224 



THE BROOK BOOK 



ORB-WEB ON 

 MISTY DAY 



one to criticise my headgear. The trees were 

 still bare for the most part. A few poplars had 

 shaken out their soft gray tassels, and the willows 

 shone as if newly polished. Unconsciously I put 



my hand to 

 my pocket, 

 but finding 

 that I had 

 come away 

 without m y 

 knife, I con- 

 cluded that it 

 was a little 

 early for wil- 

 low whistles. 

 A certain 

 dead hem- 

 lock which stands at the brink of 

 a precipice has long been a trial 

 to me. It is not in keeping 

 with the spirit of these woods, 

 which seem so full of life and 

 strength. Poised between earth 

 and sky, there is something 

 threatening and suicidal in its at- 

 titude. I had never expected to 

 see anything beautiful in its stark, ungraceful limbs. 

 But to-day, in the fine mist, it was fairly encrusted 

 with jewels. Each black branch was wound with 

 pearl strings. Never again will the dead hemlock 

 be ugly to me, though this be the only time I ever 

 see it in such a charming rainy day dress. 



