THE STORY OF A THOUSAND-YEAR PINE BY ENOS A. MILLS ILLUSTRATED BOSTON AND NEW YORK HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY The Riverside Press Cambridge COPYRIGHT, 1909 AND 1914, BY ENOS A. MILLS ALL RIGHTS RESERVED ILLUSTRATIONS A VETERAN WESTERN YELLOW PINE _Frontispiece_ SOME OF “OLD PINE’S” NEIGHBORS 8 CLIFF DWELLINGS ON THE MESA VERDE 24 THE MESA VERDE 36 THE STORY OF A THOUSAND-YEAR PINE I The peculiar charm and fascination that trees exert over many people I had always felt from childhood, but it was that great nature-lover, John Muir, who first showed me how and where to learn their language. Few trees, however, ever held for me such an attraction as did a gigantic and venerable yellow pine which I discovered one autumn day several years ago while exploring the southern Rockies. It grew within sight of the Cliff-Dwellers’ Mesa Verde, which stands at the corner of four States, and as I came upon it one evening just as the sun was setting over that mysterious tableland, its character and heroic proportions made an impression upon me that I shall never forget, and which familiar acquaintance only served to deepen while it yet lived and before the axeman came. Many a time I returned to build my camp-fire by it and have a day or a night in its solitary and noble company. I learned afterwards that it had been given the name “Old Pine,” and it certainly had an impressiveness quite compatible with the age and dignity which go with a thousand years of life. When, one day, the sawmill-man at Mancos wrote, “Come, we are about to log your old pine,” I started at once, regretting that a thing which seemed to me so human, as well as so noble, must be killed. I went with the axemen who were to cut the old pine down. A grand and impressive tree he was. Never have I seen so much individuality, so much character, in a tree. Although lightning had given him a bald crown, he was still a healthy giant, and was waving evergreen banners more than one hundred and fifteen feet above the earth. His massive trunk, eight feet in diameter at the level of my breast, was covered with a thick, rough, golden-brown bark which was broken into irregular plates. Several of his arms were bent and broken. Altogether, he presented a timeworn but heroic appearance. It is almost a marvel that trees should live to become the oldest of living things. Fastened in one place, their struggle is incessant and severe. From the moment a baby tree is born--from the instant it casts its tiny shadow upon the ground--until death, it is in danger from insects and animals. It cannot move to avoid danger. It cannot run away to escape enemies. Fixed in one spot, almost helpless, it must endure flood and drought, fire and storm, insects and earthquakes, or die.