IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTH PINE. 241 
glass darkly; and to hear overhead, not 
plain words, but inarticulate murmurs. 
I am not to be understood as praising 
the pine at the expense of other trees. All 
things considered, no evergreen can be equal 
to a summer - green, on which we see the 
leaves budding, unfolding, ripening, and 
falling, —a “worlde whiche neweth everie 
daie.”” What would winter be worth with- 
out the naked branches of maples and elms, 
beeches and oaks? We speak of them sadly: 
‘* Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.” 
But the sadness is of a pleasing sort, that 
could ill be spared by any who know the 
pleasures of sentiment and sober reflection. 
But though one tree differeth from another 
tree in glory, we may surely rejoice in them 
all. One ministers to our mood to-day, an- 
other to-morrow. 
“‘T hate those trees that never lose their foliage ; 
They seem to have no sympathy with Nature ; 
Winter and summer are alike to them.” 
So says Ternissa, in Landor’s dialogue. I 
know what she means. But I do not “hate” 
an impassive, unchangeable temper, whether 
ina tree or in a man. I have so little of 
such a spirit myself that I am glad to see 
