I90 THE BROOK BOOK 



plied with gowns of silks and laces, jewels rare 

 and priceless pearl necklaces by the witch-hazel 

 tree planted over her mother's grave. Though 

 not the same kind of tree as ours, it evidently 

 bears the same reputation in England. Our witch- 

 hazel possesses a charm quite apart from its reputed 

 powers. Though it befriend no forlorn Cinder- 

 ellas and discover no hidden treasures, it has well 

 earned its title. There is witchery about its pale 

 golden blossoms, fluttering like tiny ribbons from 

 a fairy's cap. There is nothing to compare it with. 

 It reigns alone in the autumn woods. 



Right among the flowers you will find the nut- 

 like fruits. In the very fact that seeds and flowers 

 are present at the same time, there is a touch of 

 the supernatural. These seeds are from last year's 

 flowers. Take a branch of witch-hazel home with 

 you, and you may have as pretty a bit of parlor 

 magic as you could wish. The delicate perfume 

 of the blossoms distracts the attention from the 

 blunt button-like fruits. But before your back is 

 fairly turned they may burst and pepper you with 

 small, shiny black bullets. The dry air of the 

 house causes them to open suddenly and let fly at 

 you. If you turn to look back you may get one in 

 the eye. The seed-pods stand with mouths agape, 

 and you can almost imagine you hear a cackle of 

 elfish laughter. But it was probably a rattle of 

 seeds from another cluster of wide-open capsules. 

 They keep it up until not one is left. One night 

 I was awakened by a strange popping sound that 

 seemed to emanate from downstairs. Next morn- 



