AUTUMN DREAMS 



All Saints' summer has come and gone. It is 

 the time of bare boughs and empty nests. The 

 winds are lifting the fallen leaves and gently 

 covering the plants already gone to sleep in 

 the border. There are no flowers save the 

 sturdy chrysanthemums and one Hermosa 

 rose that still blooms in the face of the frost. 

 Everything takes up Perdita's cry, 



"The year's grown old." 



Our thought goes back to the blossoming 

 springtime and to the "garden glorious" of 

 summer. We look back, as man must, to the 

 irrevocable past. 



To many these are melancholy days. They 

 can think only of "days that are gone." Ten- 

 nyson has put into immortal verse this pro- 

 found sadness — 

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