The Rambles of an Idler 



Not a day in the year but an oak tree means 

 more than one can realize. It is never enough 

 to murmur its name and pass it by as you 

 might some casual acquaintance. You can nod 

 all day to an oak, but how often does the oak 

 nod to you? When we have more oak trees, if 

 in my time, I shall look for the millenium to 

 peep over the hills and happiness overspread 

 the valleys. Never a day but an oak tree is a 

 preacher and a teacher of a worthy kind: in 

 June, when the tree's leafy crown is in the full 

 freshness of its glory ; in December, when its 

 gaunt arms are still bravely extended, defying 

 the storms that gather about it. 



An oak tree in June tells a long story, but 

 never is a word of it one too many. The eye 

 and the ear are reinvigorated by each new inci- 

 dent, and there is no surfeiting. We are in a 

 state of blissful expectancy from dawn to dark 

 and keenly alert to the still stranger stories that 

 are told in the moonlight. A day under the oaks 

 is never too long; a moonlit night is all too 

 swift of pace. 



. An oak tree is a home as well as a temporary 

 shelter, for all life; a woodside inn for weary 

 travelers. The migrating hosts of birds, in 



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