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Updated: May 10, 2025
Otherwise he looks much like an English sparrow. Now the belated April flowers are seen at their best, mingled with many of the May arrivals. It is such a day as that when Bryant wrote "The Old Man's Counsel." On the sloping hillsides, around the leafing hazel "gay-circles of anemones dance on their stalks."
She told him where she had gotten it. "I just gathered it up, at the time, and gave it to Geoffrey and Rosita to photostat; this is the first I've really examined it." The old man got to his feet, brushing tobacco ashes from the front of his jacket, and came to where she was sitting, laying the title page on the table and leafing quickly through the stack of photostats.
"Tommy Ashe wants me to marry him," she said at last. The faint flush on her smooth cheeks deepened. The glow in her eyes gave way altogether to that vaguely troubled expression. Carr stroked his short beard reflectively. "Well," he said at length, "seeing that human nature's what it is, I can't say I'm surprised any more than I would be surprised at the trees leafing out in spring.
As a lady has well remarked "to a frank and ardent nature," and such usually have this sex, "reasoning on love is a useless pastime; it can be overcome only by an effort strong as the whirlwind, such as uproots the young and vigorous oak, in its bright leafing time. Woman's warm nature must cast it far away at once, though death were in the parting."
Both men and women contrive to lay by a competence at a wage rate of from eight to fifteen cents a day. If let alone, the tea-plant would grow to be a tree eighteen or twenty feet high, but by generous top pruning it is kept down to three feet, thus becoming a squat bush possessing a biggish leafing area.
The keys of the soft maple will soon be ready to fall and send out rootlets, and the winged seeds of the white elm already lie thickly beneath the leafing branches. Each flower invites admiration and study. Dig up the root of the Solomon's seal, a rootstock, the botanists call it.
Leafing Day is one of the days in red on the Mullein Hill Calendar; and of all our days in the woods surely none of them is fresher, more fragrant, more joyous, and fuller of poetry than the day we go to rake and sack and bring home the leaves for the pig. You never went after leaves for the pigs? Perhaps you never even had a pig.
The figs commenced leafing with the month: now they are green with broad leaves, and in the axil of each appears the rudiment of a fruit. They are grotesquely gnarled and twisted, taking most unthought-of shapes and positions. The mocking-birds have mated and begun the construction of their nests. Their music is delightful: nearly all the day long they sing, and sometimes in the night.
But leafing like every other humble labor of our life here in the Hills of Hingham has its own reward, and when you can say that of any labor you are speaking of its poetry. We jolt across the bumpy field, strike into the back wood-road, and turn off upon an old stumpy track over which cordwood was carted years ago.
You can yell all you want to when you go leafing, yell at every stump you hit, yell every time a limb knocks off your hat or catches you under the chin, yell when the horse stops suddenly to browse on the twigs, and stands you meekly on your head in the bottom of the rig.
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