242 IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTH PINE. 
some tokens of it — not too frequent, indeed, 
nor too self-assertive —in the world about 
me. And so I say, let me never be, for any 
long time together, where there are no Wey- 
mouth pines at which I may gaze from afar, 
or under which I may lie and listen. They 
boast not (rare stoics!), but they set us a 
brave example. No “blasts that blow the 
poplar white” can cause the pine-tree to 
blanch. No frost has power to strip it of a 
single leaf. Its wood is soft, but how daunt- 
less its spirit! —a truly encouraging para- 
dox, lending itself, at our private need, to 
endless consolatory moralizings. The great 
majority of my brothers must be comforted, 
I think, by any fresh reminder that the bat- 
tle is not to the strong. 
For myself, then, like the lowly partridge- 
berry vine, I would be always the pine-tree’s 
neighbor. Who knows but by lifelong fel- 
lowship with it I may absorb something of 
its virtue? Summer and winter, its fragrant 
breath rises to heaven; and of it we may 
say, with more truth than Landor said of the 
over-sweet fragrance of the linden, “ Happy 
the man whose aspirations are pure enough 
to mingle with it!” 
