Thy branches ne’er remember
Their green felicity;
The North cannot undo them,
With a sleety whistle through them,
Nor frozen thawings glue them
From budding at the prime.”
The Oak is to my mind the tree of trees; and the destruction of its foliage, by insect ravages, that has year by year saddened so many parks and woods, has not come near us, I rejoice to say. Our few (there are but four or five) are safe as yet. I heard the gardener of one great place that had suffered much acknowledge as the cause the scarcity of birds.
JANUARY, 1883.
“To the Attentive Eye, each Moment of
the Year has its own Beauty.”—Emerson.