AFTER TEN YEARS 



variety. The seventeen-year locusts hummed like an 

 army of bees in the forest one whole summer through ; 

 they did not eat every leaf, as I fully expected they 

 would, but they laid their eggs in the ends of new 

 branches which soon withered and hung lifeless, a 

 sorry sight throughout the woods. Our optimistic 

 gardener refused to let this state of affairs affect his 

 spirits. 



"It is Nature's pruning," he asserted, "next year 

 the trees will be better than ever." 



And they were. 



Another radiant springtime our smiles were turned 

 to tears by a May frost, which did its deadly work 

 so completely with the wonderful wealth of bloom 

 that fifty shrubs — privets, rhodotypus, and viburnums 

 ■ — were killed to the roots ; every leaf fell from the trees, 

 and every climbing rose died to the ground! Of 

 course we had no fruit that year either for ourselves 

 or for the birds; but it made a new experience, and 

 the aftergrowth of vines and shrubs from the healthy 

 roots disclosed a totally unexpected beauty. For what 



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