MY FRIENDS, THE TREES 



return to the tree in times of sickness and trouble. 

 I always felt that I would be well and happy again 

 if I could only get back to the tree and throw myself 

 at full length on the grass that it shaded and listen 

 to its never-ending gossip with the breezes that are 

 forever visiting it. At last I came back from the 

 outer world and made my home beside the tree. 

 During my absence it had pushed up higher and had 

 spread its branches wider, but it was still the same 

 companionable tree. The grass still made a carpet 

 over its roots, inviting me to sprawl at full length 

 and renew our voiceless communion. While I was 

 away I may have learned some things, but the tree 

 had been in harmony with the universe from the 

 moment it began to emerge from the acorn, and 



knew all that I so sorely needed to learn. 



* * * * 



Although the oak is my particular friend among 

 the trees on the farm, there are others with which 

 I can claim at least an acquaintanceship. There is a 

 maple at the edge of the wood-lot that always makes 

 me feel uncomfortable, because I have a feeling that 

 it has a joke on me. It stands on what would be 

 called rising ground which means an elevation that 

 does not deserve to be called a hill and while lying 



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