Then let us leave off hanging ourselves and our children from its branches like medlars.
The idea, the actual idea, must rise ever fresh, ever displaced, like the leaves of a tree, from out of the quickness of the sap, and according to the forever incalculable effluence of the great dynamic centers of life.

The tree of life is a gay kind of tree that is forever dropping its leaves and budding out afresh, quite different ones.

If the last lot were thistle leaves, the next lot may be vine.
You never can tell with the Tree of Life.
So we come back to that precious child who costs us such a lot of ink.

By what right, I ask you, are we going to inject into him our own disease-germs of ideas and infallible motives?
By the right of the diseased, who want to infect everybody.
There are _few, few people_ in whom the living impulse and reaction develops and sublimates into mental consciousness.

There are all kinds of trees in the forest.