NOVEMBER'S JOYS 



" Chill November's surly blast 



Makes fields and forests bare." — Burns. 



November is not a month that is favoured by 

 the poets. They have scarcely bad enough a 

 name for it. The Londoner associates it with 

 fog — opaque, dirty, miserable fog; shortening 

 days and increasing cold are, or are supposed 

 to be, its chief characteristics, and there are few 

 who have a good word or a word of welcome 

 for it. 



Few, that is, who are not fox-hunters. But 

 to the fox-hunter it is almost the month of 

 months. It is the month he has been waiting 

 for ever since a May fox was killed — if he was 

 lucky enough to prolong his season into May. 

 His season has once more begun — once more 

 is the country in a condition to ride over, and 

 his only dread is a long frost. 



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