NOVEMBER DAYS 



swept leaves and the raving of swollen 

 streams, swelling and falling as in chang- 

 ing stress of passion, and the heavy 

 leaden patter of rain on roof and sodden 

 leaves and earth ? 



Verily, the swift transition is like a 

 pleasant dream with an unhappy awak- 

 ening. Yet not all November days are 

 dreary. Now the sun shines warm from 

 the steel-blue sky, its eager rays devour 

 the rime close on the heels of the retreat- 

 ing shadows, and the north wind sleeps. 

 The voice of the brimming stream falls 

 to an even, softer cadence, like the mur- 

 mur of pine forests swept by the light 

 touch of a steady breeze. 



Then the wind breathes softly from 

 the south, and there drifts with it from 

 warmer realms, or arises at its touch 

 from the earth about us, or falls from 

 the atmosphere of heaven itself, not 

 smoke, nor haze, but something more 

 ethereal than these : a visible air, balmy 

 with odors of ripeness as the breath of 

 June with perfume of flowers. It per- 

 vades earth and sky, which melt together 

 in it, till the bounds of neither are dis- 

 cernible, and blends all objects in the 



