CHAPTER XXII. 



DRIVING THE COVERS, ETC. 



The heather bloom is come and past, 



The tender wild flowers faded, 

 And withered leaves are falling fust 



On mossy banks they shaded, 



While earth looks sad and weary. 



The misty mountains dim and grey, 



The flooded streams yet filling, 

 Cool starry nights and shortened day, 



The robin's plaintive trilling 



All presage winter dreary. 



IF such be some of the aspects of nature towards the 

 end of autumn, it is not always so, and we have 

 sometimes days, even weeks, at this season, which 

 are perhaps the most beautiful and enjoyable of the 

 whole year. Every season has its attractions, except- 

 ing, perhaps, spring, which is often simply exasper- 

 ating, although frequently sung by poets, and always 

 hopefully looked for. 



On turning out in the morning to start for the 



