The Recollections of Geoffrey Hamlyn

We had sat silent for some time, too lazy to speak, almost to think. The beautiful flower-garden which lay before us, sloping towards the river, looked rather brown and serene, after the hot winds, although the orange-trees were still green enough, and vast clusters of purple grapes were ripening rapidly among the yellowing vine-leaves. On the whole, however, the garden was but a poor subject of contemplation for one who remembered it in all its full November beauty, and so my eye traveled away to the left, to a broad paddock of yellow grass which bounded the garden on that side, and there I watched an old horse feeding.