NOVEMBER 153 



a slight twist, that makes it look like the gigantic 

 bone of some old-world monster. The leaves of some 

 old trees, especially if growing in shade, change their 

 shape, losing the side prickles and becoming longer 

 and nearly flat and more of a dark bottle-green colour, 

 while the lower branches and twigs, leafless except 

 towards their ends, droop down in a graceful line that 

 rises again a little at the tip. 



The leaves are all down by the last week of 

 November, and woodland assumes its winter aspect; 

 perhaps one ought rather to say, some one of its 

 infinite variety of aspects, for those who live in such 

 country know how many are the winter moods of 

 forest land, and how endless are its variations of 

 atmospheric effect and pictorial beauty — variations 

 much greater and more numerous than are possible 

 in summer. 



With the wind in the south-west and soft rain 

 about, the twigs of the birches look almost crimson, 

 while the dead bracken at their foot, half-draggled 

 and sodden with wet, is of a strong, dark rust colour. 

 Now one sees the full value of the good evergreens, 

 and, rambling through woodland, more especially of 

 the Holly, whether in bush or tree form, with its 

 masses of strong green colour, dark and yet never 

 gloomy. Whether it is the high polish of the leaves, 

 or the lively look of their wavy edges, with the short 

 prickles set alternately up and down, or the brave way 

 the tree has of shooting up among other thick growth. 



