its fruit in November caused much straggling from our line of
march in the South. Then there is our clean-boled, graceful beech,
whose smooth white bark has received so many tender confidences.
In the neighborhood of a village you will rarely find one of these
trees whereon is not linked the names of lovers that have sat
beneath the shade. Indeed I have found mementoes of trysts or
rambles deep in the forest of which the faithful beech has kept
the record until the lovers were old or dead. On an immense old
beech in Tennessee there is an inscription which, while it
suggests a hug, presents to the fancy an experience remote from a
lover's embrace. It reads, "D. Boone cilled bar on tree."

There is one objection to the beech which also lies against the
white oak--it does not drop its leaves within the space of a few
autumn days. The bleached foliage is falling all winter long, thus
giving the ground near an untidy aspect. With some, the question
of absolute neatness is paramount; with others, leaves are clean
dirt, and their rustle in the wind does not cease to be music even
after they have fallen.

Speaking of native trees and shrubs, we shall do well to use our
eyes carefully during our summer walks and drives; for if we do,
we can scarcely fail to fall in love with types and varieties
growing wild. They will thrive just as well on the acre if
properly removed. In a sense they bring the forest with them, and
open vistas at our door deep into the heart of Nature. The tree is
not only a thing of beauty in itself, but it represents to the
fancy all its wild haunts the world over.

In gratifying our taste for native trees we need not confine