Yesterday I passed by an elm avenue, leading to a beautiful old house.
The road between the trees was covered in all its length and breadth with
fallen leaves--a carpet of pale gold. Further on, I came to a
plantation, mostly of larches; it shone in the richest aureate hue, with
here and there a splash of blood-red, which was a young beech in its
moment of autumnal glory.
I looked at an alder, laden with brown catkins, its blunt foliage stained
with innumerable shades of lovely colour. Near it was a horse-chestnut,
with but a few leaves hanging on its branches, and those a deep orange.
The limes, I see, are already bare.
To-night the wind is loud, and rain dashes against my casement; to-morrow
I shall awake to a sky of winter.