The Bark Nest in the Cedar Tree

THE BARK NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE By Dr. T. D. Rees It was an early October morning, mother called for me to get up, and, as I looked out, a faint rosy glow lit up the distant east. Father was harnessing the horses ready for an early start to the mountains for a load of wood. This was the pioneer custom and the experience of many a western man and boy. The freshness of the morning and the jolting of the heavy wagon drove all sleep from my eyes and I was awake to the brilliancy of the many-colored leaves of early autumn. We drove up a big, deep canyon, with its steep sides and towering ledges, higher, and higher until we were out of the canyon and up on a mesa covered with cedar trees; here we were to get our load of wood. Boy-like, I wandered off to the rim of the big cedar flat, where the ledges were perpendicular. Hundreds of feet into the canyon below I observed a large cedar tree in the works of which was a big nest made of cedar bark; it was unusually large, I had never seen anything like it before. It was built of ropes and ropes of cedar bark, twisted around and around until they looked like long curls woven in and out among the branches of the big, stately old tree. "Hurrah! Father, come and see the wonderful nest," I called, "a big eagle's nest." Father came, looked at it for a moment and then said, "My boy, we shall climb the tree and see what is in your nest." So up we went until we could both look into it. There was no hollow center; it was filled with fluffy bark. Father reached his hand in among the bark and pushed it to the side, and there appeared a large white egg, bigger than any I had ever seen, but when he picked it up for me to see, I nearly fell out of the tree, because looking at me were two dark cavities from the bleached skull of a human being, "What is it?" I cried. "My boy," said father, "this is not an eagle's nest, this is an Indian grave." Then he told me of how the natives often buried their dead in the branches of the trees. This was the first of many a trip that I made to that spot, as a boy. Others went with me to see this object of interest. The Indian grave, in the big Cedar tree that grew on the brink of the deep canyon. Rangers and woodchoppers who came to the Cedar Mesa seldom failed to visit the lonely grave; there was something about it that drew people to it as if it were a joy to stand in the presence of this relic of the past, and dream of the time when loving hands made the nest and laid the dear one there. When I grew large enough to ride the range, I often turned off the trail to ride over by the big ledges to see the Indian Grave, in the big, faithful tree. On one occasion quite a crowd of us boys were riding the range; each mounted on a sturdy sure-footed, high-spirited horse;

THE BARK NEST IN THE CEDAR TREE 439 and, as we came near the cedar grove, there was a wild race for the big tree with the grave. We were all full of the joy of living, in the uncurtailed freedom of the big mountains; with a rush of plunging horses we surrounded the big tree. One of the boys picked up a long stick and poked the bark grave out of the tree. The little bleached skull, and the little white bones crashed over the ledges hundreds of feet to the rocks far below and were broken to splinters and dust. To our surprise, a little buck-skin doll fell at his feet. He picked it up, showed it to us, then tied it on his saddle. We all remonstrated with him for this act of vandalism, but his answer was: "Whose grave is this? It doesn't belong to anybody, and I can do as I please with it." We did not wish to quarrel, the act was done, so we rode away from the spot, for the object of interest at that place was gone forever. No more would we run a race to the Indian Grave, on the brink of the big canyon. All the way back to camp a gloom settled over the boys; few words were spoken, something had gone out of our lives. At camp, each unsettled his horse and hobbled it out for the night. Supper was joyously prepared, and quietly eaten. The dark night gathered around, and we sat in a circle just within the edge of the fire-light. One of the boys said, "I wonder if the spirits of the Indian mother and the little girl ever visit the lonely grave; and if they come tonight and find it gone, will, they hover about us to pass through the woods. An owl began moaning in the pine grove just above our camp, and a coyote's long drawn out howl wafted up from the deep canyon. The leaves rustled near by, stirred by an "evening breeze, every one moved nearer the fire, there was an uncanny feeling that seemed to press down upon us as the weird sounds of the night broke the black stillness all around, and thoughts of the desecrated Indian Grave haunted our minds. The boy who did the deed slipped out to his saddle, unfastened the doll, and brought it back with him, as he again took his place around the fire. His conscience seemed to bother him; he held the doll for a moment, then threw it into the fire. No one spoke, but all were watching, when slowly the buck-skin doll began to sit up and stare at us, then slowly raise its arms above its head, so real, so terrible, that every boy sprang to his feet and fled from the fire. A moment more it burst into flame then there was a small heap of white ashes caught up by the wind and blown away. Thoughtless boy in the land of freedom, where much belongs to all, in a moment of vandalism, with none to say no, you destroyed that which you can never replace, that which would have been an object of interest for many years. Yes; to you and yours, because it be- longed to you and to me in this land which is ours, oh, my America! Today I passed by the high cedar mesa, with my boys by my

440 IMPROVEMENT ERA side. How I would like to take them to the grave in the big cedar tree that taught me its lesson in my boyhood days. To tell them its story. How some Indian mother had carefully woven those long ccdar bark ropes and wet them with a mother's tears as she tenderly fastened them securely in the branches of the big lonely tree. Then laid her little baby girl among the folds of bark in her last resting place! The mother has gone from off the mountain top, and from out of the valleys to return no more, and all that is left is the story of the nest, and how a thoughtless boy broke it down, and there are none left to build it again! Thoughtless boy, how oft you destroy that which can never be replaced again! Salt Lake City. Carnations 'Twas a very happy Christmas As I stood beside the ocean. Nineteen hundred twenty-three. Gazing on the trackless sea; Very early in the morning Saw the waves in rhythmic motion Someone left a gift for me. Play and dance in merry glee; Not a glittering, costly present, And my thoughts in retrospection But something prized far more; Saw a lad I knew of yore — Just a bunch of sweet carnations Must be he who placed carnations On the handle of my door. On the handle of my door. The sun arose in regal splendor, It is well to be remembered Shed its rays o'er all the earth, By a friend of bygone days, For the world was celebrating It is well to tell the story, The Messiah's lowly birth. Well to sing these joyous lays. As my cup of joy was filling, It is sweet to scatter sunshine Soon I found it running o'er, On the rich and on the poor. When I saw those sweet carnations, Pleasing 'twas to place carnations On the handle of my door. On the handle of my door. So I thank my heavenly Father For my happiness and joy; And I thank him for the flowers, And I thank him for the boy, Now a man, a friend, a brother. Whom to know is to adore. Thank him for those sweet carnations On the handle of my door. Santa Monica, California. GEORGE H. THOMAS.