TREES THAT I LOVE. 139 



There are trees in this old woods-pasture that 

 I love trees that were born two centuries be- 

 fore I trees that have sheltered the Indian and 

 the buffalo, and have served as resting places 

 for the wild turkey, the paroquet and the pas- 

 senger pigeon. At times I step up to the trunk 

 of one of these sturdy old white oaks and lay 

 my hand reverently upon it. Gray and hoary 

 with age, the sap yet flows freely through its 

 outer third. Each spring its leaves put forth at 

 their accustomed time. Each autumn acorns 

 fall from its branches as they have fallen for 

 a score of decades or more. This tree, standing 

 so sturdily among its fellows, fighting so val- 

 iantly the battle of life, each year doing its 

 duty in its simple accustomed manner, is more 

 worthy of honor than many a human whom I 

 meet. More innocent than they, with higher 

 ideals than the majority of them a living mon- 

 ument of a misty past that was almost forgotten 

 when they were born why should not I greet it 

 more fervently than I do the average humdrum 

 specimen of humanity whose acquaintance I al- 

 most daily make? 



