forests that are now meadowlands set with trees, and could walk a county
gathering trees of a single kind in the mind, as one walks a garden
collecting flowers of a single kind in the hand, would not the harvest be
a harvest of poplars? A veritable passion for poplars is a most
intelligible passion. The eyes do gather them, far and near, on a whole
day's journey. Not one is unperceived, even though great timber should
be passed, and hill-sides dense and deep with trees. The fancy makes a
poplar day of it. Immediately the country looks alive with signals; for
the poplars everywhere reply to the glance. The woods may be all
various, but the poplars are separate.

All their many kinds (and aspens, their kin, must be counted with them)
shake themselves perpetually free of the motionless forest. It is easy
to gather them. Glances sent into the far distance pay them a flash of
recognition of their gentle flashes; and as you journey you are suddenly
aware of them close by. Light and the breezes are as quick as the eyes
of a poplar-lover to find the willing tree that dances to be seen.

No lurking for them, no reluctance. One could never make for oneself an
oak day so well. The oaks would wait to be found, and many would be
missed from the gathering. But the poplars are alert enough for a
traveller by express; they have an alarum aloft, and do not sleep. From
within some little grove of other trees a single poplar makes a slight
sign; or a long row of poplars suddenly sweep the wind. They are salient
everywhere, and full of replies. They are as fresh as streams.

It is difficult to realize a drought where there are many poplars. And
yet their green is not rich; the coolest have a colour much mingled with
a cloud-grey. It does but need fresh and simple eyes to recognize their
unfaded life. When the other trees grow dark and keep still, the poplar