May-Day out of Town. 103 



them, the frogs joined in their mighty chorus once 

 again. Surely for many minutes the lovers of 

 Wagnerian music would have been entranced. 



The shower was of short duration, and a happy 

 incident, for beauty emerging from a bath is ever 

 engaging. While waiting for this the time sped 

 happily. The huge oak that sheltered me has no 

 history, it is true, being a growth of this quiet 

 Indian and staid Quaker country, but no tree 

 needs such fortuitous aid to render it an object 

 of admiration. Here on the meadows oaks re- 

 place rocks, and are scarcely less an evidence of 

 the world's stability. The rocks have their his- 

 tory plainly written upon them ; but what of the 

 chafed and gnarly branches of the primeval oaks ? 

 what of the murmuring breezes that I now hear, 

 and the scream of the winters' storms that has 

 been so often sounded ? Truly, the autobiogra- 

 phy of an oak would be rare reading. And yet, 

 so strongly implanted is our belief in man's tran- 

 scendent importance that trees with a human his- 

 tory outvie all others. Let us be sure that a 

 tragedy — even a disgusting one — was enacted be- 

 neath its branches, and the gaping crowd will be 



