ID8 CUUDIOONORS: 
EIR IO IBS 
OWARD the latter part of Winter there comes a day 
when we notice a new orange glow on the bristly, bare 
tops of the Willow trees at the foot of the meadow. A 
glow within us responds, for we know that the pageant of the 
trees is about to begin. Soon the Silver Maples will shake out a 
powdery film of blossoms of creamy brown; the Red Maples will 
paint the scene with crimson splashes; delicate green mists will 
steal through the woodlands; the Oaks will turn this mist to a 
soft pink—the tiny sharp points of emerging leaves. Then, 
almost in a day, the Maple leaves burst out full grown. The 
Dogwoods shine in ermine robes, the Apple trees and Haw- 
thorns turn pink and white, and the wind makes a new soft 
music in the Beeches. 
Then come the long, bright days when the cattle seek the 
shade of the pasture Oaks, and men turn to the woods for 
refreshment. The world is green with trees. 
Ere we weary of this abundant greenness, faint colors begin 
to flow back across the landscape. The Gums wave red banners, 
and soon all the rest are falling into line and a conflagration 
of yellow, red and orange flame is sweeping the land. The 
embers glow to extinction and the landscape les before us like 
a great tapestry done in bronze and gold tones. 
Finally the last spark goes out, save under the Beeches and 
Oaks where the brightness‘lasts until the snow comes to cover 
it. Then once more the trees stand bare, revealing the beauty of 
form, the hidden magic life of bark and twig and bud. And we 
know it will be so for the generations to come—the pageant 
of the trees. 
