The chestnut trees on the hotel terrace have no idea that I am their benefactor, for I keep slinging their precious fruit into the woods under my garden year after year (“Helping the Chestnut Trees,” September 29, 2013). Which is why I keep coming to the hotel terrace without any compunction. Their solemn thanks, and even more their ingratiating pleas, would only make me uncomfortable. Nay, jittery. Deep down, I have no idea that they are my beneficiaries, either.