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