MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



the same time the quaint horseshoe scar, 

 with marks as of nails, left where the old 

 leaves have just now fallen off, the nails 

 being, in point of fact, the relics of the 

 vascular bundles. Death, says the old 

 proverb, is the gate of life. " Le roi est 

 mort; vive le roi!" No sooner is one 

 summer fairly over than another summer 

 begins to be, under the eyes of the observer. 

 To those among us who shrink with dread 

 from the Stygian gloom of English winter, 

 there is something most consoling in this 

 cheerful idea of Prophetic Autumn this 

 sense that winter is but a temporary sleep, 

 during which the life already formed and 

 well on its way to flower and foliage just 

 holds its breath awhile in expectation of 

 warmer weather. Nay, more, the fresh 

 young life of the new year has even begun 

 in part to show itself already. Autumn, not 

 spring, is the real season of seedlings. Cast 

 your eyes on the bank by the roadside 

 yonder, and what do you see ? The ground 



