THE PASTURE IN NOVEMBER 269 



ing shrubs, the slender, maidenly birches, the ma- 

 ples, vainglorious in their dainty spring colors, 

 their voluminous summer robes, their gorgeous 

 autumn gowns, and they do it all with a kindly 

 dignity that endears, while they stand high above 

 all these in their perfection of simplicity. They 

 can be tender without unbending, and in their 

 soothing shadow is balm for all wounds. To- 

 night the sky is black with rain that tramps with 

 its thousand feet on the camp roof and marches 

 endlessly on. The wind is from the east and the 

 pines sing its song of wild and lonely spaces. 

 Yet one great tree that was old with the wisdom 

 of the world before I was born stretches a limb 

 to the camp window, and in the flicker of the fire- 

 light I see it stroke it caressingly with soft leaf 

 fingers and twigs that bend back at the stroke. 

 It is like the hand of a child reaching to its moth- 

 er's breast with wordless love and tenderness in- 

 expressible. The caress makes a lullaby of the 

 weird song above, and in it I hear no longer the 

 lonely cry of ghostly space, but only one more 

 expression of the homely peace and mother love 

 that seems to dweill always in the siheltered nooks 

 of the pasture. 



