A DAY AT WINDSOR.
IT was on a bright October morning that I took an early train from London to Windsor. No autumnal tints had yet touched the trees, which stood full clad in vivid green, nor was the grass a blade thinner or a shade paler than it was in summer. The sky was almost cloudless, and of that pale grayblue which is its brightest color between the narrow seas. I never saw the heaven quite void of clouds in England; and I am sure that if I had seen it so I should not have liked it better. The wind--but there did not seem to be any wind, not even a breeze, only a gentle motion of soft air which stirred just enough to make you conscious of its presence. There was not that glow above and that rich, deep-hued splendor below that make the autumn of New England appear so glorious; but the absence of those bright colors which our year, like a dolphin, takes on as it is dying was more than made up for me by the fullness of life and the freshness of beauty which, when we had left the city behind us, I saw all around me. I admit that I am quite willing to do without any evidences of decay, however brilliant may be its phosphorescence, and that there is no flower which compensates me for the loss of June roses.
In the approach to Windsor there is nothing remarkable; but rural England under a bright sky is