NOVEMBER.
And, when November came, there fell
Another limning in, to tell
The month’s employment; which we see
Providance was, for time to be.
Now was the last loud squeaking roar
Of many a mighty forest boar,
Whose head, when came the Christmas days,
Was crown’d with rosemary and bays,
And so brought in, with shoutings long,
And minstrelsy, and choral song.
*
We can now perceive the departure of “that delightful annual guest, the summer, under the agreeable alias of autumn, in whose presence we have lately been luxuriating. We might, perhaps, by a little gentle violence, prevail upon her to stay with us for a brief space longer; or might at least prevail upon ourselves to believe that she is not quite gone. But we shall do better by speeding her on her way to other climes, and welcoming ‘the coming guest,’ gray-haired winter:”—nor can we do better at this moment than take “note of preparation,” for a grateful adieu to the year and welcome to the comer.
On ushering in the winter we recur to the “Mirror of the Months,” from whence we have derived so many delightful reflections, and take a few “looks” in it, for, perhaps, the last time. At this season last year it presented to us the evergreens, and now, with a “now,” we select other appearances.
Now—as the branches become bare, another sight presents itself, which, trifling as it is, fixes the attention of all who see it. I mean the birds’ nests that are seen here and there in the now transparent hedges, bushes, and copses. It is not difficult to conceive why this sight should make the heart of the schoolboy leap with an imaginative joy, as it brings before his eyes visions of five blue eggs lying sweetly beside each other, on a bed of moss and feathers; or as many gaping bills lifting themselves from out what seems one callow body. But we are, unhappily, not all schoolboys; and it is to be hoped not many of us ever have been bird-nesting ones. And yet we all look upon this sight with a momentary interest, that few other so indifferent objects are capable of exciting. The wise may condescend to explain this interest, if they please, or if they can. But if they do, it will be for their own satisfaction, not ours, who are content to be pleased, without insisting on penetrating into the cause of our pleasure.
Now, the felling of wood for the winter store commences; and, in a mild still day, the measured strokes of the wood-man’s axe, heard far away in the thick forest, bring with their sound an associated feeling, similar to that produced by a wreath of smoke rising from out the same scene: they tell us a tale of
“Uncertain dwellers in the pathless wood.”