BROOKSIDE WILLOWS 141 



to grass alone. But it is evident that they enjoy 

 the noonday shade of the brookside willows. 



Willow Creek is never in a hurry. It has time 

 to reflect, and its reflections are always truthful 

 though sometimes they may be unlovely. It wan- 

 ders past the house of my well-to-do neighbor 

 and his ducks are made happy. In turn I am 

 gladdened by an occasional glimpse of the ducks 

 diving or preening, from my side of the creek. 

 The stream seems scarcely to move between the 

 ranks of pollard willows. I, too, delight to linger 

 there when the late afternoon sunlight sifts through 

 the branches. I do not even inquire what is hid- 

 den beneath its smooth surface, content to think 

 its depth as unfathomable as its mystery. 



In early spring the willows sound the note of 

 the coming season. The willows are "yallerin' up 

 on us ! " is a familiar slogan and a signal for a 

 return to freedom. You can fairly see it come in 

 March. Yesterday 'twas winter. To-day 'tis March, 

 and there are promises of May. The gold comes 

 back to the willows before the green. 



Most people's willows bear catkins or pussies 

 and are content. Mine bear all these and more. 

 They bear cones, as smooth and regular as those 

 of the most proper conifer. They are soft and 

 green and silky in late summer, but by spring they 

 are dry and brown. How the cones come to be 

 on the willows is another story, which is told in 

 the next chapter. Still stranger "fruits" grow on 

 shrubby willows along our brooks. Sometimes the 

 tip of a branch, instead of ending in an ordinary 



