In winter, we are, as it were, behind the scenes in the green-room of some vast forest auditorium, and the closely locked buds are become the dressing rooms of thousands upon thousands of gaily decked flower-folk, who are preparing their multi-colored wardrobe of gorgeous petals, with which to entrance and delight our mortal eyes when the golden key of the sun shall have unlocked their doors, and are melted the barriers of ice and snow that now reign supreme in the great foyers of the forest. But if at present we are barred from the scene, the work of preparation is being rushed forward, and on every swelling twig there is evidence of a glorious drama of delight which shall be uncurtained at the clarion voice of Spring. How many shades and colors are outlined against the wintry sky! The bronze points of the oaks, in contrast with the gray of the pale ash buds, whose color indicates the advent of some demure debutant in Quaker costume, while the ruddy buds of the whitewood or tulip tree, which steal their rich color from the furrowed red of its bark, give promise of some gorgeous result that is later realized in the magnolia-like bloom of rich, creamy green, girdled with a crimson sash, and which within the last few years has become such a fad among nature’s devotees. But all of our fads are but a continuing in the universal circle from which, according to Lord Beaconsfield, we never evolve beyond, and it is written that the tulip tree was so esteemed by the ancients that they poured libations of wine about its roots. We put our wine to other uses in these twentieth century days, but we worship at the same tree, pro tempore.