Trees, Shrubs and Vines 
sort of brutal grandeur that is without competitor in all 
our sylva. It is one of the few lordly trees; heroic, a 
sort of epic poem. Examined in detail there may be 
much to criticise, but it is cast on broad lines and 
refuses to be judged piecemeal; in its entirety it is irre- 
sistible. What a tremendous girth of trunk, what huge 
branches flung on every side, each fit to be a sizable 
bole; how it scorns the thought of being graceful ; 
every leaf wears a repellent air in its long rows of sharp 
teeth ; its burs are untouchable; it is a ponderous mass 
of grim unsociability ; you may admire supremely, but 
you could hardly love a rugged old chestnut. 
But in June it takes a different fancy, and a cloud of 
misty white envelops it—it is majestically in bloom, and 
for miles around it is the towering centre of attraction ; 
its millions of tiny blossoms conspire to produce one of 
the most stupendous floral displays of nature. How 
gracefully those slender, cream-white catkins hang by 
thousands from every point of attachment—it is the 
feat of forestry! The man who is not impressed in an 
unusual way by a magnificent chestnut in its June glory 
—the grand male of our amentaceous bloom—must be 
almost incapable of being touched by any of the beau- 
ties of nature. 
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