THE SINGING PINES 59 



as it crowded by, but never once did its fiercest 

 gusts disturb the serenity of the sanctuary be- 

 neath. A foot or two down from their topmost 

 boughs was shelter for the crows, snugged down 

 on a lee limb, close to the trunk, their feathers 

 set to shed such rain as might strike them, their 

 long black beaks thrust beneath their wings, 

 rocked in the cradle of the deep woods, sung to 

 sleep by their lullaby of the primal universe. 

 There was little need to waste sympathy on them 

 or on any other little folk of the forest who had 

 for their shelter the brooding arms of these bene- 

 ficent trees stretched above them. 



Pines are the great, deep-breasted mothers of 

 the woods, giving food and shelter from sun and 

 storm to all who will come to them. Prolific 

 mothers they are, too, and if man with his axe 

 and his fire would but spare them they would 

 in a generation or two reclothe our Massachu- 

 setts waste lands with their kind once more. 

 Recklessly as the generations have destroyed 

 them, sweeping often great tracts bare of every 

 noble trunk, leaving the slash piled high for the 

 fire to complete the destruction of the axe, they 

 still persist, pushing the greenwood with its fluffy 

 plumes right to our dooryards. Let the ploughed 



