Note 9 — Chapter x · THE SPANISH COPRIS: THE HABITS OF THE MOTHER

It is now October. The rains so greatly desired by man and beast have come at last, soaking the ground to some depth. After the torrid and dusty days of summer, when life is in suspense, we have the coolness that revives it, we have the last festival of the year. In the midst of the heath putting out its first pink bells, the oronge9 splits its white purse and comes into view, looking like the yolk of an egg half deprived of its albumen; the massive purple boletus turns blue under the heel of the passer-by who crushes it; the autumnal squill lifts its little spike of lilac flowers; the strawberry-tree’s coral balls begin to soften.