TREES 263 



trunk, and a voice whispered: "Nice old grandpa chest- 

 nut!" 



That was many years ago. I wonder if that noble old 

 tree is standing yet, or whether the chestnut blight, the 

 axe, or the lightning, has robbed the little hills of their 

 shepherd. I shall never know, I shall never count 

 again the little notches in a secret recess of the bark, nor 

 hear the sweet, silly secrets the old tree would not be- 

 tray. I could go there now, to the very spot, yes, on the 

 darkest night; a memory in the soles of my feet would 

 wake and tell me the path. But I shall never take the 

 risk. Some memories must never be dusted, some paths 

 never retrod. For me that storm-scarred grandfather 

 of a tree shall forever stand shepherd over the little hills, 

 the little, green rolling hills where the cattle browse and 

 the wind whispers to the mullein stalks; and against its 

 hoary bark a soft pink cheek is pressed, and I am 

 twenty -one again. 



