WHEN THE LEAF IS WOO'D 



their sometimes charming arrangement dis- 

 turbed by ravaging winds or lost in their 

 snowy burial. Yet our hopes are not buried 

 with them, for we know that when they have 

 become a part of the mold which they enrich, 

 the phoenix spirit of nature still lives in the 

 heart of the tree, waiting its April call from 

 sun and cloud. 



Then again the exquisite moving pictures 

 of leaf-land slowly appear on the miraculous 

 slides of summer. The new leaf -buds peep 

 forth, and doff their little brown winter 

 nightcaps to greet the world in every hue of 

 bronze, rose, red, and dainty green. 



And mankind, beholding the coming and 

 going of generation after generation of 

 leaves, becomes scripturally wise, forgetting 

 those that are behind to joy in those that are 

 yet to come. For 



"Ever a spring her primrose hath, and ever a May 



her May, 



Sweet as the rose that died last year is the rose 

 that is born to-day." 



And all that is true of the rose of last year 

 is as true of the leaf that is born to-day. 



159 



