'Xt?tfb Bife on t^t (gocaieg 



the changing seasons of hundreds of years must 

 contain a rare Hfe-story. From his stand between 

 the Mesa and the pine-plumed mountain, he had 

 seen the panorama of the seasons and many a 

 strange pageant ; he had beheld what scenes of 

 animal and human strife, what storms and con- 

 vulsions of nature ! Many a wondrous secret he 

 had locked within his tree soul. Yet, although he 

 had not recorded what he had see^i, I knew that 

 he had kept a fairly accurate diary of his own 

 personal experience. This I knew the saw would 

 reveal, and this I had determined to see. 



Nature matures a million conifer seeds for 

 each one she chooses for growth, so we can only 

 speculate as to the selection of the seed from 

 which sprung this storied pine. It may be that 

 the cone in which it matured was crushed into 

 the earth by the hoof of a passing deer. It may 

 have been hidden by a jay ; or, as is more likely, 

 it may have grown from one of the uneaten 

 cones which a Douglas squirrel had buried for 

 winter food. Douglas squirrels are the principal 

 nurserymen for all the Western pineries. Each 

 autumn they harvest a heavy percentage of the 



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