TREES AND FLOWERS 121 



even in Winter, when it was bushed with green by the growth of 

 the parasitic Mistletoe, was superseded by the rites of Odin, and 

 the heroic Gods of our Saxon forefathers. And these, in turn, 

 were followed by Christian faith and practise. Trees were, as 

 men's minds became more developed, and their thoughts deepened, 

 regarded as God's handiwork, His house, His temple, rather 

 than the Deity Himself. But, although the old Gods were dead, 

 their dwelling-places remained, and in the Middle Ages the power 

 of trees on the imagination was very strong. If we read a 

 mediaeval tale, we shall find that the scene of action is almost 

 sure to be in the woods and forests. It was through a wood 

 that King Arthur rode with his merrie knights ; lovers, hermits, 

 gamekeepers, outlaws, bold Robin Hood and Jack o' Legs, 

 lived always in the woods of old, and have been immortalised 

 in stirring ballad and vivid romance. 



The love of trees is born within us. We still look up to them 

 for inspiration, to catch some infection of their immense patience, 

 and placid happiness. Yet it is disconcerting to notice that, 

 to most people, one tree is as good as another, when, to the 

 student, each wayside, or woodland, chieftain has a marked 

 personality. The Oak is endowed in our national ballads, poetry, 

 and story with immense powers of strength. It does not require 

 much imagination to speak of it as King of the Forest, when at 

 the height of its glorious reign, and, in its declining years, as an 

 aged monarch. Beyond this the Oak, as I look at it to-day, 

 fresh-leafed, and full of pendent male catkins all aglow with life, 

 images to me a noble soul, chivalrous, just, unbending. 



An hour or two ago I took shelter from the rain under a green 

 canopy of overhanging Beeches. The scene, looking upwards 

 towards the blue sky, was one to which no written description 

 could do ample justice. In the foreground, to the left of a 

 pyramidal Horse Chestnut, now lit up with rich candelabras of 

 blossom, was a fallen Oak, its huge, gnarled limbs recumbent 

 upon the spot where, as a tiny acorn, it was once, perchance, 

 crushed underfoot. There he lies prone in an English park, 

 and I look at him with bended head in sheer reverence, for he 

 has fought a good fight, he has sheltered many a weary beast, 

 bird, and winged creature, has never made an ignoble peace, 

 and now, in death, he sheaths an undishonoured sword. 



Thus does the Oak well deserve its title of our national tree. 

 If I were an artist I would picture a wide -spreading Oak, and, 

 among its branches, I would paint the figure of a mighty King. 



