SWAYING TREE TOPS 



sleeping up here on the hill top, the 

 sycamores down by the river are 

 battling for their lives. When I 

 awaken in the night I hear the wind 

 crying for quarter, but the trees are 

 silent in their grim defiance. In the 

 morning the wind has given up 

 the struggle and slunk back into its 

 caves of the north, but the sycamores 

 stand erect perhaps an inch taller 

 for the struggle with the sunshine 

 glorifying their white tops. 



All save one. To-day I found one 

 sycamore had fallen its great length 

 breaking with the fall into many shat- 

 tered pieces. When I examined it 

 I discovered that it had died before 

 it fell. Last summer lightning 

 struck its heart. Even then its death 

 was deliberate, and it died as a king 



[159] 



