1 84 FROM SPRING TO FALL. 



buy it. When we ken git rid o' things at a middlin' 

 figger, we ain't got it to sell. When we has a lot 

 on it, nobody wants it. 'Tis this 'ere wet, you 

 knows " 



This is more than one can stand. I pull out my 

 watch, recollect that I have urgent business, bid 

 him good-morning, and walk out of that particular 

 field with the fine " crap of wuzzles " at the rate of 

 five miles an hour. 



Ships as well as leaves are being blown about as I 

 write. The grey crows, the hooded crows, will have 

 strange gear, warped, torn, and tangled, to examine 

 with their peering eyes ; and they will flap over 

 something that they dare not at first touch. They 

 will not settle, but will come back to the wind-swept 

 shore, and drop down there, pacing the shingle, if 

 the wind permit them. Then, after walking with 

 their heads down, as only hoodies can walk, they 

 will go out to that heap of flotsam and jetsam left 

 there by the ebb-tide. I know those birds, and have 

 seen such heaps of wreck-tangle before. Women, 

 married and single also, are gathered on shore, 

 weeping bitterly. Charles Kingsley's sad wailing 

 ballad, " The Three Fishers," has been wept, if not 



