STATE HOETICULTUEAL SOCIETY. 53 



yonr *' dearest foe'' is doing his ^vorst, you come together to re- 

 joice over successes, deplore faihires, consult as to ways and 

 means of tempering the tree to the fierce wind and cruel frost; 

 about adding a choicer sweet to the product of the vine, greater 

 size to the berry, a richer blush to the cheek of the apple, and 

 carrying your conquest a little further towards the realms of 

 eternal snow; you are here to be told of successes which will de- 

 light you. that is human; to be told of failures which will sadden 

 but not dishearten you, that is heroic ! 



You certainly will not accuse me of flattery when I character- 

 ize the labors of this Society as heroic. The highest type of 

 heroism is a persistent struggle towards a definite end — which 

 is to be fruitful of good to humanity — regardless of foilures, 

 disappointments and losses. You who have never experienced 

 the pang, can have no conception of what it is to lose — by 

 some sudden climatic freak — a favorite fruit tree; one which you 

 tenderly planted, carefully nursed, solicitously watched; a tree 

 that with each succeeding year bore a richer crop of hope, as it 

 neared the time for bearing the more material x>roduct; then 

 came the full fruition, the red-rii^e gift from Pomona, plucked 

 from the gracefully bending boughs, the first born of the holy 

 wedlock between your intelligent labor and patient waiting. As 

 the first lisped "papa" or "mamma" is the mystic password 

 which admits your babe into hitherto unoccupied recesses of 

 your heart, so does the taste of the first fruits of the tree you have 

 planted, tended, watched, introduce you to sensations new 

 and strange, and inspires you with an affection you never be- 

 lieved you could bestow upon an inanimate and so commonplace 

 a thing as a tree. As time goes on, the tree flourishes, grows 

 in size, beauty and fruitfulness; you begin to regard it as a part 

 of yourself; with much satisfaction you contemplate that each 

 additional wrinkle on your aging face has its fellow in an annuul 

 circle within the trunk of your favorite tree. You feel that it is 

 not only going to be a solace to you in your old age, a comfort 

 and a joy to your posterity but a monument to yourself, of 

 which you will be vastly more proud than of the tallest shaft 

 of richest marble. 



But now comes a frost — "a killing frost" — and when you 

 think, good easy man, full surely your tree is an "ironclad," 

 nips its root and falls, as do your hopes, and the well-directed 

 labors of a lifetime. Who can blame you if you exclaim, as 

 did Wolsey, "vain pomp and glory of this world, 1 hate yeV^ 



