IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTH PINE. 238 
height, under which I played, and up which 
I climbed till my cap seemed almost to rub 
against the sky. That pine ought to be 
standing yet; I would go far to lie in its 
shadow. But alas! no village Xerxes con- 
cerned himself for its safety, and long, long 
ago it was brought to earth, it and all its 
fair lesser companions. There is no wisdom 
in the grave, and it is nothing to them now 
that I remember them so kindly. Some of 
them went to the making of boxes, I sup- 
pose, some to the kindling of kitchen fires. 
In like noble spirit did the illustrious Bo- 
bo, for the love of roast pig, burn down his 
father’s house. 
No such pines are to be seen now. I have 
said it for these twenty years, and mean no 
offense, surely, to the one under which, in 
thankful mood, J happen at this moment to 
be reclining. Yet a murmur runs through 
its branches as I pencil the words. Perhaps 
it is saying to itself that giants are, and 
always have been, things of the past, — 
things gazed at over the beholder’s shoulder 
and through the mists of years; and that 
this venerable monarch of my boyhood, this 
relic of times remote, has probably grown 
