MADRON A TREE. 97 



planks of ten to twelve, or even fifteen, feet, suited to rival 

 old Kins Arthur's round table of world renown. So might 

 these memories pass along to future ages afar, commemorating 



a noble race of forest trees, swiftly passing away, condemned 

 to the rural hades of our homes — their moloch fires, or the 



funeral piles of our fields — a burning shame to this foolish, 

 wanton, and wicked generation. Blessed oblivion, draw thy 

 darkest mantle o'er this page of our early history! But if no 

 such boon is vouchsafed us, let us alone, for we will turn our 

 backs upon the vandals, lest we seem to countenance the 

 accursed manslaughter, and be arraigned before the bar of 

 future judgment as in some sense accessory. Come, then, 

 and we will consider it together, as it stands unmolested in 

 the paradise of its delight, fresh from the hand of the Great 

 Creator. Seen in native haunts, on alluvial lands of the 

 coast, or amid other forest trees, we behold it straight and 

 trim as the most fastidious could wish; when young, easily 

 domesticated, trimmed, and trained to any form desirable; 

 later on in life, broad, massive, grand, and supremely pict- 

 uresque; at home on foggy coasts, with fierce winds, yet 

 preferring due shelter, rejoicing on dry hillsides where fogs 

 vanish and the soil becomes relatively barren; and even on 

 burning peaks, ever clad in rich foliage of living green, 

 equal to the most majestic magnolia. Other trees may sleep 

 in quiet, waiting the return of the wild song bird and the 

 renewing breath of Spring, but love's highest emblems never 

 sleep; ever on the alert, she is awake with the new year, 

 bringing gifts to the dear ones and good to all living. Laden 

 with shagreened orange and red berries, the most beautiful 

 the eye ever beheld, surpassing the choicest strawberries, 

 sweet, nutty, and delicious to the taste, she sub-tropically 

 overlaps the rolling year with ceaseless glory. Anon, the 

 sweet breath of her flowers, now in bloom — April and May — 

 greet the sense, fragrant and exhilarating as odors wafted 

 from the happy isles ; busy bees, emblems of untiring industry 

 and its natural delight, literally swarm these nectared urns, 

 with butterfly, and flying thing of every wing, a countless 

 host that phone their ecstasy to the listening flowers all the 

 livelong sunny hours. 



" Nor undelightful is the ceaseless hum 

 To him who, musing, walks at noon." 



These white and blushing blooms peep over the dark green 

 background crowding their clusters into view, or bashful 

 and half concealed the whiter and purer bells hide beneath 

 the shade. It is thus she modestly droops her pretty heath- 

 like clusters, cheering the vernal months. How neat at all 

 seasons! changing her dress as custom requires — yet always 



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