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
underwitted 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 _
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