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and tended it察and gave up life and fame to aid its growth。 In the hot days 

of their youth察they came to the gate of the garden and knocked察begging 

to   be   let   in察  and   to   be   counted   among   the   gardeners。  And   their   young 

companions without called to them to come back察and play the man with 

bow and spear察and   win sweet   smiles from  rosy lips察 and take their part 

amid   the  feast察 and   dance察 not stoop   with   wrinkled   brows察 at   weaklings' 

work。      And   the   passers   by   mocked   them   and   called   shame察  and   others 

cried out to stone them。          And still they stayed there laboring察that the tree 

might grow a little察and they died and were forgotten。 

     And the tree grew fair and strong。               The storms of ignorance passed 

over it察and harmed it not。          The fierce fires of superstition soared around 

it察but men leaped into the flames and beat them back察perishing察and the 

tree   grew。     With   the   sweat   of   their   brow  have   men   nourished   its   green 

leaves。     Their tears have moistened the earth about it。                 With their blood 

they have watered its roots。 

     The     seasons    have    come    and    passed察   and   the   tree  has   grown     and 

flourished。      And   its   branches   have   spread   far   and   high察  and   ever   fresh 

shoots are bursting forth察and ever new leaves unfolding to the light。 But 

they   are   all   part   of   the   one   treethe   tree   that   was   planted   on   the   first 

birthday of the human race。             The stem that bears them springs from the 



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gnarled old trunk that was green and soft when white´haired Time was a 

little child察the sap that feeds them is drawn up through the roots that twine 

and twist about the bones of the ages that are dead。 

     The human mind can no more produce an original thought than a tree 

can bear an original fruit。         As well might one cry for an original note in 

music as expect an original idea from a human brain。 

     One wishes our friends察the critics察would grasp this simple truth察and 

leave off clamoring for the impossible察and being shocked because they do 

not get it。    When a new book is written察the high´class critic opens it with 

feelings     of   faint   hope察   tempered      by   strong    conviction      of   coming 

disappointment。        As    he   pores   over   the   pages察  his  brow    darkens    with 

virtuous indignation察and his lip curls with the Godlike contempt that the 

exceptionally great critic ever feels for everybody in this world察who is not 

yet dead。      Buoyed up by a touching察but totally fallacious察belief that he 

is performing a public duty察and that the rest of the community is waiting 

in breathless suspense to learn his opinion of the work in question察before 

forming any judgment concerning it themselves察he察nevertheless察wearily 

struggles through about a third of it。          Then his long´suffering soul revolts察

and he flings it aside with a cry of despair。 

     ;Why察there is no originality whatever in this察─he says。              ;This book is 

taken bodily from the Old Testament。              It is the story of Adam and Eve all 

over again。      The hero is a mere man with two arms察two legs察and a head 

so   called。    Why察 it   is   only  Moses's Adam  under   another name             And 

the heroine is nothing but a woman and she is described as beautiful察and 

as   having   long   hair。   The   author   may   call   her   'Angelina'   or   any   other 

name he chooses察but he has evidently察whether he acknowledges it or not察

copied   her   direct   from   Eve。     The   characters   are   barefaced   plagiarisms 

from the book of Genesis           Oh to find an author with originality ─

     One  spring   I   went   a   walking   tour  in   the   country。  It   was   a   glorious 

spring。     Not   the   sort   of   spring   they   give   us   in   these   miserable   times察

under this shameless governmenta mixture of east wind察blizzard察snow察

rain察  slush察  fog察  frost察  hail察  sleet   and   thunder´stormsbut   a   sunny察  blue´ 

sky'd察joyous spring察such as we used to have regularly every year when I 

was a young man察and things were different。 



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     It was an exceptionally beautiful spring察even for those golden days察

and as I wandered through the waking land察and saw the dawning of the 

coming green察and watched the blush upon the hawthorn hedge察deepening 

each   day   beneath   the   kisses   of   the   sun察  and   looked   up   at   the   proud   old 

mother trees察dandling their myriad baby buds upon their strong fond arms察

holding them high for the soft west wind to caress as he passed laughing 

by察and marked the primrose yellow creep across the carpet of the woods察

and saw the new flush of the field and saw the new light on the hills察and 

heard the new´found gladness of the birds察and heard from copse and farm 

and meadow the timid callings of the little new´born things察wondering to 

find   themselves   alive察  and   smelt   the   freshness   of   the   earth察  and   felt   the 

promise in the air察and felt a strong hand in the wind察my spirit rose within 

me。     Spring had come to me also察and stirred me with a strange new life察

with   a   strange   new   hope   I察  too察  was   part   of   nature察  and   it   was   spring 

Tender     leaves    and   blossoms     were    unfolding     from    my   heart。    Bright 

flowers   of   love   and   gratitude   were   opening   round   its   roots。   I   felt   new 

strength   in   all   my   limbs。   New   blood   was   pulsing   through   my   veins。 

Nobler thoughts and nobler longings were throbbing through my brain。 

     As I walked察Nature came and talked beside me察and showed me the 

world and myself察and the ways of God seemed clearer。 

     It seemed to me a pity that all the beautiful and precious thoughts and 

ideas that were crowding in upon me should be lost to my fellow´men察and 

so I pitched my tent at a little cottage察and set to work to write them down 

then and there as they came to me。 

     ;It has been complained of me察─I said to myself察 that I do not write 

literary    and   high   class   workat    least察 not   work    that  is  exceptionally 

literary and high´class。        This reproach shall be removed。            I will write an 

article that shall be a classic。        I have worked for the ordinary察every´day 

reader。     It   is  right  that  I  should    do   something      now    to  improve     the 

literature of my beloved country。; 

     And I wrote a grand essaythough I say it who should not察though I 

don't see why I shouldn'tall about spring察and the way it made you feel察

and    what    it  made    you   think。    It  was    simply    crowded     with    elevated 

thoughts   and   high´class   ideas   and   cultured   wit察  was   that   essay。     There 



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was    only   one   fault   about   that  essay此   it  was   too   brilliant。  I   wanted 

commonplace   relief。        It   would    have   exhausted   the   average   reader察    so 

much cleverness would have wearied him。 

     I wish I could remember some of the beautiful things in that essay察and 

here set them down察because then you would be able to see what they were 

like   for   yourselves察  and   that   would   be   so   much   more   simpler   than   my 

explaining   to   you   how   beautiful   they   were。     Unfortunately察  however察  I 

cannot now call to mind any of them。 

     I was very proud of this essay察and when I got back to town I called on 

a very superior friend of mine察a critic察and read it to him。               I do not care 

for him to see any of my usual work察because he really is a very superior 

person indeed察and the perusal of it appears to give him pains inside。                 But 

this article察I thought察would do him good。 

     ;What do you think of it拭─I asked察when I had finished。 

     ;Splendid察─he replied察 excellently arranged。             I never knew you were 

so   well   acquainted   with   the   works   of   the   old   writers。   Why察  there   is 

scarcely a classic of any note that you have not quoted from。                 But where´ 

´where察─he added察musing察 did you get that last idea but two from拭                   It's 

the only one I don't seem to remember。             It isn't a bit of your own察is it拭─

     He said   that察 if so察he   should   advise me   to   leave it out。      Not that   it 

was altogether 

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