This is my last day in the country, calm and warm. I eat my luncheon by the open window. All Nature is very, very still, the silence broken now and then by the chirp of a bird and the distant crow of a cock in some neighbour's yard; the sky is pearly and grey, and soft light-grey mists hang about, just enough to show up the glory of some autumn bush or leaf. In front of the window there are some little delicate leaves of one of the shrubby Spiraeas, planted on purpose to shine, coral and gold, late in the year. It does not matter about its being planted in a choice bed, as its growth is not coarse; if it looks a little dried up in summer, it is not noticed when all the flowers are about. The dear little black and white pigeons-'Nuns,'they are called-with outspread wings, are flying down to feed. The flight of a pigeon is so beautiful; no wonder Dante immortalised it in the famous lines in the Paolo and Francesca episode. That old cynic, Voltaire, used to say that Dante's fame would always grow, because he is so little read.

As I sit and watch, the low yellow winter sun bursts out, illuminating all things. To-morrow he will not shine for me, as I shall be in that horrid dark London.

One other morbid little poem, appropriate to this time of year, I think I must give you, for it used to be a great favourite of mine in past days, before the cheerfulness of old age came upon me. If I ever knew who was the author, I have forgotten it now: