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THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



September, 1912 



here where you're off at the end of nowhere 

 you can't always get the concrete and the 

 right man doesn't come when he's wanted, 

 and it's easier and surer to grow trees and 

 use wooden posts. It takes such a lot of 

 planning and scheming to get the man and 

 the weather to hit it all off at the same 

 time." 



"The wooden post is certainly cheaper." 



"And then, oh World-Man, think of the 

 trumpet vines and the honeysuckle — how 

 they love wooden posts! Let's follow the 

 Pear Tree Drive. These brave little Kief- 

 fers (outlandish looking things when they're 

 grown up, aren't they), are here two thirds 

 for farm product and one third just because 

 we wanted some day to drive along the 

 banks of our creek in the fall and pick ripe 

 pears on the way home. Next spring we'll 

 plant cherry trees down the lane for 

 blossoms in April and cherry pie in 

 June." 



"I like cherry pie. Count me in." 



"Do you? So do I. Come down next 

 June." 



"But the dream trees you wrote about? 

 I wonder if they are my kind; where are 

 they?" 



"Why you're right in the midst of them. 

 They're everywhere; don't you see them 

 all around you?" 



"What, not these little things?" 



"Yes, these little things; are you dis- 

 appointed? You didn't expect to find 

 them grown up, did you? " 



"Well, mine, you know " 



"Oh, yes, of course yours are different, 

 down on your farm. Of course I know 

 they are high and broad, and they cast 

 long cool shadows and happy children 

 play under them." 



"Yes, yes, that's my kind, but these — 

 they're hardly big enough to throw shade 

 for a rabbit." 



"I know it, that's just the fine part 

 about dream trees, because they begin at 

 the beginning, and you learn to love the 

 care of young things; for there is a hunger 

 in your soul somewhere to solve the 

 mystery of all this growing, to find out 

 how trees act when they are children, to 

 learn to read the riddle of the grass and 

 the fields." 



"Do you ever read the riddle?" 



"No, can't say that I do, never expect 

 to solve it, but even so the trees tell me a 

 great many things I never find in books 

 and as for the riddle I just keep looking 

 on and watching. That group of white 

 pines near the tulip, the Austrian and 

 Scotch pines yonder, the Spanish and 

 Japanese chestnuts raised from tiny seed- 

 lings, are all my dream trees. And down 

 there by the water gate, how we have 

 planted and replanted that particular 

 tree! It is a Douglas spruce from the 

 Pacific Coast. We have finally gotten 

 it well started. It ought to live hundreds 

 of years." 



"I don't suppose you can be any more 

 certain about the life of a tree than you can 

 that of a man, can you?" 



"No, not much more. Each with his 



approximate term of years to live, I think 

 the balance of certain longevity would 

 swing in favor of the tree." 



"Of course, trees are normal, that's the 

 reason. They five out-of-doors and they 

 do their own work, and no other. They 

 stand a better chance for long life than we 

 do; and besides they have all their own 

 time. They are never hurried; they ought 

 to outlive us mortals." 



"Yes, that's the secret of it all, outdoors, 

 one kind of work and no interruptions. 

 Now just imagine how the silver fir up 

 there by the Heart Garden, or the English 

 holly, or the red and white oaks, or the 

 tulip tree how they must feel to be setting 

 out on such a journey. I often finger here 

 to watch them, and — well — I'm never 

 lonely here, each day there's a change 

 somewhere. There is so much to see that 

 if there were nothing else to do but to just 

 open my eyes to let the pictures pass, the 

 whole day would be full. I love to think 

 of the long march these little trees are pre- 

 paring for, off so far into the centuries." 



"They don't make much ado about it." 



"No indeed, they stand here so serenely 

 and so unmoved that it seems sometimes 

 as if the philosophers of ancient days had 

 come back to earth again and were dis- 

 coursing here in their long green togas." 



"I would not dispute you. Didn't 

 Epictetus say something about the joy 

 of looking at the sun, moon and stars and 

 the big earth, too? The philosophers lived 

 in gardens more than we think. But those 

 little graceful waving things yonder, surely 

 they're not the sages, they're entirely too 

 winsome." 



"No they are the singers. They adorn 

 life with song and shortly make room for 

 others of their kind who love melody. All 

 of these pretty creatures circling the bowl- 

 ing green, the Irish junipers, the pyramidal 

 arborvitaes, the little ornamental trees and 

 all the lovely shrubs, have a struggle for 

 even a short life." 



"Their branches certainly look frail, as 

 if they might be easily broken. I suppose 

 the heavy storms play the mischief with 

 their lovely limbs." 



"Yes, that is the reason we keep them 

 near the house so that we can fly to their 

 rescue. These little trees here are more 

 intimately ours than are the dream trees, 

 but their purpose is in a certain sense 

 transitory. They live, and shortly die, 

 as we do. They bring beauty to the earth 

 and pass on. Now they are yours and 

 mine, then in a few years they are gone. 

 But the dream trees — oh, they are so 

 different." 



"I can readily see what you mean. 

 Dream trees in comparison with flowers, 

 shrubs and such ornaments of a garden 

 are as the symphony is to the overture, 

 or like masterpieces in any art. When 

 they have once left the soul of their creator 

 they cease to be his. He has experienced a 

 world idea. The world takes the idea for 

 its own and it belongs to the world. In 

 the symphony we forget the composer; in 

 the epic, the poet. 



"Yes, it's the same kind of work — 

 music, painting, poetry, trees, all the same. 

 It's all God's idea of beauty told in one 

 way and another. All the trees out there 

 in the field are there as pictures in a great 

 gallery for any one to love and rejoice in 

 and as they live on they will have less of 

 the me and mine in them and more of the 

 Universe in them. Finally, the human 

 creator who is responsible for their life 

 becomes nothing but a phantom, but they 

 live on." 



"Don't you think you re a oft hard on 

 the material man who waits and waits 

 and finally is blotted out into a mere 

 phantom?" 



"Possibly. I know I'm not giving you 

 the least idea how we feel about these 

 trees. I don't believe I ever could show 

 you how human they are, you'd just have 

 to feel that all yourself, or maybe you do 

 know what it is. Do you?" 



"I can't say that I do, because you see 

 my trees are ready-made; came with my 

 farm, you know." 



"Yes, I suppose so, but there's all the 

 difference in the world between angels 

 sitting up in the sky on pink clouds and 

 five human beings down here on the earth. 

 Your trees are the angels, mine are the 

 human beings." 



We took the unbroken path, through 

 high stiff grass, and found mud for the 

 World-Man's boots in the marsh near the 

 creek and came to the Japanese orange 

 hedge near the tennis court. 



"See this row of baby trees, all prickly 

 and proud?" 



"They go tumbling down there almost 

 into the river, don't they? " 



"Yes, they cross the field as far as the 

 creek. I brought some of them in a small 

 bundle from Perry Hall, last year, and 

 then the Master of Ratcliffe Manor gave 

 us a few of the little oranges from his bush. 

 We separated the plants, put them in the 

 nursery, let them get used to. us awhile, 

 then set them here for good; and we 

 planted the seed to be doubly sure, and 

 here we are with a hedge growing that will 

 defy man and beast in a few years. We'll 

 be gathering tiny bitter oranges before 

 long to mix with the sweet ones for marmal- 

 ade, and in four or five years these trees 

 will be high, perhaps over your head. Just 

 think of that!" 



"That's fine. The trouble with us up 

 in the city is that we're always crying for 

 quick results, we don't want to wait for 

 anything to really grow, and perhaps we 

 lose a great deal of the satisfaction that 

 comes as the result of one's own work." 



"Yes, you don't realize that Nature is 

 the quickest mother God ever made. It 

 will be no time at all until we can turn the 

 sheep into the Point Meadow. They'll 

 never get into the garden, for even if the 

 hedge should die out, which it won't do, 

 we'd have the Ha-Ha alongside it." 



"The Ha-Ha? My dear Chatelaine. 

 Now I'll confess I've had some experience 

 on my farm, but I've never heard of a 

 'Ha-Ha' hedge." 



