In My Vicarage Garden 



close to the central stem of the branch and works 

 outwards, so that close to the stem the colour of 

 the branch or branchlet is deep red on the inside 

 and pure green on the outside. One other remark 

 on the colours and I have finished with them. In 

 America the autumn colours are of a brilliancy of 

 which we know nothing here ; I have not seen 

 them, but all the accounts agree in giving the 

 prevailing colour as red or scarlet. With us they 

 are more or less yellow, probably really so for the 

 most part, except in the beeches, but with the 

 poets they are always yellow. Shakespeare talks 

 of "the sear and yellow leaf" and of "beauteous 

 spring to yellow autumn turned " ; and he describes 

 autumn as the time 



When yellow leaves a few or more do hang 

 Upon those boughs which shake against the cold. 

 Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang, 



and other poets follow suit. But one essential 

 feature of our country scenery is wanting in 

 colour of any sort, and this I have never seen 

 noticed in any author. Our hedges get no 

 colour ; they are simply brown lines skirting the 

 fields, except in very old hedges, where the planted 

 hawthorn has been covered, and sometimes even 

 destroyed, by a natural growth of maple, hop, 

 night-shade, and bryony. Then they show a rich 

 picture of many colours. 



I have said enough to show that to me autumn 

 is not a dreary or cheerless season in the garden, 



36 



