Stand under this tree and see how finely its leaves are cut against
the sky,--as it were, only a few sharp points extending from a midrib.
the sky,--as it were, only a few sharp points extending from a midrib.
Thoreau - Excursions and Poems
They
are the frame to a picture which is daily painted behind them. An
avenue of elms as large as our largest and three miles long would seem
to lead to some admirable place, though only C---- were at the end of
it.
A village needs these innocent stimulants of bright and cheering
prospects to keep off melancholy and superstition. Show me two
villages, one embowered in trees and blazing with all the glories of
October, the other a merely trivial and treeless waste, or with only a
single tree or two for suicides, and I shall be sure that in the
latter will be found the most starved and bigoted religionists and the
most desperate drinkers. Every wash-tub and milk-can and gravestone
will be exposed. The inhabitants will disappear abruptly behind their
barns and houses, like desert Arabs amid their rocks, and I shall look
to see spears in their hands. They will be ready to accept the most
barren and forlorn doctrine,--as that the world is speedily coming to
an end, or has already got to it, or that they themselves are turned
wrong side outward. They will perchance crack their dry joints at one
another and call it a spiritual communication.
But to confine ourselves to the maples. What if we were to take half
as much pains in protecting them as we do in setting them out,--not
stupidly tie our horses to our dahlia stems?
What meant the fathers by establishing this _perfectly living_
institution before the church,--this institution which needs no
repairing nor repainting, which is continually enlarged and repaired
by its growth? Surely they
"Wrought in a sad sincerity;
Themselves from God they could not free;
They _planted_ better than they knew;--
The conscious _trees_ to beauty grew. "
Verily these maples are cheap preachers, permanently settled, which
preach their half-century, and century, aye, and century-and-a-half
sermons, with constantly increasing unction and influence, ministering
to many generations of men; and the least we can do is to supply them
with suitable colleagues as they grow infirm.
THE SCARLET OAK
Belonging to a genus which is remarkable for the beautiful form of its
leaves, I suspect that some scarlet oak leaves surpass those of all
other oaks in the rich and wild beauty of their outlines. I judge from
an acquaintance with twelve species, and from drawings which I have
seen of many others.
Stand under this tree and see how finely its leaves are cut against
the sky,--as it were, only a few sharp points extending from a midrib.
They look like double, treble, or quadruple crosses. They are far more
ethereal than the less deeply scalloped oak leaves. They have so
little leafy _terra firma_ that they appear melting away in the light,
and scarcely obstruct our view. The leaves of very young plants are,
like those of full-grown oaks of other species, more entire, simple,
and lumpish in their outlines, but these, raised high on old trees,
have solved the leafy problem. Lifted higher and higher, and
sublimated more and more, putting off some earthiness and cultivating
more intimacy with the light each year, they have at length the least
possible amount of earthy matter, and the greatest spread and grasp of
skyey influences. There they dance, arm in arm with the
light,--tripping it on fantastic points, fit partners in those aerial
halls. So intimately mingled are they with it, that, what with their
slenderness and their glossy surfaces, you can hardly tell at last
what in the dance is leaf and what is light. And when no zephyr stirs,
they are at most but a rich tracery to the forest windows.
I am again struck with their beauty, when, a month later, they thickly
strew the ground in the woods, piled one upon another under my feet.
They are then brown above, but purple beneath. With their narrow lobes
and their bold, deep scallops reaching almost to the middle, they
suggest that the material must be cheap, or else there has been a
lavish expense in their creation, as if so much had been cut out. Or
else they seem to us the remnants of the stuff out of which leaves
have been cut with a die. Indeed, when they lie thus one upon another,
they remind me of a pile of scrap-tin.
Or bring one home, and study it closely at your leisure, by the
fireside. It is a type, not from any Oxford font, not in the Basque
nor the arrow-headed character, not found on the Rosetta Stone, but
destined to be copied in sculpture one day, if they ever get to
whittling stone here.
are the frame to a picture which is daily painted behind them. An
avenue of elms as large as our largest and three miles long would seem
to lead to some admirable place, though only C---- were at the end of
it.
A village needs these innocent stimulants of bright and cheering
prospects to keep off melancholy and superstition. Show me two
villages, one embowered in trees and blazing with all the glories of
October, the other a merely trivial and treeless waste, or with only a
single tree or two for suicides, and I shall be sure that in the
latter will be found the most starved and bigoted religionists and the
most desperate drinkers. Every wash-tub and milk-can and gravestone
will be exposed. The inhabitants will disappear abruptly behind their
barns and houses, like desert Arabs amid their rocks, and I shall look
to see spears in their hands. They will be ready to accept the most
barren and forlorn doctrine,--as that the world is speedily coming to
an end, or has already got to it, or that they themselves are turned
wrong side outward. They will perchance crack their dry joints at one
another and call it a spiritual communication.
But to confine ourselves to the maples. What if we were to take half
as much pains in protecting them as we do in setting them out,--not
stupidly tie our horses to our dahlia stems?
What meant the fathers by establishing this _perfectly living_
institution before the church,--this institution which needs no
repairing nor repainting, which is continually enlarged and repaired
by its growth? Surely they
"Wrought in a sad sincerity;
Themselves from God they could not free;
They _planted_ better than they knew;--
The conscious _trees_ to beauty grew. "
Verily these maples are cheap preachers, permanently settled, which
preach their half-century, and century, aye, and century-and-a-half
sermons, with constantly increasing unction and influence, ministering
to many generations of men; and the least we can do is to supply them
with suitable colleagues as they grow infirm.
THE SCARLET OAK
Belonging to a genus which is remarkable for the beautiful form of its
leaves, I suspect that some scarlet oak leaves surpass those of all
other oaks in the rich and wild beauty of their outlines. I judge from
an acquaintance with twelve species, and from drawings which I have
seen of many others.
Stand under this tree and see how finely its leaves are cut against
the sky,--as it were, only a few sharp points extending from a midrib.
They look like double, treble, or quadruple crosses. They are far more
ethereal than the less deeply scalloped oak leaves. They have so
little leafy _terra firma_ that they appear melting away in the light,
and scarcely obstruct our view. The leaves of very young plants are,
like those of full-grown oaks of other species, more entire, simple,
and lumpish in their outlines, but these, raised high on old trees,
have solved the leafy problem. Lifted higher and higher, and
sublimated more and more, putting off some earthiness and cultivating
more intimacy with the light each year, they have at length the least
possible amount of earthy matter, and the greatest spread and grasp of
skyey influences. There they dance, arm in arm with the
light,--tripping it on fantastic points, fit partners in those aerial
halls. So intimately mingled are they with it, that, what with their
slenderness and their glossy surfaces, you can hardly tell at last
what in the dance is leaf and what is light. And when no zephyr stirs,
they are at most but a rich tracery to the forest windows.
I am again struck with their beauty, when, a month later, they thickly
strew the ground in the woods, piled one upon another under my feet.
They are then brown above, but purple beneath. With their narrow lobes
and their bold, deep scallops reaching almost to the middle, they
suggest that the material must be cheap, or else there has been a
lavish expense in their creation, as if so much had been cut out. Or
else they seem to us the remnants of the stuff out of which leaves
have been cut with a die. Indeed, when they lie thus one upon another,
they remind me of a pile of scrap-tin.
Or bring one home, and study it closely at your leisure, by the
fireside. It is a type, not from any Oxford font, not in the Basque
nor the arrow-headed character, not found on the Rosetta Stone, but
destined to be copied in sculpture one day, if they ever get to
whittling stone here.
