

■?fr,;^ 



On the Planting of a Class Tree' 



[Ktwu'hdf/e of the prove)<ses of nature U'adx man to give deeper and wiser 

 thouf/ht to human aff'airs'\ 



By T. D. A. C CKE RELL 



Professor of Zoology. University of Colorado 



I WAS just recovering from my astonish- 

 ment at being asked to speak on this oc- 

 casion, and was thinking of the kindness 

 which had given me such an opportunity, 

 and how I might improve the occasion — or 

 at least avoid disgracing it — when I received 

 a "wireless message" from the tree itself. 

 "Now," said the tree, "I suppose you are 

 thinking tliat you are of some consequence 

 in this matter, and of the grandiose things 

 you will say; but let me tell you, it is I who 

 am of consequence, I who am to be planted, 

 I who must carry to posterity the message of 

 this 'class. Long years hence, I must bear 

 witness to successive generations of students 

 and teachers that there once was a class who 

 trusted me, who cared to regard me as a sym- 

 bol of its hopes and aspirations. For this I 

 must live and grow, and for this I shall 

 modestly esteem myself a little better than 

 the other trees growing hereabouts. But be- 

 fore entering upon this great career, I should 

 like to say a few words, and will ask you to 

 convey them to the class, lest earthly ears be 

 too dull to catch directly the whisperings of 

 my boughs." Thus spoke the tree : and much 

 abashed, I at once signified my willingness 

 to give up my own proposed speech, and 

 read whatever the tree might dictate. I took 

 down her very words — I say her, for as the 

 Latins well knew, all trees are feminine — 

 and here they are : 



The Message of the Tree 



Like you, my masters, I once was green. 

 In my freshman days, encouraged by the 

 warmth of the sun, I unfolded my delicate 

 buds and exposed my small green leaves to 

 the light and air. Scarcely, however, had I 

 assumed this verdure when the cold blasts of 

 a storm withered my young foliage. I was 

 chagrined, but with the elasticity of youth I 

 returned to the effort, and tried once more 

 to helj) fill the landscape with greenness. 

 This time I was more successful, and before 

 long had the pleasure of hearing the passers- 

 by say, "What a nice little tree!" "Isn't 

 that a jolly little sapling!" or words to simi- 

 lar effect. This made my sap flow fast, and 

 now that the sun Avas warm and the air 

 balmy, I grew apace. All might have been 

 well, but for a lot of envious, disagreeable 

 bugs and worms, which fell upon me, and 

 devoured my leaves, nay, even burrowed into 

 my stem. These attacks, as summer wore on, 

 made me feel sick and made me look shabby, 

 but I kept on growing, and I realized that I 

 was coming to know intimately the wicked 

 ways of this world. Thus, in the fall, now 

 a senior or a veteran — what you will — I put 

 off all greenness, as inappropriate to my 

 wiser and sadder estate. My leaves, as 

 though in final defiance of all enemies, turned 

 brilliantly red and orange; my wood hard- 



^ Address on the occasion of planting a class tree at the University of Colorado in the spring of 1917. 



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