A NOVEMBER WALK. 
just as we look twice ere we make sure of our acquaintance in 
the streets, when they vary theirason.awrob rdwite h tes lie 
The very last flowers are withering. The beautiful fern of the 
summer lies in rusty patches on the open hill-side, though within the 
woods it is still fresh and green. We found only here and there 
a solitar}?" aster, its head drooping, and discolored, showing bvit 
little of the grace of a flower. Even the hardy little balls of the 
everlasting, or moonshine, as the country people call it, are get- 
ting blighted and shapeless, while the haws on the thorn-bushes, 
the hips of the wild rose and sweet-briar, are already shrunken 
and faded. It is singular, but the native flowers seem to witlier 
earlier than those of the garden, many of which belong to warmer 
climates. It is not uncommon to find German asters, flos adonis, 
heart's-ease, and a few sprigs of the monthly honeysuckle, here 
and there, in the garden even later than this ; some seasons we 
have gathered quite a pretty bunch of these flowers in the first 
week of December. At that time nothing like a blossom is to be 
found in the forest. 
There once stood a singular tree in the wood through which we 
were passing. Wonders are told of its growth, for it is now some 
years since it disappeared, and its existence is becoming a tradition 
of the valley. Some lovers of the marvellous have declared that 
upon the trunk of a hemlock rose the head of a pine ; while others 
assert that it was two trees, whose trunks were so closely joined 
from the roots that there appeared but one stem, although the 
two different tops were distinctly divided ; others, again, living 
near, tell us that it was only a whimsical hemlock. In short, 
there are already as many different variations in the story as 
are needed to make up a marvellous tale, while all agree at 
