What’s that? Cheer up? Say that again! No, don’t—just—go away! I’ve never killed a man before— I mustn’t start today.
A PAGEANT OF THE TREES
When the Man of Galilee spoke of “The Tree of Life” the metaphor was used advisedly. Is not a tree the very essence of life unfolding hour by hour and day by day—the harbinger of beauty on mountain and plain, the salvation of the waste-places, the antithesis of all monotony? The tender green of young trees in the sunlight, the golden laughter of autumn boughs, the loneliness of leafless trees against the sunset sky, the mystery of solemn contours drenched in moonlight, the cold, white loveliness of trees in winter—what would earth be without these things? And could the mind of man conceive a treeless heaven?
When the Great Love has stirred your soul and you are one with the Tribe of Trees through the blood-brotherhood of common understanding, you will see a deal of this humanity of ours mirrored in the multifarious tree-life of our western hills. Gird yourself with an open mind, take Fancy with you and go forth—learn of the old men, chat with the gossips, question the seers, ponder the heraldry of their ancient totems—do these things and you will return with Wisdom, and Joy will dance in the heart of you.
THE FOREST
We are the hosts innumerable who ride Upon the hills—who stride The plains and surge upon the mountainside. We are the onward-sweeping tide Of ceaseless growth, the countless entities Of all the rolling, emerald seas Of timber-land—we are the Trees!
The dam who suckles us is Earth, She gives us birth And when Our night is come, she claims her own again. We live to grow and to this end Recurring seasons lend Their favor; Winter comes, our labors cease, It is a time of cold, white peace; When Spring walks jubilantly through the land We know the hour of increase is at hand; Then stirs our forest-heart and sap runs free— The sap which is the life-blood of a tree. Our skin is bark, and fiber is our flesh And through the pores of every fresh Green leaf, we breathe. Our good? Is to make wood; To hold in check the floods that devastate; To mediate Between the Heavens and the Earth, That there shall be no dearth Of water nor excess—yet still enough Stored in our forest floor of matted duff To save the land from barrenness, And when we tender less Than this, or stop From making wood, we’re dead! In time, we drop, And when we drop, we rot. Such is our lot; our lives are fraught With much vicissitude, not always free To shape our destiny— A tale where each slow-born event Is moulded by environment.