ON THE MANUSCRIPTS OF GOD 



Wind. To the ear these dances are as sooth- 

 ing as the forms and colors of the leaves are 

 to the eye. No matter how intricate the 

 musical cadences, never a leaf fails to 

 keep time to the music, though each differ- 

 ent leaf dances very differently the same 

 measures. The poplar, whose motto is al- 

 ways "On with the dance," is so coquettish, 

 original, and graceful in her interpretations 

 of wind measures, that she might be called 

 the Isadora Duncan of Leaf-Land. To 

 watch her dance the Tempest Fling is to see 

 an arboresque adaptation of the lines, 



"A health, then, to the happy, 



A fig to him that frets, 

 It isn't raining rain to me, 

 It's raining violets." 



Some time, perchance, a bosky Beethoven 

 will write a full score of the dances of the 

 leaves, which will include all the symphonies 

 from the softest lullaby, which lulls the wee 

 fledgling in its nest, to the wild, tempestuous 

 measures which precede a hurricane. 



The Indian of other days, the Indian 

 whose poetic spirit still lives in hundreds of 



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