IN GOD'S ACRE 205 



vanishing in the mists, burnishing the mirror of hope for 

 beauty and good which we cannot see as yet. 



A fickle breeze rustling the bronzed foliage of a clump 

 of oaks creeps groundward and blows the dried leaves to 

 play in circling whirlwinds. The flock of sparrows that 

 have been holding excited congress for some days past, 

 whether to be or not to be of the migrants like other birds, 

 have grown sportive in the warm air, and fly low in the 

 mysterious manner betokening a change in the weather. 



The primeval stir in my own veins that urges me to 

 break down the bars and walk over the hills and far 

 afield, to follow the light of the gypsy-star, is akin to the 

 sparrow restlessness which they cannot forget. It is so 

 long ago since any of their ancestry have taken the south- 

 ward journey that the instinct has become but an echo 

 in the blood which throbs as the sun goes south and fore- 

 warnings of winter appear. And then the sparrow flies 

 low among the leaves on the ground while the human, 

 harking to the same feeling, looks down the long road, 

 takes tramps by starlight, or plays a Chopin prelude in 

 the dusk of the gloaming, and wonders at his restlessness. 



All Saints' Day has stolen upon us unawares; the 

 clouds betokened the cold November rain, and while we 

 searched the garden for the lingering flowers to deck the 

 graves according to the sweet old German custom, more 

 lifted their pretty heads than we had believed escaped the 

 continued succession of chilly nights. 



