For
pure gladness and keen colour nothing can equal one of these glorious
October mornings, when the reddened fronds of the brackens are silvered
with rime, and the sun strikes flashes of delight from them. Then come
those soft November days when the winds moan softly amid the Aeolian
harps of the purple hedgerows, and the pale drizzle falls ever and
again. Even then we may pick our pleasures discreetly, if we dwell in
the country, while, as for the town, are there not pleasant fires and
merry evenings? Then comes the important thought of the poor. Ah, it is
woful! "'Pleasant fires and merry evenings,' say you?"--so I can fancy
some pinched sufferer saying, "What sort of merry evenings shall we
have, when the fogs crawl murderously, or the sleet lashes the sodden
roads?" Alas and alas! Those of us who dwell amid pleasant sights and
sounds are apt in moments of piercing joy to forget the poor who rarely
know joy at all. But we must not be careless. By all means let those who
can do so snatch their enjoyment from the colour, the movement, the
picturesque sadness of the fading year; but let them think with pity of
the time that is coming, and prepare to do a little toward lifting that
ghastly burden of suffering that weighs on so many of our fellows.
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