AN OLD APPLE TREE 23 



winter that I do not pause and think of him asleep 

 in there. He is no longer mere toad. He has passed 

 into the Guardian Spirit of the tree, warring in the 

 green leaf against worm and grub and slug, and in 

 the dry leaf hiding himself, a heart of life, within 

 the thin ribs, as if to save the old shell of a tree to 

 another summer. 



Often in the dusk, especially the summer dusk, I 

 have gone over to sit at his feet and learn some of 

 the things that my school-teachers and college pro- 

 fessors did not teach me. 



Seating myself comfortably at the foot of the tree, 

 I wait. The toad comes forth to the edge 

 of his hole above me, settles himself 

 comfortably, and waits. And the / 

 lesson begins. The quiet of the 

 summer evening steals out 

 with the wood-shadows and 

 softly covers the fields. We 

 do not stir. An hour passes. 

 We do not stir. Not to stir 

 is the lesson one of the primary lessons in this 

 course with the toad. 



The dusk thickens. The grasshoppers begin to 

 strum; the owl slips out and drifts away; a whip- 

 poor-will drops on the bare knoll near me, clucks and 

 shouts and shouts again, his rapid repetition a thou- 

 sand times repeated by the voices that call to one 

 another down the long empty aisles of the swamp; 



