GETTING ACQUAINTED WITH THE TREES 



old weeping willow rattling its bare twigs in 

 the wind; and, if a stream is passed, there are 

 sure to be seen on its banks the sturdy trunks 

 of the white and the black willows at least. 

 Think of an average landscape with the willows 

 eliminated, and there will appear a great vacancy 

 not readily rilled by another tree. 



The weeping willow has always made a strong 

 appeal to me, but never one of simple grief or 

 sorrow. Its expression is rather of great dig- 

 nity, and I remember watching in somewhat of 

 awe one which grew near my childhood's home, 

 as its branches writhed and twisted in a violent 

 rain-storm, seeming then fairly to agonize, so 

 tossed and buffeted were they by the wind. 

 But soon the storm ceased, the sun shone on 

 the rounded head of the willow, turning the 

 raindrops to quickly vanishing diamonds, and 

 the great tree breathed only a gentle and 

 benignant peace. When, in later years, I came 

 to know the moss -hung live-oak of the South- 

 land, the weeping willow assumed to me a new 

 dignity and value in the northern landscape, 

 and I have strongly resented the attitude of a 

 noted writer on "Art Out of Doors" who says 



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