A Weird Wreath

— The inmates of a little cottage near the head-waters of the Susquehanna derived much pleasure during many weeks, indeed during many months, from watching what might truly be called a Weird Wreath.

One morning in November, when the last colored leaves were falling from the grove on the steep river-bank, immediately beneath the cottage windows, we were surprised by the sight of a regularly formed wreath, hanging gracefully from a long branch of an oak-tree, perhaps thirty feet from the ground. The tree was very nearly bare; only a few tufts of faded leaves were clinging irregularly to the twigs, here and there.

A few brown leaves will frequently cling to certain trees, beech, white oak, and young maples, several months after the forest is gray and bare. But here was a regular festoon, singularly graceful in outline and rich in leafage, clinging daintily, by some invisible loop at either end, to the long bare branch which supported it, while scarcely a dozen other brown leaves could be seen on the same tree. It was a bit of woodcraft, the like of which we had never beheld before. Grinling Gibbon, that famous English carver in wood, of olden times, might have taken it as a model for one of the garlands so delicately carved by him on tall chimneys in ancient halls of English country-houses. But no human hand had touched this wreath, on the bank of the Susquehanna. It seemed as if autumn, in taking flight, after the Indian summer, had flung tins sylvan festoon on the oak limb for our especial gratification. Day after day, week after week, aye, month after month, we watched that brown garland; now waving in the breeze, now powdered with snow, now dimly seen by moonlight. On mild days, the squirrels, merry creatures, came leaping gayly about it. In severe snowstorms or heavy showers of rain, it would be veiled from our sight, and we would watch anxiously for its reappearance when the storm had passed over. But there it hung, graceful as ever, and again we looked down upon the limpid waters of the Susquehanna, seen through its regular outline. The cottage standing on the brow of the steep bank, one naturally looked down upon grove and river. More than once, on clear moonlight evenings, we noted a bright star reflected in the river, the festoon forming a setting to the gem, — heaven and earth blending together, as they ever do in this world of ours. As the weeks passed, and the garland still hung on the supporting limb, our interest in this weird wreath increased. Every morning we sent it a greeting from our dining-room window, pleased when we found it unchanged. In December a record of its little history was commenced.

December 14th. Wreath still perfect; coloring slightly tinged with pale yellow.

Christmas Day. Wreath still in place, but ruddy brown to-day.

January 15th. No change in our festoon, though often powdered with snowflakes.

April 5th. Buds swelling on all the forest trees ; wreath unchanged in spite of all the storms of winter !

May 1st. Oak wreath still full. Green leaves thickening about it. Young oak leaves opening on the same tree, even on the branch from which the festoon is suspended. Willows, alders, aspens, decked in the “glad light green” of spring; the amelanchier on the bank in full flower ; wild plum and other fruit trees in blossom. Lilac leaves and others on various shrubs are half size. Younger maples nearly in full leaf. Amid all this gay, cheery throng of springtide the wreath hangs brown and dull, and still strangely regular in outline.

May 15th. Apple-trees in full bloom. Birds flitting to and fro, gay and busy and musical. Many flowering shrubs out of bloom, white petals strewing the paths. The magic festoon heeds them as little as it heeded the snowflakes of winter.

June 11th. Locusts in full blossom. Wreath unchanged through all these many weeks, in spite of gusts of wind and heavy showers. A mystery.

August 5th. Summer flowers in full splendor. Wreath hanging calm and brown above them.

October 5th. The leaves are coloring in bright flashes, here and there in the valley and along the lake shore. In the village streets they are beautiful. Hills still green. Why this difference ? It is seen every year. The maples on low ground are always the first to brighten into red and gold, while those on the hills are unchanged. Our oak is touched here and there with yellow tints, but the brown wreath of last year’s leaves hangs unchanged from the same limb.

October 24th. Very high wind. As much of a gale as we ever have in this quiet valley. Brightly colored leaves flying wildly in every direction. Some few trees broken by the blast. A barn blown down. Weird wreath still unchanged !

November 1st. A touch of winter, though we may have a warm Indian summer later in the month. There is much difference in the character of successive years in these highlands, — a difference, at times, of six or seven weeks. We have seen the red maples open their scarlet flowers here on the 22d of March : two years later they only opened the first week in May. We have gathered wild violets and golden dandelions on the 18th of December, amid grass brightly green, by the roadside. The following year our tender plants were cut off by a heavy frost, the 1st of October. I have seen farmers ploughing on these hills every month in the year, — different years, of course. Our magic wreath little heeds the changing seasons. Has the dryad given it a mystic charm ? How can withered leaves, tossed by a hundred gusts, possibly cling for such a length of time to a tree ? Every week increases our amazement, as we see the festoon still hanging, with careless ease, from that slender limb. A friend has asked its size ; impossible to measure it, as the branch from which it droops so gracefully, though long, is too slender to support a ladder—or a boy! Good judges say it is rather less than three feet in breadth, and about two feet in depth; the ends being daintily attached to the limb, on either side, by some mysterious loop, giving it the form of a regular semi-ellipsis.

December 22d. This evening, looking down the bank from the dining-room window, we again saw a star brilliantly reflected in the river, the brown festoon framing the picture.

January 15th. The second year is rolling onward. Wreath still entire, though slightly less regular. Truly a puzzle, a marvel.

March 21st. The snow has vanished. Robins and other early birds flitting about, singing their morning song from the higher branches of our oak; squirrels leaping merrily to and fro, and running up the gray trunk. Leaf buds are swelling in all directions ; another spring is at hand. The wreath unchanged in position and outline, but growing paler in coloring ; more gray than brown.

April 7th. The end has come. Weird wreath vanished!

High wind with heavy rain last night. We had a sort of presentiment that our wreath would be blown away. On looking down at the branch where it has hung these seventeen months, we missed it. Scrambled down the steep wild bank, through the jungle, in search of any fragments to be found. Discovered the broken festoon lying on a bed of withered leaves. The mystery of its outline solved at last. Two slender leafy twigs from the parent tree, each inclining towards the other with the natural curve of a semicircle, had become closely entangled together at the ends, thus forming a natural festoon, singularly regular.

But by what means have those broken twigs with their withered leaves—now ghost-like and gray—hung so many months in that graceful festoon, heedless of wind, storm, rain, hail, and snow ? A Weird Wreath indeed !