Every feature or every gesture it makes expresses steadfast, dogged endurance.

The bark is of a bright cinnamon color and is handsomely braided and reticulated on thrifty trees, flaking off in thin, shining ribbons that are sometimes used by the Indians for tent matting.

Its fine color and picturesqueness are appreciated by artists, but to me the juniper seems a singularly strange and taciturn tree.

I have spent many a day and night in its company and always have found it silent and rigid.

It seems to be a survivor of some ancient race, wholly unacquainted with its neighbors.
Its broad stumpiness, of course, makes wind-waving or even shaking out of the question, but it is not this rocky rigidity that constitutes its silence.