so appealing. There is Mistletoe, too (so kissing is not unknown in Japan—among foreigners, at least); but it must be picked young, as the berries, which are at first waxy white like ours, change later to yellow, and finally to a reddish orange. There are many other winter berries, deep red, black, dark purple, pale greeny white; and the brown seed-pods of various plants are interesting and beautiful in design and harmony of tone.
All these things, far into the winter, provide food for the birds, glowing flecks of colour to the shrubberies, and variety and a sense of cheer to the bleak outlook. But I should not use the word ‘bleak,’ or suggest that to me, any more than to the Japanese, does the country look dreary or forlorn at this season. The air is sharp and keen, not damp and raw, as it may be later on—that is, earlier in the new year. The exquisite tracery of twigs—like the tiny musical notes that go to make up one of the great harmonies of Nature—are seen then at their best. The purply gloom beneath the trees is as satisfying as the green of summer; the buds, rounded and reddening, give the world a tender charm, even at its harshest moment of cold. Then there is time to look at the mellow tints of cryptic markings on tree-trunks; at the delicate silver lichens encrusting them, like the exquisite filigree work of Mexico; to learn to find the pregnant beauty of common
