S68 THE AUTUMN WORK 
famous for my roses as Miss Wiseman is for her 
dahlias. 
All this time Joseph and I have not forgotten to 
watch the shrub that Timothy Pennell had given 
us and planted in the wood-border- — the queer one 
that he said would only bloom when other flowers 
had fallen. It is in bloom now, covered with small 
yellow flowers, very frail and straggly. They give 
a curious appearance to the dying leaves about, and, 
for an instant, I thought they, too, were dying, hav- 
ing turned yellow in so doing. On looking closer, 
1 saw that they were quite as much alive as were 
the yellow bells that covered the shrubs in April. 
Spring came among our shrubs in yellow and now 
the witch-hazel wears the same colour as autumn 
departs. 
Nothing could have pleased Timothy more than 
the way this shrub behaved and bloomed in its 
new home. 
“It is a fine one,’^ he said, “a real fine one, and 
as lively as a cricket.’’ 
Of late Timothy has been in the clutches of the 
farmers. He is away in the fields loading wagons 
with corn and pumpkins, and tying the stalks in 
stacks which stand like an army in waiting through 
the fields. The autumn mist hangs over them, 
turned in the distance to purple, while the ground 
becomes rich with the leaves that once the trees 
upheld. 
