188 A PITCH-PINE M EDIT AT JON. 



still working under the ribs of death, 

 while the stump, whether " through the 

 scent of water " I cannot say, is perhaps 

 sending up fresh shoots, a piece of post- 

 mortem hopefulness the like of which no 

 white pine, for all its seemingly greater 

 vitality, was ever known to exhibit. But 

 leaves and shoots alike come to nothing. 

 If a pitch-pine die, it shall not live again. 

 The wood's blind impulses, if not false 

 in themselves, were at least falsely inter- 

 preted. Alas ! alas ! who has not found it 

 so? What seemed like the prophetic stir- 

 rings of a new life, were only the last flick- 

 erings of a lamp that was going out. 



