UNDER THE MAPLES 



The carpet of the newly fallen leaves looks so 

 clean and delicate when it first covers the paths and 

 the highways that one almost hesitates to walk 

 upon it. Was it the gallant Raleigh who threw 

 down his cloak for Queen Elizabeth to walk upon? 

 See what a robe the maples have thrown down for 

 you and me to walk upon! How one hesitates to 

 soil it! The summer robes of the groves and the 

 forests — more than robes, a vital part of themselves, 

 the myriad living nets with which they have cap- 

 tured, and through which they have absorbed, the 

 energy of the solar rays. What a change when the 

 leaves are gone, and what a change when they come 

 again! A naked tree may be a dead tree. The 

 dry, inert bark, the rough, wirelike twigs change 

 but little from summer to winter. When the leaves 

 come, what a transformation, what mobility, what 

 sensitiveness, what expression! Ten thousand 

 delicate veined hands reaching forth and waving 

 a greeting to the air and light, making a union and 

 compact with them, like a wedding ceremony. 

 How young the old trees suddenly become! what 

 suppleness and grace invest their branches! The 

 leaves are a touch of immortal youth. As the 

 cambium layer beneath the bark is the girdle of 

 perennial youth, so the leaves are the facial ex- 

 pression of the same quality. The leaves have their 

 day and die, but the last leaf that comes to the 

 branch is as young as the first. The leaves and 



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