Distindt from all others, the sequoias are a race 

 apart. The big tree and the redwood of the Coast 

 Range are the only surviving members of that 

 ancient family, the giants of the foreworld. Their 

 immense trunks might be the fluted columns of 

 some noble order of architecture, surviving its 

 builders like the marble temples of Greece, — 

 columns three hundred feet high and thirty feet 

 through at the base. Such a vast nave, such ma- 

 jestic aisles, such sublime spires, only the forest 

 cathedrals know. Symmetrical silver firs, giant 

 cedars and spruce grow side by side with sugar- 

 pines of vast and irregular outline, whose huge 

 branches, like outstretched arms, hold aloft the 

 splendid cones — such is the ancient wood. 



It is doubtful if these giant conifers are really 

 as companionable as our eastern beeches and maples 

 and oaks. The company is almost too grandiose; 

 their dignity is overpowering. One could never, 

 for instance, form such a pleasant acquaintance 

 with a great sugar-pine as with a slender white 

 birch. Fatherly white oaks and village elms seem 

 to ally themselves with man as protefting deities 

 of the wood. But this great race of trees has little 

 affinity with our world. Be that as it may, there 

 i86 



