CHAPTER IV 

 THE FLOWERING OF THE FOREST-TREES 



"And now in age I bud again, 



After so many deaths I live and write; 

 I once more smell the dew and rain, 

 And relish versing. O my Only Light, 

 It cannot be 

 That I am he 

 On whom Thy tempests fell all night." 



George Herbert. 



THE veteran oak, which has weathered many 

 gales, is the time-honored symbol of hardihood. 

 The flowers which bloom between its mighty roots 

 have served rhetoricians, since the memory of man 

 goeth not to the contrary, as symbols of tender 

 grace and helpless, evanescent prettiness. So the 

 idea of the forest-trees themselves bourgeoning 

 forth into blossoms is to the unbotanical public 

 almost a contradiction in terms, perhaps even in- 

 volving a trace of absurdity, as if some war-worn 

 veteran were to take his walks abroad with a knot 

 of ribbons at his throat, and a lace-trimmed para- 

 sol forming a background to his weather-beaten 



visage. 



64 



