Two Sorts of Hazels 
November 7.— These are bright November days and 
now the woods have a look that one sees in them at no 
other time of year. They are filled with a strange, un¬ 
earthly light—the pale sunshine reflected from myriads of 
brilliantly colored leaves that strew the ground and are 
still falling. It is a fit setting for that weird last blos¬ 
som of the year, the witch hazel, whose snaky lemon-yel¬ 
low petals are bristling now on bare, straggling branches. 
These are the branches which from time immemorial pro¬ 
vided country water finders with their choicest switches 
wherewith to point to hidden springs. 
The true hazel, which bears some resemblence to its 
uncanny namesake, is easily distinguished from the latter 
by straighter branches and a more upright habit. It is 
a more sociable plant, too, loving to grow in clumps along 
the borders of the woods. Even at this late date I find 
clinging to the twigs and gayly defying the chill night 
winds a nut or two in ragged brown jacket with the lapels 
thrown jauntily back, reminding me of some dashing out- 
at-elbow cavalier of comic opera. Encouraged by such 
luck, I search industriously among the leaves for the nuts 
that must have dropped, but all that I find have a big hole 
in one end and the meat is gone. Derisive chatter from a 
neighboring tree and the flourish of a bushy tail disappear¬ 
ing around the trunk incline me to believe that my discom¬ 
fiture has added somewhat to the gayety of bunnydom. 
Two orchids of our woods are preparing to spend the 
winter with us. The commoner of the two is the rattle¬ 
snake plantain. This has small, fat leaves of a velvety 
green color beautifully reticulated in white, which are 
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