The old tree seems to bend its branches down to listen as he says:
"I know you, old tree, and I love you. You belong to one of the first
and finest families. The remains of your ancestors have been found in
the eocene and miocene rocks, away, way north of your home at the
present time. They grew in beauty long before man's face was seen upon
the earth. The whole of civilization has rested beneath your ancestral
shade. Long before the Eternal City was founded your ancestors adorned
the seven hills and beautified the grass beneath with the flickering
shadows cast by their sunlit leaves. Some of them which gave shade to
the first habitations in the proud city that from her throne of
beauty ruled the world were still fine and flourishing centuries later
when Pliny sat beneath them in studious contemplation. Others of your
ancestors, old tree, formed the sacred grove of Dodona, where the
oracles spake to minds as yet in darkness. They were accounted fit to
compare in might and majesty with Jove himself, and some of them stood
like sturdy sentinels around his Roman temple. The civic crown which
adorned the brows of Roman heroes as a reward for great deeds done,
was made of green leaves from their branches. In the shadow of your
ancestors Pan played his pipes, Theocritus sat and listened to the
everlasting laughter of the summer sea and his shepherds and goatherds
reclined to engage in their friendly contests of song.
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