l privacy of a sick-headache. How much the better am I then than I
was before my late expedition? I have brought home my old grievance
quite whole and unlightened by communication, and I have got a new and
fresh one in addition, with absolutely no one to whom to impart it; for,
even when Frank comes, I will certainly not tell _him_. I am too
restless to remain in-doors over the fire, though thoroughly chilled by
my late drive, and resolve to try and restore my circulation by a brisk
walk in the park.

The afternoon is still young, and the day is mending. A wind has risen,
and has pulled aside the steel-colored cloud-curtain, and let heaven's
eyes--blue, though faint and watery--look through. And there comes
another strong puff of autumnal wind, and lo! the sun, and the leaves
float down in a sudden shower of amber in his light. I march along
quickly and gravely through the long drooped grass--no longer sweet and
fresh and upright, in its green summer coat--through the frost-seared
pomp of the bronze bracken, till I reach a little knoll, whose head is
crowned by twelve great brother beeches. From time immemorial they have
been called the Twelve Apostles, and under one apostle I now stand, with
my back against his smooth and stalwart trunk.

How _beaming_ is death to them! Into what a glorious crimson they
decline! My eyes travel from one tree-group to another, and idly
consider the many-colored majesty of their decay. Over all the landscape
there is a look of plaintive uncontent. The distant town, with its two
church-spires, is choked and effaced in mist: the very sun is sickly and
irresolute. All Nature seems to say, "Have pity upon me--I die!"

It is not often that our mother is in sympathy with her children. Mostly
when we cry she broadly laughs; when we laugh and are merry she weeps;
but to-day my mood and hers match. The tears are as near my eyes as
hers--as near hers as mine.

"'See the leaves around us falling!'"

say I, aloud, stretching out my right arm in dismal recitation. We had
the hymn last Sunday, which is what has put it into my head:

"'See the leaves around us falling,
Dry and withered to the ground--'"

Another voice breaks in:

"'Thus to thoughtless mortals calling--.'"

"How you made me jump!" cry I, descending with an irritated leap to
prose, and at least making the leaves say something entirely different
from what they had ever been known to say before.

"Why did not you