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TREE SURGERY: A LESSON IN THE CARE OF
TREES ALONG SCIENTIFIC LINES
HAS been said that trees touch upon immortality,
and it is certain that they do not die of age, but of
diseases resulting from decay, which, if proper methods
were used, could be easily cured and in many in-
tances entirely prevented. To many of us the im-
mortality of trees has long been a conscious if un-
              expresseu sentiment, ana in the later years of lite
the knowledge of the destruction of the old homestead itself might
seem less unendurable to our homesick grown-up hearts than to
discover the loss of some well-remembered tree, associated with youth,
pleasure, romance,-a symbol of imperishable beauty and strength.
It is not merely the pleasure to be gained from the shade of the tree
or its ornamental qualities which causes the average village to fence
in its one "big tree," to protect it from injury, to warn merry
thought-
less lads that jack-knives must be folded in its friendly presence.
It is something finer and nearer approaching reverence, this love of
the particular old tree which has looked down upon the growth of
the town for a century or more, and spread its sheltering arms in
kindly blessing over many generations of the dwellers therein. It
practically becomes a village heirloom, a municipal treasure. Chil-
dren play in its shade, and their children plight troth in the moonlight
sifting through its branches. The pall bearers who weep over a
comrade's death rest there for a last memory of his presence. And
the mother remembers her first love message as she passes there to
escape the sun on that wonderful day when she bears home in her
arms the baby from the christening at the little church. The father
is there at her side, and together they look across their new wee friend
with misty eyes. The old tree rustles her leaves sympathetically; she
knows by heart all their joys, and if there are sorrows for them in
the future she has no wish to prophesy them. Thus it is easy enough
to see why we of village memories think so tenderly and lovingly of
the "big tree," for it has through centuries grown to epitomize
the
life of our village, and all the sentiment and history of the town has
brushed by its stout old trunk.
   I remember a wonderful old Balm of Gilead which led a noble,
serene existence at the edge of a Hudson River town, born before
Hudson's day. It stood at that point of the village green where three
roads crossed, but so long had it dominated that section of the country
that streets and towns were named after it. "Balmville" had grown
up at its feet, and Gilead Road led out from the main town to the
mountain edge, and all roads from far and near carried a sign-post
"To Balm of Gilead." It was the oldest landmark in the country.
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