It must be no cursory glance given to get rid of an unwelcome duty. We must look deep into the meaning of things as they are--a meaning which never lies wholly on the surface--before we can forecast them as they are going to be, and such insight rarely comes by intuition. The seeing eye is given only to a few, though with some it is but sleep-holden and needs no more than to be awakened.
The things that are and the things that are to be. Let us take the thought as company and try to glean some of Nature's own lessons of fitness. How instinctively we seek, for a winter ramble, the shelter of the woodland copse, which is not far distant from any English country habitation. The broad grass drive is hoar with frosty rime in the shadow of the bushes and crisp under foot. Under the trees the ground on either side is carpeted with Ivy. The lithe, trailing stems, wreathed with their shining, taper-fingered leaves, so exquisitely pencilled, are cushioned on the soft, feathery moss, or twine in and out amongst the Hazel stocks, or creep at will up the nearest tree trunk. One can scarcely look at Ivy on a winter's day without a thrill of admiration, especially this woodland sort, for, mark it well, Nature never encourages the coarse-leaved Ivy of common cultivation within her domains. How perfect in its grace is this fine-leaved Ivy, how utterly content with its surroundings, how resolutely cheerful, be the circumstances of weather or situation what they may! Clinging lowly to the ground or mounting to the topmost branch of some tall Pine, it is equally at home, and why should we not agree with that good naturalist, Charles Waterton, in his assertion that forest tree was never injured by its clasping stems? An English plant for our English climate, it may be used to make beautiful an unsightly building, to clothe a decaying tree stump, as bush or border or mantle, in a hundred different ways, yet it is never out of character, and never touches a jarring note.
Then those tall Hollies, see how dauntlessly they stand up above the undergrowth of Hazel. How living and warm, in their ruddy glow, are the clustering berries in the glint of the fearless leaves. For expedience sake, their lower branches have been trimmed away, and greatly we gain by it, for otherwise that lovely contrast of their ashen-grey stems would be hidden from our eyes; but over yonder a fine old Holly tree stands alone, which axe and knife have left untouched, and how graceful is the curven sweep of its feathering boughs. No foreign evergreen can excel it for symmetry of form or winter garniture of leaf and fruit. Life is astir, too, in the brown twigs of the Hazel bushes. The infant year is not more than a week or two old, yet already the tasselled catkins are swinging in the lightest rustle of the sighing wind, and begin to lift up their tiers of small woolly cowls to set free the yellow pollen-dust. And so we may go on our way, and, at every turn, some rugged Yew, or clump of red-stemmed Scotch Fir, or tapering Spruce with hanging russet cones, will stay our steps, and if we look and listen, they will tell us in their own way the story of their perfect fitness for our homely English landscape. Or, if we chance to be in one of the chalky districts of the South Downs, we may come upon Box, the ever young, as it was called of yore, or Juniper, in its bloom of silver grey, as precious as any, to add to the tale of our best native evergreens.