tic upright trees, tall and finely shaped, never
wide-spreading as is the chestnut under the encouragement of plenty of
room and food, are admirable from any standpoint. There is a lusty old
shagbark in Wetzel's Swamp that has given me many a pleasant
quarter-hour, as I have stood at attention before its symmetrical stem,
hung with slabs of brown bark that seem always just ready to separate
from the trunk.

The aspect of this tree is reflected in its very useful timber, which is
pliant but tough, requiring less "heft" for a given strength, and
bending with a load easily, only to instantly snap back to its position
when the stress slackens. Good hickory is said to be stronger than
wrought iron, weight for weight; and I will answer for it that no
structure of iron can ever have half the grace, as well as strength,
freely displayed by this same old shagbark of the lowlands near my home.

Curious as I am to see the blooms of the trees I am getting acquainted
with, there are many disappointments to be endured--as when the favorite
tree under study is reached a day too late, and I must wait a year for
another opportunity. It was, therefore, with much joy that I found that
a trip carefully timed for another fine old hickory along the
Conodoguinet--an Indian-named stream of angles, curves, many trees and
much beauty--had brought me to the quickly passing bloom feast of this
noble American tree. The leaves were about half-grown and half-colored,
which means that they displayed an elegance of texture and hue most
pleasing to see. And the flowers--there they were, hanging under the
twigs in long clusters of what I might describe as ends of chenille, if
it were not irreverent to compare these delicate greenish catkins with
anything man-made!

[Illustration: A shagbark hickory in bloom]

This fine shagbark was kind to the cameraman, for some of its lower
branches drooped and hung down close enough to the "bars" of the rail
fence to permit the photographic eye to be turned on them. Then came the
tantalizing wait for stillness! I have frequently found that a wind,
absolutely unnoticeable before, became obtrusively strong just when the
critical moment arrived, and I have fancied that the lightly hung
leaflets I have waited upon fairly shook with merriment as they received
the gentle zephyr, imperceptible to my heated brow, but vigorous enough
to keep them moving. Often, too--indeed nearly always--I have found that
after exhausting