Under the Oaks and Elsewhere 



tares go bounding through its branches, and, 

 leaping in the air, clutch at the nearest twig. 

 Always within one of falling, yet never touch- 

 ing the earth. That this old oak lives not whol- 

 ly to itself is not its least merit. The rambler 

 has no idle time if he keeps up with the proces- 

 sion, of which this tree is the parade-ground. 

 At the foot of an oak tree is a poor place to be 

 alone. To indulge in solitude it is better to 

 wander through the city's busy streets. 



When we know what an oak tree means to all 

 those forms of life that gather about it, we shall 

 know what it stands for in the scheme of crea- 

 tion, and not until then. 



The fact that we always speak of a "sober" 

 brown or a "dull" brown is enough to condemn 

 the color. The witchery of pink blossoms when 

 spring was here and the gay colors of summer 

 were so captivating that now it is vexatious to 

 find the landscape mono-tinted and dull brown 

 at that. Brown is near akin to funereal blacki 

 and we condemn both colors as not compatible 

 with cheerfulness. So, I find, wags the world, 

 hopelessly ignorant in the possession of half a 

 fact. What of a nut-brown November day? 



223 



