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branches. Even the straight, seamy outer 

 shell seems to say aloud, " Here is no com- 

 moner, but wood of the sap royal." Maybe, 

 too, in its darkness, it holds more than a 

 hint of the dead it shall encoffin. Even 

 cedar has not better endurance in damp 

 earth. Pioneer hands lay heavy upon it 

 when farms were being won from the wil- 

 derness. A hundred years later the walnut 

 stumps remained to fetch, in many cases, 

 more than any intervening crop. 



Master Hickory is a sylvan politician. 

 Shadow him, estop him as you will, he 

 manages always to creep into full sunshine. 

 By preference he grows, stands straight a 

 lithe, vital, arrowy fellow, who might dare all 

 storms, yet bends to any. A handsome gal- 

 lant is he in his green summer bravery, yet 

 with eerie suggestions in his bare, blunt, 

 writhen autumn boughs. 



"We bow to rise," they say, swaying 

 hither and yon in the chill wind. From 

 their pliant tossing you would never guess 

 what warmth and good cheer and sweet, 

 smoky sap are stored up in the trunk. A 

 fire of hickory logs is the finest cheerful 

 missionary. Even the smoke of it hath 

 virtue. It heals green wounds that, too, 

 whether you suffer them of mind or body. 



