60 points, please can someone help me? Pictures are above and the article is down below. The following passage is excerpted from The Rowan, a novel written in 1899 and set in the eighteenth century countryside. The lone tree, a rowan tree, stood apart from the large copse of trees to the northwest, too small to be a proper wood but large enough for resident animals to make the area good trapping. But the lone tree grew upon moss- 5 covered rocks, its patient roots making cracks in the granite more deliberate and measured than any sculptor could. At this season, the funnel-shaped tangle of limb, branch, and twig was topped with only a scrub of leafy hair soon to join its fellows in blowing away onto the surface of the 10 nearby lake. So bared, the lone tree assumed the aspect of a knowing crone, every knotted knuckle and twisted finger a representation of years of kneading flour and spinning wool, one whose advice one asked seldom, and dared not refuse. Under such a tree are hands ceremonially fastened, secrets 15 unburdened into unhearing ears, and caches of silver and jewels buried under rocky cairms. The lone tree was less than half a day's walk from the village, and positioned by a good fishing spot, but unless the tree itself was the destination, villagers tended to go the long way round. 20 On this day in late autumn after the exhaustion of harvest was over and the barns were bounteous and full and the preserves laid in and the hives and house winterized, Euan walked out to the lone tree with a cheesy roll in his pocket and a fishing pole over his shoulder; the pole was a 25 disguise in case he should happen upon his neighbors and need a justification for leaving his farm midday without going to market. But once he got there, once the tall, craggy rowan came into view standing up by itself without any of its fellows nearby, as if they could sense its majesty and 30 mystery and kept back at a respectful, fearful distance, Euan decided to make use of the pole and went down to the edge of the water. He sat with the tree within his view but not directly so, at the side of his eye, like a wary rabbit. He caught a fish quickly, cleaned it and staked the filet, and ate 35 the sweet, soft cod with his roll. If he'd been an augur, he could have read the bones for prophecy, but as it was he could only ascribe the ease of the catch to the tree's goodwill. He couldn't have explained exactly why he kept the fish's tail for an offering, but when 40 he sat down underneath the empty, knowing branches, he placed the tail beside him in the moss by the roots. Above him, he could see the canopy of sticks, two birds' nests now devoid of birds, a hollow that might or might not contain a slumbering owl, and the slate sky interrupted by white wisps 45 of clouds. Mare's tails clouds, which meant something to sailors, Euan supposed, but to him meant only a northerly breeze and falling temperatures. He curled his toes in the moss. Far below, thirsty roots nosed toward water at the slow but inexorable speed of time. Euan cleared his throat, looked to and fro around him, though he knew he was alone, and spoke the question that had been weighing on him for weeks. Had he a grandmother, mother, aunt, sister, or even a daughter, he would have first taken their counsel, but there was only 55 himself and the boy, and the boy was wild and hasty. "Should I marry her?" he said aloud. He had a lot to offer her-the farm was hard work, but she, hardworking-and Euan had standing, respect. Others liked him; she liked him, he hoped, and so did her little daughter, Rowena, who loved 60 the bechives and already knew how to make candles. The lone tree was perfectly still in the perfectly still. air underneath the high mare's tails beside the lake full of fish. It didn't answer Euan except with the comfort of its presence; Euan sat for a long while, deciding.