spongy humus of the hemlock swamp, red squirrels 

 are digging caches and concealing the small cones, 

 a dozen or more in a place. Such are the signs 

 of the times. 



Yet another sign — the last effort of the dying 

 year — is the witch-hazel, which sheds its leaves 

 and stands arrayed in yellow blossoms. A brave 

 suggestion is this flower of the late autumn, blos- 

 soming when all else is in the sear and yellow, 

 that it may bear seed in another year. When all 

 others have given up and are retreating, this one 

 comes forth as much as to say it is never too late. 

 There is a very witchery in the crinkled yellow 

 flower born of the old year in a frosty world; a 

 borean child brought hither on the wings of the 

 North wind; a sturdy blossom that will not show 

 itself till it hears the music of rustling leaves. 



Late in autumn the white pines shed their 

 needles and lay down a new carpet. No turning 

 of the old here, but every year another — fresh, 

 wholesome, fragrant ; a plain, well-wearing ground- 

 work that never offends the eye and on which is 

 traced from time to time a rare and original 

 design. It is now a scarlet tupelo or a maple leaf 

 dropped here and there, and again a creeping 



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