LXXV.—My Friends, the Trees 



NEAR the house there is a sturdy oak tree 

 that I always think of as one of the 



oldest of my friends. I grew up with it. 



Of course, that is not exactly true, for 

 I stopped growing many years ago while it kept 

 on growing, and it may keep on growing for cen- 

 turies to come. But when I was a growing boy 

 it was just the right kind of a tree for me to chum 

 with. It was not too big to climb, and yet it was 

 big enough to take me on its back and carry me into 

 all the dreamlands of childhood. Among its whis- 

 pering branches I found lands as wonderful as Jack 

 climbed to on his beanstalk. And it had a stout 

 right arm that was strong enough to hold up a swing 

 on which I swung and dreamed for more hours than 

 the teachers of to-day would consider right. When 

 it whispered to me I whispered to it, and told it more 

 secrets than I have ever told any one in the world. 

 It became a part of my life, and no matter how far I 

 wandered in later years my thoughts would always 



