The air is turning flat. It is still warm at mid day, but when all the children were in for dinner on this night things were beginning to hint at a certain crispness. The last of the flowers were putting out a fragrance of melancholy. The sites and smells of autumn would be here soon, and cider not too long after that. When the seasons turned there was always the worry of a spartan winter. The family hadn't trained away that instinct yet.

But, for now, there was the crisp tickle and prick of the hay, the whining sigh of the dog and an afternoon to file away, to revisit when the snows became too overbearing.

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