164 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



Does the tree enjoy its life? I have wondered. 

 Some of the scientists tell us that its whole individuality 

 is the result of external forces, over which, of course, 

 it has no control, and by which it is molded. But yet 

 they fail to account for the presence of life there, and 

 where life is I think joy is also. I believe that the vine 

 creeping up yon beech is alive, and that as it attaches 

 itself to the bark with its feelers and tendrils it has a 

 joy in existence. I believe that it loves the caresses 

 and kisses of the air. Oh, it has no mind, I know, and 

 hence, I suppose, no self-consciousness; but in the coil- 

 ing spiral of the vine, so pliant, so responsive, so joy- 

 ously obedient to the least influences of wind or tree, 

 there surely resides an identity which is at once unique 

 and soul-like, and it is fair and comely because it de- 

 lights to be so. So far as it goes, in the scale of being, 

 the life of plant and tree, bird, animal, and the forms 

 of the ocean is just the same (do you not certainly 

 think?) as is ours — only, of course, our life is much 

 more perfect, more complex, more adaptable, and more 

 appreciative. That there is a vast and real unity in 

 Nature is not to be questioned. We, too, have a spir- 

 itual affinity with bird, beast, and flower. Thoreau, 

 in his admiration, said of the pine-tree: "It is as im- 

 mortal as I am, and perchance will go to as high a 

 heaven, there to tower above me still." 



There are few things in the woods more beautiful 

 and graceful than a fresh spray of Virginia creeper, 

 clasping close to an old rail fence or twining and hang- 

 ing about an elm. In autumn, with its dense masses 

 and Its whorls of dark red leaves, it Is one of Nature's 

 master pictures. The old woods is full of It. In a few 



