eded. Man came.

Now here, on this bit of limestone rock, the struggle is on again. The
mosses and the lichens have proceeded far enough in their work of
disintegration to provide substance for the slender red stem of
dogwood, which is growing out of the soil they have made. The fallen
leaves of the surrounding trees follow the pioneer work of the mosses.
The rain and the cracking frosts are other agencies. By and by the
organic will triumph over the inorganic, the cell over the crystal,
the plant over the rock, and where now the fossils lie beautiful
flowers will bloom.

The short winter day draws rapidly to a close and there is time for
only a brief survey of the beauty of the upland trees. The fairy-like
delicacy of the hop hornbeam, with its hop clusters and pointing
catkins; the slender gracefulness of the chestnut oak; the Etruscan
vase-like form of the white elm; the flaky bark and pungent, aromatic
twigs of the black cherry; the massive, noble, silver-gray trunk of
the white-oak; the lofty stateliness, filagree bark, and berry-like
fruit of the hackberry; the black twigs of the black oaks, ashes,
hickories and walnuts etched against the sky,--all these arrest your
attention and retard your steps until the sun is near the horizon and
you look over the tangled undergrowth of hazel, sumac, and briers, far
through the trunks of the trees to the western sky which is bathed in
flame color, as if from a forest fire.

You are alone and yet not alone. A rabbit scurries across your
pathway. A faint little squeak voices the fright of a mouse. There is
a swoop of wings which you neither distinctly hear nor clearly see,
yet you are aware, in a less marked degree than was the mouse, that an
owl was near. You feel certain that the downy woodpecker is asleep in
that neat little round hole on the southwest side of a tree trunk,
just a little higher than you can reach. In the early afternoon you
saw a red squirrel go gaily up a tall red oak and climb into his nest
of leaves. You fancy he is snugly coiled there now. This recent hill
of fresh dirt--strange sight in January--was surely made by a mole,
and you know that they are all somewhere beneath your feet: moles,
pocket gophers, and the pretty striped gopher which used to sit up on
his hind legs, fold his front paws, and look at you in the summer
time, then give a low whistle and duck; meadow mice in their cozy
tunnels through which the water will be pouring when the spring