Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year....

 My boys: Pepi & Rufus:


The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather’d up gold, And now he is dying… Old age, begin sighing!






































































































































St. Hubert, pray for us!




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Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.

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 My boy Peppino: "I know the year is dying, Soon the summer will be dead. I can trace it in the flying Of the black crows overhead; I can hear it in the rustle Of the dead leaves as I pass, And the south wind's plaintive sighing Through the dry and withered grass. Ah, 'tis then I love to wander, Wander idly and alone, Listening to the solemn music Of sweet nature's undertone; Wrapt in thoughts I cannot utter, Dreams my tongue cannot express, Dreams that match the autumn's sadness In their longing tenderness." -  Mortimer Crane Brown, Autumn Dreams
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It's all a farce, – these tales they tell About the breezes sighing, And moans astir o'er field and dell, Because the year is dying....

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