THE COUNTRY, THE COUNTRY!" 



FROM A CLUB OF ONE, BY A. P. RUSSELL, L. H, D. 



TREES! Think of them! In the 

 United States thirty-six varieties 

 of oak, thirty-four of pine, nine 

 of fir, five of spruce, four of hem- 

 lock, two of persimmon, twelve of ash, 

 eighteen of willow, nine of poplar, and 

 I don't know how many of the beautiful 

 beech. I once counted over thirty dif- 

 ferent varieties of trees in the space of 

 one acre. And the leaves — their num- 

 ber, their individuality, their variety of 

 shape and tint, the acres of space that 

 those of one great tree would cover if 

 spread out and laid together! In the 

 autumn to watch them fall — how slowly, 

 how rapidly! Yet they say nobody ever 

 saw one of them let go. Homer's com- 

 parison to the lives of men — how fine! 

 Better than Lucian's to the bubbles. I 

 remember very well one October day 

 in Ohio. It was long ago — "in life's 

 morning march, when my bosom was 

 young." (I like to quote from that 

 poem of Campbell's, it is incomparable 

 of its kind.) A delightful tramp! El- 

 derberries. (The great Boerhaave held 

 the elder in such pleasant reverence for 

 the multitude of its virtues, that he is 

 said to have taken off his hat whenever 

 he passed it.) Grapes. Haws. Paw- 

 paws. (Nature's custard.) Spicewood. 

 Sassafras. Hickory nuts. Nearly a 

 primeval forest. Vines reminding one 

 of Brazilian creepers. Trees that were 

 respectable saplings when Columbus 

 landed. The dead roots of an iron- 

 wood — so like a monster as to startle. 

 Behemoth I thought of. "He moveth 

 his tail like a cedar.' Thistle-down. 

 Diffused like small vices. Every seed 

 hath wings. Here and there a jay, or a 

 woodpecker. Grape-vines, fantastically 

 running over the tops of tall bushes, 

 grouping deformities, any one of which, 

 if an artist drew it, would be called an 

 exaggeration, worse than anything of 

 Dora's. Trees, swaying and bowing to 

 one another, like stilted clowns in Na- 

 ture's afterpiece of the seasons. Trees 



incorporated, sycamore and elm, maple 

 and hickory, modifying and partaking 

 each other's nature; resembling so much 

 as to appear one tree. A jolly gray 

 squirrel, hopping from limb to limb, 

 like a robin; swmging like an oriole; 

 flying along the limb like a weaver's 

 shuttle; scared away, at length, by a 

 scudding cloud of pigeons, just brush- 

 ing the tallest tree-tops, as if kissing an 

 annual farewell. Clover. Sorrel. Pen- 

 nyroyal. A drink of cider from a bit 

 of broken crockery. ("Does he not 

 drink more sweetly (hat takes his bev- 

 erage in an earthen vessel than he that 

 looks and searches into his golden chal- 

 ices for fear of poison, and sleeps in 

 armor, and trusts nobody, and does not 

 trust God for his safety?" "All is fair 

 — all is glad — ^from grass to sun!" Not 

 a "melancholy" day. Keats' poem on 

 Autumn comes to mind; and Crabbe's 



"Welcome pure thoughts, welcome, ye 



silent groves; 

 These guests, these courts, my soul most 



dearly loves." 



Indian summer. Balzac's comparison 

 to ripe womanhood. The significant worn 

 walk round the mean man's field; its 

 crooked outline impressively striking. 

 All in all, a white day. Memory of it 

 supplies these notes. They might be ex- 

 panded into an essay. The country, 

 the countr}^ Though the man who 

 would truly relish and enjoy it must be 

 previously furnished with a large and 

 various stock of ideas, which he must 

 be capable of turning over in his own 

 mind, of comparing, varying, and con- 

 templating upon with pleasure; he must 

 so thoroughly have seen the world as 

 to cure him of being over fond of it; 

 and he must have so much good sense 

 and virtue in his own heart as to pre- 

 vent him from being disgusted with his 

 own reflections, or uneasy in his own 

 company. Alas! 



'^'By permission. 



