This is the time, then, when the trees 

 perform their great service of shelter 

 from snow and wind. In the still heat 

 of simmering summer they make pleasant 

 shade for the cows in the parched mead- 

 ows, and their heavy crowns of leaves 

 let scarcely a ray of sunshine through. In 

 the winter, the little bare branchlets break 

 the wind up into small eddies, and the 

 trunks and branches, pointing upwards, 

 direct the wind in the way it should go 

 above the tiny home of man, nestling in 

 the shelter of some age-old sycamore, or 

 maple, or oak, or behind a belt of ever- 

 greens like our brave array of scrub pines. 

 IN whatever part of the country you 

 may be, there is no finer sight than 

 that of the farm houses, barns and out- 

 buildings, behind their guardian trees. 

 Some have been planted by the loving 

 hands that built the first homes many 

 years ago ; others have been left standing 

 for the shelter they would afford when the 

 forest was first cleared away to make 

 room for the farm. 



In the New England states there will 

 be graceful elms or spire-like spruces; 

 in New York the sugar maple is not 

 uncommon; farther south there will be 

 hickories, then pecans, magnolias, great 

 moss-bearded live oaks. There is not 

 half so fine a sight anywhere as I have 

 seen near the Carolina coasts where the 

 crepe myrtle, a beautiful silver-barked 

 tree, overshadows the dooryards, a pro- 

 tection from the damp and chilling winds 

 of March, to be later covered with filmy 

 blossoms of glowing pink. Where the 

 color of leaf and bloom combines with the 

 swaying grey Spanish moss on the same 

 trees it is hard to imagine any growing 

 thing more beautiful. For those of us 

 north of Dixie's line, the crepe myrtle is 

 known mainly as a shrub, and a rather 

 tender one at that. 



ON FLORIDIAN coasts the worst 

 winds are sweeping hurricanes that 

 level almost everything before them. 

 There the cocoanut palms along the tide 

 line of the Keys are likely to bend their 

 heads toward ;the heaviest sea winds, so 

 that their long fronds of leaves will not 

 be stripped like umbrellas turned inside 

 out by a wind that gets under. Here, too, 

 the planters have set out the Australian 



beef-wood tree, the Casuarina, which 

 grows faster, even, than the eucalyptus 

 from that great island of great wonders. 

 The Casuarina trees bend over like 

 whips so that the sixty-mile wind slides 

 up along their slanting branches and is 

 thus warded off of the precious orchards 

 and crops that otherwise would be beaten 

 down and destroyed. 



On the Pacific coast, shaggy sentinels 

 of eucalyptus protect the fruit ranches of 

 California from the winds that sweep over 

 the widest stretch of water in the world, 

 and they also help to protect from the 

 drying winds that sometimes set toward 

 the coast from the interior deserts. In 

 Washington and Oregon soldier-like 

 ranks of Lombardy poplars stand to the 

 defence of apple orchards; in the states 

 of the great plains wind-breaks of hardy 

 trees that can stand long periods of 

 drought keep the winds from drying out 

 the crops planted in their shelter. 



WHERE there are such wind-breaks, 

 or shelter-belts, it takes less corn 

 to keep the cattle warm through the 

 winter; it takes less fuel in the house. 

 The chores are done easier; and trees 

 are a sure agent in tempering the wind 

 to the shorn lamb. Think what a host of 

 tiny creatures would be lost each winter 

 if it were not for their protection! 



Therefore, when March winds blow, 

 my sense of gratitude to the trees is at its 

 strongest. With their help I can keep the 

 coal bill down while winter is lingering in 

 the lap of spring. I have to admit that 

 they shut off the view of the lake from my 

 study windows; but, on the other hand, 

 that lake stretches out straight toward the 

 North Pole for about fifty miles, and be- 

 yond it there is no great height of land to 

 Lake Ontario. Beyond that not a moun- 

 tain range intervenes between us and 

 Hudson Bay. That is a clear sweep for 

 old Boreas, and he makes the most of it. 

 We feel that we can scarce make headway 

 against him ; we open our mouths to shout 

 a defiance above the storm and he blows 

 our breath down our throats. Then we 

 come into the shelter of some great tree 

 or of a group of trees; we can stop and 

 gather ourselves together and take a real 

 breath, and gain new courage to face the 

 storm once more. 



ESs 



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