DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



until the check of frost shall intervene. Down in the 

 swamp the alder catkins grow dusky red, and sallow 

 buds have burst their rich brown masks 

 and show their downy smoke-white 

 points of silk, while many a nut-tree 

 bough holds shaking tails of 

 yellow cord, pale as the frosty 

 moon, to waft their golden 

 dust on waiting buds, all car- 

 mine starred and yet it is 

 winter. 



LAMB'S-TAILS 



