Mayhap, it Is Of these days the willows 

 dream, but dream they do, summer or 

 winter They have a touch of pathos 

 in them evermore. The bark is like to 

 an elm so as to be easily mistaken for 

 it, and ashy- red in hue. These of the 

 picture are taken from "my farm" in 

 the ravine I set such store by, and 

 where in springtime the waters will pour 

 about them to their knees; and they 

 know it! They love that knee -deep 

 wading like little boys. In spring, with 

 their flash of early green, or in sum- 

 mer, with half slumber, and their 

 pensive droop of leaf and branch and 

 trunk well, God did certainly deal ten- 

 derly with the willows, and made them 

 very fair ! 



The shell-bark hickory is the sur- 

 liest seeming tree in the wood, save 

 only the honey-locust, which is vindic- 

 tive and humanity-hating as Timon of 

 Athens, though when the fair summer 

 is blooming this misanthropic tree 

 flashes out in throngs of tiny leaves 

 almost as exquisite as ferns, and much 

 after their likeness. Not any tree has 

 any more beautiful leaves than a thorny 

 locust, so man-hating and beast-hating, 

 that even the merry squirrel can not 

 climb it, but in which birds build nests, 

 as in a citadel; for there the larger 

 birds can not come seeking prey, nor 

 the wise serpent. This evil, angry 

 tree so comes to serve good uses, 

 building with angry skill a fortress 



