last stronghold, can neither advance into more exposed positions above,
nor fall back into drier and barer ground below, nor hold its own in
the long run where it is under the present conditions; and a little
drying out of the climate of the region, which must have been much
moister than now, would precipitate its doom.”
Man, seemingly, has conspired with Nature in bringing the Sequoia under
the inexorable law of extinction. He lacks respect for this priceless
heritage of earlier ages, for already many of the most magnificent
stands of the Sequoia have been logged. If commercialism is allowed to
go its wayward way unchecked, posterity will soon be robbed of these
last remaining remnants of the forests of the Miocene. Even now man
is bringing the age of Mammals to a close. Soon there will be no wild
life left except in those spots that are given protection. Outside of
these areas, all life will be destroyed save those plants and animals
that have been reclaimed from the wild. Then man will stand alone and
unchallenged amid the wreck of creation.
Happily, this melancholy cry is not the expression of an actual fact,
at least, so far as the Sequoia is concerned. Enough Sequoian tracts
have been made safe from the axe to insure the future of the race and
to prevent ultimate destruction at the hands of man. Nor is the tree in
danger of natural extinction if the salvaged Sequoian tracts reproduce
in sufficient numbers to continue the struggle for existence. If this
can be proved to a reasonable certainty, then the Sequoia, as a race,
is not fated to be without descendants.
Unlike the Redwood of the coast, the great Sequoia of the Sierra does
not reproduce by root or stump sprouts, but from seed only. The seeds
are in cones exceedingly small for so colossal a tree, being hardly
larger than a small egg. These ovule bodies are composed of thirty
to forty closely packed, woody, persistent scales, each with four to
six seeds at its base. Two years are required for the cone to mature,
and by early Autumn of the second year their olive green, purplish
color has faded to a dull yellowish brown, the cone has shrunken and
the scales parted sufficiently to liberate its seeds to the wind. So
insignificant looking are these tiny seeds that few fail to marvel
that they should contain the actual germ which produces the largest
inhabitant of the world’s forests. But the size of a mustard seed, with
membranous disk-like wings, they are so light that they make a sound
almost imperceptible to the human ear in their glancing and wavering
fall to the forest floor.
Not less impressive is the abundance of these seeds. Over three hundred
are contained within each cone. John Muir counted on two ordinary
specimen branches over four hundred and eighty cones containing at
least one hundred and forty thousand seeds. This led him to state that
“millions of seeds are ripened annually by a single tree, and in a
fruitful year the product of one of the northern groves would contain
enough to plant all the mountain ranges of the world.” Surely, the cone
of the Sequoia presses closely upon the classic pomegranate in the
number of its seeds and may well be considered the symbol of abundance.
During the droning days of Autumn when the air is freighted with a
calm, serious stillness, and a thousand wild creatures are occupied
with tasks that fulfill an instinctive provision for a coming want,
the squirrels are busy gathering the Sequoia cones, small as they are.
Throughout these quiet days the sound of their dropping may be heard
and grey-furred bodies may be seen coming down the great red trunks
with nervous, jerky vehemence—trunks whose bark has known the tiny
feet of others of their voluble kin decades ago. Securing the cones
they have cut down with their “ivory sickles,” these diligent little
harvesters store them away for winter use. Often forgotten, these
cones, buried at the proper depth for germination, become the means of
further perpetuating the race of the giants.
Other creatures, too, are laying up provisions for the winter. Birds
are amazingly industrious. Some are gathering with much fuss into
flocks preparatory for southward flight, while others, with thoughts
of chill days to come, are busily searching out every cranny for a
morsel of food, mere atoms against the huge, lofty trunks. Blue-jays
are indulging in their usual pilfering, making more noise than all the
rest of the forest folk combined. Insects also seem unusually active.
Happy, gauzy-winged bits of concentrated gayety, they while away their
little hours in the mellowed sunshine. Giving no thought to the frosts
and short days to come, transitory and carefree, they offer the most
tragic contrasts, dancing and humming about the immortal Sequoia.
When winter comes and all is in keeping with the great sleep of the
forest, it is blossom time for the Sequoia. For everything else the
beauty of life’s expansion is ended. The pines have become funereal
in their aspect; the firs have lost their gayety. The underbrush,
bowed with the weight of snow, is stripped of its bright leaves. Sear
and brown, they lie heaped in hollows where the wailing Autumn winds
left them. The flowers, too, are in their graves. The robins are
gone. Even streams are silent and buried. But the Sequoia, living an
almost enchanted existence, is quite beyond reach of every influence
suggestive of winter’s repose. Though all life about it may cease, it
must blossom forth. Producing myriads of minute flowers at the ends of
branches formed the previous year, it fairly bursts into bloom, dusting
the snowy ground, like a gigantic goldenrod, with golden pollen.
Contrasting the prolific abundance of Sequoia seeds with the scarcity
of seedlings, it seems logical to conclude that the Sequoia is not
reproducing. It is true that seedlings are rare in the northern groves,
although seed production there is as great as elsewhere. This has been
construed as evidence that the seeds are infertile and bears out the
sad prophecy of Asa Gray that the Sequoia is a wan and weary survivor
of the Age of Reptiles and has that inferiority about it of all
things that go back into the past. Tainted with antiquity, it is
supposedly losing its power of reproduction.
[Illustration: ALABAMA TREE, A PERFECT SEQUOIA
MARIPOSA GROVE Photo by A. C. Pillsbury]
The southern groves, however, throw quite a different light upon the
question. There reproduction is manifest on every hand. Companies of
seedlings are springing up everywhere determined to carry on the noble
line. They are found growing not alone in moist glens where the soil is
rich and deep, but also on rocky ledges and steep hillsides seemingly
bare of all nutriment, some even battling for life with their roots
wedged in crevices of granite beds. Exuberant and heavy with an output
of green foliage, these monarchs of the future promise anything but an
inability to maintain the forest in its most perfect vigor.
The fact that the Sequoias in the northern part of their range show
lack of reproduction is not due to a loss of viability of their seeds,
but to other causes. Wherever the thick layer of leaf mould is stripped
away exposing the mineral soil and the proper amount of sunlight is
sifted down, plantations of thrifty seedlings promise renewal of the
race. But where the overhead shade is unbroken and the litter on the
forest floor undisturbed, the seedling succumbs long before its tiny
roots can reach down through the decaying vegetable matter to the
soil beneath. In the southern groves where the ravages of the lumber
mill and fire have been extensive enough to open up the dense shade,
tearing the ground and baring it to the sunlight, the Sequoia has
displayed an admirable ability to seed over the desolated areas. But in
the northern groves where sunlight and soil conditions are unfavorable
to the development of seedlings, reproduction is practically at a
standstill.
In the Calaveras Grove Sudworth found a few seedlings “where storm
had made an opening in the forest and a ground fire had exposed a
little mineral soil. Apparently good use had been made of the first
opportunity for reproduction,” he goes on to state, “for young big
trees were vigorous in the full enjoyment of the sun.” The same may be
said to be true of the Mariposa Grove. Reproduction, as a whole, is
always evident when proper conditions obtain, for numberless seedlings
may be found growing on spots bared of the forest litter and open to
the sun. With continued protection these bid fair to replace the old
giants of the present.
It is also of interest to note that seedlings are the exception
throughout the Redwood belt. This is not due to sterility of the
seeds, but to the same causes which have conspired in Big Tree forests
to prevent reproduction. The dense shade and the heavy ground litter
present conditions most unfavorable to germination. Indeed, were it not
for the Redwood’s unique habit of sprouting shoots from stumps and old
roots, they, too, would be as completely splendid in their poverty of
young trees as the northern groves of the Giant Sequoia.
The causes, then, of the death of seedlings, especially in the northern
parts of the Sequoia’s range, are not, as was first commonly supposed,
due to the drying out of the climate, the loss in vitality of the race,
or the fact that the Sequoias are being vanquished by competitive and
more lusty species. Given favorable soil and light conditions the tree
“still possesses that strong inherent reproductive power that permits
survival of the fit.”
It is true that the Sequoia has not extended its range since
post-glacial time. If it has, the monuments of its extension have
remained no more enduring than those left by departed bees and
butterflies, for in the gaps between the Sequoia groves, not a
root-hole or a trench made by a falling giant has been discovered. The
fact that such records are well nigh imperishable, taken in conjunction
with their abundant presence in the groves themselves, led John Muir to
conclude that their absence outside is indicative of the non-extension
of the species beyond its present limits since the glacial period that
gave the Sierras their aspect of savage grandeur. Before this epoch,
however, it is believed that the Sequoia extended in an unbroken belt
along the Sierra and that the present-day gaps mark the paths of these
great ice rivers. In fact, wherever the glaciers once wore their bodies
into the canyons, the Sequoia is found wanting. And though the tree
has not re-united its broken clusters, it has held its own ground
against rival species. John Muir took this as evidence that the Sequoia
exhibited no decadence since the glacial period.
The unequivocal conclusion to be drawn from these facts is that the
Sequoia is in no danger of extinction. It has not lost the original
hardihood of its race. Nor is the present but the epilogue of the
imposing part it has played in the past—it is the augury of a yet more
splendid future awaiting a race whose ancestors reach back into the
borderland of the forgotten ages.
PART THREE
Naming _the_ Sequoia
+Chapter VIII+
A NAME FOR THE AGES
The infinite deal of trivial fussiness that has clustered about
the botanical name of the Giant Sequoia is, indeed, a grievous
misfortune. The tree must regard it all with consummate unconcern.
Alone with the past and having a dignity not of earth in its mien
it stands as indifferent to agitation that has to do with the petty
passions of humanity as the far-away patient stars. Suggestive of
no strife save that of emulation, it looks with complacent disdain
upon life’s vanities; its strange medley of littleness and greatness,
its commingling of folly and wisdom. Yet for all the great Sequoia’s
majestic aloofness, its name has become embroiled in endless bickerings
and surrounded with technicalities apt to nip any budding enthusiasm
for botanical nomenclature.
In order to avoid interminable confusion it is necessary that the
plants of the earth be systematically classified and that there be no
deviation from the rules governing their classification. Foremost of
the rules that have been laid down is that of priority. This dictates
that the first name given a new plant in point of time must prevail.
If contention or ambiguity arise, priority decides the case, and the
first botanical designation bestowed stands for all time, regardless
of whether it be appropriate or not. Designations of a subsequent date
are entitled to rank as synonyms only. Because of its rigor, this law
should admonish botanists to exercise good taste in giving scientific
names to hitherto unnamed plants. Another important rule is that
the name of the new plant must appear in an accredited publication,
otherwise it is technically regarded as unpublished and consequently
discarded.
Shortly after the discovery of the Calaveras Grove, the tale of its
wonderful Big Trees found its way into print. The Sonora _Herald_
appears to have been the first newspaper to give an account of the
Giant Sequoia. This was republished in the _Echo du Pacific_ of San
Francisco, appearing later in the London _Athenaeum_ of July 23, 1853.
Whitney believes the latter to be the first notice of the tree to
appear in Europe.
Naturally, these accounts excited botanists. Specimens of the Big Tree
were presented to the California Academy of Sciences in San Francisco
early in 1853. Unfortunately, however, the Academy was unable to
properly describe the new plant, since it had no references on hand
which would enable its botanists to publish a proper scientific
description of the mammoth tree. Specimens were subsequently sent East
to Torrey and Gray, but again ill fortune attended them and they were
lost in crossing the Isthmus of Panama. Meanwhile, William Lobb, an
English seed collector, on seeing specimens of the recently discovered
vegetable wonder, believed he recognized a species new to science.
He secured a sufficient quantity of Sequoia cones, foliage, and wood
to characterize the tree and departed for England in the Autumn of
1853. These specimens found their way into the hands of Lindley, who
hastily described them in Gardner’s _Chronicle_ of December 24th, of
the same year. Thus Lindley, a botanist of no particular eminence, was
the first to give a scientific description of the Giant Sequoia, and
American botanists lost both the opportunity and honor of naming a very
remarkable plant.
Overlooking the close relationship of the Big Tree to the already
scientifically described Redwood, Lindley considered it “an entirely
new coniferous form ... an evergreen of a most imperial aspect,” which
he called _Wellingtonia_, adding the specific name of _Gigantea_. The
Duke of Wellington had been dead but a year and his greatness had
not yet gained the perspective of historical time; hence, Lindley’s
designation. “We think,” he wrote, “that no one will differ from us in
feeling that the most appropriate name to be proposed for the most
gigantic tree which has been revealed to us by modern discovery, is
that of the greatest of modern heroes. Wellington stands as high above
his contemporaries as the California tree above all the surrounding
foresters. Let it, then, bear henceforth the name of _Wellingtonia
Gigantea_.”
In bestowing on an essentially American tree the name of an essentially
English hero, Lindley showed execrable taste. He might have foreseen
that such an act was almost certain to fire those who felt a consuming
contempt for anything British. Promptly the fine rules of botanical
nomenclature were thrown overboard, and Americans, eager to make a
self-righteous display of their enmity, proceeded on no principles, and
with terrible energy of language, to disturb the designation. Gradually
the agitation centered upon changing the name _Wellingtonia_ to one
bearing reference to Washington. Nor was any evidence brought forward
considered too trivial to substantiate the reasons for this change.
Perhaps the most withering rebuke of all was that of Winslow. In the
_California Farmer_ of August, 1854, appeared the following: ... “as
Washington and his generation declared themselves independent of all
English rule and political dictation, so American naturalists must, in
this case, express their respectful dissent from all British scientific
stamp acts. If the Big Tree be a _Taxodium_, let it be called now and
forever _Taxodium Washingtonium_.... No name can be more appropriate;
and if, in accordance with the views of American botanists, I trust
the scientific honor of our country may be vindicated from foreign
indelicacy by boldly discarding the name now applied to it, and by
affixing to it that of the immortal man whose memory we all love, and
honor, and teach our children to adore.”
Even Asa Gray felt entitled to rush into the field. In September of the
same year he published, on his own authority, an account stating that
the Redwood and the Big Tree did not differ sufficiently to warrant the
establishment of a new genus; adding “The so-called _Wellingtonia_ will
hereafter bear the name imposed by Dr. Torrey, namely, that of _Sequoia
Gigantea_.” But since there is no documentary evidence to show that
Torrey had published this description, the quibble remained unsettled.
The English stood at their guns and the storm raged on. Surely, if so
venerable a Sequoia as the Grizzly Giant could have been endowed with
a consciousness and could have thought about this ostentatious parade
of pettiness, it would not have been inspired with that “high and
ennobling sense” of the intellectual destiny of the human race.
Happily, the issue was quieted for a time.[6] At a meeting of the
Société Botanique de France, held on June 28, 1854, the illustrious
French botanist, J. Decaisne, discussed at length the relationship
of the Redwood and the Big Tree. He pointed out that though they
differed in leaf structure, the former having yew-like leaves in two
ranks, the latter small, scaly, cypress-like leaves in regular spirals,
the two species belonged to the same genus _Sequoia_. Therefore, in
compliance with the rules of botany, he called the new species _Sequoia
Gigantea_. Other botanists quickly recognized the correctness of his
view, and _Wellingtonia Gigantea_ was permitted to fall upon evil days.
Nevertheless, it is due to this accident of the generic agreement
between the Redwood and the Big Tree that the Giants of the Sierra bear
the name of Sequoia instead of that of Wellington.
But this botanical storm had no sooner died down than another developed
in its place. Inasmuch as the derivation of the name Sequoia was
uncertain, this was sufficient provocation to call forth much diversity
of opinion. Again spectacled wise men sought to satisfy their passion
for exactness and their propensity to doubt. Guesses fantastic in the
extreme were advanced and the subject presents another silly spectacle
of pedantry.
According to Jepson, the Redwood was collected by Thaddeus Haneke in
1791. Archibald Menzies, a member of the famous Vancouver Expedition,
is reputed to be its second botanical collector. Specimens of his
collection came before the notice of Lambert, the able English
botanist, who, considering it as of the same genus as the Bald
Cypress, published it in 1824 as _Taxodium Sempervirens_. However, this
designation was not allowed to stand, for twenty-three years later
the Redwood was recognized as a distinct genus. In the year 1847 the
celebrated Austrian, Endlicher, established the genus _Sequoia_ and
gave the world the now well-known _Sequoia sempervirens_.
Unfortunately, Endlicher failed to make a statement concerning the
origin of the word Sequoia, leaving its meaning to be inferred. Gordon
in his _Pinetum_ stated that it was probably derived from the Latin
for “sequence,” alluding to the fact that the Redwood was “a follower
or remnant of several extinct colossal species.” Kotch was inclined to
hold the name in light estimation, claiming its source to be entirely
fanciful. De Candolle, a contemporary with Endlicher, thought it of
California origin, probably taken “from some native word and written
more or less correctly.” But others have kept their heads better in the
matter. Both Hooker and Englemann believed it derived from the Cherokee
Indian, Sequoyah. At least, it is edifying to know that Endlicher was
an eminent linguist as well as a botanist. It is not improbable, then,
that he was acquainted with Sequoyah’s colorful career and named the
tree in honor of this aboriginal illiterate, this magnificent savage,
who groped in darkness to give his people letters, and found the light.
+Chapter IX+
SEQUOYAH
Had Sequoyah lived thirty centuries ago, Plutarch, and after him
Shakespeare, would have made him immortal. Had he invented an alphabet
then, similar to that which he invented for his people, the Cherokees,
he would have been hailed as one of the benefactors of the human
race. But as it is, the world’s knowledge concerning his achievement
may be said to sleep. The records of his life are hidden from the
average reader, while his fame is suffering the fate of many worthy of
antiquity—perishing from memory for want of an historian. Already the
twilight of uncertainty is throwing its shadows across his history.
Yet no savage is more worthy of remembrance. The life of Sequoyah was
radiant with the prime quality of greatness—_virtue_. It is true that
mankind admires the men and women of the past who have spoken great
words, done great deeds, and suffered noble sorrows. Few of these,
however, possess that quality of virtue which inspires emulation.
Indeed, only those whose names are written in gold on the sombre
chronicles of the past inspire to imitation. Sequoyah’s achievement
easily entitles him a place among the great characters of all time,
while his life of service stirs a strong desire to emulate, for he
strove to save his unhappy race from extinction in the noblest way a
savage ever sought.
Despite this, his name and fame go untrumpeted and unsung. Meanwhile
mankind is frantically fashioning statues to rest idly on pedestals, or
building magnificent edifices whose marbles glisten in the sunlight,
in commemoration of men of frailer virtue. Yet Sequoyah’s name is
borne by apartment houses and tomato cans. Apparently it remains for
the most gigantic and remarkable tree on the surface of the globe, the
Sequoia, to save his name from oblivion and to attempt to correct the
indifference of a so-called superior race.
Authorities are agreed that the birth, breeding, and fortune of
Sequoyah were low and that his greatness rested on a life of labor.
They are in disagreement, however, as to the date and place of his
birth, and have been able merely to offer conjectures concerning his
parentage. These mists of uncertainty that surround Sequoyah’s earliest
years are, undoubtedly, due to conditions of early frontier life.
The fur trader, who represented the outer edge of the advancing wave
of European civilization, was the first to penetrate the American
wilderness in his exploitation of beasts. Early in the settlement of
America he entered the country of the Cherokee which then embraced the
beautiful reaches of the southern Appalachians. The Cherokees received
the trader with hospitality and kindness, and a lucrative traffic in
furs soon resulted; the trader offering professions of regard and
extracting exorbitant profits. To better secure the faith of the
savage, thereby insuring the success of their venture, many of these
traders married Cherokee women. Some, fascinated by this wild life of
freedom, reverted to savagery and became “squaw men,” but the great
majority adopted this method of wife-taking to avoid a bill for board
and lodging, and then speedily disappeared as soon as their trading
enterprise was over.