NOVEMBER. 



November sits at the door of her way- 

 side tent looking out upon the valleys 

 and mountain tops. She has torn from 

 the trees their faded banners of yellow 

 and their worn fringes of crimson. No- 

 vember is an old dame, gray-haired, som- 

 ber-eyed and strong-featured. Clad 

 in garments of dun and dusky 

 brown, she sits resting and smoking; 

 and that is why we get such smoky days 

 toward the last of her stay. 



Yes, November is an old gypsy dame, 

 but she is not always melancholy. She 

 is the month of whom artists are es- 

 pecially fond. While she lacks the glow 

 of midsummer, there is compensation for 

 the absence of bloom and radiance in 

 the ripening of all vegetation ; there is 

 still a touch of splendid color on the 

 hills, and the grass is green with the 

 aftermath of summer. Beautiful mists 

 veil the mountain tops. There is an ex- 

 quisite beauty in the tints of sepia and 

 the rich brown tones of the landscapes 

 and in the tender grays and clear blues 

 of November skies. 



Ah, she knows, does November, that 

 she, too, in her old age, gives promise 

 of something sweet to come. All the 

 trees are filled with next year's buds ; the 

 traiHng things of the woods, too, are 

 budded and wait but a few months un- 

 til the first snows are gone to blossom 

 in fragrance and gladden the bright wed- 

 ding days of Spring. 



Calmly she smokes, the dear old dame, 

 sitting at the door of her tent. Near 

 by, dim and misty, are the marshy fens, 

 in which stand the herons like sculptured 

 figures, where the bulrushes have turned 

 yellow amongst the tawmy tussocks. 

 Around her the Indian creeper weaves 

 , its still brilliant strands of red and gold. 

 Softly the willow bands drop their trail- 

 ing leaves. Heavy and purple still hang 

 the berries on the elder boughs that 

 languidly wave in the faint breeze as if 

 they still felt the ghosts of summer kisses. 



The nut-brown face of old November 

 looks impassively on all the changes of 

 her season. She knows nothing is dying 

 about her that shall not live again. Her 

 eyes, dark, liquid, somberly deep and 

 tranquil, have seen all the things beau- 

 tiful that our eyes have missed — the wild 

 flowers trodden down by careless feet; 

 moonlight on far off lakes at midnight ; 

 the first pink flush of dawn on stately 

 mountains. Ah, yes, she knows of Love ; 

 of dead folded hands, and she remem- 

 bers the buds of her last year's reign. 

 She knows that, like the sleeping buds 

 about her now. Love shall give all things 

 back again in the sweet springtime of 

 Paradise, even as these same buds shall 

 waken to bloom, and beauty when their 

 winter sleep is over. 



But now the night is coming on. Deep 

 shadows are filling the dusky stalls of the 

 drooping hemlocks on yonder hill. Faint 

 spicy odors of sweet fern and illusive 

 witch hazel rise on the misty air. Dame 

 November rises slowly, knocks the ashes 

 from her pipe, gazes broodingly for a 

 few moments over the fading landscape, 

 then turns and softly closes her door. 

 All night the solemn w4nds intone the 

 requiem of Spring and Summer glories 

 past, but at intervals listen and you will 

 hear the sw^eet, thin flute of the wood- 

 frog, faintly but hopefully voicing the 

 promise of another Spring, with more 

 bloom, more gladness and glory to come 



Dear old Dame November ! A few 

 more days and she will no longer be sit- 

 ting at the door of her wayside tent. We 

 love her mists, her mellow rains, her dull, 

 rich tones of brown and faded gold. De- 

 cember shall disturb the brooding calm 

 that she has left with us, but we know 

 he cannot harm with his icy mail and 

 glittering frost spears the tightly folded 

 promises which the gypsy November has 

 prepared for next year's blooming. 



Belle A. Hitchcock. 



157 



