Different species of trees move their leaves very differently, so that one may sometimes tell, by the motion of shadows on the ground,—if he be too indolent to look up,—under what kind of tree he is dozing. On the tulip-tree, the aspen, and on all native poplars, the leaves are apparently Anglo-Saxon or Germanic, having an intense individualism. Each one moves to suit himself. Under the same wind one is trilling up and down, another is whirling, another slowly vibrating right and left; and others still are quieting themselves to sleep, as a mother gently pats her slumbering child. Each leaf is intent upon a motion of its own.
Sometimes other trees have single frisky leaves; but, usually, the oaks, maples, beeches, have community of motion. They are all acting together, or are all alike still.
What is sweeter than a murmur of leaves, unless it be the musical gurgling of water that runs secretly, and cuts under the roots of those trees, and makes little bubbling pools, that laugh to see the drops tumble over the root, and plump down into its bosom?
