noon
Some whirlwind , doubtless , had sent a tiny cone circling heavenward and dropped it there . It had sent others , too , no doubt , but how had this tree faced wind and storm alone and alone lived to defy both so proudly ? Some day he would learn . Thereafter , he had seen it , at noon -- but little less majestic among the oaks that stood about it ; had seen it catching the last light at sunset , clean-cut against the after-glow , and like a dark , silent , mysterious sentinel guarding the mountain pass under the moon . He had seen it giving place with sombre dignity to the passing burst of spring -- had seen it green among dying autumn leaves , green in the gray of winter trees and still green in a shroud of snow -- a changeless promise that the earth must wake to life again . The Lonesome Pine , the mountaineers called it , and the Lonesome Pine it always looked to be . From the beginning it had a curious fascination for him , and straightway within him -- half exile that he was -- there sprang up a sympathy for it as for something that was human and a brother .