The first thing that we all should muse about, under the bare boughs, would be, I suppose, the leaves that once clad them. Ay, even if, under the full shading foliage, we never thought to give them an upward glance of gratitude, love, and admiration. But they are gone, and what was taken as a matter of course is valued, now that it is missed. There is repining as to the desolation of Winter, and this from those who did not consciously enjoy the Summer. [Illustration] I cannot reproach myself on this score. I have loved and learnt by heart every shape and development, from the first vivid light of green to the sombre sameness of hue, and then the rich variety that dispersed this;--all this growth, and attainment, and decay have I heedfully and affectionately noted, during the space which separated last year’s bare boughs from these. “A million emeralds break from the ruby-budded lime.” Yes, I saw that,--and I watched the juicy foliage deepen, and the thin maize-coloured strips of flower chequer the darkening full mass, and change the picture into “The lime, a summer home of murmurous wings.” Then those curved chesnut boughs near the grass--I detected the first fresh crumpled gleam, bursting from the brown sticky buds, until all over the tree, as in an illumination, “The budding twigs spread out their fan To catch the breezy air.” And so I watched them into milky spires, and swarthy green globes, that grew brown, and fell, and burst threefold, lying among the heaped leaves, such a picture, with the white lining and bright nut! The beech, changing from soft silky fledging of its boughs into hardier green foliage, and afterwards becoming a very mint, each branch “All overlaid with patines of bright gold”; and so subsiding into a sparer dress of sienna brown. “The pillared dusk of sounding sycamores.” The brave oaks, soon passing out of their Chaucerian attire, “Some very red, and some a glad light green,” and now all gnarled and knotted, and only clutching still a wisp of pale dull dry leaves here and there:--all these, be sure, have had their meed of attention and of regard from me. And so I sit under the bare boughs with no remorseful if with some regretful feelings. But still, I say, who can look up at the stripped branches in the Winter without sometimes giving fancy and memory leave to clothe them again with the fair frail dreams and hopes and enjoyments that, though they were evanescent, yet were beautiful, and that, though passing away with the Summer of Time, yet no doubt have influenced the Eternal growth of the Tree. Yes, sometimes it will be graceful, and at least not harmful, to let memory wander back into the days of childhood and of youth, and bid the frail and inexperienced foliage cover the branches again with that rich but short-lived beauty: