DAYS IN MY GARDEN 



cause they deem essential ; they stand storm-beaten, 

 battered, scarred ; men ahead of their time, with 

 minds advanced beyond the common measure they 

 are the Scotch pines of tree-land ; men whose flaming 

 SCOTCH torch of individualism burns with fierceness from the 



dark of their mysterious lives, as when the setting 

 sun flashes fire on the ruddy boles of pines beneath 

 their black-plumed crowns. 



Often standing alone, or in a small group on some 

 knoll or hill-top, these battered, storm-tossed, wind- 

 swept trees with tortured limbs possess a rugged 

 and picturesque beauty, like the misunderstood 



visionaries w r ho grow old amid the turbulent storms 



'; ;;<;. 



they have raised, and possess, in their scarred but 

 unbeaten natures, the beauty of courage undaunted, 

 and endurance that has only been deepened by the 

 head winds of adversity. 



I never watch the sunset rays flame-flush the 

 Scotch fir boles, their glinting lights but dimly green 

 their massive darkened heads, distorted into beauty, 

 but I think of those brave and noble men, who with 

 breasts afire have faced and met a life of storm, for 

 that which they deemed was right and true, who 



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