Delia pretended not to hear. She said nothing. The others called casual good-byes over shoulder. Going home, they rebuked me soundly for having invited Mary Elizabeth. Delia rehearsed the array of reasons. If she came to school, we would have to _know_ her, she wound up. I remember feeling baffled and without argument. All that they said was true, and yet-- “I’m going to see her,” I announced stoutly, more, I dare say, because I was tired and a little cross than from real loyalty. “You’ll catch some disease,” said Delia. “I know a girl that went to see some poor children and she caught the spinal appendicitis and died before she got back home.” We went round by the schoolhouse, drawn there by a curiosity that had in it inevitable elements of regret. There they were, little dead-looking trees, standing in places of wet earth, and most of them set somewhat slanting. Everyone was gone, and in the late light the grounds looked solemn and different. “Just think,” said Delia, “when we grow up and the trees grow up, we can tell our children how we planted ’em.” “Why, we never--” Calista began. “Our school did, didn’t it?” Delia contended. “And our school’s we, isn’t it?” But we overruled her. No, to the end of time, the trees that stood in those grounds would have been planted by other hands than ours. We were probably the only ones in the school who hadn’t planted a tree. “I don’t care, do you?” we demanded of one another, and reiterated our denial. “I planted a-a-a---Never-green!” Harold Rodman shouted, running to meet us. “So did we!” we told him merrily, and separated, laughing. It had, it seemed, been a great day, in spite of Mary Elizabeth. I went into the house, and hovered about the supper table. I perceived that I had missed hot waffles and honey, and these now held no charm. Grandmother Beers was talking. “When I was eight years old,” she said, “I planted it by the well. And when Thomas went back to England fifty years after, he couldn’t reach both arms round the trunk. And there was a seat there--for travellers.” I looked at her, and thought of that giant tree. Would those dead-looking little sticks, then, grow like that? “If fifty thousand school children each planted a tree to-day,” said my mother, “that would be a forest. And planting a forest is next best to building a city.” “Better,” said my father, “better. What kind of tree did you plant, daughter?” he inquired. I hung my head. “I--we--there was a picnic,” I said. “We didn’t _have_ to plant ’em. So we had a picnic.” My father looked at me in the way that I remember. “That’s it,” he said. “For everyone who plants a tree, there are half a dozen that have a picnic. And two dozen that cut them down. At last we’ve got one in the family who belongs to the majority!”