NONSUCH 



yond Henry May, before the ancestors of Ber- 

 mudez ever were, and before the time of the first 

 Bermuda cedar tree. Today we know that the near- 

 est related cedar is that of Cuba — nine hundred 

 miles to the southeast. Day after day in April 

 and May I watch newly arrived birds on Nonsuch 

 which have made this distance in one flight. I put 

 several cedar berries into our bird cage and they are 

 snapped up at once. The following morning the 

 hard seeds lie on the earth of the cage, stripped 

 clean of flesh and ready for sprouting. The applica- 

 tion of these various facts is only an extension of 

 the fence lines of young cedars in upland New Eng- 

 land pastures, unconsciously planted and aligned 

 by roosting wax-wings. And so, we have the prob- 

 able story of how the juniper came to Bermuda. 

 On the north or sheltered slopes of Nonsuch the 

 cedars grow high and symmetrically. They stretch 

 their branches lazily up and outward, and their 

 trunks have thickened steadily and grown straight 

 through the years. The sound of the surf comes 

 faintly from the distance and now and then the howl 

 of gales passes just overhead in company with low, 

 scudding storm clouds. But these proud young ce- 

 dars have no fear of the elements. There is hardly 

 a dead branch among them, and, like the winter 

 coat of camels, their outside bark hangs loose and 

 dangles undisturbed. We pass over the crest of the 

 island and come to my particular trees, just in 

 front of my door. They still have plenty of height 

 and girth; I can easily walk about beneath their 



22 



