Long before there were written words to express the ideas of man, the forest has furnished symbols of the various stages of human existence. The pliancy of youth, the exuberant strength of maturity, the decay of age, have suggested eloquent parallels between man and the tree.
In contemplating the monarchs of the woods the greatest poets and the denizens of the untracked forests have risen together to the same heights of imagery and the same tokens of emotion and sentiment.
Who can resist the silence, the whispering, the soughing, the writhing, the twisting and groaning of a pine tree, from the first flicker of a needle until the whole growth is in a Titanic struggle with the vagrant wind. The onset tests the strength of root, bole, branch and tendril to their utmost, then suddenly departs, leaving each needle erect and still as if listening to the music of the stars.
In all ages, and among all people, certain groves have been held sacred. The tree-alphabet of the Chinese, the curling roofs of the truncated pagodas, the numerous legends of the tree and vine, symbolizing life, are universal testimonials of this ancient veneration.
The trees giving shelter to Yermah defied the Ice Age and escaped destruction in the flood. There are giants in Mariposa Grove to-day contemporaneous with the Star of Bethlehem and the departing grandeur of Egypt. The green spires of this living forest, three hundred feet high, filter the air through innumerable branches, making one shiver at their mysterious whistle, like the rustling silk robes of an unseen company.
The mystic and appalling are there as well. How often in active life the specter stands among men and trees!
The very strength gained by such close lifting of fibers during decades of existence will not permit these giants to seek rest prone upon the welcoming breast of Mother Earth. Still must they stand, bleached by sun, beaten by rain, and buffeted by winds, leading a spectral existence when remains of other members of the forest have silently sunk to rest, and are no longer distinguishable in substance from the very soil from which they sprung.
For a century or so there is a struggle among the children of the fallen monarch. At last but few remain, to become giants in their turn—set on the rim of the pit formed by the decaying roots of their ancient ancestor. Rings of this kind can still be found, showing the broken roots projecting like the staves of a barrel, overgrown with ferns and wild oxalis, or filled to the brim with fresh spicy redwood sprouts.
No one who visits the Yo-Semite to-day, can imagine the abundance in early times of wild flowers and luxuriant grasses reaching up to the saddle-girths, or the almost total absence of undergrowth and brush in the groves, thus affording clear, open views from either side. The valley lies nearly in the center of the State, north and south, midway between the east and west bases of the Sierras.