‘The Second Tree From The Corner’ by E.B. White

The Second Tree From The Corner by E.B. White, 1947

The magic trick:

A satire that expands into a philosophy for life

Two stories I really like by E.B. White this week in celebration of my birthday, if you’ll indulge me.

First up, “The Second Tree From The Corner.” And with E.B. White short stories, you know you’re going to get precise language and smooth sentences so easy to read they almost become funny. They’re just so dang efficient in communicating their message. It’s very reminiscent of P.G. Wodehouse in that way where you experience sheer delight, bordering on comedy, at reading sentences so perfectly constructed.

And that is certainly the case as you begin reading this story. You also find yourself in the realm of what appears to be satire. We’re in a psychiatrist’s office, our protagonist is on the proverbial couch, and we sense that the entire process of trying to analyze one’s thoughts and issues is being sent up. And while that’s all interesting and enjoyable enough, it’s the second half of this story that really knocks you out.

It’s when our patient leaves the office and is walking through the Manhattan streets that the story’s true meaning becomes apparent. It’s not a meaning for irony’s sake; certainly it’s not for comedy. It is a very deep consideration on the meaning of life. It almost becomes a story that you could point to as a kind of philosophy for living.

Reading this in 2026, given the state of things and our approach to and definition of mental health, I think you could argue this story has never been more relevant. And that’s quite a trick on White’s part.

The selection:

Trexler knew he must hurry. He had already used up pretty nearly four seconds since the question had been put. But it was an impossible situation—just one more lousy, impossible situation such as he was always getting himself into. When, he asked himself, are you going to quit maneuvering yourself into a pocket? He made one more effort. This time he stopped at the asylum; only the bars were lucite—fluted, retractable. Not here, he said. Not this one.

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