The dying of the year...

A fine mist has descended on the countryside, and with it a deep sense of peace born of acceptance, and submission to a power greater than its own.
For Nature's first burst of autumnal defiance is over; she knows now that she cannot stop the advance of winter. She is like an old woman who knows her work is done (and has the quiet pride of knowing it well done), and now she lays aside her knitting, and sits quietly in her chair by the fire, slowly rocking back and forth, back and forth, waiting, without fear, for the end. And yet she knows, this wise old woman, that it is not the end...

"I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds."

Shall we have snow?

Where's your barn, robin?

 The North Wind doth blow,

and we shall have snow,

and what will the robin

do then, poor thing?

He'll hide in a barn and
keep himself warm, 
with his head tucked under
his wing, poor thing. 

A faintly embarrassing episode occurred in my house this morning.

About six months ago I made up my own tune to "The North Wind Doth Blow"; and a couple of weeks ago, I decided to turn it into an action song...
This morning I began to sing it again, and as I sang it I thought I would run over the actions as well, so as not to forget them. Unfortunately, just as I was acting out the robin (stomach out, head back, arms placed neatly behind, and a little self-important hop) my mother appeared immediately behind me. Ahem!
You might have thought I would have learnt my lesson after the equally embarrassing incident when a friend suddenly appeared at the end of the corridor, just as I was shaking my finger at "Miss Polly"...
(Could this be why most people give up singing action songs after the age of about nine, I wonder?)