IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTH PINE. 237 
look abashed at being dragged thus un- 
expectedly and inappropriately into broad 
daylight. If I were to see the householder 
lifting his axe against one of them I think 
I should not say, ‘Woodman, spare that 
tree!” Let it go to the fire, the sooner the 
better, and be out of its misery. 
Not that I blame the tree, or the power 
that made it what it is. The forest, like 
every other community, prospers — we may 
rather say exists —at the expense of indi- 
vidual perfection. But the expense is true 
economy, for, however it may be in ethics, 
in esthetics the end justifies the means. 
The solitary pine, unhindered, symmetrical, 
green to its lowermost twig, as it rises out 
of the meadow or stands a-tiptoe on the 
rocky ledge, is a thing of beauty, a pleasure 
to every eye. A pity and ashame that it 
should not be more common! But the pine 
forest, dark, spacious, slumberous, musical! 
Here is something better than beauty, dearer 
than pleasure. When we enter this cathe- 
dral, unless we enter it unworthily, we speak 
not of such things. Every tree may be im- 
perfect, with half its branches dead for want 
of room or want of sun, but until the dev- 
