l my leaves are dark crimson. Every day they dry and wither
more and more; by and by they will be so weak they can scarcely cling to
my branches, and the north wind will tear them all away, and nobody will
remember them any more. Then the snow will sink down and wrap me close.
Then the snow will melt again and icy rain will clothe me, and the
bitter wind will rattle my bare twigs up and down.

"'I nod my head to all who pass, and dreary nights and dreary days go
by; but in the happy house, so warm and bright, the little boy plays all
day with books and toys. His mother and his father cherish him; he
nestles on their knees in the red firelight at night, while they read to
him lovely stories, or sing sweet old songs to him,--the happy little
boy! And outside I peep over the snow and see a stream of ruddy light
from a crack in the window-shutter, and I nod out here alone in the
dark, thinking how beautiful it is.

"'And here I wait patiently. I take the snow and the rain and the cold,
and I am not sorry, but glad; for in my roots I feel warmth and life,
and I know that a store of greenness and beauty is shut up safe in my
small brown buds. Day and night go again and again; little by little the
snow melts all away; the ground grows soft; the sky is blue; the little
birds fly over, crying, "It is spring! it is spring!" Ah! then through
all my twigs I feel the slow sap stirring.

"'Warmer grow the sunbeams, and softer the air. The small blades of
grass creep thick about my feet; the sweet rain helps to swell my
shining buds. More and more I push forth my leaves, till out I burst in
a gay green dress, and nod in joy and pride. The little boy comes
running to look at me, and cries, "Oh, mamma! the little blackberry-bush
is alive and beautiful and green. Oh, come and see!" And I hear; and I
bow my head in the summer wind; and every day they watch me grow more
beautiful, till at last I shake out blossoms, fair and fragrant.

"'A few days more, and I drop the white petals down among the grass,
and, lo! there are the green tiny berries! Carefully I hold them up to
the sun; carefully I gather the dew in the summer nights; slowly they
ripen; they grow larger and redder and darker, and at last they are
black, shining, delicious. I hold them as high as I can for the little
boy, who comes dancing out. He shouts with joy, and gathers them in his
dear hand; and he runs to share them with his mother, saying, "Here is
what the patient bl