“I know you, old tree, and I love you.  You belong to one of the first and finest families.  The remains of your ancestors have been found in the eocene and miocene rocks, away, way north of your home at the present time.  They grew in beauty long before man’s face was seen upon the earth.  The whole of civilization has rested beneath your ancestral shade.  Long before the Eternal City was founded your ancestors adorned the seven hills and beautified the grass beneath with the flickering shadows cast by their sunlit leaves.  Some of them which gave shade to the first habitations in the proud city that from her throne of beauty ruled the world were still fine and flourishing centuries later when Pliny sat beneath them in studious contemplation.  Others of your ancestors, old tree, formed the sacred grove of Dodona, where the oracles spake to minds as yet in darkness.  They were accounted fit to compare in might and majesty with Jove himself, and some of them stood like sturdy sentinels around his Roman temple.  The civic crown which adorned the brows of Roman heroes as a reward for great deeds done, was made of green leaves from their branches.  In the shadow of your ancestors Pan played his pipes, Theocritus sat and listened to the everlasting laughter of the summer sea and his shepherds and goatherds reclined to engage in their friendly contests of song.  Vergil in his eclogues paid tribute to their beauty and grandeur.  They guarded the Druids’ sacred fire and some of them are living yet which gave shelter to the victorious legions of William the Conqueror when he crossed the channel more than two thousand years ago.  Hearts of oak made the ships which helped a nation fight her way to the supremacy of the sea and also the caravels which bore an intrepid discoverer across the weary waste of waters to the threshold of the new home for all those seeking life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.  Some of your ancestors made the log cabins to shelter the band of pioneers led by the pious Hooker into the valley of the Connecticut and another preserved the precious charter until the storm of tyranny had passed.  It is your family, old tree, which has lent itself willingly to the service of man, in the comfort and stability of his home and in the panels and carvings which adorn the great cathedrals he has built for the worship of his Creator and the enrichment of his own soul.”

Still the old tree listens.  The heart warms toward it as memory speaks of its companionship through the years: 

“And I have watched you, old tree, in storm and in sunshine; in the early winter when the soft snow stuck fast to your rugged old trunk and your branches and twigs and made you a picture of purity; and in the later winter when the fierce storms wrestled in vain with your sinewy limbs.  While the other trees of the forest were tossing hither and thither, bent and broken by the blast, you stood in calm poise and dignity, nodding and swaying towards me as if