the purposes of this article, and
for the purposes of this article only, Gog and Magog are the two tall
poplar-trees that keep ceaseless vigil by my gate.

Trees are very lovable things. We all like Beaconsfield the better
because he was so passionately devoted to the trees at Hughenden. He
was so fond of them that he directed in his will that none of them
should ever be cut down. So I am not ashamed of my tenderness for Gog
and Magog. There they stand, down at the gate; the one on the one
side, and the other on the other. Huge giants they are, with a giant's
strength and a giant's stature, but with more than a giant's grace.
From whichever direction I come, they always seem to salute me with a
welcome as soon as I come round the bend in the road. It is always
pleasant when home has something about it that can be seen at a
distance. The last half-mile on the homeward road is the half-mile in
which the climax of weariness is reached. It is like the last straw
that breaks the camel's back. But if there is a light at the window,
or some clear landmark that distinguishes the spot, the very sight of
the familiar object lures the traveller on, and in actual sight of home
he forgets his fatigue.

It is a very pleasant thing to have two glorious poplars at your gate.
They always seem to be craning, straining, towering upward to catch the
first glimpse of you; and they make home seem nearer as soon as you
come within sight of them. Gog and Magog are such companionable
things. They always have something to say to you. It is true that
they talk of little but the weather; but then, that is what most people
talk about. I like to see them in August, when a certain olive sheen
mantles their branches and tells you that the swallows will soon be
here. I like to see them in October, when they are a towering column
of verdure, every leaf as bright as though it has just been varnished.
I even like to see them in April, when they strew the paths with a
rustling litter of bronze and gold. They tell me that winter is
coming, with its long evenings, its roaring fires, and its insistence
on the superlative attractions of home. There never dawns a day on
which Gog and Magog are not well worth looking at and well worth
listening to.

But although I have been speaking of Gog and Magog as though they were
as much alike as two peas, the very reverse is the case. No two
things--not even the two peas--are exactly alike. When God