If they be live-oaks - and on the hills they are most likely to be
live-oaks - they are semi-globular in shape like our apple trees, only
huge, of a clamant, virile, poisonous green. They grow alone, and each
one of them seems to be standing knee-deep in shadow so thick and moist
that it is like a deep pool of purple paint.

Occasionally, on the flat stretches, eucalyptus hedges film the
distance. And the eucalyptus - tall, straight, of a uniform slender
size, the baby leaves of one shape and color, misted with a strange
bluish fog-powder, the mature leaves of another shape and color,
deep-green on one side, purple on the other, curved and carved like a
scimitar of Damascus steel, the blossoms hanging in great soft bunches,
white or shell-pink, delicate as frost-stars - the eucalyptus is the
most beautiful tree in the world. Standing in groups, they seem to color
the atmosphere. Under them the air is like a green bubble. Standing
alone, the long trailing scarfs of bark blowing away from their
bodies - they are like ragged, tragic gypsy queens.

Then there is the madrone. The wonder of the madrone is its bole. Of a
tawny red-gold - glossy - it contributes an arresting coppery note to
green forest vistas. Somebody has said that in the distance they look
like naked Indians slipping through the woods.

Last, there is the redwood tree! And the redwood is more beautiful even
than the stone-pine of Italy. Gray lavender in color, hard as though cut
from stone, swelling at the base to an incredible bulk, shooting
straight to an incredible height and tapering exquisitely as it soars,
it drops not foliage but plumage. To walk in a redwood forest at night
and to look up at the stars tangled in the tree-tops, to watch the