It was a morning of ground mist, yellow sunshine, and high rifts of blue, white-cloud-dappled sky. The leaves were still thick on the trees, but de-spangled gossamer threads hung on the bushes and the shrill little cries of unrest of the swallows skimming the green open park spaces of the park told of autumn and change.

Unlike most great talkers, the rooks are good workers, too.

It is the fashion to talk of our changing climate and bewail the hot summers and hard winters of tradition, but how seldom we pause to marvel at the remarkable constancy of the weather from year to year.

The harvest-home or supper is a thing of the past. To those who feel the fascination of the past this may appear sad, but it is not so really for, even while it existed, this surface goodwill was often an empty show.

Alas! in nature, as in art, we gain only according to our capacity. You cannot put an ocean in a pint pot.

What greater restoratives have we poor mortals than a good meal taken in the company of loving friends?

Any artwork needs time and patience and needs above a quiet mind.