The harriers and stag-hounds are out this fine November morning; and I see hunters in green coats and red winding down the steep chalky sides of the hill; while men, boys, dogs, and cattle all seem animated by the spirit of the chase—the cows and horses galloping round the meadows in search of some outlet from their confinement. Certainly, the distant horn does sound enlivening. For the poor hare there is no hope of mercy; but the stag has been so often turned out, that I hardly think he can believe himself in much danger. There he goes! I was cockney enough to mistake him at first for a donkey! How gracefully he cleared the gate! Off he goes, at a rocking-horse sort of pace. He will give them a good run yet. The trees are now as many-hued as Joseph’s coat of divers colours—orange, golden, lemon colour, every shade of green, brown, and mulberry, some cherry red; but few trees, except the walnuts, are quite leafless. The pigs, with eager snouts, are grubbing for acorns around the oaks,—off they trot, except one, to a new locality; he is too busy to note them, till suddenly looking up, it seems to strike him, “_Can_ they be doing better than I am?” and off he posts for his share of the spoils. How much one may see from a window! I can descry long wavy sheets of gossamer, glittering with dew, shimmering in the air—the most exquisite texture conceivable, fit for the wedding-veil of the fairy-queen! The walnut-trees have been threshed; the wild-geese have flown home; the swallows flew off on the 21st of September. Many garden-flowers yet linger; but wild-flowers are reduced to a pitiful array, chiefly comprising daisies, yarrow, ragwort, and furze. Bright days are becoming fewer and fewer; but we had a fine Fifth of November, and I saw a rustic Guy Fawkes set down in the middle of the road by a party of merry lads, that they might scramble over a gate and race after a squirrel. The skylark and thrush have not yet quite forsaken us, but our principal songster is the robin, who pipes away most merrily. In one of Mary Russell Mitford’s fairy-like notes to me, written within three weeks of her death, she says, “I am sometimes wheeled from my fire-side to the window; and, about a month ago, a red-breast came to that window and tapped. Of course, we answered the appeal by fixing a little tray outside the window-sill, and keeping it well supplied with bread crumbs; and now he not only comes himself, but has introduced his kinsfolk and friends. Think how great a pleasure!” * * * * * No news of the Pevenseys’ return; but they must be slowly nearing home, unless any fresh causes of delay have occurred. Winter is stealing imperceptibly upon us; November has slipped away, and December has arrived, almost without the change being felt.