ABSTRACT
It is November now. Far away at home the autumn wind howls over the stubble fields, and the rain beats against the window-pane. The townsman struggles into his overcoat. The peasant is on the mist-shrouded field pulling up his turnips, or ploughing the sodden mould till the early afternoon draws into night, and his thoughts turn to the crackling fire in the chimney-corner. Our home in London, I suppose, is wrapped in fog. On the Thames steamers appear and disappear ; and over all hangs a heavy grey pall, which merges morning and evening in one grey darkness.
