A QUIET AFTERNOON 35 



restlessness to the blush. The wind has 

 long ago blown away some of its branches, 

 but it does not mind. It is busy with its 

 year's work. I see the young burrs, no 

 bigger than the end of my little finger. 

 When the nuts are ripe the tree will let 

 them fall and think no more about them. 

 How different from a man ! When he does 

 a good thing, if by chance he ever does, he 

 must put his hands behind his ears in hopes 

 to hear somebody praising him. Mountains 

 and trees make me humble. I feel like a 

 poor relation. 



The pitch-pines are no longer at their 

 best estate. They are brightest when we 

 need their brightness most, in late winter 

 and early spring. This year, at least, the 

 summer sun has faded them badly; but 

 their fragrance is like an elixir. It is one 

 of the glories of pine needles, one of the 

 things in which they excel the rest of us, 

 that they smell sweet, not "in the dust" 

 exactly, but after they are dead. 



A nuthatch in one of the trees calls "Tut, 

 tut, tut," and is so near me that I hear his 

 claws scratching over the dry bark. A busy 



