276 Next to the Ground 



So does the bastard white oak, whose pedigree 

 is blurred with a post oak cross. The won- 

 der is that blossoming, as the oaks do before 

 the leaves come out, with such richness of 

 tasselled fringes on every twig, such clouds 

 of pollen as the south winds shake out of the 

 fringes, there are any oaks still true to name, 

 growing up after the manner of their parent 

 stems with never a blot on the scutcheon. 

 The secret lies most likely in the fact that 

 the fringes are wholly staminate — the young 

 ovules lie so snugly scaled about. The curl- 

 fringes come out every March in undi- 

 minished numbers. Whether or no the mast 

 hits depends not upon them, but upon the 

 number of pistillate flowers. Sometimes that 

 number is very small — at others a hard frost 

 destroys the ovules. In either case there is 

 no mast worth mention. A squirrel even 

 may have to travel a league between the find- 

 ings of his breakfast and his dinner. 



A clown among oaks is the black-jack, the 

 genuine scrub oak. The trunk is so crooked 

 woodsmen vow it takes it half an hour after it 

 has been cut down to find out how it can lie 

 still. It is knottier than it is crooked, with 

 very thick bark roughly clotted all over. As 

 to grain, it has none worth the name. A rail 

 or lath split from it with infinite pains might ■ 

 serve for a giant's corkscrew. As it grows. 



