IVONSUCH 



ests had stood on the island in unknown times 

 past. 



We had hardly begun to quarter the islet, when, 

 on the very summit, thrown up by a breaker dur- 

 ing some mighty storm, we found a pair of wings 

 joined by the ivory-white shoulder girdle of some 

 small seabird. Then our search was stimulated by 

 the discovery of a bit of white eggshell far under 

 a low ledge. A triumphant shout summoned me to 

 the extreme southerly tip. Centuries upon centuries 

 ago, when Nonsuch Bay was encircled by dry land, 

 one of the greatest of cedars reared its foliage upon 

 this spot. All that remained in this twentieth hun- 

 dredth year of our calendar was the limestone out- 

 line of the trunk and large roots, all the details of 

 the weathered contours being still distinct. It was 

 easy to trace the meandering of the roots, to see 

 where a mighty twist had been taken about some 

 helping shoulder of rock — a rock long since dis- 

 solved — the straining of the plant muscles, which 

 began ages before the times of the Egyptians, be- 

 ing still visible in the sunlight of today. 



The great mineral bole stood up nearly three 

 feet above the rest of the surface of the island and 

 when I came closer, I saw it was hollow. I peered 

 down, and after the excitement of bright sunlight 

 had died down in my eyes I discerned in the heart 

 of this marble tree the softest thing in the world — 

 a downy chick. It was almost the hue of the twilight 

 in which it lived, and was cozily squatting beneath 

 a low, half-open ceiling of rock tracery. As I 



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