THE WANING YEAR 
The year’s in the wane; the trees are nearly leafless 
now, and the few sparkling hours of the sun’s bounty 
shine with much the same enchantment as a midsummer 
sunrise. The rich, low rays, the shallow shadows, the 
full fresh colour of the green lawns in such places where 
the dew-pearled and diamonded grass has lost its misty 
jewelled glamour beneath breeze and sun—all this brings 
strangely to mind the sentiment of early morning hours 
in summer months that begin already to seem long ago 
and far away. But this is high noon, and it is through 
bare boughs the glory falls; only the glistening evergreens 
give back its lustre from their polished facets. The 
bright sun hangs low, but it will rise no higher to-day, 
nor for many and many a day to come. Indeed, it is an 
arc of gentler eminence that he must traverse now from 
day to day, until the season’s tide shall be fallen to its lowest 
and it is time to turn again. All too often, of late, even 
these few silvery-golden hours have been denied us, while 
the dull red spectre of the sun has swum sullen through 
misty skies, and hoar frost hung thick on every tree. If 
the weather-lorists and their ancient records are to be 
believed, it is a hard winter that we have before us, and we 
shall do well to prepare and protect as scrupulously as we 
may. St. Michael came with great gifts of acorns in his 
hands; many of late October’s leaves clung withered to 
the boughs, refusing desperately to the last their proper 
fate; the lingering flowers’ unseasonable sojourn in the 
borders was in itself a portent of no small significance. 
