286 NA T URE-ST UD Y RE VIE W [ 13 :7— Oct., 1917 



feet. But then men with loud voices and sharp, bright axes came 

 into our woods. They trod my children under their feet and 

 slashed down all of the trees that stood around me. Do you see 

 this empty space which I try to hide with my branches ? That is 

 where my mother fell on me when they cut her down. Of all the 

 trees on this hill, I was the only one that they let stand, because 

 they said I was "Grandfather's Tree." 



"Times change and everything changes with them. The day of 

 great forests is gone, but you must not think that the trees of the 

 forest are dead — I do not think so. Man has not allowed trees to 

 grow on this field again, but year after year, my mother and 

 brothers and friends have come back in the corn and wheat and 

 grass that men have planted here; in the weeds that grow up, year 

 after year, in the fence corners, and wither down in winter, and 

 return with spring. Men are not always wise enough to see this, 

 but I know my friends — there is the same green in their leaves; 

 they make starch and eat sugar in the same way; there is the same 

 sound among them when the wind blows. My old friends are 

 always about me. They do not look the same, perhaps, but they 

 know me and I them, and if you listen sometimes you may hear us 

 talking together. 



"I am very old now and getting tired. Soon, I think, I too will 

 fall and wither and go back into the warm ground for a good long 

 rest. The people will say, "Look! the old oak is dead at last." 

 But you will not believe that, will you? If you do, you will not 

 be as wise as an oak, tho you may be as wise as an owl." 



"When I go to the woods, it is like going among old and treasured friends, 

 and with riper acquaintance the trees come to take on, curiously, a kind of 

 personality, so that I am much fonder of some trees than of others, and 

 instinctively seek out the companionship of certain trees in certain moods, as 

 one will his friends. 



"I love the unfolding beeches in spring, and the pines in winter, the elms I 

 care for afar off, like giant, aloof men, whom I can admire, but for the friendly 

 confidence give me an apple tree in the old green meadow." 



— David Grayson in American Magazine. 



