4, LIFE OF A TREE. 
leave it on the white shore and retire again; while 
from the one end of the sea-washed fruit pre- 
sently peeps out a lusty shoot,—and ere our next 
visit, behold! a great tree, itself laden with fruit, 
occupying its place? Or shall we travel to the 
parched Sahara, and mark that tumbling wind- 
tossed ball, like dried parchment, which, wandering 
hither and thither at the will of the hot and fit- 
ful wind, alights at length on a spot where some 
sweet drops of refreshing moisture ooze up through 
the thirsting soil; and, while the hour remains, see 
it unfold its horny bosom, and jut out buds and 
flowers? Or hence take the wind’s wings and 
seek the snow-covered, ice-bound plains of the 
North, and here behold—are they spots of blood ? 
—here and there, far as the eye can reach, deep 
crimson stains lie on the pale surface. Has some 
giant animal received his death-wound, and, in 
his painful staggerings to his lair to die, let fall 
a thousand drops of blood? Whence come these 
gory marks, so thickly scattered as if the sky 
itself, deep, clear, and cold as it is, had been 
weeping tears of blood? A handful of the 
crimsoned snow answers the question, and by 
the microscope informs us that the stain is due 
