In Winter Quarters 



willows are turning yellow; the dog- 

 wood crimson. A misty haze hangs 

 over all, and faint suggestions of color 

 grays, greens and browns may be 

 seen around the tree tops. In the park 

 the gardeners are raking the dead 

 leaves out of the belts of shrubbery 

 where the bulbs have long been waiting 

 for that vernal ceremony. They have 

 already heard the summons, and each 

 is now prepared to show what he has 

 found down there beneath the sur- 

 face. Where do they get it all? How 

 does one find red, another yellow? Or 

 both ? Some scientist will tell you, but 

 that is one thing I do not care to know 

 all about. It would take half the 

 pleasure out of it. Let them keep some 

 of their secrets. Their petals are 

 enough to satisfy reasonable souls. 



The gates are opening slowly. They 

 are not to be thrown outward with one 

 great thrust by an unseen power, but 

 quietly, even noiselessly, as the grass 

 emerges from the softening earth. The 



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