IN SILENT WOODS IO5 



In Winter, when snowdrifts fill the valleys and 

 even the Cedars are a rusty bronze, the Laurel 

 lifts its triumphant bay wreaths high up on ravine 

 sides above ice-bound rocks. In late spring the 

 old leaves droop awhile and look dim and mottled 

 in contrast with the fresh new shoots. Then soon 

 the bushes hold up their bouquets of rose -fluted 

 buds that, by the Magician's jugglery, in June 

 spring open into quaint five -pointed umbrella tops, 

 with ten recurved stamens for spokes, their ends 

 well socketed as if to support the expanded flower, 

 remaining thus until shaken by an eager bee or 

 the wind's jarring, when the spokes spring back, 

 scattering the precious life-dust for the seed's 

 nourishment. 



No flower of wood or field, marsh or fertile 

 waterway can surpass the beauty of the freshly 

 opened Laurel, when it pinks and pales, according 

 to soil, location and individuality, through all the 

 subtlest tints of flower- flesh. Yet no single flower- 

 cluster can give an idea of the Laurel of the land- 

 scape, the Laurel that wraps rough steeps in 

 clouds of bloom ; that, pale and wan, climbs up 

 the sides of somber, sunless valleys until, reaching 

 the summit and high air, it basks in open places, 

 rosy, as if with its exertion. 



