I suppose there are still some few people who plant trees for their children or grandchildren, although it is rather the fashion to expect gardens and woods to be made in a day, and always to be planting quick-growing things, Scotch Firs being discarded and the ugly-growing Pinus austriaca planted in its stead, etc. One of the loveliest things I know in this neighbourhood is a road running through a Beech-tree copse, planted thickly but varying in depth on each side of the road, The trees when they were young were evidently cut down, as many of them have two or three stems. At all times of the year the drive up this chalk slope is perfectly enchanting - whether in the autumn, when the stems are gray and green against the leaf-strewn ground, rich and golden in the slanting sunlight; or in spring, when the tiny leaves make flickering light and shade; or in the cool thickness on a summer's day. The fact that nothing grows under beech-wood gives a very distinguished and unusual effect, accustomed as we are to the dull walls of evergreens. For the young who wish to plant a most unusual approach, I can suggest nothing better.

The planting along the roads and hedgerows in England of Apples, Cherries and Damsons, would cost no more than any other trees, and would be both ornamental and useful. These three fruit-trees, once well planted, require no other care. The impression is that the fruit would be stolen, but I believe that to be a matter of custom, and when once people understand that taking fruit is stealing they cease to do it. Growing fruit-trees in open fields is universal on the Continent, and I am told that they are never touched.

My love of autumn with its recurring beauty does not dull with age or loneliness, and I am often astonished at the interest that is still so keen about all that surrounds me. Perhaps it ought not to be so, for I find quoted in my notebook the following complaint:

How much is lost when neither heart nor eye Rose-winged desire or fabling hope deceives; When boyhood with quick throb has ceased to spy The dubious apple in the yellow leaves; When, rising from the turf where youth reposed, We find but deserts in the far-sought shore; When the huge book of fairy-land lies closed, And those strong brazen clasps will yield no more!