250 A WHITE-PAPER GARDEN 



brance how infinitely beautiful they are, and 

 how again all things are become new, now that 

 the ripened leaves have fallen, and the trees 

 stand forth against the sunset in all their simple 

 dignity and strength. 



"There it stands," said the Autocrat, "leaf- 

 ing out hopefully in April as if it were trying 

 in its dumb language to lisp ' Our Father,' and 

 dropping its slender burden of foliage in 

 October as softly as if it were whispering 

 ' Amen ! ' ' The temptation to quote men's 

 tributes to trees is very strong. They are God's 

 kindly thoughts written in green for summer 

 to spell out, and drawn in brown and grey lines 

 for easy reading lessons against the snows. 

 November trees are neither, taken as a whole, 

 for while most of the deciduous brotherhood 

 have accepted the warnings of the frost, the 

 oaks are in their glory, enriching the garments 

 of the ripened year with a stiff embroidery of 

 splendid colouring, as the vestments of some 

 great ecclesiastic are heavy with bullion-work 

 and pearls. 



These are the days of the frank avowal of 

 the secrets of the nests of birds. Who knew 

 that on the tip of the maple bough hung the 



