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T was Springtime in the woods. Not the full tide of Spring, but late April, when all the forces of nature were feeling out their powers. Life was stirring and stretching in its sleep, just as it does before the full awakening.

There were no leaves on the trees, but just a faint ghostly shimmer in the poplars and white birches, and a touch of red in the soft maple. But under last year's dead leaves life was still more apparent, for in every warm corner, adder tongues, partridge berries, and wintergreen leaves were starting into new life. But there was a look to the bark on all the trees which was still more telltale to the eye of the woodsman. It had