SIGNS OF SPRING 163 



Here is a poplar twig, with well-devel- 

 oped, shapely buds. I pull off the outer 

 coverings and lay bare a mass of woolly 

 fibres, fine and soft, within which the tender 

 blossoms lie in germ. And next is a willow 

 stem. Already, though winter is no more 

 than a fortnight old, the " pussy " has begun 

 to push off its dark coverlid, as if it were in 

 haste to be up and feel the sun. Yes, spring 

 will soon be here, and the willow proposes 

 not to be caught napping. 



These long, slender, cinnamon-colored, 

 silky buds, like shoemakers' awls for shape, 

 are from a beech tree. The package is done 

 up so tightly and skillfully that my clumsy 

 human fingers cannot undo it without tear- 

 ing it in pieces. Layer after layer I remove, 

 taking all pains, and here at the heart is the 

 softest of vegetable silk. How did the wood 

 learn to secrete such delicacies, and to wrap 

 them with such miraculous security? Why 

 could it not wait till spring, and save the 

 need of all this caution ? I do not know. 

 How should I? But I am glad of every 

 such vernal prophecy, as well as of every 

 such proof of vegetable intelligence. It 



