It Had Been One Of The Warm And Almost Sultry Days Which Sometimes
Come In November; A Maligned Month, Which Is Really An Epitome Of The
Other Eleven, Or A Sort Of Index To The Whole Year's Changes Of Storm
And Sunshine. The Afternoon Was Like Spring, The Air Was Soft And
Damp, And The Buds Of The Willows Had Been Beguiled Into Swelling A
Little, So That There Was A Bloom Over Them, And The Grass Looked As
If It Had Been Growing Green Of Late Instead Of Fading Steadily. It
Seemed Like A Reprieve From The Doom Of Winter, Or From Even November
Itself.
