of the past and the frail flower of the present. 
Then, as if after friendly consultation, the cap- 
sule opens, throwing the seeds broadcast with 
force sufficient to plant them several feet beyond 
the parent tree. 
No book can teach the lesson as we learn it 
out in the open, in the wood, on the hillside, on 
the plain below! 
Following Beaver Creek from the foot of 
Seven Pines north, you pass sumacs, with their 
red caps turned brown, witchhazel and black 
alder, among whose branches you see an occa- 
sional last year’s bird’s nest, torn by the wind 
that sweeps down the creek ravine. 
At the foot of Oak Ridge, where South Pine 
avenue crosses Beaver Creek, is a fringe of pussy 
willows, one clump of which stands knee deep 
in ice and water. This shrub for several years 
has given the first suggestion of spring. As 
early as mid-January this year its little pussies 
began throwing off their brown wraps to look 
cheerily out to the passers along the avenue. 
The various interesting trees scattered through 
Pine Hills make one of its chief beauties in the 
winter. The Seven Pines are a beacon pointing 
back many decades before the intrusion of streets 
to days when our hill was marshaled by their 
tribe. A lone group, storm beaten and weather 
worn, yet like chieftains that were strong to 
endure the wild wrenching of other years. Our 
birds frequent these Seven Pines. In winter 
woodpeckers and nuthatches tap along their 
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