CHAPTER IV 
“N 
THE FLOWERING OF THE FOREST-TREES 
«And now in age I bud again, 
After so many deaths I live and write; 
I once more smell the dew and rain, 
And relish versing. O my Only Light, 
It cannot be 
That I am he 
On whom Thy tempests fell all night.” 
—George Herbert. 
THE veteran oak, which has weathered many 
gales, is the time-honored symbol of hardihood. 
The flowers which bloom between its mighty roots 
have served rhetoricians, since the memory of man 
goeth not to the contrary, as symbols of tender 
grace and helpless, evanescent prettiness. So the 
idea of the forest-trees themselves bourgeoning 
forth into blossoms is to the unbotanical public 
almost a contradiction in terms, perhaps even in- 
volving a trace of absurdity, as if some war-worn 
veteran were to take his walks abroad with a knot 
of ribbons at his throat, and a lace-trimmed para- 
sol forming a background to his weather-beaten 
visage. 
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