160 THE CLERK OF THE WOODS 



to maturity, and so more distinctly prophetic 

 of spring, are the two kinds of flower-buds 

 that adorn the ends of the twigs. These 

 also are of a deep purplish tint, which in 

 the case of the larger (staminate) catkins 

 turns to a lovely green on the shaded under 

 side. Flower-buds, I call them ; but they 

 are rather packages of bud-stuff wrapped 

 tightly against the weather, cover overlap- 

 ping cover. The best shingling of the most 

 expert carpenter could not be more abso- 

 lutely rain-proof. " Now do your worst," 

 says the alder. The mud freezes about its 

 roots and the water about the base of its 

 stem, but it keeps its banners flying. Why 

 it should be at such pains to anticipate the 

 season is more than I can tell. Perhaps it 

 is none of my business. Enough that it is 

 the alder's way. There is no swamp in New 

 England but has a shorter and brighter win- 

 ter because of it. 



This smooth, freckled, reddish-barked 

 twig is black birch (or sweet birch), taken 

 from a sapling, and therefore bearing no 

 aments, which on adult trees are already 

 things of grace and promise. I broke it 



