uch
conditions may account for these enormous trees, yet I am inclined
to think that they do not. I am inclined to the belief that in
these giant pines we had a variety of Pinus strobus which was very
closely allied to our smaller trees, but which was not the same,
just as the Sequoia gigantea of the higher Sierras is a gigantic
variety of redwood, closely allied to but not the same as the
Sequoia sempervirens, which flourishes nearer the coast and in the
lower levels. That would easily explain why our pines, which we
call "second growth," show little tendency to become such majestic
or so long lived trees as the giants of a century and more in age.
It is doubtful if any of the old time mighty ones remain in any
remotest corner of our forests. It is a pity, too, for it is
probable that in destroying the last one we destroyed a variety of
pine that was far nobler than any left.

CHAPTER XX

THE PASTURE IN NOVEMBER

In late autumn the pasture is a place of ghosts, yet ghosts so
friendly withal that one walks among them unafraid. November is
the month of transition when many of the pasture folk pass on to
another, perhaps a better life. The blue-jays stop their harsh
teasing screams now and then to toll a clear, musical passing bell
for these, and the nuthatches are goblin gabriels blowing eerie
trumps of resurrection to which the spirits of the bee people
drone a second as they wing their way onward. The great white town
of the white-faced hornets is conspicuous on the blueberry bush
down in the far corner and within it are the husks of a few of its
once roaringly busy inhabitants. But it is very quiet and only a
few of the husks remain. The others are scattered the pasture over
and on them the shrubs drop red fruit and wreathed beauty or
autumn leaves, in memoriam. The bumblebees, the yellow-jackets and
many another variety of scintillant, fairy-winged wild bee are
with them. Their summer, like ours, is gone, and they with it,
though a few of the young queen mothers are safely tucked away in
warm crevices, to sleep secure until May wakes them for the
peopling of the place once more.

I had thought May with its tender pastels of young color and its
bubbling joy of spring song the most beautiful month in this
gentle world of out-of-doors, but that was in May. Now I am
convinced that November in its ethereal serenity is loveliest. May
held but the vivid joy of ecstatic expectation; November speaks
with the p