XL 



NOVEMBER DAYS 



In a midsummer sleep one dreams of 

 winter, its cold, its silence and desolation 

 all surrounding him ; then awakes, glad 

 to find himself in the reality of the light 

 and warmth of summer. 



Were we dreaming yesterday of woods 

 more gofgeous in their leafage than a 

 flower garden in the flush of profusest 

 bloom, so bright with innumerable tints 

 that autumnal blossoms paled beside 

 them as stars at sunrise? Were we 

 dreaming of air soft as in springtime, of 

 the gentle babble of brooks, the carol of 

 bluebirds, the lazy chirp of crickets, and 

 have we suddenly awakened to be con- 

 fronted by the desolation of naked for- 

 ests, the more forlorn for the few tattered 

 remnants of gay apparel that flutter in 

 the bleak wind ? To hear but the sullen 

 roar of the chill blast and the clash of 

 stripped boughs, the fitful scurry of wind- 

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