PROPHETIC AUTUMN. 



Autumn, you would think, is the season of 

 decay, of death, of dissolution, the end of all 

 things, without hope or symbol of rejuve- 

 nescence. Yet look a little closer as you 

 walk along the lanes, between the golden 

 bracken, more glorious as it fades, and you 

 will soon see that the cycle of the year's life 

 begins much more truly in October than at 

 any other date in the shifting twelvemonth 

 you can easily fix for it. Then the round 

 of one year's history draws to a beautiful 

 close, while the round of another's is well 

 on the way to its newest avatar. 



Gaze hard at the alders by the side of this 

 little brook in the valley, for example, or at 

 the silvery-barked birches here on the wind- 

 swept moorland. They have dropped their 

 shivering leaves, all wan yellow on the 

 ground, and the naked twigs now stand 

 silhouetted delicately in Nature's etching 

 against the pale grey-blue background. But 

 what are those dainty little pendulous 

 cylinders, brown and beaded with the mist, 



1 1 



