—­I wonder how my great trees are coming on this summer.

—­Where are your great trees, Sir?—­said the divinity-student.

Oh, all round about New England.  I call all trees mine that I have put my wedding-ring on, and I have as many tree-wives as Brigham Young has human ones.

—­One set’s as green as the other,—­exclaimed a boarder, who has never been identified.

They’re all Bloomers,—­said the young fellow called John.

[I should have rebuked this trifling with language, if our landlady’s daughter had not asked me just then what I meant by putting my wedding-ring on a tree.]

Why, measuring it with my thirty-foot tape, my dear,—­said I,—­I have worn a tape almost out on the rough barks of our old New England elms and other big trees.—­Don’t you want to hear me talk trees a little now?  That is one of my specialities.

[So they all agreed that they should like to hear me talk about trees.]

I want you to understand, in the first place, that I have a most intense, passionate fondness for trees in general, and have had several romantic attachments to certain trees in particular.  Now, if you expect me to hold forth in a “scientific” way about my tree-loves,—­to talk, for instance, of the Ulmus Americana, and describe the ciliated edges of its samara, and all that,—­you are an anserine individual, and I must refer you to a dull friend who will discourse to you of such matters.  What should you think of a lover who should describe the idol of his heart in the language of science, thus:  Class, Mammalia; Order, Primates; Genus, Homo; Species, Europeus; Variety, Brown; Individual, Ann Eliza; Dental Formula

 2-2 1-1 2-2 3-3
i—–­c—–­p—–­m—–­
 2-2 1-1 2-2 3-3’

and so on?

No, my friends, I shall speak of trees as we see them, love them, adore them in the fields, where they are alive, holding their green sun-shades over our heads, talking to us with their hundred thousand whispering tongues, looking down on us with that sweet meekness which belongs to huge, but limited organisms,—­which one sees in the brown eyes of oxen, but most in the patient posture, the outstretched arms, and the heavy-drooping robes of these vast beings endowed with life, but not with soul,—­which outgrow us and outlive us, but stand helpless,—­poor things!—­while Nature dresses and undresses them, like so many full-sized, but under-witted children.

Did you ever read old Daddy Gilpin?  Slowest of men, even of English men; yet delicious in his slowness, as is the light of a sleepy eye in woman.  I always supposed “Dr. Syntax” was written to make fun of him.  I have a whole set of his works, and am very proud of it, with its gray paper, and open type, and long ff, and orange-juice landscapes.  The Pere Gilpin had the kind of science I like in the study of Nature,—­a little less observation than White of Selborne, but a little more poetry.—­Just think of applying the Linnaean system to an elm!  Who cares how many stamens or pistils that little brown flower, which comes out before the leaf, may have to classify it by?  What we want is the meaning, the character, the expression of a tree, as a kind and as an individual.