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November

I sit inside and listen to the boisterous wind out in the dark night, blowing with all its might, buffeting trees and the houses.

Our house is snug, airtight and cosy; it feels more so as I listen to the peaceful ticking of the clock in between the gusts. The wind sounds as though it is racing across the fields to the stand of trees on the top of the hill, and back again.

The crunch of leaves and the scent of their decay, mixing with that of woodsmoke; the vivid, gaudy colours; it is all so beautiful and sad at the same time.

This weekend October ends and November begins. In my loft room this evening I found a lovely little poem from thr Ontario Reader's "Second Book." entitled:
November

The leaves are fading and falling,
The winds are rough and wild,
The birds have ceased their calling;
But let me tell you my child,

Though day by day, as it closes,
Doth darker and colder grow,
The roots of the bright red roses
Will keep alive in the snow.

And when the winter is over
The boughs will get new leaves;
The quail will come back to the clover,
And the swallow back to the eaves.

The robin will wear on his bosom
A vest that is bright and new,
And the loveliest wayside blossoms
Will shine with the sun and dew.

The leaves today are whirling,
The brooks are all dry and dumb;
But let me tell you, my darling,
The spring will be sure to come.

By Alice Cary
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