210 THE MOUNTAINS OF CALIFORNIA 



When the first soft snow begins to fall, the flakes 

 lodge in the leaves, weighing down the branches 

 against the trunk. Then the axis bends yet lower 

 and lower, until the slender top touches the ground, 

 thus forming a fine ornamental arch. The snow still 

 falls lavishly, and the whole tree is at length buried, 

 to sleep and rest in its beautiful grave as though 

 dead. Entire groves of young trees, from ten to 

 forty feet high, are thus buried every winter like 

 slender grasses. But, like the violets and daisies 

 which the heaviest snows crush not, they are safe. 

 It is as though this were only Nature's method of 

 putting her darlings to sleep instead of leaving 

 them exposed to the biting storms of winter. 



Thus warmly wrapped they await the summer 

 resurrection. The snow becomes soft in the sun 

 shine, and freezes at night, making the mass hard 

 and compact, like ice, so that during the months of 

 April and May you can ride a horse over the pros 

 trate groves without catching sight of a single leaf. 

 At length the down-pouring sunshine sets them 

 free. First the elastic tops of the arches begin to 

 appear, then one branch after another, each spring 

 ing loose with a gentle rustling sound, and at length 

 the whole tree, with the assistance of the winds, 

 gradually unbends and rises and settles back into 

 its place in the warm air, as dry and feathery and 

 fresh as young ferns just out of the coil. 



Some of the finest groves I have yet found are on 

 the southern slopes of Lassen's Butte. There are 

 also many charming companies on the head waters 

 of the Tuolumne, Merced, and San Joaquin, and, 

 in general, the species is so far from being rare 



