WILDWOOD WAYS 



had cured my eyes of the sun glare the 

 illusion remained and I had to climb the 

 tree and pluck some of this foliage before 

 I was sure what it could be. Surely eyes 

 and no eyes have we all, for, in all my 

 life, I had never noticed what happens 

 in winter to the catkins of the yellow 

 birch. Instead of hanging rigid like wee 

 cones, as do those of the white birch, 

 giving up seeds and scales to sprinkle the 

 snow or the bare earth as the creatures 

 of the woods have need of them, these 

 had shed their fleur-de-lis scales and then 

 held them fluttering in the wind, each 

 by a tiny thread. On looking at them 

 closely I saw the slim, rat-tail spindle 

 sticking out, its surface file-like with the 

 sockets of seed and scale, but the effect 

 of the whole was that of fluffy tan-colored 

 tassels hung along the twigs. Here and 

 there among these fleur-de-lis the round, 



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