244 OLD PLYMOUTH TRAILS 



a limb with his first pine cone in his paws. Did 

 he reason out the way to get those seeds or did 

 he know instinctively? And if so what is in- 

 stinct in his case? 



For all the squirrels got so many cones that in 

 some places in the woods the ground is fairly 

 carpeted with the brown scales which they sev- 

 ered, prompted by this clever whatever-it-is that 

 is such an excellent substitute for wisdom, there 

 are plenty still left on the trees where they dangle 

 from the branch tips, their scales gaping and the 

 seeds for the most part gone. Left to themselves 

 they have been flying away ever since Septem- 

 ber, a few at a time on dry, windy days when 

 their single wings would scull them farthest. 

 One might impute instinct or whatever it is to 

 the pine tree too, she works so methodically for 

 the preservation of her species. A year ago last 

 spring the mother pine put forth the beginnings 

 of those pine cones that now dangle brown and 

 pitchy, or drop to the ground, useless except as 

 kindlings for my campfire. Then they were wee 

 golden-green buds of pistillate flowers, set high 

 on the uppermost branch tips that the pollen from 

 the tree's own stamincite blooms might miss them 

 in its flight down the wind and thus avoid in- 



