But this is not the place to see the swamp cedars at their best. You are on their gloomy side now. Toward the vivifying sun they turn every cheerful atom within them and as you look down on them as the sun does from some near by southern ridge you get the full effect of their close-set masses of living green and realize the enormous virility within them. It seems to me that our toughest tree here in eastern Massachusetts is the red cedar. It grows on storm-swept rock cliffs where nothing else but lichens can seem to find a foothold. Yet close behind it I class this dweller in the rich, moist peat bogs. I find that many botanists do not differentiate this tree that I call swamp cedar from the red cedar, _Juniperus virginiana_. Yet it is nearer this than it is to the arbor vitæ which is the so-called cedar of the Maine woods. But it is not the red cedar in one important particular. It does not have that wonderful red fragrant heart-wood that the red cedar has. That alone, it seems to me, should give it a separate standing botanically. Then its leaves are flatter and more of the arbor vitæ type than those of the red cedar. And there you have it; but I know what happened. Long ages ago, when staid and sober evergreens were more frisky than they are now some particularly handsome young arbor vitæ lass came down from the north woods and met and loved one of our husky red cedars. How could she help it? Then there was a secret trip to Providence, or whatever place was the Gretna Green of those days, and the elopers settled down in Plymouth County, or perhaps here in Norfolk. That would account for my white cedar, and it is the only way I can do it.