NOVEMBER DAYS 
27 
Close by the river-side there lies a mighty fallen 
oak. The forces of age, erosion and the winds 
have laid the monarch low and Spenser’s beautiful 
lines come to the mind: 
“There grew an aged tree on the green 
A goodly oak sometime it had been; 
With arms full and strong and largely displayed, 
But of their leaves they were disarrayed: 
The body big and mightily plight. 
Thoroughly rooted and of wondrous height; 
Whilom had been king of the field, 
And mochel mast to the husband did yield, 
And with his nuts larded many a swine; 
But now the gray moss marred his rine. 
His bared boughs were beaten with storms; 
His top was bald and wasted with worms 
His honor decayed, his branches sere.” 
There is something pathetic in the fall of so 
mighty a monarch of the forest. It is like the fall 
of a strong, forceful, helpful leader of men, long 
eminent in the community, sought by those who 
needed help or inspiration, powerful and masterful 
in the councils of the state or the nation. The 
weaknesses of old age, the storms of abuse and the 
undermining influences of those eager to force him 
out and occupy his place, finally lay him low before 
his appointed time — everyone can think of such 
a character. 
The old tree has brought up large quantities of 
dirt and among its gnarled roots there are also 
