In Deep, Dark Woods. 251 



years ago, persisted in sitting in the shade of 

 the old oak in the meeting-house yard, while 

 the Friends were gathered in the building, he 

 was not so illogical as his people thought him. 

 He maintained that the shade of a living oak 

 was as fit a spot wherein to worship as " a pen 

 made of the carcasses of a hundred dead ones." 

 Philander was long a concern upon the minds 

 of his co-religionists, and it is rather noteworthy 

 that he alone of his contemporaries is remem- 

 bered. Not like so many, too near to nothing 

 to be friends or foes. Extremely ignorant, men 

 call him ; but I hold him as a real philosopher. 

 Not because of his fancy for the old oak, but 

 because of that infatuation which will not admit 

 that in all things art is an improvement over 

 Nature. Philander Pointblank knew both inti- 

 mately and remained loyal to the out-door 

 world. The tears that he shed when the light- 

 ning destroyed the favorite oak of his little 

 woodland tract were more honest than many 

 his neighbors have shed at funerals. When I 

 said as much in my address at Philander's 

 funeral, there was a great raising of eyebrows 

 and some shuffling of feet, but no one was 



