The Seasons should be followed

But it is hard to keep pace with the wonders that unfold themselves in ‘the bountiful season bland.’[1]   There are the dangling catkins and the little ruby-red pistillate flowers of the hazel – clusters of flowers, both of them two sorts on a single tree; and the downy staminate catkins of the willow; and the festive breaking out of all the trees into lovely leafage; the learning the patterns of the leaves as they come out, and the naming of the trees from this and other signs.  Then the flowers come, each shut up tight in the dainty casket we call a bud, as cunningly wrapped as the leaves in their buds, but less carefully guarded, for these ‘sweet nurslings’ delay their coming for the most part until earth has a warm bed to offer, and the sun a kindly welcome.