The Ottawa free trader. [volume] (Ottawa, Ill.) 1843-1916, 1847-06-18
Poetry OF Planting.

Poetry OF Planting.
At this season no more agreeable
reading can be found than WILL1s's
"Letters from under Bridge"
They are full of poetry, What, for
instance, can be finer in its way than
the following?
"ln my "new light" a farmers
life seems to me what manufactu-
rer's might resemble, if his factory
were an indigenous pIant-machinc-
ry, girls, and all. What spindles and
fingers it would take to make an or.
chard, if nature found nothing but
the raw seed, and rain-water and
sunshine were brought as far as
cotton bale! Your despiscd cab
bage would be a prime ticle-if
you had to weave it. Pumpkins, if
they ripened with spring and pat.
ent lever, would be "by'r lady," a
curious invention. Yet these, which
Aladdin nature produces if we but
Grub the lamp are more necessary
to life than clothes or watches.-In
planting a tree | write it reverent-
ly.) it seems to me working imme-
diatel V with the divine faculty.
Here are two hundred forest trees
set out with my own hand. Yet how
little is my part in the glorious crea-
lures they become ="
i
GAS | look out from under the
bridge, | see an oriel sitting upon
lockwood tree of my planting. His
song drew my eye from the paper.
| find it difficult, now, not 10 take to
myself the whole glory of tree. song.
and plumage. BY an easy dclusion,
| fancy he would not have come hut
for the beauty of the tree, and that
his song says as much, In bird-reci-
tative. 90 back to one rainy dav
of April, when, hunting for maple
saplings, ! stopped under that grace
iul tree, in sort of island jungle,
and wondered what grew so fair that
was so unfamiliar, yet with a bark
like the plumage of the penciled
pheasant. The limbs grew curious
ly. A lance-like stem, and, at reg
ular distances a cluster of radiating
branches, like a long cane thrust
through inverted parasos. set to
work with spade and pick, took it |
home en- my shoulders, and set it
by Glenmary brook, and there it
stands to-day, in the fall glory of its
leaves, having just shed the white
blossom with which it kept holiday
in June. Now the tree would have .
leayed and lowered, and the oriel, .
in black and gold, might perchance .
have swung and sung on the slender
branch, which is still fitting with its
efforts in that last cadenza. But the
fair picture it makes to my eye, and |
the delicious music in my ear, seem
to ne no less of my own making
and awaking. Is it the same tree,
Towering unseen in the woods, or
transplanted into a circle of human
love and care, making a part Of
woman's home, and thought of and
admired whenever she comes ont
from her cottage, with blessing on
the perfume and verdure? Is it the
same bird, wasting his song in the
or singing to me, with my
whole mind alloat on his music, and
my eyes fastened to his glittering
breast? SO il the same block Of
unmoved in the caves Of
Pentel'cus, or brought forth and
wrought under the scu!ptor's chisel.
Yet the sculptoris allowed to create.
Sing on my bright oriel! Spread to
the light aud breeze your desiring
finger, my .foweriHg tree! Like the
player on the organ, take your glo-
ry to myself; though, like the halle
ujah that burns under his fingers,
your beauty, and music worship
God"