No man or woman thinks of the facts that the squire's
pheasants cost about a guinea apiece to rear, that a hare is worth about
three-and-sixpence, that a brace of partridges brings two shillings even
from the cunning receiver who buys the poachers' plunder. No; they
joyously think of the fact that the keepers are diddled, and that
satisfies them.
Alas, the glad and sad times alike must die, and the dull prose of
October follows hard on the wild jollity of the harvest supper, while
Winter peers with haggard gaze over Autumn's shoulder! The hoarse winds
blow now, and the tender flush of decay has begun to touch the leaves
with delicate tints. In the morning the gossamer floats in the
glittering air and winds ropes of pearls among the stubble; the level
rays shoot over a splendid land, and the cold light is thrillingly
sweet. But the evenings are chill, and the hollow winds moan, crying,
"Summer is dead, and we are the vanguard of Winter. Soon the wild army
will be upon you. Steal the sunshine while you may."
What is the source of that tender solemn melancholy that comes on us all
as we feel the glad year dying? It is melancholy that is not painful,
and we can nurse it without tempting one stab of real suffering.
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