“Time that doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
    And delves the parallels in Beauty’s brow.”

And yet “God tempers the wind to the shorn lamb.”  While He takes from us our youth He also takes away the inclination to be young.  We pine for the happy days of childhood; yet, if the power were given us, who would wish himself back in the past?  We feel we should always like to be young, but should we not get very weary of the world, should we not wish for some kind of change?

Or is nature at her best when the year is dead and the earth puts on her spotless white shroud, when everything around has fallen asleep, and only robins are left to join in the wake?

Unanswerable question.  There are too many opinions.  Some prefer winter, some summer; some like the heat, some like the cold.  Only in one thing do we agree, and that is, in our taste for variety, for change.  Much as we admire the country, lovely as it is, it would not suit many to live there all the year round.  The peace and quiet of our woodland scenes make us enjoy the town life all the more, while the unceasing turmoil of the season makes us hail with delight the idea of once more being

    “Far from the madding crowd.”

The very thought refreshes you.  There is something exhilarating in our journey country-wards, long and tiring though it may be.  Few people care about a railway journey, and yet with one or two kindred spirits I think it most enjoyable.

Traveling alone in the midst of strangers, you do feel rather melancholy.  You try to read, and when you are tired of chasing the words up and down the page, you look out of the window and admire the scenery as you flit past until your eyes ache to such an extent you are obliged to withdraw your gaze and be satisfied with the study of human nature, as far as it can be procured from the inmates of your compartment.  Finally you go to sleep, only to wake up after a few minutes, to find the eyes of all your fellow passengers upon you, and this serves to make you nervous and uncomfortable.  You dare not close your eyes again.  You feel sure it is the signal for everyone to turn in your direction, and you will not gratify them.

Then comes luncheon time, when we all begin to grow fidgety, and take surreptitious looks at our watches, and then glance round at our companions to see if anyone is taking the first plunge.  Hopeless quest!  Nobody ever will be the first to begin to eat in a railway carriage.  Why is it, I wonder?  Are they afraid none of the others will follow suit, and they be left to eat all alone?  It would be nervous work, certainly.  You would feel so dreadfully greedy, and yet if you offered any of your fellow travelers even a sandwich, they would peek up their heads, give you an astonished look, and decline shortly but with decision.  You are made to feel you have insulted them, and yet they had such a hungry expression!  Rarely indeed, though, do you undergo such an experience.  You only have to rise, and reach down your basket, and behold! the next moment all the carriage is feeding.  We are nothing but sheep after all.  One leads the way, and we all follow.