A THOUSAND-YEAR PINE 



on a trip to the summit of Mesa Verde, 

 where I was to visit a gnarled old 

 cedar. Then I went back and piled 

 into a pyramid every fragment of 

 root and trunk and broken branch. 

 Seating myself upon this pyramid, I 

 spent some time that afternoon gaz- 

 ing through the autumn sun-glow at 

 the hazy Mesa Verde, while my mind 

 rebuilt and shifted the scenes of the 

 long, long drama in which Old Pine 

 had played his part and of which he 

 had given us but a few fragmentary 

 records. I lingered there dreaming un- 

 til twilight. I thought of the cycles 

 during which he had stood patient in 

 his appointed place, and my imagina- 

 tion busied itself with the countless 

 experiences that had been recorded, 

 and the scenes and pageants he had 



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