THE CEDARS OF NONSUCH 



eral rootlets, revealing as many side cracks. I go a 

 few yards inland, and replant the sturdy little 

 cedar, giving it a most excellent crack and mulched, 

 tamped-down earth. Then, wholly without justice or 

 logic, I pull up one of its brethren of similar size 

 and cut through the rooty stem, to find that it 

 started life about nine years ago. 



In a little depression, in the sheltered lee of a 

 giant brother, an infant cedar sprouted less than a 

 year ago. There is none of the blue-green, close- 

 scaled character of the older plants, but widespread, 

 pale emerald, spinelike leaves, which show more in 

 common with the creeping spurge on the rock be- 

 neath. Like the cedars of the northern slopes, the 

 infant thinks the whole world is an easy place to 

 live in, and is only lulled by the roar of the storms. 

 Doubtless it looks with scorn at its brethren over- 

 head, bowing before the blasts. But when its phant 

 topmost twig reaches the level of the surrounding 

 rocks, and a winter's gale flattens it like tissue, the 

 roots will have to develop new strength and the 

 fancied security of the little plant must give place to 

 the glory of lifelong combat. After long search I 

 find the whole story on one small plant — smug, 

 juvenile confidence, adolescent surprise and quick 

 preparedness, and finally the dense, close-scaled 

 armor and adequate defense of maturity. For every 

 cedar which has fought its way to success, thousands 

 upon thousands must have sprouted, lived hopefully 

 for a space, only to have their sap die down and 

 cease, lifelessly to hold aloft futile, dead twigs, 



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