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80 and one or two late flowers yet put forth their wan blossoms, pining as if gentle exiles of the spring, and yet very, very lovely. The noisy cheerfulness of rural occupation was over—the grass was mown, the corn reaped, the fruit gathered; and the loudest sound in the lonely fields was when, adventuring too near some late brood, the partridge sought to deceive by a plaintive cry and seeming helplessness, crossing before your very feet, till, when drawn to a sufficient distance, suddenly the air vibrated to the flutter of her active pinions. Or sometimes, passing too near a sequestered copse, the shy tenants were startled, and the superb plumage of the pheasant dashed aside the branches, and the stately bird soared up on rattling wing.

But if autumn wear the insignia of nature's royalty, its purple and gold, in only the shaded lane or the green field with its one or two old trees, what is its more than eastern pomp in a wooded empire like the New Forest! The stalwart oaks yet retained their dark green foliage, and the yews and firs stood unchanged; all others bore the signs of that evanescent splendour, very type of all our earthly glories. The leaves now wore the colours which had been worn by the flowers—richer, perhaps, but wanting the tender bloom of the spring. Here the lime was clothed with a