246 THE PLANT WORLD 



peeping from their dark, protecting scales along the red- or olive-colored 

 stems. 



Who is there among us as he rubs the downy catkins across his lips 

 and smells the pungent willow odor, that does not recall his childhood 

 days, his playmates, and the place where he was born ? We gather twig 

 after twig with something of the eagerness that we knew long years ago ; 

 the music of the swollen brook singing at our feet carries us quite back 

 to the time when the pussies, the child, and the year were all in the 

 same glad springtime. 



If we put these twigs in water and let them stand in the sunshine it 

 will not be many days before the pussy look disappears — we shall have a 

 group of yellow cats instead. The warmth and sunlight mature the tiny 

 flowers concealed beneath the furry coverings and a shower of yellow 

 pollen betrays the presence of the hitherto hidden flowers. 



The alder thickets along the brook are hung with their red-brown, 

 scaly catkins. These have a secretive, unpromising air, yet before many 

 weeks they will change to nodding, yellow tassels. These Alders are 

 queer people. The male and female members of the household can not 

 agree well enough to live in as close proximity as do those of most flowery 

 families. The male members (the tassels) group themselves on one twig 

 of the family tree, while the females congregate by twos and threes within 

 speaking distance, on a separate twig, looking like miniature pine cones. 

 " Familiarity breeds contempt " think the female Alders, while the males 

 agree that " distance lends enchantment to the view." 



Down by the water among the alders I found a few deserted birds' 

 nests. One feels a kind of attraction for these abandoned homes ; I took 

 one out of its forked place in a tree ; it was no easy matter to get it out — 

 the branching twigs of the alder made it hard to reach, and the nest was 

 snugly fixed on the limb, held there by a long narrow strip of weather- 

 beaten cloth, tangled with strips of tough, coarse marsh grass. I don't 

 know what bird built that nest, but it was built to stay ; it was filled with 

 dried seeds, acorn shucks, and hazel nut shells. It is said that field mice 

 appropriate these abandoned nests in winter ; I wondered if that is how 

 the acorn shucks got there. 



Other nests were found, less firmly fixed on the limbs, and built of 

 finer grass and mud, presumably robins' nests. They were empty and 

 as forlorn as is a vacant house with the furniture moved out, carpets up, 

 curtains down, and floors swept bare and clean. 



A sudden gloom took possession of me as I recollected the well-known 



lines : 



" For time will teach thee soon the truth, 

 There are no birds in last year's nest." 



Although I believe the ornithologists say that there's more poetry than 



