hey hung downward toward the water, yet too weak to stand out
and up to the passing breeze. The exquisite delicacy of these trembling
little leaves, the arching elegance of the branches that had just opened
them to the light, made it seem almost sacrilegious to turn the lens
upon them.

Often since have I visited the same spot, in hope to see again this
awakening, but without avail. The leaves show me their silky
completeness, rustling above the stream in softest tree talk; the
curious staminate flower-clusters hang like bunches of inverted commas;
the neat little burs, with their inoffensive prickles, mature and
discharge the angular nuts--but I am not again, I fear, to be present at
the hour of the leaf-birth of the beech's year.

The beech, by the way, is tenacious of its handsome foliage. Long after
most trees have yielded their leaves to the frost, the beech keeps its
clothing, turning from the clear yellow of fall to lightest fawn, and
hanging out in the forest a sign of whiteness that is cheering in the
winter and earliest spring. These bleached-out leaves will often remain
until fairly pushed off by the opening buds of another year.

[Illustration: The witch-hazel]

Of the hazelnut or filbert, I know nothing from the tree side, but I
cannot avoid mentioning another botanically unrelated so-called
hazel--the witch-hazel. This small tree is known to most of us only as
giving name to a certain soothing extract. It is worthy of more
attention, for its curious and delicately sweet yellow flowers,
seemingly clusters of lemon-colored threads, are the very last to bloom,
opening bravely in the very teeth of Jack Frost. They are a delight to
find, on the late fall rambles; and the next season they are followed by
the still more curious fruits, which have a habit of suddenly opening
and fairly ejaculating their seeds. A plucked branch of these fruits,
kept in a warm place a few hours, will show this--another of nature's
efficient methods for spreading seeds, in full operation--if one watches
closely enough. The flowers and the fruits are on the tree at the same
time, just as with the orange of the tropics.

Speaking of a tropical fruit, I am reminded that the greatest nut of
all, though certainly not an American native, is nevertheless now grown
on American soil. Some years ago a grove of lofty cocoanut palms in
Yucatan fascinated me, and the opportunity to drink the clear and
refreshing milk (not milky at all, and u