THE CEDARS OF NONSUCH 



The moulding power of the invisible is a theme 

 which in force and effect is worthy of the best ex- 

 pression that human mind can give, and the thoughts 

 I have about my leaning cedars are very wonderful 

 ones. They stir and rise in my mind, they course 

 down my arm and hand, reach my penpoint, and 

 — dry there. 



Nonsuch botany spreads over half the world, not 

 only as immigrants and stowaways, but in the power 

 of suggestion. Witness the cedars. I listen at night 

 to the wind soughing through their branches, I sniff 

 at a bunch of the dried, leafy twigs hung over my 

 bed, and as the dawn comes up and snuffs out many 

 stars, a planet or two, and St. David's light, the toss- 

 ing of dark green foliage outside my door is the un- 

 dulating of a magic emerald carpet, which, aided 

 by the sound and scent, carries me mentally, sen- 

 sually, and emotionally to the biting cold among 

 the deodars of Garhwal. 



A hundred feet from my doorway is a solid clump 

 of cactus. I have not yet tried this, but I am sure 

 that one day I shall sit down close to it in a driving 

 rain, with the surf pounding full-voiced a few yards 

 beyond and hurling spray over me with every 

 breaker. And I am equally certain that contempla- 

 tion of the strange, thorny pads will be all that will 

 be necessary to obliterate sight, sound, and feel of ? 

 Bermuda gale, and substitute the hot, dry breath- 

 lessness of a sandy desert. The mere mention of the 

 illusion at this moment is fostered by the caroling 

 of a Japanese robin in the distance, which recalls, 



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