up tightly in their winter cloaks of pro- 

 tective scales. The summer butterfly is 

 dead, but in sheltered nooks we discover 

 the coming generation sleeping safe within 

 their chrysalid cradles. The fields are 

 not yet flowerless, not yet without colour ; 

 the ragwort still spreads its gold ; here 

 and there some purple knapweeds, a 

 mauve thistle, a white deacl-nettle, a 

 blue harebell. There are yellow stars 

 on the fleabane, a few pink bramble 

 blossoms, buttercups in plenty, and the 

 ])ink persicaria. 



Already countless eggs and larvre are 

 quiescent under the still waters like the 



THE 



