THE RIPENING AUTUMN 
Now that the gate of summer is closed against us in 
good earnest, and autumn, like the angel of the flaming 
sword, bars the backward glance with splendours all his 
own, flooding the quiet days with such strange glories 
as summer never knew; now, almost insensibly, we 
pause upon the slope, lingering, recounting leisurely the 
pleasures that still remain to us, telling the tale of the 
year’s heritage. Here, in the little summer of St. Luke, 
upon this gentle eminence of mild mid-autumn, hung 
about with its leafy tapestries of russets and pale amber 
and dusky gold, through which the low sun peers more 
clearly day by day, it is surely one of the pleasantest of 
tasks to reckon up the riches we have gathered in. 
The robin is piping on his crystal flute an air so 
delicately sweet that you are well-nigh persuaded for 
the moment that spring has risen from her grassy tomb ; 
the thrush also is dreaming of spring, and every now 
and again will sing you a lilting passage, as it were, 
from the mellow depths of his dream. 
The apple-chamber in the loft has been freshly swept, 
garnished anew with whitewashing, and spread with 
pale sparkling yellow straw for the ruddy and the yet 
green fruits to repose upon, some to ripen for next 
month, some for even so late as Christmas and beyond. 
This is not a good apple season, but we shall have 
enough and to spare, and there are plenty of pears; 
above all, the nut-brown Calabash that ripens in late 
October, and the musky, jade-coloured Uvedale St. 
