XXVII 



A HOME IN A WILLOW TREE 



A LONG time ago, before a certain back yard 

 of my acquaintance began to put on airs and be- 

 come citified, there used to be a clump of willows 

 on its border. These grew in a comfortable place 

 where they could dip their feet in the water of a 

 tiny, easy-going stream during the part of the year 

 that such a stream would be likely to show itself. 

 The re.st of the year the willows were not very 

 busy and did not need to drink often. In winter 

 how freshly yellow were the long lithe whips 

 which waved gently with every breeze ! And in 

 the spring no wonder the children all stopped on 

 their way to school to gather bunches of the soft 

 gray pussies. 



We all knew in a vague sort of way that these 

 pussies were the willow's blossoms, but it never 

 occurred to us to look for the seeds later in the 

 summer. I do not know to this day whether that 

 willow clump ever made any seeds or not. Surely 

 no self-respecting plant would neglect such an 

 important enterprise 1 There seemed every year to 

 be a crop of young ones at the foot of the old 

 trees, and why should we be concerned as to how 

 they came there ? 



One day, when the spirit of investigation was 

 stirring my blood, — or perhaps it was the promise 



{146) 



