The sun struck freely through the beech-trees, already half bared, whitening the grey trunks at intervals to an arrowy distinctness and majesty, or kindling the slopes of red and freshly fallen leaves below into great patches of light and flame.

Through the stems, as always, the girdling blues of the plain, and in their faces a gay and buoyant breeze, speaking rather of spring than autumn.

Robins, "yellow autumn's nightingales," sang in the hedge to their right.

In the pause between them, sun, wind, birds made their charm felt.

Nature, perpetual chorus as she is to man, stole in, urging, wooing, defining.