As the day advances, masses of huge, heavy clouds appear. They are well
defined at the edges, and their intricate folds and depths are
brilliantly illuminated. The infinitude of the sky is not so impressive
when it is quite clear as when it contains and supports great clouds,
and large blue spaces are seen between them. On the hillsides the
fields here and there are yellow and the corn is in sheaves. The birds
are mostly dumb, the glory of the furze and broom has passed, but the
heather is in flower. The trees are dark, and even sombre, and, where
they are in masses, look as if they were in solemn consultation. A
fore-feeling of the end of summer steals upon me. Why cannot I banish
this anticipation? Why cannot I rest and take delight in what is before
me? If some beneficent god would but teach me how to take no thought
for the morrow, I would sacrifice to him all I possess.



THE END OF OCTOBER



It is the first south-westerly gale of the autumn. Its violence is
increasing every minute, although the rain has ceased for awhile. For
weeks sky and sea have been beautiful, but they have been tame. Now for
some unknown reason there is a complete change, and all the strength of
nature is awake. It is refreshing to be once more brought face to face
with her tremendous power, and to be reminded of the mystery of its
going and coming. It is soothing to feel so directly that man,
notwithstanding his science and pretentions, his subjugation of steam
and electricity, is as nothing compared with his Creator. The air has a
freshness and odour about it to which we have long been strangers. It