IN PRAISE OF THE WEYMOUTH PINE. 233 



height, under which I played, and up which 

 I climbed till my cap seemed almost to rub 

 against the sky. That pine ought to be 

 standing yet ; I would go far to lie in its 

 shadow. But alas ! no village Xerxes con- 

 cerned himself for its safety, and long, long 

 ago it was brought to earth, it and all its 

 fair lesser companions. There is no wisdom 

 in the grave, and it is nothing to them now 

 that I remember them so kindly. Some of 

 them went to the making of boxes, I sup- 

 pose, some to the kindling of kitchen fires. 

 In like noble spirit did the illustrious Bo- 

 bo, for the love of roast pig, burn down his 

 father's house. 



No such pines are to be seen now. I have 

 said it for these twenty years, and mean no 

 offense, surely, to the one under which, in 

 thankful mood, I happen at this moment to 

 be reclining. Yet a murmur runs through 

 its branches as I pencil the words. Perhaps 

 it is saying to itself that giants are, and 

 always have been, things of the past, 

 things gazed at over the beholder's shoulder 

 and through the mists of years; and that 

 this venerable monarch of my boyhood, this 

 relic of times remote, has probably grown 



