Oh beautiful summer-time! thou art but telling For e'en as His hand is the summer repeating, Brown Woods. THE Woods are always beautiful. In midwinter, when the snow is piled upon the great trees, when the frost has well-nigh killed all the green things that generally luxuriate there, and changed the scene completely, even then there is always beauty and interest to be found. The spring with its thousands of pale primroses, purple violets, and delicate anemones, and the summer with its unnumbered blossoms of blue-bells, and cowslips, and meadow-sweet, and hundreds of other flowers, can speak for themselves. There is scarcely a day in the seasons during which a ramble through the woodlands would not be productive of some new beauty, and bring some fresh emotion of joy and love. But, after all, nothing can equal the woods in autumn. The gorgeousness of colour, the variety of tint, the splendid paintings of the great Artist which are before our eyes, the ever-varying, ever-deepening hues of a myriad of leaves, all these things combine to make the autumnal wood beautiful beyond description. And perhaps a great deal of it is in our own eyes. It is wonderful how beautiful a thing becomes when it is about to leave us. It is the old story, "Blessings brighten as they take their flight." We never knew how precious were some of our gems until we discovered that we had dropped them in the sands, and so lost them irrecoverably. We never knew that we were entertaining an angel until his shining wings were spread for departure. We took the summer days quite as a matter of course; we were so used to the cloudless skies, and undimmed sunshine, to brilliant days and star-lit nights, to the rustle and music of the graceful leaves, and the jubilant chorus of all happy things, that we forgot to notice them, and dwell upon them, and appreciate them fully. But the glory of the summer is passing now. The days are short, and the nights are long and cold. The wind has taken another song, the airs are all pensive and pathetic; and even the marvellous beauty of the autumnal woods is saddening to our spirits. because it is the beauty of decay. So there is no longer any lethargy in our enjoyment, and a few hours of sunshine, or a panorama of changing leaves, moves our hearts with a strange new love, and causes us to rejoice in the brown woods. Is it not often so? Love of place and country is not always strong within us. The little corner in which our daily work is done does not always seem as bright as it might do. We look even upon the clusters of trees, and shadowed valleys, and lofty hills, until we have little appreciation of their beauty. But there comes a time when the finger of Providence beckons another way, and we have to leave the snug nest, where we have gone in and out so long. And then what a sudden increase of love comes to us. We see then that there can be no trees so fine and beautiful, no valleys so smiling, no river so clear and bright. What has come to the place that we cling to it so fondly? What new light has touched it? What new glory rested upon it? Ah! it is not that. The wood is brown, the summer is departing, and therefore it is beautiful. What do we say of the friends who have been always about us? We are so used to them that we bear with them, and love them, and are even kind to them in a commonplace sort of way. But a change has come-a change that will carry them out of our sight. And now-oh! how dear they are to us! What light is in their eyes! what sweet words fall from their lips! how dear is the touch of those ministering hands which shall soon be nothing more to us! Are they so changed? Have they indeed become glorified, or is it that our hearts relent when the parting time draws near? Are brown woods really more beautiful than green woods, or is it only because we look on to nakedness and sterility? How little we think of our own powers or strength during the spring and summer-time of life! The young talk of dying with calm faces and tranquil hearts, because death seems so far away from them. They can be prodigal of life with their unspent fortune of golden days. But when the limbs grow weary, when the eyes are dim, when the memory begins to fail, and strange sensations of pain come like warnings in night watches, then we suddenly see what a beautiful, what a grand thing is life! After all we say there is nothing like the sunset for glory, the autumn for beauty! And yet I think that we shall be perfectly satisfied, though there are no brown woods upon "the ever green shore!" Nutting. BUT there is little time or space for serious thoughts when the wood rings with the merry sounds of a nutting party. It seems one of the impossibilities of life to gather nuts (in company) without laughing, and joking, and singing. It appears, indeed, as if woods are especially, like temples, to be filled with song. The children sing their merry rounds. Young men and maidens sing together, as a matter of course; how can they help it when their hearts are so full of music? Even the old men and women, who have sung so many songs that their voices are almost worn out, help the melody in the woods with a quavering note or two; for autumn woods are beautiful to the aged long after they have lost their enjoyment of nuts. A few hours among the hazel-trees is capital recreation for all who can join in it. Like blackberrying, it is not a very serious business, although sometimes very serious results follow, since many a young couple who begin with seeking nuts together go on cracking them in company ever after. But even without this excitement nutting is pleasant. It is one of the lingering delights of the summer. The air is still warm for a few hours, and, though the skies are losing their depth of colour, they are still blue. The wild flowers have not all disappeared, and there are still some attempts at song among the birds. What more is wanted to complete the joy of an autumn day, excepting agreeable society and plenty of nuts within easy reach? Very inviting are the bunches of twos and threes which hang upon the hazel-trees, and it is worth the risk of a torn garment to get a well-filled bag or basket. For nuts are gathered not to be eaten at once, but to be stored away for the winter. Many a pleasant family gathering will there be when the nuts are cracked. In many a country home they will be kept with self-denying care until Christmas, when "the children" who used to go nutting themselves, but who are now away in distant towns having far harder nuts to crack, will be at home for their holidays to enjoy them. Not only "Across the walnuts and the wine" will there be friendly talk and kindly words, but in the cottage homes where the poor meet together the hazel-nuts will be enjoyed. In the meantime, let all who can do so be glad of the opportunity of spending yet another day in the woods before the frosts spoil their loveliness, not forgetting among the pleasant interchange of mirthful speech the song of praise to Him who "hath made everything beautiful in His time." But "Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with heaven, or see Only in autumn wood And sunny vale the present Deity, Or only hear His voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice.” Very few people have a day to spare for nutting; most have returned from their holidays and settled down to work for the winter. But they, too, can sing of the lovingkindness of the Lord, and of their trust in Him. The thousands who are toiling at desk or bench, and scarcely know how the woods look, or care for the ripening of nuts, are yet occupied in a very similar way to those who do. For, with great care and risk, and constant industry, they are toiling to accumulate stores for a coming winter. Some are piling up honours, some are heaping up wealth, others are laying by plans until they are a little more ripe and ready for use. Some intend to keep the nuts for themselves. Some provide them for their families. Some, with thoughtful faces and large hearts, dream of inviting all the world to share in their store. It is to be hoped that none are toiling in vain. There is such a thing as a nutshell full of disappointment. Let us trust, however, that those of us who are accumulating little stores may find the kernels sweet and sound. Still, there is a risk in nutting; we cannot tell until the shell is cracked what is really inside. They are the best off who do not greatly care, but who, doing their best always, have hearts fixed on higher things than any nuts that grow upon any trees of earth. "The lot is cast into the lap; but the whole disposing thereof is of the Lord." Happy are all they who are content to have it so. Fog. ONE indication of the passing away of the summer and the approach of winter is the fog. Of course foggy mornings are expected in November; so exactly the right things are they then that we can put up with them without any more than the ordinary remarks. But when they come in October there is every reason why, when they wrap their uncomfortable folds about us, we should both feel and speak of them. All disagreeable things are the worst at first. Proverbially the breaking of the ice is even harder than the plunge into the water. The first day of winter always strikes us more disagreeably than the last, and the foggy morning is exceedingly trying to bad-tempered people. Of course one of the greatest of all the fog discomforts is its power of annihilation. It is a wet sponge upon the face of a pleasant picture. Last night we looked out upon |