that the earth still slept beneath. Straightway, he wondered how
it had ever got there, so far above the few of its kind that
haunted the green dark ravines far below. Some whirlwind,
doubtless, had sent a tiny cone circling heavenward and dropped it
there. It had sent others, too, no doubt, but how had this tree
faced wind and storm alone and alone lived to defy both so
proudly? Some day he would learn. Thereafter, he had seen it, at
noon--but little less majestic among the oaks that stood about it;
had seen it catching the last light at sunset, clean-cut against
the after-glow, and like a dark, silent, mysterious sentinel
guarding the mountain pass under the moon. He had seen it giving
place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring--had seen
it green among dying autumn leaves, green in the gray of winter
trees and still green in a shroud of snow--a changeless promise
that the earth must wake to life again. The Lonesome Pine, the
mountaineers called it, and the Lonesome Pine it always looked to
be. From the beginning it had a curious fascination for him, and
straightway within him--half exile that he was--there sprang up a
sympathy for it as for something that was human and a brother. And
now he was on the trail of it at last. From every point that
morning it had seemed almost to nod down to him as he climbed and,
when he reached the ledge that gave him sight of it from base to
crown, the winds murmured among its needles like a welcoming
voice. At once, he saw the secret of its life. On each side rose a
cliff that had sheltered it from storms until its trunk had shot
upwards so far and so straight and so strong that its green crown
could lift itself on and on and bend--blow what might--as proudly
and securely as a lily on its stalk in a morning breeze. Dropping
his bridle rein he put one hand against it as though on the
shoulder of a friend.