Intimations. 



1 HE first expanded blossom on the tree at once 

 calls up a vision of the perfect fruit. The cherries 

 of June and peaches of August and all that they 

 mean are enjoyed in anticipation, because of the 

 fluttering white or pink blossom that dots the still 

 dreary landscape. 



How far the realization will fill the crowded pic- 

 ture of our spring-tide fancy it boots not to con- 

 sider. It is the end of winter now, and let what 

 joy comes of the thought be unalloyed. Of it- 

 self, the present time is not alluring, but precious 

 by reason of its promises. Doubt is out of place 

 if pleasure is our aim, and to seek for intimations 

 that come to the front, even while yet ice and snow 

 prevail, may happily fill the short hours of a win- 

 ter ramble. 



The drooping branches of the leafless larch, as 

 I see it from afar, are dreary beyond words. Every 

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