Mayhap, it is ot tnese days the willows 
dream. but dream they do, summer or 
winter They have a touch of pathos 
in them evermore. The bark is like to 
an elm so as to be easily mistaken for 
it, and ashy-red in hue. These of the 
picture are taken from “my farm” in 
the ravine I set such store by, and 
where in springtime the waters will pour 
about them to their knees; and they 
know it! They love that knee-deep 
wading like little boys. In spring, with 
their flash of early green, or in sum- 
mer, with half slumber, and their 
pensive droop of leaf and branch and 
trunk—-well, God did certainly deal ten- 
derly with the willows, and made them 
very fair! 
The shell-bark hickory is the sur- 
liest seeming tree in the wood, save 
only the honey-locust, which is vindic- 
tive and humanity-hating as Timon of 
Athens, though when the fair summer 
ts blooming this misanthropic tree 
flashes out in throngs of tiny leaves 
almost as exquisite as ferns, and much 
after their likeness. Not any tree has 
any more beautiful leaves than a thorny 
locust, so man-hating and beast-hating, 
that even the merry squirrel can not 
climb it, but in which birds build nests, 
as in a citadel; for there the larger 
birds can not come seeking prey, nor 
the wise serpent. This evil, angry 
tree sc comes to serve good uses, 
building with angry skill a fortress 
