THE ROMANCE OF OUR TREES 



fulness in the arts and crafts of man is ignored and 

 trees are regarded as mere useless encumbrances of 

 the ground to be ruthlessly felled to make room for 

 houses, fields, and highways. 



Since our earliest days we have been familiar with 

 trees as things that are : what they are, and why they 

 are, interest but very few. A trip across the dreary 

 deserts and treeless plains of the western part of this 

 country brings many to an appreciation of trees and 

 green things generally. Would that more of us 

 could realize the truth so admirably expressed in the 

 splendid tribute to "Trees" by Joyce Kilmer who 

 was killed in the trenches of battle-scarred northern 

 France: 



I think that I shall never see 

 A poem as lovely as a tree; 

 A tree whose hungry mouth is prest 

 Against the earth's sweet-flowing breast; 

 A tree that looks at God all day 

 And lifts her leafy arms to pray; 

 A tree that may in summer wear 

 A nest of robins in her hair; 

 Upon whose bosom snow has lain; 

 Who intimately lives with rain. 

 Poems are made by fools like me, 

 But only God can make a tree. 



Rightly considered trees are the noblest product of 

 the earth. Look how they rear themselves against 

 gravity for from 50 to 100, aye to 400 feet; how 



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