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prude she with fire under her snow, and 

 likewise bitter of heart and root. 



The parable is endless. You may trace 

 it on every hand. Tongues there be in 

 trees to tell all of human story. The Willow 

 waves, drooping in grief ; the Locust flaunts, 

 thorny as pride. 



If one star differeth from another in 

 glory, how much more one tree? All have 

 their uses, their semblances. The rain, the 

 sunshine, fall on all alike. From them is 

 wrought the sweet, the bitter, each after his 

 kind. And who shall say, shall gainsay, 

 that sweet or bitter lies nearest the heart of 

 Nature, our mother ? 



