And there comes
another strong puff of autumnal wind, and lo! the sun, and the leaves
float down in a sudden shower of amber in his light. I march along
quickly and gravely through the long drooped grass--no longer sweet and
fresh and upright, in its green summer coat--through the frost-seared
pomp of the bronze bracken, till I reach a little knoll, whose head is
crowned by twelve great brother beeches. From time immemorial they have
been called the Twelve Apostles, and under one apostle I now stand, with
my back against his smooth and stalwart trunk.
How _beaming_ is death to them! Into what a glorious crimson they
decline! My eyes travel from one tree-group to another, and idly
consider the many-colored majesty of their decay. Over all the landscape
there is a look of plaintive uncontent. The distant town, with its two
church-spires, is choked and effaced in mist: the very sun is sickly and
irresolute. All Nature seems to say, "Have pity upon me--I die!"
It is not often that our mother is in sympathy with her children. Mostly
when we cry she broadly laughs; when we laugh and are merry she weeps;
but to-day my mood and hers match: The tears are as near my eyes as
hers--as near hers as mine.
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