FROM A BERKSHIRE CABIN 173 



brownish-red vistas, where the rocks gleam white 

 in the dappled spots of sunlight, and I cannot de- 

 tect a single seedling. I get up to investigate more 

 carefully. There is plenty of vegetation peeping 

 up through the brown needles — Mitchella vines, 

 the wonderful blue berries of a Clintonia borealis, 

 seedling canoe birches, maples, ash, chestnut, even 

 an oak or two. But not a seedling evergreen can I 

 find. The cone seeds need the warmth of the sun 

 to sprout. Should this hemlock stand be cut down 

 to-morrow, a hardwood grove would succeed it. 

 A little higher up the mountain is a far more aged 

 and impressive stand of hemlocks, with moss on 

 the rocks beneath the cathedral naves and the sense 

 of a lofty roof upborne on huge brown columns. 

 But even here I find on the floor the twin seed- 

 leaves of many maples and birches, and as I look 

 out toward the edge of the stand, where the sun- 

 light seems to form a golden wall, I see a little host 

 of green things marching in, trees a foot tall or more 

 adventuring under the solemn shadow, at first in 

 solid formation, but soon scattering till only the 

 hardiest pioneers reach the belt where the sun- 

 light never falls. 



How like little, shining green knights these pio- 

 neers of the next forest generation look as they 

 push in out of the golden sunshine, exploring the 

 shadows ! 



After all, it isn't so much how or why the new 

 forest comes that intrigues me, as the mere fact of 

 its coming at all. This rich black mold I turn up 

 with the toe of my boot is the deposit of uncounted 

 forest generations dead and gone; and, all the 



