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 *)penpwn)«<
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 RIVERSIDE
 
 IDYLLS OF THE YEAR
 
 ■.■■( 

 
 IDYLLS 
 OF THE YEAR 
 
 BY 
 
 BASIL ANDERTON, M.A. 
 
 Atithor of 
 
 Fragrance among Old Volumes." 
 
 O. ANACKER Ltd. 
 SOHO SQUARE, LONDON, W. 
 MCMXn.

 
 TO 
 
 MY W^IFE 
 
 WHO KNOWS AND LOVES 
 
 THE COLOURS OF THE 
 
 COUNTRY
 
 ANUARY has shown, 
 in epitome, many of 
 the aspe<5ts of the 
 long ne^v year. Frosts 
 have been succeeded 
 by balmy sunshine, 
 snoAv by brown mud, 
 w^ild w^inds from the 
 w^est by soft southern 
 airs, inert mist by squalls of rain 
 and of biting sleet. There have been 
 setting suns of richly changeful 
 splendour, and great yellow^ moons 
 that, as they rose, contradled to a 
 silvery brilliance. 
 
 From the month's variety two days 
 may linger aw^hile in the memory. 
 Snow^ had fallen one night, and in 
 the morning, looking down upon it, 
 the eye ranged near and far over 
 its w^hiteness. In the foreground, 
 \vhere the shadow^ of the neighbour- 
 ing houses fell, it was just tinged with 
 blue. Across the road the branches 
 of trees show^ed black and definite, 
 beyond their wont. Then came the 
 open expanse, ^vith the nearer rigs 
 and furrows vanishing from sight 
 in the sweep of the rising ground. 
 The blue -grey of the shadows in 
 
 C7]
 
 the furrow - bottoms, and the pink 
 which, from a sunrise cloud, just 
 tinged the rigs, merged further off 
 into a light -filled, delicate tone of 
 dull yellow^. In the distance, banks 
 of trees showed black, and white- 
 roofed clusters of houses had w^alls 
 of dark grey or of red. These gave 
 the only strong and assured colour 
 in w^hat was else a wide harmony of 
 ethereal tints. The sky just over the 
 horizon was of palest yellow^ and 
 green ; then came a few^ hazy clouds 
 of dull yellow^, and above all the 
 light blue of the clear upper air. 
 
 Next night the air grew warmer, 
 and by the morning the w^hite snow^- 
 mantle was gone, save that a hundred 
 shreds and patches of it still lay in 
 the dips and hollows of the open land. 
 But the rising wind, out of the mild 
 south at first, scattered even these 
 shreds. Veering then to the west, 
 it grew steadily in volume. It came 
 hurtling and singing noisily through 
 the tree-barriers that fringed the road 
 as one fared northw^ards, plunging 
 and leaping upon one at every brief 
 gap. Routing out dead leaves by 
 fifties and hundreds, whether from 
 
 [8]
 
 quiet lurking-holes or from branches 
 one had thought long stripped bare, 
 it set them whirling and eddying 
 over the roadway. 'When one turned 
 aslant on to the open moorland, leav- 
 ing behind the shrill screaming of 
 the w^ires overhead and the dull half- 
 music of the grinding tree-branches, 
 forthwith it had one in its clutches : 
 one must bend down sideways against 
 it, forcing a devious path through 
 its opposition. At first its rush was 
 a little broken by the slope of the 
 ground; but beyond that it surged 
 up with a renew^ed freedom and a 
 madder joy. Then one faced into 
 the very heart of it, from lust of 
 its battle-play, fighting with it step 
 after step, still plodding slowly for- 
 ward, till at last the sheltering houses 
 were reached and breath could be 
 dra^vn at quiet ease once more. 
 
 [9]
 
 FEBRUARY. 
 
 MIDST renewed "wintry 
 scenes by day, or when 
 w^alking through white 
 moonlight over w^ide- 
 spread snow^, it is 
 pleasant to recall the 
 promise of coming 
 spring w^hich certain 
 days of February had 
 brought. These days had draw^n one 
 afield once more to know^n haunts in 
 far country lanes, and to fresh ram- 
 blings and investigations. 
 
 There is a quiet country road that 
 runs for two miles or so, up and dow^n, 
 along the w^ide river's northern bank. 
 Here the warm sun, in w^elcome con- 
 strast to the chilly south-east wind 
 at your back, shines and flashes on 
 the blue w^ater dow^n on the left. It 
 is as though spring were before you, 
 yet w^inter still at your heels. As the 
 river comes curving from w^est and 
 south you have long reaches of bril- 
 liant light. The steep sandy banks on 
 your right are in the main grey and 
 yellow^ and brow^n w^ith bare w^intry 
 trees, w^ith dead trailing grass, w^ith 
 clear patches of sand pierced by many 
 
 [10]
 
 a black rabbit-burrow. Beech leaves 
 add their vivid red and brown. Green 
 bushes also and green trees are not 
 w^anting, to blend into the prevailing 
 tints ; for there are gorse and broom, 
 there are blue -green fir trees and lus- 
 trous holly and ivy. Anon you find, 
 aslant over the water, a dead trunk 
 thickly grow^n with ivy; and you stand 
 and listen gladly once more to the 
 music of rustling leaves. There will be 
 ere long many leaves a-w^hispering, 
 instead of the fevsr only that winter has 
 not availed to silence. In the gardens 
 of a few^ wray-side cottages yellow 
 crocuses are appearing, aglow^ with 
 life amid the snow-drops' pale senior- 
 ity ; and even a luckless primrose has 
 ventured into an unready world. 
 
 Leaving the river behind you, you 
 w^ill climb the long slope of the valley, 
 past dark ploughed lands and yellow^- 
 grey grass fields, past brown hedges 
 spotted with green buds, till you reach 
 the highway running west. Mean- 
 while a slow grey mist has been creep- 
 ing forward : the sun transmutes it 
 into pale ethereal gold. But the gold 
 fades, and the horizon and the lower 
 sky grow^ vague and chill. The colour 
 
 [11]
 
 that was spread abroad seems now 
 recalled within the sun itself, which, 
 as it sinks further into the whitening 
 sea of mist, turns from gold to orange, 
 from orange to red, and then almost 
 to blood red. Thus you will see it 
 through a fine lace -like tracery of 
 branches as you pass a thicket of 
 silver birches. Then the mist swal- 
 lows up the sun, and the silent road 
 and the fields grow white and still. 
 Yet even now, w^hen it would seem 
 that winter's clutch o' the w^orld is 
 again secure, the new-welling life of 
 springtide re -asserts itself. In this 
 nearest field are a couple of sheep 
 grazing, each with two busy lambs 
 that now nibble a little grass, and 
 now are vehement for milk, with tails 
 a-w^riggle. 
 
 Elsewhere, and on other days, the 
 like contrast of old and new may be 
 watched. You stand beside a wide 
 stretch of heather, its purple-brow^n 
 just deepened by the fading rays of the 
 mist-baffled sun. Beyond the heather 
 all colour is gone: grey mists reach 
 far and wide, interse<5led only by the 
 hedges that mark off field after field. 
 In the distance a low hill of elfin still- 
 
 [12]
 
 ness and pallor is crowned by a few 
 lonely trees. Yet, if you look atten- 
 tively, you w^ill find red buds and 
 brown, green buds and black, on the 
 different trees and bushes near at 
 hand. The air itself, too, a brief hour 
 ago, was fragrant with the subtle per- 
 fume of spring. 
 
 [13]
 
 ARCH, the last-born son 
 of winter and the de- 
 stined sire of spring, 
 comes rushing in on 
 the wings of the storm 
 to claim his heritage. 
 As his triple largess he 
 scatters abroad snow^, 
 and sleet, and rain — 
 gifts which, in earth's ancient eco- 
 nomy, shall avail to harden and to 
 nourish the on-coming plants and the 
 bourgeoning trees. A tireless hunts- 
 man, he w^ill in madcap humour 
 round up great flocks of sea-gulls on 
 the coast, and w^ill lash them merrily 
 on with sleet and biting winds, driv- 
 ing them a score or so of miles inland, 
 till some new^ w^him takes him and he 
 leaves them to seek their food on the 
 unwonted grounds. Soon, w^ith a gent- 
 ler impishness, he sets adrift on a slow^ 
 persistent w^ind myriads of tiny snoAV- 
 flakes. At first, so softly do they come 
 pattering on one's face, they are hard- 
 ly felt, but little by little they set one 
 tingling and aching w^ith their true 
 bitter cold. Sw^eeping aside the snow^- 
 flakes then, and opening the sky, he 
 exults and laughs in the dazzling 
 
 [I4J
 
 radiance of sun, and white clouds, and 
 silver-gleaming pools, and brilliant 
 earth. Anon his mood changes again, 
 and his aspedt grows lowering. For 
 whole long days he w^ill have sombre 
 skies, and gloomy air, and rain. But by 
 the 2oth he is once more joyful— there 
 is in his eyes the love -light of ap- 
 proaching parentage. The dull clouds 
 of his gloom are packed away into the 
 far north-east, the skies grow blue, the 
 sun-filled earth is a-throb with ex- 
 pectant joy, and soft ministering airs 
 from the south-west hover to and fro. 
 So the mystic birth of spring is at its 
 season accomplished. 
 
 Thereafter March w^ill linger for a 
 while and play vi^ith his child; and 
 many mad gambols will they have 
 together. They will watch a great herd 
 of cows troop out to pasture: forth- 
 w^ith they will be upon them, and 
 w^ill set them all running at the jog- 
 trot, kicking, curvetting, stopping to 
 smell things, butting one another, the 
 stronger forcing the w^eaker backAvith 
 locked horns, chivying one another 
 to and fro in bulky skittishness. Amid 
 such merry sports he will w^atch his 
 little lass growing apace. Then, that 
 
 [15]
 
 she may thrive the more, he will 
 sweeten the earth and all the air w^ith 
 long cleansing rain. He will give her, 
 as playthings and companions, the 
 plumping buds, the fresh-opening 
 flowers, and the birds that whistle 
 and chatter and flute to one another. 
 And so at the last, w^hen his appointed 
 hour is come and he must needs 
 depart, he w^ill again summon his 
 mighty w^inged steeds, and w^ith a 
 sombre austerity go forth to join his 
 great brotherhood of the months 
 'that are no more.' 
 
 [i6]
 
 PRIL has brought us 
 days of sunshine holi- 
 day and many a fair 
 blue sky. Larks have 
 caroled merrily, buds 
 have pushed on apace, 
 and the grass has slow- 
 ly turned to that green 
 which is the very 
 colour of hope, they say, and of fresh 
 vitality. Out in the west, in the light 
 of the forenoon, the long sloping banks 
 of the spacious river- valley roll aw^ay 
 into sapphire distances. As one stands 
 on a low^ stone bridge, looking up the 
 river, the dense w^oods on either hand 
 are still brow^n ; the w^ide-spreading 
 w^ater itself, as its rippling surface 
 refle<5ts the blue of the sky and the 
 brow^n of the trunks and branches, 
 is of a rich purple. 
 
 Yet in the midst of the month's first 
 glamour and sunshine there lurks a 
 spirit of mischief and of young fro- 
 w^ardness. Cold winds run hither and 
 thither, up and down the cross-roads 
 and along the channels of streams. 
 Alack for the man who, his youth left 
 behind him, yet he fallen in sudden 
 love w^ith April, w^ould fain enjoy her 
 
 [17]
 
 golden humour-who looks to find an 
 ever-smiling Avelcome from her, and 
 knows not that fair winds oft prove 
 but sorry cheats.<i. Such an one, sitting 
 at ease in his dalliance, w^ill find him- 
 self beguiled, and shrew^dly answered 
 and chilled, and will go painfully 
 home, there to reconsider things. But 
 ere long he w^ill adjust himself to his 
 fa(5ts. Seeing how, although she can 
 smile divinely on her lovers one 
 moment, the next she can lightly turn 
 a freezing shoulder on them, he w^ill 
 decide that such w^ooing is w^ork for 
 * golden lads,' and no longer the part 
 for him. Henceforth he will watch the 
 pretty maiden from a more detached 
 standpoint. If he smiles, perhaps w^ith 
 a kind of quizzing geniality, at her 
 sudden storms of tears, at her swift 
 white angers w^hen she dashes, broad- 
 cast over all her pretty flowers, the 
 snow^ and the sleet, yet he w^ill love 
 to see how^ to these rash tempests 
 there quickly succeeds her sunny 
 
 C" . . Fruitur credulus aurea ; 
 Qui semper vacuam, semper am^abilem 
 Sperat, nescius aurae 
 Fallacis." 
 
 [i8]
 
 ^ii 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 t* 
 
 -Ji\
 
 laughter again, so that the flowers 
 are healed almost before they had 
 felt the hurt. He \vill marvel at the 
 inimitable delicacy of the green- 
 woven raiment in w^hich she decks 
 herself, and at the ever-increasing 
 wealth of the blossoms which, in 
 field and garden, on all sides greet 
 her progress and her growth. He will 
 delight in the jocund abandon of her 
 red and yellow^ tulips, in her six- 
 starred daffodils, her scylla, daphne, 
 periwinkle and her gentle primroses; 
 and he will drink in w^ith joy the 
 w^afted sw^eetness of her hyacinths. 
 He will love too the ever -varied 
 notes of her singing-choirs — their 
 flutings, carolings, chucklings, croon- 
 ings; their blithe chatterings, their 
 chirpings, their gay whistlings. Her 
 law^ns and fields moreover, w^ith the 
 fresh green of the new grass pulsing 
 to the eye like living w^ater in the 
 sunlight, 'Will give recurrent gladness. 
 Farther and ever w^ider he sees her 
 pow^ers extend, till the boundaries 
 and ramparts of her domain w^ould 
 seem to be only the horizon and its 
 huge cloud-cliffs. These, like sno\7- 
 clad mountains, stand sheer above 
 
 [19]
 
 white vaporous seas, -whilst yet other 
 sunlit ranges roll away beyond his 
 ken. 
 
 And at night? Perhaps it is in her 
 later and serener aspedts that he w^ill 
 find his chief joys of recoUedtion after 
 she is gone. He will recall how^, walk- 
 ing in the darkness across the open 
 moor, a throbbing star, many-coloured, 
 held his eye. Soon the crescent moon 
 rode free of the little intercepting 
 clouds and shone clear and brilliant in 
 the deep blue sky, making the lustre 
 of all stars grow^ dim. A full sw^eet 
 wind the w^hile blew softly in his face 
 out of the west. 
 
 [20]
 
 MAY. 
 
 UNSHINE flooding the 
 earth, green hedge- 
 roAvs infinitely decked 
 "With wildflowers, trees 
 luminous with light- 
 filled leaves, and hid- 
 den therein the tireless 
 songsters of a thousand 
 notes — such are the 
 greater memories that May has left 
 with us. 
 
 In the earlier part of the month, and 
 in this northern plain, w^e had been 
 glad, amid stitchwort and buttercup, 
 eyebright and bedstraw^ and w^ild 
 carrot, to w^elcome the tardy advent 
 of cow^slips and violets ; we had listen- 
 ed with delight to thrush and black- 
 bird and chaffinch in the scattered 
 groves of trees, and had hailed the 
 darting swallows once more ; had 
 sat, w^ith legs a-dangle, on a plank 
 bridge that spanned a quiet ford in a 
 country lane, and had "lened and 
 loked in the wateres" as they hurried 
 over the moss-grow^n stones ; and in 
 a grassy field, w^here a rivulet spreads 
 into a wide pool with sandy banks, 
 had watched a w^hite heifer in the 
 sunshine, as she stood drinking. 
 
 [21]
 
 But a little later a more fruitful 
 valley had been reached further souths 
 where trees are crowded innumerably 
 together, w^here in lanes and meadows 
 earth sends up thronging wild flowers 
 in spendthrift profusion, where there 
 are fields deep w^ith w^aving grass over 
 which sun and w^ind play in long grey 
 ripples. We scramble down into the 
 river-bed and out on to a rock where 
 one can just lie at ease, w^hilst the 
 running water tugs at one's stick, as 
 w^ith tiny soft hands, to get it aw^ay. 
 The eddies and currents among the 
 stones go this w^ay and that w^ay and 
 every w^ay. Their restless surface is 
 filled in the sunshine w^ith darting 
 gleams and wrinkles, like the face of 
 an elfin thing, ever old and ever young ; 
 and their noise is like the sound of 
 many memories. Then, going dow^n 
 stream, w^e come upon a long reach 
 of smooth w^ater w^ith one rock up- 
 standing. Just at our feet the blue 
 sky is refle<5ted, with a w^hite cloud 
 or so. But the trees at once close in, 
 overarching the water, and the sun 
 comes pouring down into their myriad 
 leaves, saturating them w^ith its rays 
 till the light, in very superfluity as it 
 
 [22]
 
 seems, w^ells out from them again, 
 radiant and lovely and green. The 
 living "water pulses and glows in clear 
 translucency of answ^ering green, 
 save that here and there it is crossed 
 by the quiet grey-bro^vn images of 
 yet leafless ash-trees. Farther off, 
 the surface is broken by some barrier 
 of stones and rocks. There the trees 
 have opened out a little, for the ruffled 
 water again runs blue or grey-blue. 
 Slow^ly over the pool the eye ranges, 
 drinking deep of its beauty, searching 
 in vain into the w^onder of its living 
 green light. Birds flit to and fro, here 
 and there a fish leaps out, and on 
 shore a rabbit pauses on a brown 
 rock, then scurries out of sight. 
 
 As the day w^anes one hears, from a 
 grove behind the house, the multitud- 
 inous evening melody of the birds ; 
 anon one smells the sw^eet odours of 
 the night, and w^atches the bats dart- 
 ing to and fro. 
 
 The resplendent sunshine permeates 
 and fills one, till grey skies again and 
 fitful rain-show^ers are half w^elcomed. 
 "We tramp out over the bridge up the 
 long steep hill, past a red stone-quarry 
 and great banks of golden furze, till 
 
 [23]
 
 the open moor with its far-reaching 
 heather lies level before us.There,with 
 the rain drifting against one's face, 
 with the subtle aroma of the heather 
 in our nostrils, and, in our ears, the 
 solitary cry of curlew and lapwing, 
 we recapture the remote and memor- 
 able joy of the uplands. 
 
 [24]
 
 JUNE. 
 
 HEold fairy story of the 
 Goose Girl tells how a 
 princess set out with 
 her maid to marry the 
 prince of a neighbour- 
 ing land. But on the 
 w^ay the maid forced 
 the princess to change 
 places with her, to put 
 on unseemly clothes, to disfigure her 
 face w^ith dirt, and to hide her golden 
 hair under a ragged hat. At the palace 
 the maid w^ae received in state, but 
 the princess w^as sent out to herd 
 geese. One day, however, a passing 
 huntsman saw^ her sitting beside a 
 lonely pool combing her hair, and 
 with her face new washed. Amazed 
 at her beauty he w^ent and told the 
 prince, -who himself follow^ed her the 
 next morning, forcinghisw^ay secretly 
 through many obstru<5lions. And he 
 too saw^ the golden w^ealth of her hair, 
 and the beauty of her features ; he 
 saw the w^ild-rose fairness of her skin, 
 and her eyes like two sapphires. They 
 talked together for a while, and so he 
 learnt that she, and no other, was the 
 true princess. They laid their plans, 
 
 [25]
 
 and then for the nonce they parted 
 and went their ways, each glad at 
 heart once more. 
 
 The beginning of June and the first 
 young days of Summer w^ere regal 
 with sunshine and with the afterglow 
 of May's radiance. Hawthorn and 
 mayflower filled the air with their 
 sweet perfume, and the long laburnum 
 dripped "its honey of wild flame." 
 But that golden splendour was veiled 
 and all Summer's aspe(5t grew^ dull 
 and common and grey ; and so the 
 long days passed. Yet at length, as in 
 a breathing space that she had taken, 
 we saw a vision of sunlit beauty. We 
 rode past rich hay-fields, green in the 
 main, yet lighted up with golden 
 buttercups, and sprinkled with sorrel 
 and clover and brow^n grasses, and 
 with a gleaming veil of wild carrot 
 tossed haphazard over all; and w^e 
 watched the play of the sunshine there 
 and the pretty wantoning of the wind. 
 There were w^ayside groves of trees, 
 also, tempting one to linger in their 
 cool undergrowth, or to lie in the 
 shade and rest on the long grass at 
 their feet. From the top of a slow- 
 rising hill we looked down to the 
 
 [26j
 
 far horizon, and at once the blue 
 misty sapphire of it smote upon us 
 and enthralled us, like strange sweet 
 eyes. 
 
 Things took on again their grey 
 sombre hue. Rain fell fast and fell 
 steadily, and no joy came nor any 
 gleam of sunshine. Yet at least the 
 parched earth Avas watered: "the 
 geese," after all, were being well 
 tended. 
 
 In us, how^ever, that transient gleam 
 of beauty had not been fruitless : w^e 
 must search into the matter more 
 deeply, and must find some perfe<5t 
 token of our Summer's birth. Through 
 w^ind and rain, therefore, through 
 dense dripping thickets and over miry 
 banks, w^e made our w^ay in quest of 
 that sign, now^ clutching branches or 
 tufts of long grass to confirm our slip- 
 ping feet, now^ from perilous foot- 
 hold leaping across some rivulet, or 
 crossing a w^ider stream on a fallen 
 tree-trunk, our feet first cleaned of 
 treacherous mud on the long w^et 
 grass. Still hoping, still beguiled, w^e 
 crouched past the serried thorns of 
 great brambles, w^e w^ere stung by 
 nettles, till at last with a cry of 
 
 [27]
 
 joyful recognition -we found what 
 'we had sought— first the buds and 
 then, close by, the full red and white 
 flowers of the wild rose— that sweet 
 and veritable seal of youthful summer- 
 hood. Then we knew that "all else 
 w^as but seeming," and that speedily 
 the hidden glory of Summer must on 
 all sides be radiantly revealed. 
 
 [28]
 
 JULY. 
 
 N this mid-July I have 
 taken a long journey, 
 and leaving thunder 
 and rain slowly be- 
 hind have at last reach- 
 ed the south-western 
 coast. If the journey 
 w^as made tedious, at 
 one stage after another, 
 by the crowding and hustling of 
 other travellers, barriers have at least 
 been sufficiently interposed between 
 customary work and this sun-filled 
 region of tranquil holiday. 
 
 Here the sea is blue, blue— with 
 purple stretches, green shallow^s, and 
 long grey bands. As one looks over 
 the w^ater, the eye rests on the broken 
 point of an adjacent islet, then goes 
 clear to the horizon and the far 
 Atlantic. Nearer in shore, gulls fly 
 steadily this way and that, or float 
 on the water's surface; and a white 
 boat w^ith rich brow^n sails moves 
 slowly past. In the hot sunlight the sea, 
 with its tw^inkling laughter, seems 
 to live and breathe. 
 
 Inland, there are deep country 
 lanes, twisting sharply to right and 
 
 [29]
 
 left, to be explored. So narrow are 
 they that there is bare passing-room 
 for two carts ; and they have tall 
 hedges w^here rich sprays of honey- 
 suckle may be gathered— yellow, 
 w^hite, and pink — and w^here w^ild 
 roses linger. Soon an old church, 
 with square ivy-clad tower, appears 
 beside its quiet hamlet ; or a ruined 
 house, almost a tiny castle, w^hose 
 thick grey v^ralls and old arches rise 
 from the undergrowth of dense 
 brambles, and of nettles tall as a man; 
 or again a lonely mansion, w^ith its 
 antique legend of a ghostly coach 
 driven at midnight. So one roams 
 on, now^ in the hot sunshine, now^ 
 bathed in the cool shadow^ of the 
 trees ; and from overhead there come 
 the cawing and chiding of the rooks. 
 
 [30]
 
 AUGUST. 
 
 HERE w^as on the top 
 of these high grey cliffs 
 a gentle breeze off the 
 land,"which pleasantly 
 cooled the sun's inten- 
 sity. Down here at 
 their foot we move 
 along slow^ly, basking 
 languorously in the 
 great heat, pushing bare feet deep into 
 the loose sand, grasping its grateful 
 warmth. After a w^hile the quiet lap- 
 ping of the w^aves w^orks its slow^ spell, 
 and we must needs go bathing in the 
 clear green waters. Then, cool and 
 once more alert, w^e can enjoy the 
 day's lingering sultriness, either in 
 the shelter of these limestone caves, 
 or indoors amongst the books, in 
 some wide upper room that looks 
 far over the sea's expanse. Gradually 
 the evening comes, till at last the sun 
 goes dow^n. A pale moon rises from 
 out of the v/aters. Her light w^axes 
 as the dusk slow^ly deepens ; some 
 faint refle<5tion even can be caught on 
 the ruffled surface. Steadily she gath- 
 ers her full glory till, as unquestioned 
 sovereign of the night, she spreads 
 
 [31]
 
 athwart the dark waves a mighty 
 road of light from horizon to shore. 
 Here at our feet she has turned the 
 smoother water into living, rippling 
 moon-fire— a gift of lambent coolness 
 for the day's aftermath. 
 
 £32]
 
 SEPTEMBER. 
 
 S I stood one afternoon 
 on a hill-side near 
 Limburg, a flock of 
 starlings was sweep- 
 ing to and fro some- 
 w^hat low over the 
 earth. One little bevy 
 after another fell into 
 place in their array, 
 and as the numbers grew their flight 
 took a wider range, now higher in 
 the air, now lower. Still they swept 
 hither and hither, all in silence as it 
 seemed, and from point after point in 
 the wide plain below fresh groups rose 
 up and joined them. As they wheeled 
 about in the air and turned in unison 
 this way and that, they became now 
 mere dots against the sky, and now a 
 black full-spread army of birds. They 
 would vanish into the remote distance, 
 and then after a few minutes come 
 streaming back w^ith fresh re-inforce- 
 ments. Meanwhile the little flocks 
 went still flying by to reach the mighty 
 throng, which swayed to and fro under 
 the vast canopy of the heavens, first in 
 a long broad band, then in the form 
 of a hemisphere, and yet again in a 
 
 [33]
 
 great sphere. Then the whole army 
 w^ould swing aw^ay once more out of 
 sight, only to return anon w^ith new 
 auxiliaries, till the hundreds and the 
 thousands had grown to their myriads. 
 It w^as the most fascinating lilt and 
 dance in the air— a great gathering of 
 the clans ere the final flight to a 
 resting-place. 
 
 [34]
 
 U.ytnjtciiiA-JLCeLmjarutcm^
 
 CTOBER has this year 
 been warm, and the 
 trees slo\v a-turning. 
 Mists and heavy dews 
 have been frequent, 
 and the long grass lies 
 drenched. 
 
 I w^ent for a day or 
 tv/o to see a hermit- 
 friend, away in the Arden country. 
 He lives there in a cottage adjoining a 
 farm-yard, deep in the gentle heart of 
 W^orcestershire. Betimes in the morn- 
 ing one is aw^akened by the cheery 
 quacking and cackling of geese and 
 ducks as they are let out from their 
 quarters, and by the croAving of cocks ; 
 one falls asleep again, w^ith a smile at 
 their clamour, till at the coming of 
 food the eager noise is renew^ed. 
 
 Out of doors there are trees on every 
 side. The lanes— leisured, tree-fringed 
 — go up green hills and dow^n greener 
 dales, and open out generously, to 
 right and left, in road-side grass. On 
 these grassy w^idths there be bushes 
 filled with blackberries, and clumps 
 of hedgeside growth w^hich, though 
 now they tempt no lingering, will 
 yet, come summer's w^armth again, 
 
 [35]
 
 beguile our hermit into pleasant rest- 
 ing in cool shady nooks. By some 
 grassy by-way, in parts boggy and 
 of elusive foothold, we make our way 
 down to the canal, then folio w^ its slow^ 
 stream and rich banks along, till the 
 foot-path ends suddenly at a w^alled 
 abrupt hill-side, into which the w^ater 
 disappears, dark and sombre, under 
 a low archw^ay. For tw^o full miles, 
 they say, it moves on there through 
 the blackness of night. As w^e stand 
 peering in, there emerges a train of 
 silent, deep-laden barges from that 
 mysterious underworld. But here, in 
 the gladsome light again, horses and 
 stout donkeys are at hand ; and so 
 the whole line w^ins safely off, to 
 enrich the distant tow^n. 
 
 As the day w^anes, sparse mists re- 
 sume their w^an dominion, and all 
 grows grey. One is glad to get back 
 to the warmth and light of the cottage 
 —to the evening's talk, shared perhaps 
 by a neighbour- friend, concerning 
 poets old and new^ ; or maybe one is 
 held listening, w^ith keen responsive 
 joy, to some tale from the poet- 
 hermit's own epic of King Alfred— 
 his high endurance and his swift 
 great deeds. 
 
 [36]
 
 So at last, ^vhen the moon is high, 
 we go out into a big walled garden 
 near by, ^vhere fiow^ers and trees are 
 seen dimly. As w^e w^alk to and fro, 
 giant daisies loom up and confront 
 us, and tall hollyhocks, or a hedge of 
 lingering sw^eet-peas, or an apple-tree. 
 Presently we open a door in the wall 
 and look forth into still a new moon- 
 light w^onderland— a lovely grove of 
 trees, some straight, others a-slant, 
 rising all in a hush of silvery mist from 
 their vague undergrowth. 
 
 Such memories as these— marking 
 indeed autumn's progress, yet also, 
 for us, arresting its decay— can one 
 bring back from Arden, as from some 
 far world of poesy. 
 
 [37]
 
 NOVEMBER. 
 
 O come to the edge of 
 this -wide expanse of 
 grass-land from the 
 quiet street -where we 
 lived before is like 
 the change from some 
 peaceful backw^ater's 
 margin to the top of 
 a cliff fronting an 
 arm of the green sea. 
 
 From this upper Avindow we look 
 northwards, on clear days, to a distant 
 fringe of trees w^ith a reddish huddle 
 of houses beyond ; but towards the 
 north-west the grass runs free to the 
 horizon— grass that is grey-green, 
 almost dingy, in the duller November 
 hours, but that is full of golden 
 vitality w^hen the sunlight sw^eeps 
 across it. Sea-gulls and rooks are per- 
 petually in sight, flying to and fro, or 
 searching the ground for food. Cows 
 are at graze, too, dotted over the land. 
 One realizes the new^-found spacious- 
 ness, also, as against the street's con- 
 finement, by w^atching the passers by. 
 There they would appear, walk by, 
 and disappear— and all was done. 
 Yonder on the moor folk take form 
 
 C38]
 
 slowly, move gradually by, dwindle 
 into mere dots— and w^e turn our eyes 
 elsewhere. Even for horsemen, at the 
 canter or gallop, there is no flashing 
 by, no startling of the moor's expanse: 
 they can only patiently, perhaps 
 rather briskly, plod across it. 
 
 The winds that range across our 
 prairie are, from north-east, through 
 north, to south-west, searching, and 
 clean, and sw^eet. From other quarters 
 they come somew^hat smoke-laden. 
 But westering winds prevail, and they, 
 whether rough or gentle, afford regal 
 breathing. Sometimes they are virile 
 and exhilarating, like white, ice-cold 
 wine ; at other times they are filled 
 with the smell of coming rain. In 
 their rougher play they can give fine 
 autumnal buffettings. 
 
 Out beyond the moor, heading to- 
 vsrards Scotland, there runs the great 
 north road. During th^ day it is hidden 
 by the distant belt of trees ; but at 
 night its course is marked by a long 
 sw^eep of lamps, between which the 
 lighted cars run, pausing here and 
 there, like little luminous ants. To 
 tramp along it late at night for a mile 
 or so, and then to strike off home- 
 
 [39]
 
 wards across the moor's darkness — 
 that is good. The grass, as the light 
 from the road wanes, grows black and 
 solitary under the sky's star-lit hemi- 
 sphere ; distant yellow lamps make 
 a horizon. 
 
 Of a truth this moor of ours, with 
 its spaciousness, its free winds that 
 blow from afar, and its silent canopy 
 of stars, is to its familiar friends an 
 abiding joy. It reminds one also 
 how certain things, big-seeming in 
 work-a-day life, can change when 
 considered in a large perspe^ive. 
 
 [40]
 
 DECEMBER. 
 
 OW freezing a little, now^ 
 relenting, December's 
 mood hitherto has been 
 inconstant, mutable, 
 and of doubtful inter- 
 pretation. For the most 
 part we have been 
 shown but a grey im- 
 penetrable atmosphere, 
 though now and again golden gleams 
 of strange beauty have briefly shone 
 forth through the cloud-rifts. One is 
 tempted to liken this last month of 
 the year to some old-time sibyl, so 
 full of ambiguity and mistiness have 
 been her ansv\/^ers to those w^ho w^ould 
 fain be w^eather-w^ise. We go down 
 to the sea, hoping for some clearer 
 manifestation there. We w^alk along 
 the low cliff above the brown sands, 
 v/e watch the grey edge of the w^ater, 
 w^e see and hear the little w^aves 
 quietly breaking ; but beyond, all is 
 murk and fog, and our hopes prove 
 vain. Or, at some promise of a taw^ny- 
 flaming sunset, we hasten to a bridge 
 spanning the w^ide river, so as to 
 capture the glory of the light and the 
 clouds and the water in one great 
 
 [41 J
 
 sweep ; but still we are beguiled. The 
 clouds edge together, the air grows 
 misty again, a fine drizzle ivets our 
 faces, and presently the rain falls. 
 Should w^e hear from others of sunrise 
 splendours, w^e at least had no share in 
 such a promise. If Madam December 
 has smiled on them, to us she has given 
 no sign, but has been of ever doubtful 
 and baffling humour. 
 
 And as she w^ill give no clear v/ord 
 of w^hat is to come, so she obliterates 
 and ignores the things that are bygone. 
 "We go to see a country farm-house 
 that, a few^ short weeks ago, w^ith its 
 garden of noble flow^ers and its tall 
 full trees, w^as a joy to look upon. 
 All is now^ dead and sombre, and the 
 trees are leafless and still. As well 
 might that rich life, for what is left 
 of it, have never been. 'Tw^ould appear 
 that she is as relu(5tant to acknow^ledge 
 the past as to foreshadow^ the future. 
 
 These last days it is true, since the 
 new moon's coming, she has seemed 
 a trifle more resolved. The fogs are 
 slowly receding, the roads are become 
 hard, ice-needles are forming on the 
 little lakes near by, snow^ has fallen, 
 lightly at first, then heavily: the open 
 
 [42]
 
 land shows white against the grey- 
 brown skies. At last, perchance, the 
 grim compulsion to a clear utterance 
 is upon her ; else why that set, un- 
 wonted pallor ? But w^ho knows ? By 
 to-morrow^ her aspe(5t may have 
 changed yet once again. 
 
 And after all if she, avowing no debts 
 from the past, making no promise 
 for the future, reveals to us only the 
 a(5tually present, we also, foregoing 
 curiosity, abandoning old regrets, 
 may confront her on the like under- 
 standing. The past we cannot change : 
 the beauty of it and the pity of it 
 are, in one sense at least, beyond our 
 reach. The future is as yet not ours : 
 only as it swings slowly into the 
 present can we, according to our 
 faculty, deal with it. And so whether, 
 in the new^ year w^hich December re- 
 veals not, there await us storm or 
 calm, genial prosperity or chill ad- 
 versity, w^e will meet w^hat comes, so 
 far as may be, with an untroubled 
 alertness and with an * equal mind.' 
 
 [43]
 
 ''Fragrance among Old Volumes. 
 
 By BASIL ANDERTON, M.A. 
 (KEG AN PAUL.) j/Q NET. 
 
 "Ten studies, biographical, critical and imaginative, by the 
 scholarly public librarian of Newcastle-on-Tyne. You may call 
 the essays idylls of the book world ; a windo>w in bookland, as 
 Mr. Barrie wrote 'A Window in Thrums' . . . . " 
 
 THE BOOK MONTHLY. 
 
 " . ... A treasurable companion for a quiet hour or two, 
 and . . . the work of a true lover of the good things of literature." 
 
 THE ACADEMY. 
 
 "... From the outset, he creates a peculiar atmosphere of 
 freshness, of poetry, of perfume, exhaled as it were, in a magic 
 cloud from the ancient tomes. ..." fjjg COMMENTATOR 
 
 " . . . . The author of Fragrance among old Volumes belongs to the 
 
 lineage of Izaak Walton and Sir Thomas Browne He 
 
 loves the open air, the scent of heather and thyme, and the 
 
 song of birds One of the most charming papers in the 
 
 volume is that entitled 'Concordio: the Story of a Poor Music 
 Master' 
 
 The purely bibliographical articles consist of an essay on 
 'The Book-plates of Thomas Bewick,' and a study of 'Two Minor 
 
 Books of Emblems. ' As (Bewick's book-plates) are the 
 
 objects of desire to collectors, Mr. Anderton has done vrell to 
 compile an authoritative list, with all the details dear to the 
 heart of the bibliophile." ^jjg aTHENJEUM. 
 
 " For librarians there is interest and charm in these 
 
 recreations of a librarian. ..." THE LIBRARY WORLD. 
 
 " . . . . Mr. Anderton, turning from criticism . . . provides in 
 the title essay of his book and in ' The Old Bookman's Retreat ' 
 evidences of a charming fancy. ..." 
 
 NEWCASTLE DAILY CHRONICLE. 
 
 " .... A colle<5tion of essays and idylls that will make a 
 strong appeal to all genuine book-lovers. ..." 
 
 NEWCASTLE DAILY JOURNAL. 
 
 *• Es stromt beim Lesen des Buches wirklich ein 
 
 eigenartiger Hauch vergangener Zeiten uns cntgegen. Der Ver- 
 fasser hat es meisterhaft verstanden, in wenig ^Vorten uns die 
 Vergangenheit vor Augen zu zaubern. . . . Ein stimmungsvolles 
 Bild von Margaret Anderton, betitelt : 'Out, out brief candle,' 
 
 wird von einer entsprechenden Erklarung begleitet " 
 
 BORSENBLATT F. D. DTSCHN, 
 BUCHHANDEL. 
 
 " . . . . To anyone who loves and understands books these few 
 papers with their appropriate and attractive illustrations will 
 be a joy and a delight. The first paper on Magliabecchi, the 
 great Florentine bookman, is quite full of the fragrance that is 
 wafted to one from the shelves of dearly loved volumes. ..." 
 
 LIVERPOOL COURIER. 
 
 ". . . *: Only the book lover will appreciate all the treasures 
 of the enchanted land into which the author guides us, but 
 every reader will find charm and tonic in its atmosphere." 
 
 MANCHESTER COURIER 
 
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 DATE DUE 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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