In a midsummer sleep one dreams of winter, its cold, its silence and
desolation all surrounding him; then awakes, glad to find himself in the
reality of the light and warmth of summer.
Were we dreaming yesterday of woods more gorgeous in their leafage than
a flower garden in the flush of profusest bloom, so bright with
innumerable tints that autumnal blossoms paled beside them as stars at
sunrise? Were we dreaming of air soft as in springtime, of the gentle
babble of brooks, the carol of bluebirds, the lazy chirp of crickets,
and have we suddenly awakened to be confronted by the desolation of
naked forests, the more forlorn for the few tattered remnants of gay
apparel that flutter in the bleak wind? To hear but the sullen roar of
the chill blast and the clash of stripped boughs, the fitful scurry of
wind-swept leaves and the raving of swollen streams, swelling and
falling as in changing stress of passion, and the heavy leaden patter of
rain on roof and sodden leaves and earth?
Verily, the swift transition is like a pleasant dream with an unhappy
awakening. Yet not all November days are dreary. Now the sun shines warm
from the steel-blue sky, its eager rays devour the rime close on the
heels of the retreating shadows, and the north wind sleeps. The voice of
the brimming stream falls to an even, softer cadence, like the murmur of
pine forests swept by the light touch of a steady breeze.
Then the wind breathes softly from the south, and there drifts with it
from warmer realms, or arises at its touch from the earth about us, or
falls from the atmosphere of heaven itself, not smoke, nor haze, but
something more ethereal than these: a visible air, balmy with odors of
ripeness as the breath of June with perfume of flowers. It pervades
earth and sky, which melt together in it, till the bounds of neither are
discernible, and blends all objects in the landscape beyond the near
foreground, till nothing is distinct but some golden gleam of sunlit
water, bright as the orb that shines upon it. Flocks of migrating geese
linger on the stubble fields, and some laggard crows flap lazily athwart
the sky or perch contentedly upon the naked treetops as if they cared to
seek no clime more genial. The brief heavenly beauteousness of Indian
summer has fallen upon the earth, a few tranquil days of ethereal
mildness dropped into the sullen or turbulent border of winter.
In November days, as in all others, the woods are beautiful to the lover
of nature and to the sportsman who in their love finds the finer flavor
of his pastime. Every marking of the gray trunks, each moss-patch and
scale of lichen on them, is shown more distinctly now in the intercepted
light, and the delicate tracery of the bare branches and their netted
shadows on the rumpled carpet of the forest floor, have a beauty as
distinctive as the fullness of green or frost-tinted leafage and its
silhouette of shade.
No blossom is left in woods or fields, save where in the one the
witch-hazel unfolds its unseasonable flowers yellow beneath cold skies,
or a pink blossom of herb-robert holds out with modest bravery in a
sheltered cranny of the rocks; and where in the other, the ghostly bloom
of everlasting rustles above the leafless stalks in the wind-swept
pastures. There are brighter flashes of color in the sombre woods where
the red winter-berries shine on their leafless stems and the orange and
scarlet clusters of the twining bitter-sweet light up the gray trellis
of the vagrant climber.
No sense of loss or sadness oppresses the soul of the ardent sportsman
as he ranges the unroofed aisles alert for the wary grouse, the skulking
woodcock, full-grown and strong of wing and keen-eyed for every enemy,
or the hare flashing his half-donned winter coat among the gray
underbrush as he bounds away before the merry chiding of the beagles.
The brown monotony of the marshes is pleasant to him as green fields,
while the wild duck tarries in the dark pools and the snipe probes the
unfrozen patches of ooze. To him all seasons are kind, all days
pleasant, wherein he may pursue his sport, though the rain pelt him,
chill winds assail him, or the summer sun shower upon him its most
fervent rays, and in these changeful days of November he finds his full
measure of content.