Martinmas Summer 377 
gave large sums for cuttings from them, to plant in 
their own gardens. The patriarch among these 
beloved trees was the famous Glastonbury white- 
thorn, which sprouted, so runs the story, from a 
staff planted by Joseph of Arimathea. Its habit 
of late-fall flowering gained for it a widespread and 
holy reputation, which became its own undoing. 
A Puritan soldier, moved by that strange spirit 
which prompted the destruction of things because 
other people thought them beautiful or held them 
in reverence, cut it down as an ‘‘emblem of 
popery.’’ It was supposed to flower every Christ- 
mas day. 
Leaves, like flowers, are sometimes ‘‘ born out of 
due time’’ under shining autumn skies. Among 
the last of the old foliage, when the trees are 
nearly stripped, sharp eyes may see, here and 
there, a cluster of two or three leaves unfolding in 
the tender green of spring. Horse-chestnut buds 
are particularly apt to open thus unseasonably, and 
elm buds are likewise prone to err. 
The October dandelions and November violets 
make their ill-timed display on a stock of savings 
which was intended for their use next spring. 
Last spring, after the flowers faded and the pre- 
cious seed was set, the plants turned their energies 
