Now a pinch. Pinch yourself hard in the same old place so it'll hurt real bad. Then straighten your face and go stick your head out the window. Your son is talking--your son, your sun. Can your son be eclipsed by a tree? A matter of special spatial relationships, and the space is shrinking, friend. The tree is only a few hundred feet from the house. It has finished its little supper and is now running around. Like Richard. _With_ Richard! Congenial, what? Smile, stupid. Your son speaks. Answer him. "What, dear?" "I see Daddy! He just came over the hill. He's running! Can I go meet him, Mommie?" "No, dear. It's too far." Too far. Far too far. "Did you say something to me, Richard?" "No. I was talking to the tree. I'm the Spaceman and he's the Martian. But he doesn't want to be the Martian!" Richard plays. Let us play. Let us play. You're close enough to get into the game, surely. A hundred and fifty feet, maybe. Effective range, fifty feet. Rate of motion? Projected time-interval? Depends on which system you observe it from. Richard has a system. "He doesn't want to play, Mommie. He wants to see you!" "You tell that tree your Mommie _never_ sees strangers when Daddy isn't home!" "I'll _make_ him wait!" Stoutly your pot-bellied little protector prevents his protective mother from going to pot. "If he won't play, I'll use my ray gun on him!" Obviously, the tree won't play. Watch your son lift empty hands, arm himself with a weapon yet to be invented, and open fire on the advancing foe. "Aa-aa-aa!" So _that's_ how a ray gun sounds! "You're dead, tree! You're dead! Now you _can't_ play with me any more. You're dead!" * * * * * Seeing it happen, then, watching the tree accept the little boy's fantasy as fact, Naomi wondered why she'd never thought of that herself. So the tree was a treacherous medicine-man, was it? A true-believing witch-doctor? And who could be more susceptible to the poisoning of fear than a witch-doctor who has made fear work--and believes it's being used against him? It was all over. She and the tree bit the dust together. But the tree was dead, and Naomi merely fainting, and Ted would soon be home ... --DAVE DRYFOOS Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from _Galaxy Science Fiction_ October 1952. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and typographical errors have been corrected without note. End of Project Gutenberg's Tree, Spare that Woodman, by Dave Dryfoos