THE REIGN OF AUTUMN.

Otago Witness, Issue 2983, 17 May 1911, Page 81

THE REIGN OF AUTUMN.

The mist is over the red of the clover, Tho green is under the grey, And down in the hollow the fleet -winged swallow Is flying away, and away! Fled are the roses, dead are the roses, The glow and the glory done, And down in the hollow the steel-winged swallow Is flying the way o' the sun. In place of Summer, a dread newcomer His solemn state renews; A crimson splendour instead o' the tender Daisy and cooling dews. But, oh, the sweetness, the full compleitemees; That under his reign are born I Russet and yellow in apples mellow, And wheat, and millet, and corn. His frosts so hoary touch with glory Mkiple and oak and thorn: And rising and 1 falling, the winds are calling Like a hunter through his horn. No thrifty sower, but just a mower, Who comes when the day is done, "With warmth a-beaming and gold a-gleaming Dike sunset after the sun. So wrote Alice Gary many a year ago, and something in the lilt of the lines and the word-picture they present always reminds me of our southern autumn —especially those lines— But, oh, the sweetness, the full completeness That under his reign are born, for they bring .before me the exquisite* peace, the silent pomp and glory of many an inland picture—the glorious blues and purples of the mountains, the deep gold of the poplars still and stately, the burning scarlet and splendid crimson of apple and cherry trees, the straggling gooseberry bushes ail aflame with every gorgeous tint,' and the long lines of the strawberry borders, smitten to purple and brown, with here and there a scarlet leaf glowing like a living jewel. There is a wonderful soft pallor in the sky. On the still silvery-grey surface of the lake are leflected the glories of all this autumnal splendour, with strangely intensified brilliance and The bronze inlay of the russet fern-pollen wavers in long linee upon the water, the brilliant reflections of poplar and pale willow and ruddy bramble are cut by the slowly moving dorsal fins of a school of big trout,, moving slowly towards the mouth of the river. Shadows gather in the mighty clefts of the mountains-; the after-glow pales and dies, but riot till the first star has pierced the pale opal of the sky the lovely promise of that Eternal Order and Unfailing Mercy which link day to night and night again to day, and from the glories of autumn spell the evangel of the spring. Ye voices that arose After the evening's close, And whispered to my restkss heart repose! Go, breathe it in the ear Of all who doubt and fear, And say to them, "Be of good cheer!'' Autumn in the north is but a pale, sickly shadow of the autumn we know in our more strenuous, vigorous southern climate. This year the summer lingered long, but...it.was not "the little summer of St. Martin," or the wonderful " Indian summer " to which our own autumn in the south is so akin. There has been no pomp and glory of splendid colouring, no delightful exhilaration of frosty air and unaccustomed brilianoe of starry heavens. Autumn in the mild climate of the north is robbad. of individuality, loses its ripe exclusive charm in field and farm, in city and park, and becomes a mere tame 10 minutes' interlude between summer and ■wir.ter.

In the country inland I looked in vain for the familiar foliage' of autumn, the pentinel poplars, the wide-spreading elms and oaks, the slender beeches, and the great plane trees dropping their glorious golden fans, pink-stalked upon the wayside. From the whitened fields the groups of pinis insignis and pollarded maorocarpa show their dark, gloomy silhouettes ; the willows have forgotten their part in the autumn' chorale, and let their leaves hang a pallid grey-green, waiting for the first night wind to scatter them. • This is the autumn as Tennyson eaw it when he wrote:

A spirit haunts the year's last hours, Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers: To himself he talks; For at eventide, listening earnestly, At his work you may hear him sob and sigh In the walks i Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks Of the mouldering flowers: Heavily bangs the broad sunflower Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily bangs the tiger lily. The air i® damp, and hushed, a-nd close, As a sick man's room, when he taketh repose An hour bsfore death; ' My very heart faints, and my whole soul grieves At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves. And the heath Of the fading edges of box beneath, And the year's last rose. Heavily hangs the bToad sunflower, Over its grave i' the earth so chilly; Heavily hangs the hollyhock, Heavily hangs the tiger lily. But there is no " last rose," in these northern gardens. Summer's flowers linger on, pale and emasculate, till winter comes. Spring's flowers, knowing no dreamful rest or firm and masterful weathering of winter's frost and snow, wake out of season and thrust their green leaves and fragrant blooms up .in the ragged borders amid draggled foliage and dried seed oodo of summer's blossoinbood. In countoy gardens of late, where the bronze bedding begonias were still making a lovely harmony with the soft blue of ageratuim, and the tall white nlumes of Michaelmas daisy were in full bloom, thecre were spring bulbs just coming into flower, and violets in bloom about the pot of the cactus dahlias, while roses and chrysanthemums displayed a friendly rivalry in the background. So you see that there is not sufficient individuality in ' northern autumn to awaken those especial associations which endear the fall of the year to southerners, and one is more than glad to get back to familiar scenes' and faces.