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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
128
AUTUMN
I.
This
has
been
a
year
of
long
sunshine.
Month
has
followed
upon
month
with
little
unkindness
of
the
sky;
I
scarcely
marked
when
July
passed
into
August,
August
into
September.
I
should
think
it
summer
still,
but
that
I
see
the
lanes
yellow-purfled
with
flowers
of
autumn.
I
am
busy
with
the
hawkweeds;
that
is
to
say,
I
am
learning
to
distinguish
and
to
name
as
many
as
I
can.
For
scientific
classification
I
have
little
mind;
it
does
not
happen
to
fall
in
with
my
habits
of
thought;
but
I
like
to
be
able
to
give
its
name
(the
"trivial"
by
choice)
to
every
flower
I
meet
in
my
walks.
Why
should
I
be
content
to
say,
"Oh,
it's
a
hawkweed"?
That
is
but
one
degree
less
ungracious
than
if
I
dismissed
all
the
yellow-rayed
as
"dandelions."
I
feel
as
if
the
flower
were
pleased
by
my
recognition
of
its
personality.
Seeing
how
much
I
owe
them,
one
and
all,
the
least
I
can
do
is
to
greet
them
severally.
For
the
same
reason
I
had
rather
say
"hawkweed"
than
"hieracium";
the
homelier
word
has
more
of
kindly
friendship.
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