" T am always sorry for the new leaves in the first storm; they seem so dejected, and limp, and cold, and disap pointed that the world is not all sun shine and soft winds.
The flower buds are a delight from the first suggestion of future beauty until they shower pink and white petals on the ground and in my balcony. The horse chestnut blossom is so delicate and fragile and queenly. Not the least of its charm is that it is out of reach usually, and the loveliness must be half imagined, although no flower bears close examina tion better. The blending of pink and white and green is perfect.
" I have often wondered why birds seem to avoid the horse chestnut trees. Certainly the nests would be well con cealed, and the large leaves would make excellent protection from the rain.
"The little burs are also of absorbing interest, green and tender and held up high out of harm's way with their young Nickel's preparing for a time of neces sity. Then the adorable nuts in their opening husks, or burs, with the wonderful satin lining and the partition in the middle and two polished nuts, polished as only Nature can do it; not too shiny as if they had been varnished, hut glowing with a subdued beauty of their own. When the autumn winds come, the nuts fall with a loud thud, and often 1 have moved my chair out of the range of the falling nuts. They strike the
tin-covered floor of my balcony with such force that I could not feel quite at ease. Small boys love the horse chestnuts, and are not as careful of the trees as I could wish, and at first I feared that they — the small boys—might eat the nuts and come to grief. Si, T talked to one, a fearless climber who scented unwilling to leave a single lint, and he set iny anxious mina at rest so far as his own safety was concerned. I did not feel so comfortable about the trees. One of our neighbors gathers the nuts from his own trees, using a step-ladder and pole so that the branches will not be broken by the feet of climbing boys. I fancy the boys hate him cordially, for they \\ill iwt take any of the ants which be offers from his great heap of shining, brown treasures.
"On windy nights late in the fall the yellowish leaves flutter and scurry across my porch and heap themselves in the corners, as if they were sure of a Nrelcome, and 1 lore to hear them and feel them. Did you ever notice the beautiful way in which the leaves are fastened to the branches and to their own steals! The bark, also, is wonderfully interesting and beautiful -- lighter and darker as the light strikes it, and charming in effect with the changing weather."