ants of the old
forest, had been cut, and the ground cleared for farm-lands and
pastures, their stumps had been pulled up by the roots; and these roots,
vast, many-branched, twisted into every imaginable shape, were locked
together, standing edgewise, and tossing their naked arms in every
direction.

"Oh, how wonderful!" cried Hildegarde. "Look, Rose! they are like the
bones of some great monster,--a gigantic cuttlefish, perhaps. What huge
trees they must have been, to have such roots as these!"

"Dear, beautiful things!" sighed Rose. "If they could only have been
left! Isn't it strange to think of people not caring for trees, Hilda?"

"Yes!" said Hilda, meekly, and blushing a little. "It is strange now;
but before last year, Rose, I don't believe I ever looked at a tree."

"Oh, before last year!" cried Rose, laughing. "There wasn't any 'before
last year.' I had never heard of Shelley before last year. I had never
read a ballad, nor a 'Waverley,' nor the 'Newcomes,' nor anything.
Let's not talk about the dark ages. You love trees now, I'm sure."

"That I do!" said Hildegarde. "The oak best of all, the elm next; but I
love them all."

"The pine is my favorite," said Rose. "The great stately king, with his
broad arms; it always seems as if an eagle should be sitting on one of
them. What was that line you told me the other day?--'The pine-tree
spreads his dark-green layers of shade.' Tennyson, isn't it?"

"Yes," replied Hildegarde. "But it was 'Cranford' that made me think of
it. And it isn't 'pine-tree,' after all. I looked, and found it was
'cedar.' Mr. Holbrook, you remember,--Miss Matty's old lover,--quotes
it, when they are taking tea with him. Dear Miss Matty! do you think
Cousin Wealthy is the least little bit like her, Rose?"

"Perhaps!" said Rose, thoughtfully. "I think--Oh, Hilda, look!" she
cried, breaking off suddenly. "What a queer little house!"

Hildegarde checked Dr. Abernethy, who had been trotting along quite
briskly, and they both looked curiously at the little house on their
left, which certainly was "queer,"--a low, unpainted shanty, gray with
age, the shingles rotting off, and moss growing in the chinks. The small
panes of glass were crusted with dirt, and here and there one had been
broken, and replaced with brown paper. The front yard was a tangle of
ribbon-grass and clover; but a tuft of straggling flowers here and there
showed that it had once had care and attention. There was no sign of