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Daffodils may dazzle, but spring is so much more than those cousins of onions, “fluttering and dancing in the breeze” as Wordsworth has it. At Long Hill Estate’s yearly Daffodil Day event, Marcy Klattenberg set off on a nature walk with a throng of visitors and she did not begin by admiring the star of the show.
Instead, surrounded by puddle-jumping ten-year-olds, not to mention a goodly number of sedate adults, she was in search of the more discreet signs of spring. Heading out toward the west, she stopped to point out the differences between male and female red maples’ flowers, the male version of which, having done its work, was already being shed.
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Shortly, she stopped to admire the tiny chartreuse blossoms of the Lindera benzoin, or spicebush, one of the first shrubs to provide nectar for early-awakening insects. Spicebush lives up to its common name, and provided spicy flavoring for Native Americans’ food. East of the Mansion, and south of the vernal pool, two sure-fire signs of spring co-exist, but they couldn’t be more different. The giant skunk cabbage loves wet feet, and lures pollinating flies by warmth and scents of decay. Trout lilies, growing in woodland shade, send up speckled, two-inch-long leaves, followed by tiny pale yellow reflexed flowers that conjure up adders’ tongues,
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