Willam Metcalf--Vermont Hills, November. 1923
Today was a gloomy, overcast day. Not as raw as the last few days, and no snow or rain. I overheard someone say how ugly November is. How she missed the springtime and the flowers. But, as R.W. Emerson once wrote: "There is a crack in everything God has made." Only God is perfect--nature is not--so goes November...dull, grey, cold and dreary. Or is it?
I've seen November hills, and wondered at them. The stark grey and silver trees, shivering, pathetic remnants of shriveled brown leaves, trembling in the quicking breezes blowing down from the artic north. I've seen those hills, when the sun sets. The silver and grey transformed into bleeding sentinels, rosy candles of untouchable beauty. Rolling golden hills, richer in the fading glories of the sun, than the mind nearly cannot comprehend, but the soul can feel with no hesitation.
