22 THE BROOK BOOK 



branch hung far out over the stream, reaching almost 

 to the further side. The season had been late and 

 the leaves were as yet in their infancy. To-day they 

 hung there above my head all limp and silky. They 

 seemed but half awake. In their tender delicate 

 beauty they were as appealing as young birds or 

 babies. The smooth stream held a mirror before 

 their faces, but they were too young to notice their 

 reflection. 



I am glad I came to-day, for this one picture is 

 compensation for all the hard climbing. To-mor- 

 row, these lovely half-open leaves will have stiffened 

 into smart, erect, self-assertive foliage. They will 

 go about their prosaic business of starch-making 

 just as if they had never had a moment of hesita- 

 ting, helpless babyhood. 



