How cool and smooth and restful! how unending the
color is in which the leaves lie! How hardy and brave the branches
look! See the lines of beauty in them,--long, aspiring, slightly curving
lines,--which meet and terminate in cathedral spires. What grace in
the motion of every spray of greenness! what a healing odor in the
breath of the tree! And, hark! a little breeze has touched it, and
tuned its language into a plaintive song,--a sound like the surf washing
upon a distant shore. Do you know why the pine is so sad a tree? Let
me tell you her story. No; she will sing it herself, if you will listen
to the nocturn: "Long, long ago I had my home on an island of the ocean,
and my branches swayed and sang to the waves that kissed my feet with
the fondness of a betrothed lover. The winds were envious of our sweet
union, and blew away from me the germs of life. My seeds sprang up
again, but on foreign soil; and the new trees, my offspring, are the
same in form and color, but their souls are all sad from my recounted
memories of departed joy." When the slightest breeze comes near, and
ventures to softly touch the branches, a sound like sobbing follows;
but when, with rougher grasp, the east wind approaches, a wailing like
the utterances of a storm-tossed sea is heard. Listen! do you not
hear it now? It is the imprisoned spirit of the pine, longing for the
waves, moaning out a vain desire for the embrace of the sea.
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