The Rescue of an Old Place 



branches, and torn great gaps in their out- 

 line. Their new shoots are all hidden un- 

 der a little tight white, or yellow, or brown 

 nightcap that looks dried and wizened, as 

 if no promise of life lurked underneath. 



When the snow melts sufficiently for 

 one to walk abroad among his plantations, 

 he views them with a feeling akin to de- 

 spair, so unlikely do they seem to recover 

 themselves. Some branches are entirely 

 dead, the tops of others are winter-killed, 

 a few have turned copper-color from root 

 to crown, and, beside the bright green of 

 bursting buds and springing grass, the 

 best of them look worn and dingy by con- 

 trast. 



Tk*ypi*ck Not until the middle of May do they 

 pluck up their spirits, pull off their bon- 

 nets, and show that their apparent dead- 

 ness resulted from the fact that they take 

 their season differently from their gayer 

 neighbors, and wear their winter furs, 

 however rusty and inappropriate, far into 

 spring, while all the others have come out 

 in their new clothes of brightest hue. 

 Some years June will be here before they 

 condescend to put out the green tassels 

 '54 



