A Splash of Autumn

 AUTUMN by ROGER WRAY
 ....It is youthful, mirthful, frolicsome---the child of summer's joy--and on every side there are suggestions of juvenility  and mischief.

 Why do the poets feel that autumn is ancient? He romps over the earth, chasing the puppy-like gales, making them scamper over the mirrored pools, and ruffling their surface till the water reeds hiss him away.

 He revels in boisterous gaiety, playing pranks like a schoolboy on the first day of his holidays. He turns on the raintaps to try the effect.

 He daubs a few toadstools blood-red, he switches on summer sunshine for an hour, and then lets loose a tempest. He torments the stately trees, tears their foliage off in handfuls, rocks them backwards and forwards till they groan.

 And then SCAMPERS away for a brief interval leaving heavenly peace behind him.

 The fallen leaves are set racing down the lane. With madcap destructiveness he wastes his own handiwork, stripping the finery from the woods and forests. The bare trees sigh and shiver, but he mocks them with howls and caterwaulings.

 Then he sets the bracken afire and pauses to admire the October tints.

 Finally, with deceptive golden sunshine, he tempts the sage out of doors, suddenly drenches him, and drives him home saturated to the skin.

 The SAGE thereupon changes his raiment, and murmurs about the  solemnity of the dying year and the pensive beauties of autumn!

 The whole spirit of autumn is FROLICSOME and changeful as that of an eager child.

 The solemn tints are the grotesque hues of the harlequin, and the mournful winds are suggestive of young giants playing leapfrog over the tree tops.

 The lengthening period of darkness is a reminder of the long sleep of a healthy child, and when the sun awakes each autumn morning he rubs his misty eyes and wonders what antics he will see before bed time.

Our eyes surfeit themselves on the gorgeous feast of colours ----purple, mauve, vermilion, saffron, russet, silver, copper, bronze and old gold. 

 Who can look at the mirthful fun of autumn and talk about senility?

 The leaves are dipped and soaked in fiery hues  and the mischievous artist will never rest till he has used up every drop.

 Spring is a serenade, but Autumn is a nocturne.In the waning of the year, the world is full of sombre solemnity.

 Spring is a lovely maiden. Summer a radiant bride.

 But AUTUMN is a tomboy whose occasional quietness is more alarming than his noisiest escapades.

 "Autumn" excerpts from Roger Wray's  essay in "1000 Beautiful Things 1948"