THE RED COW 



on the grass in its shade I can see over several 

 farms to the south and east. It used to be a favourite 

 of my boyhood, and once I composed a poem while 

 lying in its shade. If you bear in mind the fact 

 that I was seventeen years of age at the time you 

 will understand why the tree has a joke on me. Here 

 is the only stanza I can remember of the little poem 

 I composed to express the "unmannerly sadness" of 

 youth. 



It long has been my cherished hope 



Upon my dying day 

 To lie down on some sunny slope 



And dream my life away. 



At that age I could not have cherished the hope 

 so very long, and the old tree must have chuckled 

 to its last twig at my absurdity. Anyway, I never 

 see the tree without recalling that wretched stanza, 

 and I immediately hurry away to some other part 



of the woods. 



* * * * 



But there is one tree on the place with which I 

 can never establish a feeling of intimacy. It is the 

 one remaining specimen of the original forest — a 

 giant maple over three feet in diameter, whose spread- 



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