“There’s so much to be said in favour of a fall-night like this” the orange Curiosity-cat offers now from the couch… The night hangs dim without though not without [sic] some promise of moon-light.
“Yes” he continues, “it’s not that I don’t enjoy the warm summery ones, but for pure coziness indoors, you can’t beat a night like this! The fire burns cheerly, the kettle sings. And the folks gathered about, glad to be in to the warmth.” The old clock on the shelf ticks away the minutes solemnly. James in his armchair turns the sheets of his newspaper, the sound a rustle in the silence. At the table, Granddaughter is lost in a textbook.
With the doors closed against the chill, we think with some longing of the springtime with its new beginnings: of bright warming days and a fresh blue in the heavens of the songbirds’ trills, of the red fields of the cropping, and the first flowerings we so love.
Silently, extremely quiet this night is: the calm after storm [sic]. The peace of silence after a spell of tossing boughs and rain. “There is likely to be frost in the low-lying places by dawn” a weather forecast observes. If so, it will be bound to take a toll of our [sic] flowers in passin this place “Down by the old millstream.”— the profusion of bloom which was the gift of this strangely mixed up summer.
“There!” Granddaughter says closing her bok [sic] smartly. “That’s the end of that!… What will we have to finish off our day? She appeals with a chuckle to her grandfather.
“An apple perhaps?” she suggests.
He shakes his head.
“No. That’s ‘lead at night’. “Oh let’s have a piece of toast and…” “…apple jelly and tea? So be it!” she nods.”
– Ellen’s diary, October 16th, 1962.