May 11, 2010
On a sloping point of land stands a lone pine tree. Its branches are gnarled and twisted, its huge trunk is warped and bent by time and storm, and like an old man tottering in the feebleness of age, it stands alone, a landmark of the past. The branches of the old pine tree swayed to and fro in the salt ladened breeze; and from their venerable presence there came a soft, uncertain sound which shaped itself to words.
As a tree I often think of the changes that have taken place about me in these three hundred years, but this is the first time I have ever spoken. I feel that I am drawing near the end of my long and eventful life; the foliage and sturdy outspreading branches of which I was once so proud are gradually dropping to the ground and the decay of ages is rapidly reaching my heart. Perhaps the next heavy storm that sweeps in from the ocean may terminate my existence and the last landmark
of bygone days be gone, hence my desire to speak.
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This delightful bay, stretching out for miles on either side and in front of me was not the same as now. The ocean was at a much greater distance, and what is now the shore of the main land extended far out into the bay, a dark deep swamp. In fact, the greater portion of what is now the bay was at that time low land, covered by a heavy growth of great timber. But year by year I have seen the ocean beat back the beachy barrier and gradually approach the main land, and could the years of my life be doubled and three centuries more be added to my existence, I would then see greater changes than in the past. This bay of which you people boast so much would become little more than a great sluggish pond, bordered on all sides by thickly settled villages.
From the peculiar formation of my branches spreading out and covering such a wide space with a cool shade, I not only became a favorite for Indian boys and girls, but for older ones as well; and frequently has the council fire burned and the war dance been held on this spot. For the most part the Indians hereabout were of a peaceful character. I well remember the frequent and fierce consultations that were held two hundred and fifty years ago to exterminate the white settlers; preferring rather to follow the peaceful pursuits of hunting and fishing, and to live in harmony with their white neighbors who had already begun to settle.
"Ye say they all have passed away,
That noble race and brave,
That their light canoes have vanished
From off the crested wave.
That `mid the forests where they roamed
There rings no hunter's shout,
But their names are on your waters
And ye may not wash them out.
Ye say their cone-like cabins,
That clustered o'er the vale,
Have fled away like withered leaves
Before the autumn gale.
But their memory liveth on your hills,
Their baptism on your shores,
Your everlasting rivers speak
Their dialect of yore."
Up to the time of my one hundred and twentieth or thirtieth year there had been no clearing made in the heavily wooded lands about me. Game abounded here in those days. Fish of all kinds filled the waters, clams of the richest flavor paved the bottom of the bay, while fowl in countless numbers found rich feeding ground here; the deer, the fox and coon thronged the woods and furnished food and raiment for these dusky hunters and their early white neighbors. Then white people came and made clearings and planted corn and rye.
A saw mill was located a short distance to the west of me and only a few rods from the shore. For many years after the mill had disappeared a massive post over forty feet in length remained standing on the site and one peculiar and interesting incident in connection with that post was that for many years it was a chosen resort for a colony of blue birds. Every year these harbingers of Spring would come and build their nests in the crevices and abrasions with which time had pierced its sides. I used to feel a trifle jealous at times and frequently wished that these little bluecoated songsters would come and find a home beneath my branches; but later on in the season, when the blackbirds and robins came and built hundreds of nests, and made my great top vocal with chirp and song, I could look with complacency on my neighbor over the way and almost pity his barren and shadeless trunk. More than forty years ago, during one of our heavy gales, the old post fell and I felt more than ever alone.
I was then as now standing alone - a landmark for mariners and passersby, to which people pointed with pride and admiration. I have frequently heard that when a vessel approached this coast my great cloudlike top was the first thing that greeted the eye of the homeward bound sailor; but in my declining years a rival came and robbed me of my proud distinction as a landmark. That was the severest blow that I had ever received. I had withstood the storms of centuries and laughed at the ravages of time; but when yonder lighthouse threw its great dazzling rays over the land and sea for more than twenty miles, from a height that overtopped mine by more that fifty feet, my humiliation was complete, and with drooping braches I welcomed the decay that is fast consuming my life. But that tower of brick and stone is of but a recent date, having been erected only thirty-six years. Perhaps when it has stood as long as I have it will show the marks of age even more strongly than I do now.
The farms which were cleared and tilled by a former generation are no more covered by waving wheat and corn. The present land has steadily increased in population and importance; cottages have been built, hotels erected, highways laid out and roads constructed until a new world seems to have sprung into existence all about me. The landscape gardener has taken the place of the farmer and the city boarder roams at will.
There are many, very many events about which I would like to speak before closing my lips in a silence that will never be broken save by the voice of the wind as it sighs through my scanty foliage. But time will not permit me to linger over these reminiscences. I have grown to the full measure of my strength and usefulness. I have witnessed changes varied and manifold, both in the geography and inhabitants of this locality. I have stood up in my might and beat back the great storms that have hurled themselves against my branches. I have made the acquaintance of the red men and their white successors, in both of whom I have found warm friends and admirers. But now my end draws near. Let me ask of you who have so patiently listened to my story this favor: it is my request that no axe ever be laid to my roots, but rather let Nature be my executioner. Deep in my heart you will find a number of stone arrowheads; they were imbedded there two hundred years ago by Indian youths who used my trunk for a target. Nearer the surface you will find a leaden bullet which was fired from the musket of a British soldier. Still nearer the surface and just beneath my bark you will find the broken point of a knife blade that was placed there about 40 years ago by a boy who loved my cool shade and spent many hours of his time dreamily gazing up into my branches. After I have been reduced to ashes it is my wish to have these articles preserved as relics of the Old Pine Tree.
The shades of evening had darkened the landscape, and the voice of the old tree became silent.
Excerpted from The Port Jefferson Echo originally published in June, 1895
Sidebar:
White pine forests originally covered much of northeastern North America.
In natural pre-colonial stands it is reported to have grown to as tall as 230 ft.
During the era of sailing ships, tall white pines with high quality wood were known as mast pines. Marked by agents of the Crown in colonial times with the broad arrow, they were reserved for the British Royal Navy.
The British built special barge-like vessels which could carry up to 50 pine trunks destined to be ship masts. The wood was often squared immediately after felling to better fit in the holds of ships. A 100' mast was about 3'X3' at the butt and 2'X2' at the top, while a 120' mast was a giant 4'X4' at the bottom and 30" at the top. The original masts on the USS Constitution (Old Ironsides) were single trees which later were laminated to better withstand cannon balls. During the American Revolution it became a great sport for the patriots to see how many of the King's trees one could cut down and haul off.
Only one percent of the original trees remain untouched by extensive logging operations operating from the 1700s into the early 1900s.
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TOC for Forest & River News, Spring 2010