AUTUMN
_The loveliest things of Autumn’s pack
In his mottled coffers lay:
Red mountain-berries,
Hips sweet as cherries,
Sloes blue and black
He hung upon every spray._
On the top of the hills in the West stood the Prince of Autumn and
surveyed the land with his serious eyes.
His hair and beard were dashed with grey and there were wrinkles on his
forehead. But he was good to look at still and straight and strong.
His splendid cloak gleamed red and green and brown and yellow and
flapped in the wind. In his hand he held his horn.
He smiled sadly and stood a while and listened to the fighting and the
singing and the cries. Then he raised his head, put the horn to his
mouth and blew a lusty flourish:
Summer goes his all-prospering way,
Autumn’s horn is calling.
Heather dresses the brown hill-clay,
Winds whip crackling across the bay,
Leaves in the grove keep falling.
All the trees of the forest shook from root to top, themselves not
knowing why. All the birds fell silent together. The stag in the glade
raised his antlers in surprise and listened. The poppy’s scarlet petals
flew before the wind.
But high on the mountains and on the bare hills and low down in the
bog, the heather burst forth and blazed purple and glorious in the
sun. And the bees flew from the faded flowers of the meadow and hid
themselves in the heather-fields.
But Autumn put his horn to his mouth again and blew:
Autumn lords it with banners bright
Of garish leaves held o’er him,
Quelling Summer’s eternal fight,
Heralding Winter, wild and white,
While the blithe birds flee before him.
The Prince of Summer stopped where he stood in the valley and raised
his eyes to the hills in the West. And the Prince of Autumn took the
horn from his mouth and bowed low before him.
“Welcome!” said Summer.
He took a step towards him and no more, as befits one who is the
greater. But the Prince of Autumn came down over the hills and again
bowed low.
They walked through the valley hand in hand. And so radiant was Summer
that, wherever they passed, none was aware of Autumn’s presence. The
notes of his horn died away in the air; and one and all recovered from
the shudder that had passed over them. The trees and birds and flowers
came to themselves again and whispered and sang and fought. The river
flowed, the rushes murmured, the bees continued their summer orgy in
the heather.
But, wherever the princes stopped on their progress through the valley,
it came about that the foliage turned yellow on the side where Autumn
was. A little leaf fell from its stalk and fluttered away and dropped
at his feet. The nightingale ceased singing, though it was eventide;
the cuckoo was silent and flapped restlessly through the woods; the
stork stretched himself in his nest and looked towards the South.
But the princes took no heed.
“Welcome!” said Summer again. “Do you remember your promise?”
“I remember,” answered Autumn.
The Prince of Summer stopped and looked out over the kingdom where the
noise was gradually subsiding:
“Do you hear them?” he asked. “They must die and they do not know it.
Now do you take them into your gentle keeping.”
“I shall bring your produce home,” said Autumn. “I shall watch
carefully over them that dream, I shall cover up lovingly them that are
to sleep in the mould. I will warn them thrice of Winter’s coming.”
“It is well,” said Summer.
They walked in silence for a time, while night came forth.
“The honeysuckle’s petals fell when you blew your horn,” said Summer.
“Some of my children will die at the moment when I leave the valley.
But the nightingale and the cuckoo and the stork I shall take with me.”
Again the two princes walked in silence. It was quite still; only the
owls hooted in the old dead oak.
“You must send my birds after me,” said Summer.
“I shall not forget,” replied Autumn.
Then the Prince of Summer raised his hand in farewell and bade Autumn
take possession of the kingdom:
“I shall go to-night,” he said. “And none will know save you. My
splendour will linger in the valley for a while, so that you may come
more gently to those to whom you bring death. And by-and-by, when I am
far away and my reign is forgotten, the memory of me will revive once
more with the sun and the pleasant days.”
Then he strode away in the night.
But from the high tree-top came the stork on his long wings; and the
cuckoo fluttered out of the tall woods; and the nightingale flew from
the thicket with his full-grown young.
The air was filled with the soft murmuring of wings.
* * * * *
The Siskin couple sat and chatted on the edge of the empty nest:
“Do you remember the day when I courted you?” he asked. “I had preened
and smartened myself as best I could and you also looked sweet. The
beech had just come out: I never saw the wood so green in all my life!”
“How you sang!” said she. “Sing like that again; then perhaps I will
accept you once more.”
But the siskin sadly shook his head:
“My voice is gone,” he said.
“Do you remember when we built the nest?” she asked, a little later.
“How snug it was and how nice! I shall never have so fine a house
again. Just look how ugly and dilapidated it is!”
“The young ones did that,” he replied.
“Yes, but do you remember the morning when they came out of the eggs?”
she asked; and her small black eyes beamed. “How sweet they were and
how naked and brown! I could not leave them for a minute but they
screamed.”
“And then they got their feathers!” he said and strutted. “Grand
siskins, all four of them. Do you remember the day they first hopped
out of the nest?”
She remembered. She remembered many more things and reminded him of
them all. And, when there was nothing left to say, they moved closer to
each other and sat silent; and each apart thought of the old days.
And all the others were like the siskins.
The flowers bent towards one another and whispered about the golden
time when they stood with a bee in every chalice. So eager were they to
tell their stories that none could wait for the other to finish. All
over the meadow, it sounded:
“Do you remember...? Do you remember...?”
The flies and the bees sat for half the day and idled and talked
intimately and cosily of the beautiful summer days when they hummed and
buzzed and reigned in the meadow. The trees waved their branches softly
to one another and told long stories of their green youth. The rushes
put their brown tips together and dreamt the whole thing over again.
The little brown mice sat in the hedge, in the evening sun, and told
the children the story of their courtship.
“Do you remember...? Do you remember...?”
In the midst of the valley stood the Prince of Autumn, with his horn in
his hand. But none saw him.
Then the crow flew out of the wood on flapping wings and screamed:
“Past! Past! How can you care to talk of those old things? It’s all
past! Past! Past!”
Echo sang from the hills:
“Past! Past! Past!”
And Echo whispered in the rushes and hummed in the river and sounded
in all that lived in the land. They all then and there understood
that summer was over. They stopped in the middle of their stories and
listened and chimed in:
“Past! Past! Past!”
And suddenly they all saw the Prince of Autumn, as he stood there
in the midst of them, in his motley cloak. They stared at him with
frightened eyes and at one another.
But he put his horn to his mouth and blew till it rang over the valley:
Autumn’s horn blew a lusty chime,
For the first time, for the first time!
Interpret well its warning:
September night,
Breed mushrooms white,
Lay midge in mould,
Plait bronze with gold
For green tree-tops’ adorning.
He looked over the valley with his serious eyes. But, when the last
echo of the notes had died away, he spread his motley cloak in the sun
and laughed and nodded.
And, while the sky was higher than it had ever been and the air mild
and the lake blue and the mountains stood out clear on the horizon, the
land passed dutifully under Autumn’s dominion.
It had indeed begun on the night when Summer went away, with a yellow
leaf here and a brown leaf there, but none had noticed it. Now it went
at a quicker pace; and, as time wore on, there came ever more colours
and greater splendour.
The lime-trees turned bright yellow and the beech bronze, but the
elder-tree even blacker than it had been. The bell-flower rang with
white bells, where it used to ring with blue, and the chestnut-tree
blessed all the world with its five yellow fingers. The mountain-ash
shed its leaves that all might admire its pretty berries; the wild rose
nodded with a hundred hips; the Virginia creeper broke over the hedge
in blazing flames.
The moss grew soft and green; and the toadstools shot up in the night.
Queer, soft, pale creatures they were and poisonous and envious they
looked. But some of them had a scarlet hat on and all were overjoyed
with life.
But the siskin could find no flies and was wailing pitifully.
“Then go away!” said the Prince of Autumn. “Your time is over; and I
have plenty of birds left.”
Away flew siskin and linnet and many with them. But Autumn put his horn
to his mouth and blew:
The loveliest things of Autumn’s pack
In his motley coffers lay:
Red mountain-berries,
Hips sweet as cherries,
Sloes blue and black,
He hung upon every spray.
And blackbird and thrush chattered blithely in the copsewood, which
gleamed with berries, and a thousand sparrows kept them company.
At night, it was quite still. The stag went into the meadow with
noiseless steps and lifted his antlers and reconnoitred. The bird sat
and slept somewhere with his head under his wing; the wind dared hardly
whisper among the faded foliage. The stars twinkled far and peacefully.
* * * * *
Then the leaves fell.
And, as they broke from the branches and whirled through the air and
fell to the ground, they sighed softly and filled the forest with
strange, plaintive sounds. But none could hear them who had not seen
his own hopes die.
But, next morning, those which were left gleamed brighter still and
spread themselves and laughed in the sun, as if they had never amused
themselves so well. The birch stood flirting on the moor; and the tiny
little plants in the hedge sported their red leaves. The beech and the
oak changed one thing or another in their dress each day, till they
became more fantastic than ever. The falling leaves flew from tree to
tree and remained lying there, till the whole at last became one great
confusion.
But redder than the reddest blazed the Virginia creeper; and the crows
made such a din every evening in the old, dead oak that you could not
hear yourself speak. The thrushes chattered, the sparrows screamed, the
wind ran from one to the other and puffed and panted to add to the fun.
High up in the sky, the sun looked gently down upon it all.
And the Prince of Autumn nodded contentedly and let his motley cloak
flap in the wind:
“I am the least important of the four seasons and am scarcely lord in
my own land,” he said. “I serve two jealous masters and have to please
them both. But my power extends so far, that I can give you a few glad
days.”
Then he put his horn to his mouth and blew:
To the valley revellers hie!
They are clad in autumnal fancy-dresses,
They are weary of green and faded tresses
Summer has vanished, Winter is nigh--
Hey fol-de-rol-day for Autumn!
The beech wears a coat of red,
The oak grows feeble, his strength is shaken,
Summer’s fine birds the Devil has taken!
The bees are excused, the flies are dead--
Hey fol-re-rol-day for Autumn!
The birch that was ever shy.
Stands--look!--in her yellow smock unbidden,
With scarcely a white, lank limb that’s hidden!
Green pines straddle towards the sky--
Hey fol-re-rol-day for Autumn!
But, just as the gaiety was at its height and the land full of noise,
exactly as in the fairest days of summer ... there were two that
mistook the time of year!
It was the cherry-tree for one and the strawberry-plant for another.
They felt the sun shining so very warm and saw how everything rejoiced.
Then they forgot themselves and burst forth anew. Carefully, they
opened their white flowers and shivered at once, for it was colder than
they had thought.
And, when the dainty white blossoms spread in the morning sun, all the
motley trees of the wood laughed them to scorn. The crows fell off the
branches with laughter, the sparrows shrieked: one and all considered
it the best notion they had ever seen. But a belated bee opened six
thousand great eyes and had an apoplectic fit, because she thought she
had taken leave of her senses.
The Prince of Autumn looked at the flowers with moist eyes and shook
his head:
“You poor little ninnies!” he said, sadly.
But the Virginia creeper flung her warm red arms around them and said
that they were sweet.
The blossoms thrived and grew; and one of them even put forth a tiny
green berry. And, when the others saw that, they gave up laughing
and began to think about it. The alder looked itself up and down and
reflected that it still was quite green; and the birch was nearly
sinking into the ground for shame at its nakedness. The old frog
suddenly said, “Quack!” and was so startled at this that she plunged
head foremost to the bottom of the lake. The sparrow suddenly felt
lonely and looked round fondly among the daughters of the land.
But the beech shook up a heap of brown leaves and clung convulsively to
those which were green:
“It _may_ be possible,” it said to itself and, then and there, put out
three new shoots.
But, the night after this happened, there was a tremendous disturbance
up on the mountain-peaks, where the eternal snows had lain both in
Spring’s time and Summer’s. It sounded like a storm approaching. The
trees grew frightened, the crows were silent, the wind held its breath.
The Prince of Autumn bent forward and listened:
“Is that the worst you can do?” shouted a hoarse voice through the
darkness.
Autumn raised his head and looked straight into Winter’s great, cold
eyes.
“Have you forgotten the bargain?” asked Winter.
“No,” replied Autumn. “I have not forgotten it. But, if they must die,
at least give them leave to dance.”
“Have a care!” shouted Winter.
The whole night through, it rumbled and tumbled in the mountains. It
turned so bitterly cold that the starling thought seriously of packing
up; and even the red creeper turned pale. When the sun rose, the
cherry-blossoms and strawberry-blossoms hung dead upon their stalks.
The distant peaks glittered with new snow.
And the Prince of Autumn laughed no more. He looked out earnestly over
the land and the wrinkles in his forehead grew deeper:
“It must be so then!” he said.
Then he blew his horn:
Autumn’s horn blew a lusty chime;
For the second time, for the second time!
Heed well the call, complying:
Fling seed to earth!
Fill sack’s full girth!
Plump back and side!
Pad belt and hide!
Hold all wings close for flying!
Then suddenly a terrible bustle arose in the land. For now they all
understood that fortune was on the ebb; and all thought that there was
something they had forgotten or something they were not ready with.
Round about the thicket, the bushes shouted aloud:
“Buy my hips! Who’ll buy?”
“Service-berries! Service-berries! Fine red service-berries!”
“Blackberries! Fresh blackberries!”
“Sloes! Sloes! Sloes!”
And the thrush and the blackbird swept down upon them and gorged
themselves with the good berries till they were well provided for their
journey. The sparrows ate all they could get down; the crows drove the
others away and guzzled.
“Quick!” said Autumn. “Remove that finery!”
The poppy and the bell-flower and the pink stood thin and dry as
sticks, with their heads full of seed. The dandelion had presented each
one of his seeds with a sweet little parachute.
“Come, dear Wind, and shake us!” said the poppy.
“Fly away with my seeds, Wind!” said the dandelion.
And the wind hastened to do as they asked.
But the beech cunningly dropped his shaggy fruit on to the hare’s fur;
and the fox got one also on _his_ red coat. Thus they carried the
beech’s children out into the world without having the least suspicion
what they were doing.
“Quick, now!” said Autumn. “There’s no time here to waste.”
The little brown mice filled their parlours from floor to ceiling with
nuts and beech-mast and acorns. The hedgehog had already eaten himself
so fat that he could hardly lower his quills, but still loitered
around all night to get more food. The hare and the fox and the stag
put on clean white woollen things under their coats. The starling and
the thrush and the blackbird saw to their downy clothing and exercised
their wings for the long journey. The sparrows were envious that they
could not go too; as for the crows, nothing seemed to hurt them; and
the lapwing sat on his tussock and looked lonely.
But the bat went right away and hung himself on his own hindlegs deep
down in a hollow tree.
“Quick!” said Autumn. “It will be over in a week.”
The sun hid himself behind the clouds and did not appear for many days.
It began to rain. The wind quickened its pace: it dashed the rain over
the meadow, whipped the river into foam and whistled uncannily through
the trunks in the forest. The leaves fell without ceasing.
“Now the song is finished!” said the Prince of Autumn.
Then he put his horn to his mouth and blew:
Autumn’s horn blew a lusty chime,
For the last time, for the last time!
Ways close when need is sorest:
Land-birds, fly clear!
Plunge, frogs, in mere!
Bee, lock your lair!
Take shelter, bear!
Fall, last leaf in the forest!
And then it was over.
It all went at such a rate that one could hardly tell how it began or
how it ended.
The birds flew from the land in flocks. The starling and the lapwing,
the thrush and the blackbird all migrated to the South. Every night,
the sparrow heard their chirping and the fluttering of their wings in
the air.
Every morning, before the sun rose, the wind tore through the forest
and pulled the last leaves off the trees. Every day, the wind blew
stronger, snapped great branches, swept the withered leaves together
into heaps, scattered them again and, at last, laid them like a soft,
thick carpet over the whole floor of the forest. Here and there, a
single leaf hung on a twig and resisted and refused to die. But this
was only a short respite, for, if it did not fall to-day, it fell
to-morrow.
The hedgehog crawled so far into a hole under a heap of stones that he
remained caught between two of them and could move neither forwards nor
backwards. The sparrow took lodgings in a deserted swallow’s-nest; the
frogs went to the bottom of the pond for good, settled in the mud,
with the tips of their noses up in the water, and prepared for whatever
might come. The waves loosened the water-lily’s stalks and washed them
clean away; the rushes snapped in the storm and drifted with the stream.
The Prince of Autumn stood and gazed over the land to see if it was
bare and waste, so that Winter’s storms might come buffeting at will
and the snow lie where it pleased.
And so empty was it that the sun rose later, morning after morning, and
went earlier to bed, evening after evening, because he did not think
that he had anything to shine upon.
“Now I’m coming!” roared Winter from the mountains. “My clouds are
bursting with snow; and my storms are breaking loose.”
“I have one day left,” said Autumn.
He walked across the meadow, where already the grass was yellow and the
flowers gone, except the little white daisy, which can never get done
in time. Then he went into the naked wood. He peeped at the hedgehog,
smiled at the little brown mice, who carried the shells neatly and
decently outside the parlour each time they had had a nut-feast, patted
the strong beech-trunks and asked them if they could stand the storm
and nodded to the jolly crows.
Then he stopped before the old, dead oak and looked at the ivy that
clambered right up to the top and spread her green leaves as if Winter
had no existence at all.
And, while he looked at it with eyes that were gentle and moist like
Spring’s, the ivy-flowers blossomed. They sat right at the top and
rocked in the wind, yellow-green and insignificant, but just as good
flowers as any of those which grew in Summer’s kingdom.
“Now I can restrain my storms no longer!” roared Winter.
The Prince of Autumn bent his head and listened. He could hear the
storm come rushing down over the mountains. A snowflake fell upon his
motley cloak ... and another ... and yet another....
For the last time, he put his horn to his mouth and blew in sad and
subdued tones:
Thou greenest plant and tardiest,
Thou fairest, rarest, hardiest,
Bright through unending hours!
Round Summer, Winter, Autumn, Spring,
Thy vigorous embraces cling.
Look! Ivy mine, ’tis _I_ who sing,
’Tis _Autumn_ wins thy flowers!
Then he went away in the storm.
WINTER