NOVEMBER DAYS 



No blossom is left in woods or fields, 

 save where in the one the witch-hazel 

 unfolds its unseasonable flowers yellow 

 beneath cold skies, or a pink blossom of 

 herb-robert holds out with modest brav- 

 ery in a sheltered cranny of the rocks ; 

 and where in the other, the ghostly 

 bloom of everlasting rustles above the 

 leafless stalks in the wind-swept pastures. 

 There are brighter flashes of color in 

 the sombre woods where the red winter- 

 berries shine on their leafless stems and 

 the orange and scarlet clusters of the 

 twining bitter-sweet light up the gray 

 trellis of the vagrant climber. 



No sense of loss or sadness oppresses 

 the soul of the ardent sportsman as he 

 ranges the unroofed aisles alert for the 

 wary grouse, the skulking woodcock, 

 full-grown and strong of wing and keen- 

 eyed for every enemy, or the hare flash- 

 ing his half-donned winter coat among 

 the gray underbrush as he bounds away 

 before the merry chiding of the beagles. 

 The brown monotony of the marshes is 

 pleasant to him as green fields, while the 

 wild duck tarries in the dark pools and 

 the snipe probes the unfrozen patches of 

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