Who can tell the wonder of Canada's trees? Who can know Canada who has not slept in the west coast forests and seen the clean shafts of wood, six, ten, and twelve feet through the butt, and felt the cedars reddish, stringy coating, the fir's bark, wrinkled like a friendly face, the feather-foliage of hemlock, fit for making a kings bed, the Rat juicy needles of balsam, the dark blot and sharp prickles of spruce, the lonely yew, unnoticed except by the woodsman's eye, the rare white pine?
Among the grim conifers, forever fighting to survive and forever doomed, the smooth limbs of maples search for the light, spreading jagged leaves to the sun, like supplicating hands, and in the bottom lands beside the streams the alders leap up overnight, with white-mottled bark, hand-painted. High in the coastal mountains the gray bowls "of yellow cedar are as antiseptic in their emanation as the smell of a hospital. Down in Saanich, which the evergreen forest has not yet discovered, there are old oaks, with crooked arms, running across the hillsides like frightened gnomes.
Hot and still and pungent in the sun grows the pine of the interior, with deep red bark, darkly lined, and at the smallest cut it bleeds its clean-smelling sap. On the parched clay banks spreads the green mat of the juniper, crawling close to the ground, and in the mountain meadows the little blue spruce are like Christmas trees, shaped to order. For a thousand miles in weary blur sweeps the infinite family of the jackpines, scorned by men, and the open range is seamed with little poplars, their round leaves spinning frantically like tops, with a peculiar,