48 THE TREE BOOK 



ing her seed! All summer, closely hidden on 

 the bases of the leafy side spurs, are clustered 

 groups of little green buds as round as marbles. 

 These slowly turned to grayish-green buttons, 

 and at last, on a bright autumn morning Jack 

 Frost and the sun work the magic key which 

 unlocks them. Snap! one of the little button 

 heads flies off and out springs the tiny seeds, 

 like squirrel-shot from a gun. Indeed, that is 

 just what Mr. Bushy Tail, busily gathering nuts 

 near at hand, takes it to be. He makes a 

 frightened jump and is off through the brush 

 for dear life. How the witch hazel laughs and 

 shakes her gay yellow cap-strings! But she 

 does not pause in her target practice. No, in- 

 deed! She seemingly tries to spring each seed 

 a little farther than the last. And it is sur- 

 prising how skilful she becomes. Often seeds 

 fall fully eighteen feet from the tree. It is 

 thought that the lining of the little seed cells 

 contracts as they snap open and in this way 

 adds to the force that throws the seed out. 



If you chance past the witch hazel in win- 

 ter, you note the widely yawning pods, from 

 which the last shot has been fired. But, unless 

 you take particular pains, you will not see the 

 new store of ammunition hidden in the tiny balls 

 behind the four shriveled ribbons which sway 

 from every twig. 



