A SUNDAY MORNING IN NOVEMBER



The walk from the high moorland to the large pond or lake lies
through a narrow grassy lane. About half-way down it turns sharply
to the left; in front are the bluish-green pine woods. Across the
corner of them, confronting me, slants a birch with its white bark
and delicate foliage, light-green and yellow in relief against the
sombre background. Fifty yards before I reach the wood its music is
perceptible, something like the tones of an organ heard outside a
cathedral. In another minute the lane enters: it is dark, but the
ruddy stems catch the sun, and in open patches are small beeches
responding to it with intense golden-brown. Along the edge of the
path, springing from the mossy bank they grow to a greater height.
A pine has pushed itself between the branches of one of them as if
on purpose to show off the splendour of its sister's beauty. It is
stiller than it was outside; the murmur descends from aloft. There
was a frost last night and the leaves will soon fall. A beech leaf
detaches itself now and then and flutters peacefully and waywardly
to the ground, careless whether it finds its grave in the bracken or
on the road where it will be trodden underfoot. The bramble is
beginning to turn to blood. It is strange that leaves should show
such character. Here is a corner on which there are not two of the
same tint, but they spring from the same root, and the circumstances
of light and shade under which they have developed are almost
exactly similar.