g so far from my sisters. 'And this our life,
exempt from public haunt, finds tongues in trees, books in the running
brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.'"

Her blue leaves shone violet in the scarlet rays of the setting sun; the
gold of her trunk was lit with red radiance. She was the most beautiful
creature he had ever seen ... but she was a tree, not a woman.

"I'm sure she'll fit in after a while," Magnolia continued. "Perhaps she
isn't well. She seems to guttate an awful lot. Do you suppose she's been
overwatered?"

"That wasn't guttation," James said heavily. "It was tears. It means
she's unhappy."

"Unhappy? Perhaps she won't fit in on this planet, in which case she
should by all means go back to Earth. It's cruel and unfair to keep an
intelligent--loosely speaking--life-form anywhere against her will,
don't you think?"

"She'll be happy here," James vowed. "I'll _make_ her happy."

"Well, I certainly hope you can manage it! By the way, do you suppose
you'll have a chance to read me the books she brought, or will she be
keeping you too busy?"

"I'll never be too busy to read to you, Magnolia."

"That's very nitrogenous of you, Jim. Our--intellectual communions have
meant a lot to me. I'd hate to have to give them up."

"So would I," he said. "But there won't be any need to. Phyllis will
understand."

"I certainly hope so. I so admire your English literature. It's so
deeply cognizant of the really meaningful things in life. And if your
coming to this planet has served only to add poetry to our cultural
heritage, it would be reason enough to welcome you with open limbs. For
it was a truly perceptive versifier who wrote the immortally simple
lines: 'Poems are made by fools like me, but only God can make a tree.'

"And such a charming tune to go with it, too," Magnolia went on. "We
have always sung the music that the wind and the rain have taught us,
but, until you came, we never thought of putting words and melody
together to form one glorious whole. 'A tree that may in summer wear,'"
she caroled in a pleasing contralto, "'a nest of robins in her hair.' By
the way, Jim, ever since reading that poem, I've been meaning to ask you
precisely what are robins and do you think they'd look well in my hair,
by which, I suppose the bard refers, in a somewhat pedestrian flight of
fancy, to leaves?"

"They're a kind of bird," he said drearily.

"Birds--nesting in my hair! I wouldn't think of allowi