124 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



admiring the sassafras leaves. They were 

 then just at the point of ripeness. Now they 

 have turned to a dead brown. The maple's 

 way is in better taste to shed its leaves 

 while they are still bright and fresh. They 

 are under my feet now, a carpet of red and 

 yellow. 



One of the oddest bits of fall coloration 

 (I cannot profess greatly to like it) is the 

 ghostly white greenish white of Rox- 

 bury waxwork leaves. It is unique in these 

 parts, so far as I can recall, but is almost 

 identical with the pallor of striped maple 

 foliage (Acer Pennsylvanicum) as one sees 

 it in the White Mountains. Waxwork pig- 

 ments all go to the berries, it appears. These 

 are showy enough to suit the most barbaric 

 taste, and are among the things that speak 

 to me strongest of far-away times, when my 

 childish feet were just beginning to wander 

 in nature's garden. The sight of them re- 

 minds me of what a long time I have lived. 



A gust of wind strikes a tall willow just 

 as I approach it. See the leaves tumble I 

 Thick and fast they come, a leafy shower, 

 with none of those pretty, hesitating, para- 



