"
I never saw the long, black-fringed line of trees without joy in the
possession of them and a desire to be among them. The sixty acres of timber
land covered the whole of a swampy valley, spread over a rolling hill
sloping down to the glistening river.
"Now, son? go ahead," said my father, as we clambered over a rail fence and
stepped into the edge of shade..
"Well, father--" I began, haltingly, and could not collect my thoughts.
Then we were in the cool woods. It was very still, there being only a faint
rustling of leaves and the mellow note of a hermit-thrush. The deep shadows
were lightened by shafts of sunshine which, here and there, managed to
pierce the canopy of foliage. Somehow, the feeling roused by these things
loosened my tongue.
"This is an old hard-wood forest," I began. "Much of the white oak,
hickory, ash, maple, is virgin timber. These trees have reached maturity;
many are dead at the tops; all of them should have been cut long ago. They
make too dense a shade for the seedlings to survive. Look at that bunch of
sapling maples. See how they reach up, trying to get to the light. They
haven't a branch low down and the tops are thin. Yet maple is one of our
hardiest trees. Growth has been suppressed. Do you notice there are no
small oaks or hickories just here? They can't live in deep shade.
Pages:
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27