MY FRIENDS, THE TREES 



ing top rises far above the other trees in the wood- 

 lot. Even though it stands beside the public road, 

 it seems to retain some touch of the shyness of the 

 wilderness, and does not invite the fellowship of man. 

 Its first branches are so high in the air that it 

 has never been profaned by the most venturesome 

 climbers, and its great roots start out from the 

 trunk in a way that seems to thrust back all attempts 

 at familiarity. The second growth maples by which 

 it is surrounded appear to be domesticated by com- 

 parison with this wildling, and when they are tapped 

 at sugar-making time they yield sap as lavishly as 

 a dairy cow gives milk. But the giant gives grudg- 

 ingly, as if it resented the wound it had received. Its 

 companionship seems to be with the wildest winds and 

 storms, that alone have the power to rouse its huge 



branches to motion. 



* * * * 



I sometimes wonder that I should be fond of trees, 

 for when I was a boy trees were regarded almost as 

 enemies. The land had to be cleared of them before 

 crops could be sown, and they multiplied the labour 

 of the pioneers. I learned to swing an axe by cutting 

 down saplings, and ran "amuck" among them just 

 as my elders did among the larger trees. In those 



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