68 AN OLD ROAD. 



at which I used to gaze admiringly in the 

 first years of my wandering hither. What 

 millions of tiny cones hung from its pendu- 

 lous branches ! The magnificent creation 

 should have been protected by legislative 

 enactment, if necessary ; but no, almost as 

 long ago as I can remember, long before I 

 attained to grammar-school dignities, the 

 owner of the land (so he thought himself, 

 no doubt) turned the tree into firewood. 

 And worse yet, the stately pine grove that 

 flourished across the way, with mossy bowl- 

 ders underneath and a most delightsome 

 density of shade, this, too, like the patri- 

 archal hemlock, has been cut off in the 

 midst of its usefulness. 



" Their very memory is fair and bright, 

 And my sad thoughts doth cheer ! " 



Now there is nothing on the whole hillside 

 but a thicket of young hard-wood trees (I 

 would say deciduous, but in New England, 

 alas, all trees are deciduous), through which 

 my dog loves to prowl, but which warns me 

 to keep the road. Such devastations are 

 not to be prevented, I suppose, but at least 

 there is no law against my bewailing them. 

 Even in its present decadence, however, 



