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The walnut's flowers I have missed seeing, I am sorry to say, while registering a mental promise not to permit another season to pass without having that pleasure. Late in the year the foliage has become scanty, and the nut-clusters hang fascinatingly clear, far above one's head, to tempt the climb and the club.
So one afternoon, when the cool breath of evening came between sunset and dusk, they had gone out together and for the first time in daylight he stood by the broad-girthed base of the walnut's mighty bole. "See thar, Cal," breathed the girl, as she laid reverent fingers upon the trunk where initials and a date had been carved so long ago that now they were sunken and seamed like an old scar.
To know the elm-tree you must not come too near, for it too is wild and does not reveal its nature lightly; you may be cooler in the shadow of the beech or stand drier beneath the red-stemmed leaves of the sycamore. Yet it suffers the clinging ivy; it was beloved of poets in old days, and painters love it still. It has not the walnut's vivid green nor the rare flush that lights up the pine-stem.
"Yes, the curly walnut's all gone, years and years ago," said Sol. "It passed away with the pioneers," sighed she. "I suppose they'll build in time, though?" Sol said. "I 'low they will, maybe, after I'm gone," said she. "Well, well!" said Sol. He sat silent a little while. "Folks never have got over wonderin' on the way she took up with Joe," he said. Mrs. Newbolt flashed up in a breath.
'Tis noon! the butterfly springs up, High from her couch of rest, And scorns the little blue-bell cup Which all night long she press'd. Away! we'll seek the walnut's shade, And pass the sunny hour, The bee within the rose is laid, And veils him in the flower; Mark not the lustre of his wing, Beauty! be careful of his sting!
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