November, 1895

One might well ask what can we find out of doors that is pleasant during this dismal month. The very name seems to suggest a dreary landscape and cold winds that moan and sob in sympathy with weeping skies.

But there are often many pleasant days during this much maligned month.  Only we are so prone to look upon the dark side of things and forget the bright one.

I once knew an old lady who lived in a city neighborhood that was pestered by hand-organs, especially the kind accompanied by the witching monkey.  (The hand-organ man who owns a monkey never thinks it at all necessary to have an instrument whose tones bear the slightest claim to time or tune, the absence of a few notes here and there, and the remainder joining in a most discordant din, seems to him a state of affairs amply compensated by the antics of the monkey.)  After a peculiarly agonizing performance one day, the old lady was asked if that noise did not drive her almost wild, she being of a peculiarly nervous temperament.  “Oh, no,” said she, “I never hear those organs unless one plays in a real good tune, and then I enjoy it very much.”

November Days

Now, if we could only apply this sort of philosophy to so-called dreary November, we will find much enjoy – more than we dream of.  There is no time in the year better suited to a good horseback ride.  Even a “gray day” gives out a sort of exhilaration, as with our four-footed friend, who seems to understand our mood, we fly along the highways and byways, bidding defiance to a leaden sky, which seems to grudge a ray of sunshine to warm the poor old earth so sere and brown.  But what care we?  We are free, my horse and I!  We know where a beautiful stretch of salt marsh lies between two rivers, where the hay is piled in great cones, where the grass is still green in spots, and the clumps of trees here and there vary the flat level.  There is still a trace of the path made during the hot August days by the small army of hay-makers who swung their scythes where no rattling modern machine drawn by horses might venture  A well-defined track shows where the hay-rick with its broad tires, drawn by horses who shod with square boards, hauled a portion of the hay away.  So we are not at all afraid of falling into the ditch or stepping into unseen holes.  We have been here before, Lightfoot and I.  We know when the tide is high.  We know just where to stand to get the most charming view of the marsh, the hay-cocks, the water, and the spires of the city beyond on one side, and the green hills on another.  And now from over the water comes the salt breeze, every breath laden with life, and yes, the grudging clouds are parting and breaking into great ragged masses.  How the waves sparkle!

The dun-colored carpet under our feet and the few frost-touched leaves and foliage which have not yet fallen take on an almost ruddy hue.  The breeze grows stronger; Lightfoot tosses her head as she sniffs the salt-laden air.  The beauties that surround us, the long stretch of marsh before us, the glowing of the sun, the glint of the water and far-off city spire all conspire to animate both horse and rider.  So, with a little settling to a firmer seat in the saddle, a pinning more closely of breeze-ruffled locks, a shake of the bridle, and we are off.  There is no other time when my horse so well merits her name as when she settles into a long, smooth lope over the salt marsh.  We are a happy pair.  There is a wild freedom born of our surroundings, a feeling of new-born hope and courage never to be found on a conventional highway.  Lightfoot without doubt feels this stimulus, for there is no pausing until the road is reached and she reasons that it is now time for a more decorous gait.  She shows no signs of weariness, however, and would no doubt have been content to stay another hour or two dancing over the soft surface of the marsh.

But November days are short, and there is much to be done on the part of Lightfoot’s rider while Lightfoot herself will munch her oats in calm reflection that her day’s work is done.

Mary Sargent Hopkins (November 1895). November Days. The Ladies World, Vol. XVI(11), 10.  Retrieved from http://victoriantimes.us/health/november-days

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