|
Oldest and largest of all are the giant sequoias, some of which antedate man's recorded history. They were perhaps 2500 years old when Christ was born, and may well live many more centuries if left untampered by man. A peculiar stunted native of the southern Rockies called the bristlecone pine is also known to have lived four millennia. Only to a few is it given to own trees of such ages. But contemplation of the two- and three-century types can impart to any of us a curious kind of elation. The treelet we plant this year could, and it just might, survive until Peace reigns on earth and men are commuting to Venus. Viewed subjectively, to plant and cultivate a hardy tree in one's lifetime is to project one's humble and mortal personality far into the future. By the same token that some old trees have historical associations, new ones can have future meaning. As a monument—to yourself or to an event of your time—a hardy tree which you rear and enjoy is more considerable than a stone memorial erected posthumously. An engraved metal plate explaining the tree's significance, placed there by you or your descendants, is in taste quite as good as the legends men carve in granite or marble. One of the most touching moments in this reporter's tree career came when he paused to admire four magnificent roadside trees—a white pine, sugar maple, hemlock, and white oak—fronting a modest rural homestead. An old gentleman came around the corner of the house with his lawnmower, and presently explained: "My grandfather planted those trees the day he heard President Lincoln was assassinated." |
|||
|
