A year among the trees : or, the woods and by-ways of New England

By Wilson Flagg

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Title: A year among the trees
or, the woods and by-ways of New England

Author: Wilson Flagg

Release date: January 9, 2024 [eBook #72670]

Language: English

Original publication: Boston: Educational Publishing Company, 1881

Credits: Richard Tonsing, Emmanuel Ackerman, Steve Mattern, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A YEAR AMONG THE TREES ***

A YEAR AMONG THE TREES;
OR,
_THE WOODS AND BY-WAYS OF NEW ENGLAND_.

BY WILSON FLAGG,

AUTHOR OF “STUDIES IN THE FIELD AND FOREST,” “A YEAR WITH THE BIRDS,”
“HALCYON DAYS,” ETC.

The temples of the gods made desolate,
They leave the earth to curses born of art;
Degenerate man resumes the bow and quiver,
And beauty sleeps until another dawn.

BOSTON:
EDUCATIONAL PUBLISHING CO.
1890.

INDEX.

A.
Ailantus 267
Alder _Alnus serrulata_ 265
American Elm 74
American Wayfaring-Tree _Viburnum lentago_ 185
Andromeda 209
Animals of the Primitive Forest 12
Apple-Tree _Pyrus malus_ 70
Arbor-Vitæ _Thuya occidentalis_ 299
Arrow-Wood _Viburnum dentatum_ 187
Ash _Fraxinus Americana_ 8
Ash, Mountain 86
Aspen, large _Populus tripida_ 257
Aspen, small _Populus tremuloides_ 258
Autumn Woods 188
Azalea 18

B.
Balsam Fir _Abies balsamea_ 288
Barberry _Berberis communis_ 48
Bayberry _Myrica cerifera_ 178
Beach-Plum _Prunus maritima_ 72
Bearberry _Arbutus uva-urs_ 143
Beech-Tree _Fagus Americanus_ 145
Benzoin _Laurus benzoin_ 135
Bittersweet _Celastrus scandens_ 151
Blackberry _Rubus procumbens_ 152
Black Birch _Betula lenta_ 237
Black Poplar _Populus nigra_ 247
Black Spruce _Abies nigra_ 291
Black Walnut _Juglans nigra_ 164
Buckthorn _Rhamnus catharticus_ 270
Burning-Bushes 269
Butternut _Juglans cinerea_ 163
Button-bush _Cephalanthus occidentalis_ 172
Buttonwood 174

C.
Canada Poplar _Populus candicans_ 246
Canadian Rhodora 19
Catalpa 41
Ceanothus 49
Checkerberry _Gaultheria procumbens_ 143
Cherry, Black _Prunus Virginiana_ 81
Cherry, Choke _Prunus serotina_ 82
Chestnut _Castanea vesca_ 154
Chokeberry _Mespilus arbutifolia_ 85
Clethra _Clethra alnifolia_ 173
Clipped Hedge-rows 136
Cornel 200
Cornel, Blue-berried _Cornus circinata_ 201
Cornel, Dwarf _Cornus Canadensis_ 202
Cornel, Florida _Cornus Florida_ 201
Cornel, Purple-berried _Cornus alternifolia_ 200
Cornel, White-berried _Cornus alba_ 200
Cypress, Northern _Cupressus thuyoides_ 293
Cypress, Southern _Taxodium distichum_ 294

D.
Dark Plains 223
Dewberry _Rubus sempervirens_ 152
Dogwood _Rhus vernix_ 204
Dutch Myrtle _Myrica gale_ 178

E.
Eglantine _Rosa micrantha_ 218
Elder _Sambucus Canadensis_ 206
Elm, American _Ulmus Americanus_ 74
Elm, English _Ulmus campestris_ 80
Elm, White _Ulmus Americanus_ 74

F.
Fir _Picea_ 288
Flowering Dogwood 200
Flowering Raspberry _Rubus odoratus_ 152
Foliage 51
Forms and Expressions of Trees 42

G.
Glycine _Glycine apios_ 150
Grapevine _Vitis labrusca_ 152
Ground Laurel _Epigea repens_ 142
Guelder Rose _Viburnum opulus_ 186

H.
Hardhack _Spiræa tomentosa_ 114
Hawthorn _Cratægus oxyacantha_ 115
Hazel, Beaked _Corylus rostrata_ 172
Hazel, Common _Corylus Americana_ 171
Heath _Erica_ 208
Hemlock _Abies Canadensis_ 279
Hickory 156
Hickory, Bitternut _Carya amara_ 157
Hickory, Fignut _Carya ficiformis_ 157
Hickory, Shellbark _Carya squamosa_ 157
Hickory, White _Carya alba_ 157
Hobblebush _Viburnum lantanoides_ 186
Holly _Ilex opaca_ 113
Honey Locust _Gleditschia_ 108
Hop Hornbeam _Ostrya Virginica_ 61
Hornbeam _Carpinus Americana_ 60
Horse-Chestnut _Æsculus_ 40

I.
Indian Summer 240
Insecurity of our Forests 63

J.
Jersey Tea _Ceanothus Americana_ 49
Juniper _Juniperus Virginiana_ 297

K.
Kalmia 96

L.
Lambkill _Kalmia angustifolia_ 98
Larch _Larix Americana_ 277
Laurel _Laurus_ 134
Laurel, Low 98
Laurel, Mountain 96
Lilac _Syringa_ 47
Lime _Tilia Americana_ 93
Linden-Tree 93
Locust _Robinia pseudacacia_ 106
Lombardy Poplar _Populus fastigiata_ 254

M.
Magnolia _Magnolia glauca_ 105
Maple _Acer_ 220
Meadow-Sweet _Spiræa alba_ 114
Mespilus, Snowy 84
Missouri Currant _Ribes aureum_ 49
Motions of Trees 100
Mountain Ash _Sorbus Americana_ 86
Mountain Laurel _Kalmia latifolia_ 96
Mountain Maple _Acer montana_ 221
Myrtle _Myrtus_ 177

N.
Northern Cypress _Cupressus thuyoides_ 293
Norway Spruce _Abies excelsa_ 291

O.
Oak 121
Oak, Black _Quercus tinctoria_ 133
Oak, Red _Quercus rubra_ 131
Oak, Scarlet _Quercus coccinea_ 132
Oak, Scrub _Quercus ilicifolia_ 132
Oak, Swamp _Quercus bicolor_ 130
Oak, White _Quercus alba_ 129
Orchard Trees 69

P.
Peach-Tree _Amygdalus_ 73
Pear-Tree _Pyrus_ 71
Pine, Pitch _Pinus rigidus_ 305
Pine, White _Pinus strobus_ 301
Pine Woods 282
Plane-Tree _Platanus occidentalis_ 174
Plum-Tree _Prunus_ 72
Plumgranate _Prunus Americana_ 72
Poison Ivy _Rhus radicans_ 150
Poplar _Populus_ 245
Primitive Forest, The 1
Privet _Ligustrum vulgare_ 270

Q.
Quince-Tree _Pyrus cydonia_ 72

R.
Red Birch _Betula rubra_ 239
Red Maple _Acer rubrum_ 228
Red Osier _Cornus circinata_ 201
Relations of Trees to the Atmosphere 109
Relations of Trees to Birds and Insects 233
Relations of Trees to Poetry and Fable 260
Relations of Trees to Salubrity 212
Relations of Trees to Soil 181
Relations of Trees to Temperature 159
Relations of Trees to Water 88
Rhodora _Rhodora Canadensis_ 19
River Maple _Acer_ 222
River Poplar _Populus rivalis_ 248
Rock Maple _Acer saccharinum_ 221
Rose _Rosa_ 217
Rotation and Distribution 25
Rustic Lane and Woodside 148

S.
Sassafras _Laurus sassafras_ 134
Snow-ball Tree 186
Snowy Mespilus _Mespilus Canadensis_ 84
Sounds from Trees 249
Southern Cypress 294
Spindle-Tree _Euonymus_ 269
Spiræa 114
Spruce _Abies_ 290
Spruce, Black _Abies nigra_ 291
Spruce, Norway _Abies excelsa_ 291
Spruce, White _Abies alba_ 290
Strawberry-Tree _Euonymus_ 269
Sugar Maple _Acer saccharinum_ 221
Sumach, Poison _Rhus vernix_ 204
Sumach, Poison Ivy _Rhus radicans_ 152
Sumach, Smooth _Rhus glabrum_ 204
Sumach, Velvet _Rhus typhinum_ 204
Summer Wood-scenery 117
Swamp Honeysuckle _Azalea viscosa_ 18
Swamp Rose _Rosa Caroliniana_ 218
Sweetbrier _Rosa micrantha_ 218
Sweet-Fern _Comptonia asplenifolia_ 179
Sweet-gale 178
Synopsis of Autumn Tints 197

T.
Trees as Electric Agents 137
Trees for Shade and Salubrity 212
Trees in Assemblages 125
Tulip-Tree _Liriodendron tulipifera_ 104
Tupelo _Nyssa villosa_ 58

V.
Vernal Wood-scenery 35
Viburnum, Arrow-Wood _V. dentatum_ 187
Viburnum, Hobblebush _V. lantanoides_ 186
Viburnum, Maple-leaved _V. acerifolium_ 186
Viburnum, Wayfaring-Tree _V. lentago_ 185
Virginia Creeper _Ampelopsis_ 149
Virgin’s Bower _Clematis_ 153

W.
Weeping Willow _Salix Babylonica_ 32
Western Plane _Platanus occidentalis_ 174
White Birch _Betula alba_ 230
White Pine _Pinus strobus_ 301
White Spruce _Abies alba_ 290
Whortleberry Pasture 165
Whortleberries and Huckleberries 170
Willow 21
Willow, Swamp _Salix eriocephala_ 22
Willow, Yellow _Salix vitellina_ 24
Winter Wood-scenery 271
Witch-Hazel 266
Woody Nightshade _Solanum dulcamara_ 150

Y.
Yellow Birch _Betula excelsa_ 238
Yew _Taxus Canadensis_ 300

PREFACE.

The matter contained in this volume is taken wholly from “The Woods and
By-Ways of New England,” omitting all that is published in Volume I.,
and which has no special reference to trees. This volume, beside the
particular description of species, treats of the value and beauty of
trees and forests, of their climatic influence as purifiers of the
atmosphere, of their relations to water, to electricity, to temperature,
to the soil, to shade and salubrity, to birds and insects, to ornament,
and to poetry and fable.

[Illustration: THE WOODS.]

A YEAR AMONG THE TREES;

OR,

THE WOODS AND BY-WAYS OF NEW ENGLAND.

THE PRIMITIVE FOREST.

When the Pilgrim first landed on the coast of America, the most
remarkable feature of its scenery that drew his attention, next to the
absence of towns and villages, was an almost universal forest. A few
openings were to be seen near the rivers,—immense peat-meadows covered
with wild bushes and gramineous plants, interspersed with little wooded
islets, and bordered on all sides by a rugged, silent, and dreary desert
of woods. Partial clearings had likewise been made by the Indians for
their rude hamlets, and some spaces had been opened by fire. But the
greater part of the country was darkened by an umbrageous mass of trees
and shrubbery, in whose gloomy shades were ever present dangers and
bewilderment for the traveller. In these solitudes the axe of the
woodman had never been heard, and the forest for thousands of years had
been subject only to the spontaneous action of natural causes. To men
who had been accustomed to the open and cultivated plains of Europe,
this waste of woods, those hills without prospect, that pathless
wilderness, and its inhabitants as savage as the aspect of the country,
must have seemed equally sublime and terrible.

But when the colonists had cut roads through this desert, planted
landmarks over the country, built houses upon its clearings, opened the
hill-tops to a view of the surrounding prospect, and cheered the
solitude by some gleams of civilization, then came the naturalist and
the man of science to survey the aspect and productions of this new
world. And when they made their first excursions over its rugged hills
and through its wooded vales, we can easily imagine their transports at
the sight of its peculiar scenery. How must the early botanist have
exulted over this grand assemblage of plants, that bore resemblance to
those of Europe only as the wild Indian resembles the fair-haired Saxon!
Everywhere some rare herb put forth flowers at his feet, and trees of
magnificent height and slender proportions intercepted his progress by
their crowded numbers. The wood was so generally uninterrupted, that it
was difficult to find a summit from which he could obtain a lookout of
any considerable extent; but occasional natural openings exposed floral
scenes that must have seemed like the work of enchantment. In the wet
meadows were deep beds of moss of the finest verdure, which had seldom
been disturbed by man or brute. On the uplands were vast fields of the
checkerberry plant, social, like the European heath, and loaded half the
year with its spicy scarlet fruit. Every valley presented some unknown
vegetation to his sight, and every tangled path led him into a new scene
of beauties and wonders. It must have seemed to him, when traversing
this strange wilderness, that he had entered upon a new earth, in which
nature had imitated, without repeating, the productions of his native
East.

Along the level parts of New England and the adjacent country, wherever
the rivers were languid in their course, and partially inundated their
banks in the spring, were frequent natural meadows, not covered by
trees,—the homes of the robin and the bobolink before the white man had
opened to them new fields for their subsistence. In the borders of these
openings, the woods in early summer were filled with a sweet and novel
minstrelsy, contrasting delightfully with the silence of the deeper
forest. The notes of the birds were wild variations of those which were
familiar to the Pilgrim in his native land, and inspired him with
delight amidst the all-prevailing sadness of woods that presented on the
one hand scenes both grand and beautiful, and teemed on the other with
horrors which only the pioneer of the desert could describe.

The whole continent, at the time of its discovery, from the coast to the
Great American Desert, was one vast hunting-ground, where the nomadic
inhabitants obtained their subsistence from the chase of countless herds
of deer and buffalo. At this period the climate had not been modified by
the operations of man upon the forest. It was less variable than now,
and the temperature corresponded more definitely with the degrees of
latitude. The winter was a season of more invariable cold, less
interrupted by thaws. In New England and the other Northern States, snow
fell in the early part of December, and lay on the ground until April,
when the spring opened suddenly, and was not followed by those
vicissitudes that mark the season at the present era. Such was the true
forest climate. May-day came garlanded with flowers, lighted with
sunshine, and breathing the odors of a true spring. It was then easy to
foretell what the next season would be from its character the preceding
years. Autumn was not then, as we have often seen it, extended into
winter. The limits of each season were more precisely defined. The
continent was annually visited by the Indian summer, that came, without
fail, immediately after the fall of the leaf and the first hard frosts
of November. This short season of mild and serene weather, the halcyon
period of autumn, has disappeared with the primitive forest.

The original circumstances of the country have been entirely
revolutionized. The American climate is now in that transition state
which has been caused by opening the space to the winds from all
quarters by operations which have not yet been carried to their extreme
limit. These changes of the surface have probably increased the mean
annual temperature of the whole country by permitting the direct rays of
the sun to act upon a wider area, while they have multiplied those
eccentricities of climate that balk our weather calculations at all
seasons. There are still in many parts of the country large tracts of
wood which have not been greatly disturbed. From the observation of
these, and from descriptions by different writers of the last century,
we may form a pretty fair estimate of the character and aspect of the
forest before it was invaded by civilized man.

During this primitive condition of the country, the forest, having been
left for centuries entirely to nature, would have formed a very
intelligible geological chart. If we could have taken an extensive view
of the New England forest, before any considerable inroads had been made
by the early settlers, from an elevated stand on the coast, we should
have beheld a dense and almost universal covering of trees. From this
stand we might also trace the geological character of the soil, and its
different degrees of fertility, dryness, and moisture, by the
predominance of certain species and the absence of others. The
undulations upon this vast ocean of foliage would come from the
elevations and depressions of the ground; for the varying heights of the
different assemblages of species upon the same level could hardly be
perceived by a distant view. The lowest parts of this wooded region were
at that period covered very generally with a crowded growth of the
northern cypress, or white cedar. These evergreen swamps would
constitute the darkest ground of the picture. The deep alluvial tracts
would be known by the deciduous character of their woods and their
lighter and brighter verdure, and the dry, sandy and diluvial plains and
the gravelly hills and eminences by their white birches and tremulous
poplars, their stunted pitch-pines and dwarfish junipers. For a century
past the woods have been cleared mostly from the alluvial tracts; and
the oaks, the hickories, the chestnuts, and other hard-wood trees, the
primitive occupants of the rich and deep soils, have been succeeded in
great measure by trees of softer wood, that originally grew on inferior
land. The wooded aspect of the country cannot any longer be considered,
as formerly, a good geological chart, except in some parts of Maine and
the adjoining British Provinces.

One of the conditions most remarkable in a primitive forest is the
universal dampness of the ground. The second growth of timber,
especially if the surface were entirely cleared, stands upon a drier
foundation. This greater dryness is caused by the absence of those vast
accumulations of vegetable _débris_ that rested on the ground before it
was disturbed. A greater evaporation also takes place under the second
growth, because the trees are of inferior size and stand more widely
apart. Another character of a primitive forest is the crowded assemblage
of trees and their undergrowth, causing great difficulty in traversing
it. Innumerable straggling vines, many of them covered with thorns, like
the green-brier, intercept our way. Immense trunks of trees, prostrated
by hurricanes, lie in our path, and beds of moss of extreme thickness
cover a great part of the surface, saturated with moisture. The trees
are also covered with mosses, generated by the shade and dampness; and
woody vines, like the climbing fern, the poison ivy, and the ampelopsis,
fastened upon their trunks and trailing from their branches, make the
wood in many places like the interior of a grotto. Above all, the
traveller would notice the absence of those pleasant wood-paths that
intersect all our familiar woods, and would find his way only by
observing those natural appearances that serve as a compass to the
Indian and the forester.

In primitive woods there is but a small proportion of perfectly formed
trees; and these occur only in such places as permit some individuals to
stand in an isolated position, and spread out their arms to their full
capacity. When rambling in a wood we take note of several conditions
which are favorable to this full expansion of their forms. On the
borders of a lake, a prairie, or an open moor, or of an extensive quarry
that projects above the soil, the trees will extend their branches into
the opening; but as they are crowded on their inner side, they are only
half developed. This expansion, however, is on the side that is exposed
to view; hence the incomparable beauty of a wood on the borders of a
lake or pond, on the banks of a river as viewed from the water, and on
the circumference of a densely wooded islet.

Fissures and cavities are frequent in large rocks not covered with soil,
allowing solitary trees which have taken root in them to acquire their
full proportions. In such places, and on eminences that rise suddenly
above the forest level, with precipitous sides, overtopping the
surrounding woods, we find individual trees possessing the character of
standards, like those we see by roadsides and in open fields. But
perfectly formed trees can only be produced in openings and on isolated
elevations such as I have described; and it is evident that these
favorable circumstances must be rare. The trees in a forest are like
those human beings who from their infancy have been confined in the
workshops of a crowded manufacturing town, and who become closely
assimilated and lose those marks of individual character by which they
would be distinguished if they had been reared in a state of freedom and
in the open country.

The primitive forest, in spite of its dampness, has always been subject
to fires in dry seasons, which have sometimes extended over immense
tracts of country. These fires were the dread of the early settlers, and
countless lives have been destroyed by their flames often overwhelming
entire villages. At the present time the causes of fire in the woods are
very numerous; but before they were exposed to artificial sources of
ignition it may have arisen from spontaneous combustion, caused by large
accumulations of fermenting substances, or from lightning, or from the
accidental friction of the trunks of half-prostrated trees crossing each
other, and moved by a high wind. The forests in every part of the world
have been subject to conflagrations; and there seems to be no other
means that could be used by nature for removing old and worn-out
forests, which contain more combustible materials than any young woods.
The burned tracts in America are called barrens by the inhabitants; and
as the vegetation on the surface is often entirely destroyed, the
spontaneous renewal of it would display the gradual method of nature in
restoring the forest. The successions of plants, from the beautiful
crimson fireweed, through all the gradations of tender herbs, prickly
bushes, and brambles, to shrubs and trees of inferior stature, until
all, if the soil be deep and fertile, are supplanted by oaks, chestnuts,
hickories, and other hard-wood trees, are as regular and determinable as
the courses of the planets or the orders of the seasons.

THE ASH.

It is interesting to note the changes that take place from one season to
another in the comparative beauty of certain trees. The Ash, for
example, during the early part of October, is one of the most beautiful
trees of the forest, exceeded only by the maple in variety of tinting.
In summer, too, but few trees surpass it in quality of foliage, disposed
in flowing irregular masses, light and airy, but not thin, though
allowing the branches to be traced through it, even to their
extremities. It has a well-rounded head, neither so regular as to be
formal, nor so broken as to detract from its peculiar grace. When
standing with other trees in midsummer, in the border of a wood, or
mingled with the standards by the roadside, the Ash would be sure to
attract admiration. But no sooner have the leaves fallen from its
branches than it takes rank below almost all other trees, presenting a
stiff, blunt, and awkward spray, and an entire want of that elegance it
affects at other seasons.

The Ash is a favorite in Europe, though deficient there in autumnal
tints. It is a tree of the first magnitude, and has been styled in
classical poetry the Venus of the forest, from the general beauty of its
proportions and flowing robes. The English, however, complain of the
Ash, on account of its tardy leafing in the spring and its premature
denudation in the autumn. “Its leaf,” says Gilpin, “is much tenderer
than that of the oak, and sooner receives impression from the winds and
frost. Instead of contributing its tint, therefore, in the wane of the
year, among the many colored offspring of the woods, it shrinks from the
blast, drops its leaf, and in each scene where it predominates leaves
wide blanks of desolate boughs amid foliage yet fresh and verdant.
Before its decay we sometimes see its leaf tinged with a fine yellow,
well contrasted with the neighboring greens. But this is one of nature’s
casual beauties. Much oftener its leaf decays in a dark, muddy,
unpleasing tint.”

The Ash is remarkable for a certain trimness and regularity of
proportion, and it seldom displays any of those breaks so conspicuous in
the outlines of the hickory, which in many points it resembles. The
trunk rises to more than an average height before it is subdivided; but
we do not see the central shaft above this subdivision, as in the poplar
and the fir. Lateral branches seldom shoot from the trunk, save, as I
have sometimes observed, a sort of bushy growth, surrounding it a little
below the angles made by the lower branches. It is called in Europe “the
painters’ tree.” But George Barnard, alluding to this fact, remarks:
“Unlike the oak, the Ash does not increase in picturesqueness with old
age. The foliage becomes rare and meagre, and its branches, instead of
hanging loosely, often start away in disagreeable forms.”

North America contains a greater number of species of the genus
_Fraxinus_ than any other part of the globe. But three of these only are
common in New England,—the white, the red, and the black Ash. The first
is the most frequent both in the forest and by the roadsides, the most
beautiful, and the most valuable for its timber. All the species have
pinnate and opposite leaves, and opposite branches in all the recent
growth; but as the tree increases in size, one of the two invariably
becomes abortive, so that we perceive this opposite character only in
the spray. The leaflets are mostly in sevens, not so large nor so
unequal as in the similar foliage of the hickory.

The white and the red Ash have so nearly the same external characters,
that it requires some study to distinguish them. They do not differ in
their ramification, nor in their autumnal hues. The black Ash may be
readily identified by the leaves, which are sessile, and like those of
the elder; also by the dark bluish color of the buds and newly formed
branches, and the slenderness of its proportions. It seldom attains a
great height or size, and is chiefly confined to swamps and muddy soils.
The wood of this species is remarkable for strength and elasticity. The
remarks of George Barnard respecting the localities of the Ash in Europe
will apply to the American species: “Though seen everywhere, its
favorite haunt is the mountain stream, where its branches hang
gracefully over the water, adding much beauty to the scene. It is to be
met with in every romantic glen and glade, now clinging with
half-covered roots to a steep, overhanging cliff, and breaking with its
light, elegant foliage the otherwise too abrupt line, or with its soft
warm green relieving the monotonous coloring of the rocks or the sombre
gray of some old ruin.”

There are some remarkable superstitions and traditionary notions
connected with the Ash-tree. The idea that it is offensive, and even
fatal, to serpents, is not of modern origin, though not a rustic laborer
can be found who would not consider an Ash-tree planted before his house
as a charm against their intrusion. According to Pliny, if a serpent be
surrounded on one side by fire and on the other by a barricade of the
leaves and branches of the Ash-tree, he will escape through the fire,
rather than through its fatal boughs. It is related in the Edda that man
was first created from the wood of this tree, and it is not improbable
that this superstition has some connection with the fable of Adam and
Eve, and through this with the supposed antipathy of the serpent for the
Ash-tree.

There is a saying in Great Britain, that, if the Ash puts forth its
leaves before the oak, the following summer will be wet; but if the
leafing of the oak precedes that of the Ash, it will be dry. I am not
aware that any such maxim has obtained credence in the United States.

ANIMALS OF THE PRIMITIVE FOREST.

European travellers in this country frequently allude to the American
forest as remarkable for its solitude and deficiency of animal life.
Captain Hardy remarks that a foreigner is struck with surprise, when
rambling through the bush, at the scarcity of birds, rabbits, and hares,
and is astonished when in the deepest recesses of the wild country he
sees but little increase of their numbers. When paddling his canoe
through lake and river, he will startle but few pairs of exceedingly
timid waterfowl where in Europe they swarm in multitudes. This scarcity
of animals, I would remark, is not peculiar to the American wilderness.
The same fact has been observed in extensive forests both in Europe and
Asia; and in proportion as the traveller penetrates into their interiors
he finds a smaller number of animals of almost every species. Birds,
insects, and quadrupeds will multiply, like human beings, in a certain
ratio with the progress of agriculture, so long as there remains a
sufficiency of wild wood to afford them a refuge and a home. They use
the forest chiefly for shelter, and the open grounds for forage; the
woods are their house, the meadows their farm.

I had an opportunity for observing these facts very early in life, when
making a pedestrian tour through several of the States. I commenced my
journey in autumn, and being alone, I was led to take note of many
things which, had any one accompanied me, would have escaped my
observation. After passing a few weeks of the winter in Nashville, I
directed my course through Tennessee and Virginia, and was often led
through extensive ranges of forest. I never saw birds in any part of the
United States so numerous as in the woods adjoining the city of
Nashville, which was surrounded with immense cornfields and cotton
plantations. But while walking through the country I could not help
observing the scarcity of birds and small quadrupeds in the woods
whenever I was at a long distance from any village or habitation.
Sometimes night would draw near before I had reached a hamlet or
farm-house, where I might take lodging. On such occasions the silence of
the woods increased my anxiety, which was immediately relieved upon
hearing the cardinal or the mocking-bird, whose cheerful notes always
indicated my approach to cultivated fields and farms.

That this scarcity of animal life is not peculiar to the American forest
we have the testimony of St. Pierre, who says of the singing birds: “It
is very remarkable that all over the globe they discover an instinct
which attracts them to the habitations of man. If there be but a single
hut in the forest, all the singing birds of the vicinity come and settle
round it. Nay, they are not to be found except in places which are
inhabited. I have travelled more than six hundred leagues through the
forests of Russia, but never met with small birds except in the
neighborhood of villages. On making the tour of fortified places in
Russian Finland with the general officers of the corps of engineers with
which I served, we travelled sometimes at the rate of twenty leagues a
day without seeing on the road either village or bird. But when we
perceived the sparrows fluttering about, we concluded we must be near
some inhabited place. In this indication we were never once deceived.”

It may be remarked, however, that birds and quadrupeds do not seek the
company of man when they congregate near his habitations. They are
attracted by the increased amount of all their means of subsistence that
follows the cultivation of the land. The granivorous birds, no less than
the insect-feeders, are benefited by the extension of agriculture. Even
if no cereal grains were raised, the cultivated fields would supply
them, in the product of weeds alone, more sustenance than a hundred
times the same area in forest. Before there were any settlements of
white men in this country, birds and small quadrupeds must have
congregated chiefly about the wooded borders of prairies, on the banks
of rivers, in fens and cranberry meadows, and around the villages of the
red man. Their numbers over the whole continent were probably much
smaller than at the present time, notwithstanding the merciless
destruction of them by gunners and trappers.

There are but few tribes of animals that may be supposed to thrive only
in the wild forest; and even these, if unmolested by man, would always
find a better subsistence in a half-cultivated country abounding in
woods of sufficient extent to afford them shelter and a nursery for
their young, than in a continuous wilderness. Beasts of prey, however,
are destroyed by man in the vicinity of all his settlements, to protect
himself and his property from their attacks, and game-birds and animals
of the chase are recklessly hunted both for profit and amusement. In
Europe the clearing of the original forest was so gradual that the wild
animals multiplied more rapidly with the progress of agriculture.
Civilization advanced so slowly, and the arts made such tardy and
gradual progress, that all species enjoyed considerable immunity from
man. The game-birds and animals of the chase were not only preserved in
forests attached to princely estates, but they were also protected by
game-laws at a time when such laws were less needful because so few of
the peasantry were accustomed to the use of the gun. While the royal
forests yielded these creatures a shelter and abode, the cultivated
lands near their bounds afforded them subsistence; and they must have
multiplied more rapidly in proportion to the increase of human
population than in America after its settlement, where very different
circumstances and events were witnessed.

America was colonized and occupied by civilized people, and the forests
were swept away with a rapidity unprecedented in the history of man.
Every pioneer was a hunter provided with guns and ammunition; every male
member of his family over seven years of age was a gunner and a trapper.
The sparse inhabitants of the forest, which if unmolested, as in the
early period of European civilization, would have multiplied in
proportion to their increased means of subsistence, have been, on the
contrary, shot by the gunner, insnared by the trapper, and wantonly
destroyed by boys for amusement, until some species have been nearly
exterminated. Instead of increasing in a ratio with the supplies of
their natural food, many tribes of them are now more scarce than they
were in the primitive forest. The small birds alone, whose prolific
habits and diminutive size were their protection, have greatly
multiplied.

But even if birds and quadrupeds were unmolested by man, there are some
tribes that would prefer to reside in the deep wood, while others would
fix their abode in orchards and gardens. The wild pigeon has not been
favored in any respect by the clearing of the forest. The food of this
species is abundantly supplied in the wilds of nature in the product of
beechen woods, hazel copses, groves of the chinquapin oak, and of the
shores of lakes and arms of the sea covered with Canada rice and the
maritime pea-vine. Their immense powers of flight enable them to
transport themselves to new feeding-grounds after any present stock is
exhausted, and to wing their way over hundreds of miles between their
different repasts. This cannot be said of the grouse, the turkey, and
the partridge, whose feeble powers of flight confine them to a narrow
extent of territory; and these birds must have been frequently robbed of
their farinaceous stores by flocks of wild pigeons during their
itinerant foraging.

There are many species of birds which we associate with the wild wood
because they breed and find shelter there, but if we watched their
habits we should learn that even these solitary birds make the
cultivated grounds their principal feeding-places. Such are the quail,
the partridge, and very many of our game-birds. The quail and the
partridge are omnivorous, but, like our common poultry, are more eager
to seize a grub or an insect than a grain of corn. A potato-field is
hardly less valuable to a flock of quails than a field of corn, and
affords more sustenance to the snipe and the woodcock than any other
grounds. But these birds, as well as others, have diminished as those
natural advantages have increased that should promote their
multiplication.

Even our sylvias and thrushes, the most timid of all the winged tribe,
birds hardly ever seen except in lonely woods, multiply with the
clearing of the country and the increased abundance of their insect
food. The vesper thrushes, that shun the presence of man, and will
become silent in their musical evening if the rustling of the bushes
indicates the approach of a human footstep, are more numerous in the
woods of Cambridge than in any other part of the country. These are
chiefly of maple, filled with underbrush, and afford the birds a harbor
and a shelter, while the adjoining fields, in a state of the highest
tillage, supply them plentifully with their natural food, consisting of
worms and the larvæ of insects.

THE AZALEA, OR SWAMP HONEYSUCKLE.

The Azaleas are favorite flowering shrubs in florists’ collections at
the present day, and are remarkable for the delicacy of their flowers
and the purity of their colors. In New England are only two species,—the
Swamp Honeysuckle and the colored Azalea, a prostrate shrub bearing pink
flowers. It cannot be doubted that the interest attached to a flower is
greatly increased by finding it in the wild wood. I have frequently
observed this effect and the opposite upon suddenly meeting a garden
flower in a field or wood-path, or a wild flower in the garden. When the
Swamp Honeysuckle is seen growing with the fairer Azaleas of the
florists in cultivated grounds, its inferiority is most painfully
apparent; but when I encounter it in some green solitary dell in the
forest, bending over the still waters, where all the scenes remind me
only of nature, I am affected with more pleasure than by a display of
the more beautiful species in a garden or greenhouse.

[Illustration: SWAMP AZALEA]

The Swamp Honeysuckle is one of the most interesting of the New England
flowering shrubs, and a very well known species. It comes into flower
about the first of July, and is recognized by its fragrance,—resembling
that of the marvel of Peru,—by the similarity of its flowers to those of
the woodbine, and their glutinous surface. It is found only in wet
places, and delights in suspending its flowers over a gently flowing
stream, the brink of a pool, or the margin of a pond, blending its odors
with those of water-lilies, and borrowing a charm from the reflection of
its own beauty on the surface of the still water. Though it bears no
fruit, every rambler in the woods is grateful for the perfume it sheds
around him while wandering in quest of its flowers. These are extremely
delicate in texture and closely resemble those of the common white
honeysuckle or woodbine of our gardens, not only in their general shape,
but also in the appearance of several wilted flowers in the same cluster
with perfect flowers and buds. A pulpy excrescence is often attached to
this plant, which is familiarly known by the name of “swamp apple.” It
is slightly acidulous and sweet, and, though nearly insipid, is not
disagreeable in flavor.

A more beautiful but less common species, with pale crimson flowers, is
found in certain localities, that tends to multiply into varieties. It
is a smaller shrub than the white Azalea, and does not show the same
preference for wet places. All the species are more remarkable for their
flowers than their foliage, which is of a pale glaucous green and small
in quantity.

THE CANADIAN RHODORA.

In the latter part of May, when the early spring flowers are just
beginning to fade, and when the leaves of the forest trees are
sufficiently expanded to display all the tints attending the infancy of
their growth, no plant attracts more admiration than the Canadian
Rhodora. The flowers, of a purple crimson, are in umbels on the ends of
the branches, appearing before the leaves. The corolla, consisting of
long narrow petals, very deeply cleft, the stamens on slender hairy
filaments, and the projecting style, resemble tufts of colored silken
fringe. The Rhodora is from two to six feet in height, and is one of the
most conspicuous ornaments of wet, bushy pastures in this part of the
country. It is the last in the train of the delicate flowers of spring,
and by its glowing hues indicates the coming of a brighter vegetation.
When other shrubs of different species are only half covered with
foliage, the Rhodora spreads out its flowers upon the surface of the
variegated ground, in plats and clumps of irregular sizes, and sheds a
checkered glow of crimson over whole acres of moor. The poets have said
but little of this flower because it wants individuality. We look upon
the blossoms of the Rhodora as we look upon the crimsoned clouds,
admiring their general glow, not the cast of single flowers. But there
is something very poetical in the rosy wreaths it affixes to the brows
of Nature, still pallid with the long confinement of winter.

[Illustration: CATKINS OF WILLOW.]

THE WILLOW.

The Willow is of all trees the most celebrated in romance and romantic
history. Its habit of growing by the sides of lakes and rivers, and of
spreading its long branches over wells in solitary pastures, has given
it a peculiar significance in poetry as the accompaniment of pastoral
scenes, and renders it one of the most interesting objects in landscape.
Hence there is hardly a song of nature, a rustic lay of shepherds, a
Latin eclogue, or any descriptive poem, that does not make frequent
mention of the Willow. The piping sounds from wet places in the spring
of the year, the songs of the earliest birds, and the hum of bees when
they first go abroad after their winter’s rest, are all delightfully
associated with this tree. We breathe the perfume of its flowers before
the meadows are spangled with violets, and when the crocus has just
appeared in the gardens; and its early bloom makes it a conspicuous
object when it comes forth under an April sky, gleaming with a drapery
of golden verdure among the still naked trees of the forest and orchard.

When Spring has closed her delicate flowers, and the multitudes that
crowd around the footsteps of May have yielded their places to the
brighter host of June, the Willow scatters the golden aments that
adorned it, and appears in the deeper garniture of its own green
foliage. The hum of insects is no longer heard among the boughs in quest
of honey, but the notes of the phebe and the summer yellow-bird, that
love to nestle in their spray, may be heard from their green shelter on
all summer noons. The fresh and peculiar incense of the peat-meadows,
with their purple beds of cranberry-vines and wild strawberries, the
glistening of still waters, and the sight of little fishes that gambol
in their clear depths, are circumstances that accompany the Willow, and
magnify our pleasure on beholding it, either in a picture or real
landscape. We prize the Willow for its material qualities no more than
for its poetic relations; for it is not only the beauty of a tree, but
the scenes with which it is allied, and the ideas and images it awakens
in the mind, that make up its attractions.

The very name of this tree brings to mind at once a swarm of images,
rural, poetical, and romantic. There is a softness in the sound of
Willow that accords with the delicacy of its foliage and the flexibility
of its slender branches. The syllables of this word must have been
prompted by the mellow tones which are produced by the wind when gliding
through its airy spray. Writers of romance have always assigned the
Willow to youthful lovers, as affording the most appropriate arbor for
their rustic vows, which would seem to acquire a peculiar sacredness
when spoken under the shade of the most poetical of all trees.

The Willow, though tenacious of life, will not prosper in dry places.
Its presence is a sure indication of water, either on the surface of the
ground or a little beneath it. The grass is green at all times under
this tree, and the herds that browse upon its foliage and young branches
find beneath them the most grateful pasture. In the New England States
it has long been customary to plant Willows by the wayside, wherever the
road passes over wet grounds. Some of the most delightful retreats of
the pedestrian are found under their shady boughs. When he is panting
with heat and thirst, the sight of their green rows fills him with new
animation, as they indicate the presence of water as well as cooling
shade. The same comely rows are seen skirting the pools and watercourses
of our pastoral hills and arable meadows. They are planted also by the
sides of streams and canals, where they serve, by their long and
numerous roots, to consolidate the banks, and by their leaves and
branches afford shelter to cattle. These Willows are among the fairest
ornaments of the landscape in Massachusetts just after the elm and red
maple have put forth their flowers. And so lively is their appearance,
with their light green foliage, that when we meet with a group of them
in the turn of a road on a cloudy day, we seem to be greeted with a
sudden gleam of sunshine.

The Willow is one of the few trees which have been transplanted from
Europe to our own soil without being either equalled or surpassed by
some American tree of kindred species. But there is no indigenous Willow
in any part of the American continent that will bear comparison in size
and in those general qualities which we admire in trees, either with the
Weeping Willow or the common yellow Willow. The latter is as frequent in
our land as any one of our native trees, except in the forest. It
attains a considerable height and great dimensions, seldom forming a
single trunk, but sending upward from the ground, or from a very short
bole, three or four diverging branches, so as to resemble an immense
shrub. This mode of growth is caused perhaps by our way of planting
it,—by inserting into the ground cuttings which have no leading shoot.
Indeed, all these Willows are pollards. Not one of the species is found
in our forest, except where it has spread over land that has once been
cleared and cultivated. In that case, we find mixed with the forest
trees Willows, apple-trees, and lilacs, which were planted there before
the tract was restored to nature. I have seen trees of this species
growing as standards of immense size, with their branches always joining
the trunk very near the ground. On this account little rustic seats and
arbors are more frequently erected in the crotch of a Willow than in
that of any other tree.

The most of our indigenous Willows are mere shrubs. Though there are
above thirty American species, but few of them rise to the stature of
trees. Some of them are creeping plants and prostrate shrubs, some are
neat and elegant trees in miniature. Their branches are also of many
colors, some of a fine golden hue, spreading a sort of illumination over
the swamps where they abound; some are red; others with foliage so dark
as to have gained the name of Mourning Willow. Some, like our common bog
Willow, are called white, from their downy or silken aments. One of the
most beautiful of the small species is the golden osier, or Basket
Willow. The yellow twigs of this shrub, coming up from the ground like
grass without subdivisions, but densely from one common root, are very
ornamental to low grounds. It would seem as if Nature, who has given but
little variety to the foliage of this tree had made up for its
deficiency by causing the different species to display a charming
variety in their size. Thus, while the common yellow Willow equals the
oak in magnitude, there are many species which are miniature shrubs, not
larger than a heath plant. As one of the beautiful gifts of nature, the
Willow claims a large share of our admiration. Though not a convenient
ornament of our enclosures, the absence of this tree from the banks of
quiet streams and glassy waterfalls, overhanging rivers and shading the
brink of fountains, would be most painfully felt by every lover of
nature.

ROTATION AND DISTRIBUTION.

It has been observed by foresters that there is a tendency in any soil
which has long been occupied by a certain kind of timber, to produce,
after the trees have been felled, a very different kind, if it be left
to its spontaneous action. The laws affecting such rotations have been
very well ascertained, and a careful investigation of the subject would
undoubtedly reveal many curious facts not yet known. If the stumps of
the trees, consisting of oak, ash, maple, and some other deciduous
kinds, remain after the wood is felled, they will throw up suckers, and
the succeeding timber will be an inferior growth of the original wood.
But if the stumps and roots of the trees should be entirely removed, it
would be more difficult to determine what would be the character of the
next spontaneous growth. It would probably be planted by the kinds that
prevail in the neighboring forests, and it would depend on the character
of the soil whether the hard or soft-wood trees would finally
predominate.

There is an important chemical agency at work, that originally
determines the distribution of forests, and afterwards their rotation.
The hard-wood trees require more potash and a deeper soil than the
coniferous and soft-wood trees. Hence they are found chiefly on alluvial
plains and the lower slopes of mountains, where the soil is deep and
abounds in all valuable ingredients for the support of vegetation. Pines
and firs, on the contrary, though frequently discovered of an immense
size on alluvial soils, are generally crowded out of such grounds by the
superior vigor of the hard-wood trees; and they can only maintain their
supremacy on barren and sandy levels, and the thin soils of mountain
declivities, too meagre to support the growth of timber of superior
kinds. But a wood must stand a great many years, several centuries
perhaps, after its spontaneous restoration, before this order of nature
could be fully established. We must observe the spontaneous growth and
distribution of herbaceous plants in different soils to ascertain these
laws, which are the same in a field as in a forest.

When any growth of hard wood has been felled and the whole removed from
the ground, the soil, having been exhausted of its potash, cannot
support a new and vigorous growth of the same kind of timber. The
succession will consist of a meagre growth of the same species from
seeds already planted there; but the white birch and poplar, especially
the large American aspen, usually predominate in clearings in this part
of the country. When a pine wood is felled, it is succeeded by an
inferior growth of conifers, and a species of dwarf or scrub oak.
Seldom, indeed, after any kind of wood has been cut down and carried
away from the spot, can the exhausted soil support another that is not
inferior in quality or species. Though an oak wood may be succeeded by
pines, a pine wood will not be succeeded by oaks or any other hard
timber, unless the trees were burned and their ashes restored to the
soil. Hence we may account for the fact that poplars, white birches, and
wild-cherry-trees, occupy a larger proportion of the ground that is now
covered with wood than they did a century ago, in all parts of the
country.

I have already alluded to the well-known fact, that the generic
character of the timber, in the distribution of the primitive forest, in
any country, is determined in great measure by the geological character
of the soil. On sandy plains in the primitive forest, the white birch,
the poplar, the aspen, and the pitch pine were abundant, as they are now
on similar soils. The preference of the red maple for wet and miry soils
is well known; while hard maple, oak, beech, and hickory do not prosper
except in strong alluvial tracts. A heavy growth of hard timber
indicates a superior soil; pine indicates an inferior one, if it has
been left to the spontaneous action of nature. In the primitive forest
we were sure of finding such relations of soil and species. They are not
so invariable since the operations of agriculture have interrupted the
true method of nature.

When a wood has been burned, the process of renewal, when left to
nature, is much more tardy than if it had been felled, since it can now
be restored only by a regular series of vegetable species, which must
precede it, according to certain inevitable laws. The soil, however,
being improved and fertilized by the ashes of the burnt timber, is in a
chemical condition to support a luxuriant forest as soon as in the
course of nature it can be planted there. Trees will not immediately
come up from this burnt ground as in a clearing; and if they should
appear, they would mostly perish from the want of protection. In the
order of nature herbaceous plants are the first to occupy the soil, and
these are followed by a uniform succession of different species. There
is an epilobium, or willow herb, with elegant spikes of purple flowers,
conspicuous in our meadows in August, which is one of the earliest
occupants of burnt ground, hence called fireweed in Maine and Nova
Scotia. The downy appendage to its seeds causes it to be planted there
by the winds immediately after the burning. The trillium appears also in
great abundance upon the blackened surface of the ground in all wet
places. Plants like the ginseng, the erythronium, and the like, whose
bulbs or tubers lie buried deep in the mould, escape destruction, and
come up anew. These, along with several compound plants with downy
seeds, and a few ferns and equisetums, are the first occupants of burnt
lands.

But the plants mentioned above have no tendency to foster the growth of
young trees. They are, however, succeeded by the thistles and thorny
plants, which are nature’s preparation of any tract, once entirely
stripped of vegetation, as a nursery for the seedlings. All the
phenomena of nature’s rotation are but the necessary giving place of
rapid-growing and short-lived plants to others which are perennial and
more capable of maintaining their ground after being once planted.
Thorns and thistles soon appear on burnt lands, and protect the young
trees as they spring up, both from the winds and the browsing of
animals. Thus many an oak has been nursed in a cradle of thorns and
brambles, and many a lime-tree growing in a bower of eglantine has been
protected by its thorns from the browsing of the goat.

We very early discover a variety of those woody plants that bear an
edible fruit, which is eaten by birds and scattered by them over the
land, including many species of bramble. The fruit-bearing shrubs always
precede the fruit-bearing trees; but the burnt land is first occupied by
those kinds that bear a stone-fruit. Hence great numbers of cherry-trees
and wild-plum-trees are found there, as the natural successors of the
wild gooseberry and bramble-bushes. These are soon mixed with poplars,
limes, and other trees with volatile seeds. But oaks, hickories, and the
nut-bearing trees must wait to be planted by squirrels and field-mice
and some species of birds. The nut-bearers, therefore, will be the last
to appear in a burnt region, for the little quadrupeds that feed upon
their fruit will not frequent this spot until it is well covered with
shrubbery and other vegetation. If the soil be adapted to the growth of
heavy timber, the superior kinds, like the oak, the beech, and the hard
maple, will gradually starve out the inferior species, and in the course
of time predominate over the whole surface.

When I consider all these relations between plants and animals, I feel
assured, if the latter were destroyed that plant their seeds, many
species would perish and disappear from the face of the earth. Nature
has provided, in all cases, against the destruction of plants, by
endowing the animals that consume their fruits with certain habits that
tend to perpetuate and preserve them. In this way they make amends for
the vast quantities they consume. After the squirrels and jays have
hoarded nuts for future use, they do not find all their stores; and they
sow by these accidents more seeds than could have been planted by other
accidental means, if no living creature fed upon them. Animals are not
more dependent on the fruit of these trees for their subsistence, than
the trees are upon them for the continuance of their species. And it is
pleasant to note that, while plants depend on insects for the
fertilization of their flowers, they are equally indebted to a higher
order of animals for planting their seeds. The wasteful habits of
animals are an important means for promoting this end. The fruit of the
oak, the hickory, and the chestnut will soon decay if it lies on the
surface of the ground, exposed to alternate dryness and moisture, and
lose its power of germination. Only those nuts which are buried under
the surface are in a condition to germinate. Many a hickory has grown
from a nut deposited in the burrow of a squirrel; and it is not an
extravagant supposition that whole forests of oaks and hickories may
have been planted in this manner.

These facts are too much neglected in our studies of nature. A knowledge
of them, and a consideration of their bearings in the economy of nature,
might have saved many a once fertile country from being converted into a
barren waste, and may serve yet to restore such regions to their former
happy condition. But these little facts are not of sufficient magnitude
to excite our admiration, and they involve a certain process of
reasoning that is not agreeable to common minds, or even to the more
cultivated, which have been confined chiefly to technology. The few
facts to which I have alluded in this essay are such as lie at the
vestibule of a vast temple that has not yet been entered. I am not ready
to say that no single species of the animal creation may not be
destroyed without derangement of the method of nature; for thousands
have, in the course of time, become extinct by the spontaneous action of
natural agents. But there is reason to believe that, if any species
should be destroyed by artificial means, certain evils of grievous
magnitude might follow their destruction.

The frugivorous birds are the victims of constant persecution from the
proprietors of fruit gardens. Their persecutors do not consider that
their feeding habits have preserved the trees and shrubs that bear fruit
from utter annihilation. They are the agents of nature for distributing
vegetables of all kinds that bear a pulpy fruit in places entirely
inaccessible to their seeds by any other means. Notwithstanding the
strong digestive organs of birds, which are capable of dissolving some
of the hardest substances, the stony seeds of almost all kinds of pulpy
fruit pass through them undigested. By this providence of nature the
whole earth is planted with fruit-bearing trees, shrubs, and herbaceous
plants, while without it these would ultimately become extinct. This may
seem an unwarrantable assertion. It is admitted that birds alone could
distribute the seeds of this kind of plants upon the tops of mountains
and certain inaccessible declivities, which, without their agency, must
be entirely destitute of this description of vegetation. But these
inaccessible places are no more dependent on the birds than the plains
and the valleys. The difference in the two cases is simply that the one
is apparent, like a simple proposition in geometry, and the other
requires a course of philosophical reasoning to be perfectly understood.

THE WEEPING WILLOW.

In the early part of my life, one of my favorite resorts during my
rambles was a green lane bordered by a rude stone-wall, leading through
a vista of overarching trees, and redolent always with the peculiar
odors of the season. At the termination of this rustic by-road,—a fit
approach to the dwelling of the wood-nymphs,—there was a gentle rising
ground, forming a small tract of tableland, on which a venerable Weeping
Willow stood,—a solitary tree overlooking a growth of humble shrubs,
once the tenants of an ancient garden. The sight of this tree always
affected me with sadness mingled with a sensation of grandeur. This old
solitary standard, with a few rose-bushes and lilacs beneath its
umbrage, was all that remained on the premises of an old mansion-house
which had long ago disappeared from its enclosure. Thus the Weeping
Willow became associated in my memory, not with the graveyard or the
pleasure-ground, but with these domestic ruins, the sites of old
homesteads whose grounds had partially reverted to their primitive state
of wildness.

Of all the drooping trees the Weeping Willow is the most remarkable,
from the perfect pendulous character of its spray. It is also
consecrated to the Muse by the part which has been assigned to it in
many a scene of romance, and by its connection with pathetic incidents
recorded in Holy Writ. It is invested with a moral interest by its
symbolical representation of sorrow, in the drooping of its terminal
spray, by its fanciful use as a garland for disappointed lovers, and by
the employment of it in burial-grounds and in funereal paintings. We
remember it in sacred history, associating it with the rivers of Babylon
and with the tears of the children of Israel, who sat down under the
shade of this tree and hung their harps upon its branches. It is
distinguished by the graceful beauty of its outlines, its light green
delicate foliage, its sorrowing attitude, and its flowing drapery.

Hence the Weeping Willow never fails to please the sight even of the
most insensible observer. Whether we see it waving its long branches
over some pleasure-ground, overshadowing the gravel walk and the flower
garden, or watching over a tomb in the graveyard, where the warm hues of
its foliage yield cheerfulness to the scenes of mourning, or trailing
its floating branches, like the tresses of a Naiad, over some silvery
lake or stream, it is in all cases a beautiful object, always poetical,
always picturesque, and serves by its alliance with what is hallowed in
romance to bind us more closely to nature.

It is not easy to imagine anything of this character more beautiful than
the spray of the Weeping Willow. Indeed, there is no other tree that is
comparable with it in this respect. The American elm displays a more
graceful bend of all the branches that form its hemispherical head; and
there are several weeping birches which are very picturesque when
standing by a natural fountain on some green hillside. The river maple
is also a theme of constant admiration, from the graceful flow of its
long branches that droop perpendicularly when laden with foliage, but
partly resume their erect position in winter, when denuded. But the
style of all these trees differs entirely from that of the Weeping
Willow, which in its peculiar form of beauty is unrivalled in the whole
vegetable kingdom.

It is probable that the drooping trees acquired the name of “weeping,”
by assuming the attitude of a person in tears, who bends over and seems
to droop. This is the general attitude of affliction in allegorical
representations. But this habit is far from giving them a melancholy
expression, which is more generally the effect of dark sombre foliage.
Hence the yew seems to be a more appropriate tree for burial-grounds, if
it be desirable to select one of a sombre appearance. The bending forms
of vegetation are universally attractive, by emblemizing humility and
other qualities that excite our sympathy. All the drooping plants,
herbs, trees, and shrubs are poetical, if not picturesque. Thus lilies,
with less positive beauty, are more interesting than tulips.

A peculiar type of the drooping tree is seen in the fir, whose lower
branches bend downwards, almost without a curve, from their junction
with the stem of the tree. This drooping is caused by the weight of the
snow that rests upon the firs during the winter in their native northern
regions. There is a variety of the beech, and another of the ash, which
has received the appellation of _weeping_, from an entire inversion of
the branches, both large and small. Such trees seem to me only a hideous
monstrosity, and I never behold them without some disagreeable feelings,
as when I look upon a deformed animal.

VERNAL WOOD-SCENERY.

All the seasons display some peculiar beauty that comes from the tints
as well as the forms of vegetation. Even the different months have their
distinguishing shades of light and color. Nature, after the repose of
winter, very slowly unfolds her beauties, and is not lavish in the early
months of any description of ornament. Day by day she discloses the
verdure of the plain, the swelling buds with their lively and various
colors, and the pale hues of the early flowers. She brings along her
offerings one by one, leading from harmony to harmony, as early twilight
ushers in the ruddy tints of morn. We perceive both on the earth and in
the skies the forms and tints that signalize the revival of Nature, and
every rosy-bosomed cloud gives promise of approaching gladness and
beauty.

By the frequent changes that mark the aspect of the year we are
preserved at all times in a condition to receive pleasure from the
outward forms of Nature. Her tints are as various as the forms of her
productions; and though spring and autumn, when the hues of vegetation
are more widely spread and yield more character to the landscape, are
the most remarkable for their general beauty, individual objects in
summer are brighter and more beautiful than any that can be found at
other times. In the early part of the year, Nature tips her productions
with softer hues, that gradually ripen into darker shades of the same
color, or into pure verdure. By pleasant and slow degrees she mingles
with the greenness of the plain the hues of the early flowers, and
spreads a charming variety of warm and mellow tints upon the surface of
the wood.

In treating of vernal tints, I shall refer chiefly to effects produced,
without the agency of flowers, by that general coloring of the leaves
and spray which may be considered the counterpart of the splendor of
autumn. In the opening of the year many inconspicuous plants are brought
suddenly into notice by their lively contrast with the dark and faded
complexion of the ground. The mosses, lichens, and liverworts perform,
therefore, an important part in the limning of the vernal landscape. On
the bald hills the surfaces of rocks that project above the soil, and
are covered with these plants, are brighter than the turf that surrounds
them, with its seared grasses and herbage. They display circles of
painted lichens, varying from an olive-gray to red and yellow, and tufts
of green mosses which surpass the fairest artificial lawn in the
perfection of their verdure. Many of the flowerless plants are
evergreen, especially the ferns and lycopodiums, and nearly all are
earlier than the higher forms of vegetation in ripening their peculiar
hues.

The first remarkable vernal tinting of the forest is manifest in the
spray of different trees. As soon as the sap begins to flow, every
little twig becomes brightened on the surface, as if it had been glossed
by art. The swelling of the bark occasioned by the flow of sap gives the
whole mass a livelier hue. This appearance is very evident in the
peach-tree, in willows and poplars, in the snowy mespilus, and in all
trees with a long and slender spray. Hence the ashen green of the
poplar, the golden green of the willow, and the dark crimson of the
peach-tree, the wild rose, and the red osier, are perceptibly heightened
by the first warm days of spring. Nor is this illumination confined to
the species I have named; for even the dull sprays of the apple-tree,
the cherry, the birch, and the lime, are dimly flushed with the hue of
reviving life. As many of the forest trees display their principal
beauty of form while in their denuded state, this seasonal polish
invites our attention, particularly to those with long and graceful
branches.

The swelling buds, which are for the most part very highly colored,
whether they enclose a leaf or a flower, add greatly to this luminous
appearance of the trees. These masses of innumerable buds, though mere
colored dots, produce in the aggregate a great amount of color. This is
apparent in all trees as soon as they are affected by the warmth of the
season. But as vegetation comes forward, the flower-buds grow brighter
and brighter, till they are fully expanded, some in the form of fringes,
as in most of our forest trees, others, as in our orchard trees, in
clusters of perfect flowers. This drapery of fringe, seldom highly
colored, but containing a great variety of pale shades, that hangs from
the oak, the birch, the willow, the alder, and the poplar, is sufficient
to characterize the whole forest, and forms one of the most remarkable
phenomena of vernal wood-scenery.

It is generally supposed that the beauties of tinted foliage are
peculiar to autumn. I do not recollect any landscape painting in which
the tints of spring are represented. All the paintings of colored leaves
are sketches of autumnal scenes, or of the warm glow of sunlight. Yet
there is hardly a tree or a shrub that does not display in its opening
leaves a pale shade of the same tints that distinguish the species or
the individual tree at the time of the fall of the leaf. The birch and
the poplar imitate in their half-developed leaves the yellow tints of
their autumnal dress, forming a yellow shade of green. The tender leaves
of the maple and of the different oaks are all greenish purple of
different shades. On the other hand, the foliage of trees that do not
change their color in the autumn displays only a diluted shade of green,
in its half-unfolded state. This remark, however, is not universal in
its application; for we see the lilac, that appears in autumn without
any change, coming out in the spring with dark impurpled foliage.

Green cannot, therefore, be said to characterize a vernal landscape. It
belongs more especially to summer. The prevailing color of the forest
during the unfolding of the leaf, when viewed from an elevated stand, is
a cinereous purple, mingled with an olivegreen. The flowers of the elm,
of a dark maroon, and the crimson flowers of the red maple, coming
before their leaves, are an important element in the earliest hues of
the wood. The red maple, especially, which is the principal timber of
the swamps in all the southern parts of New England, yields a warm and
ruddy glow to the woods in spring, hardly less to be admired than its
own bright tints in October. Green hues, which become, day by day, more
apparent in the foliage, do not predominate until summer has arrived and
is fully established.

It is only in the spring that the different species of the forest can be
identified by their colors at distances too great for observing their
botanical characters. A red-maple wood is distinguished by the very
tinge that pervades the spray, when the trees are so far off that we
cannot see the forms of their branches and flowers, as if the ruddy hues
of morning illuminated the whole mass. A grove of limes would be known
by their dark-colored spray, approaching to blackness; an assemblage of
white birches by that of a chocolate-color diverging from their clean
white shafts. A beechen grove would manifest a light cinereous color
throughout, mixed with a pale green as the foliage appears.

THE HORSE-CHESTNUT.

The Horse-Chestnut I would compare with the locust on account of their
difference, not their resemblance. Like the locust, it is remarkable for
the beauty of its flowers, though even in this respect the trees are of
an opposite character; the one bears them in upright pyramids, the other
in pendent racemes. Those of the locust are half closed and modest in
their colors of white and brown; those of the Horse-Chestnut are wide
open and somewhat flaring, though of a delicate rose-color and white.
While in blossom the tree is unsurpassed in its beautiful display of
flowers, that “give it the appearance of an immense chandelier covered
with innumerable girandoles.”

After all, we can bestow very little praise upon the Horse-Chestnut,
except for its flowers. The foliage of the tree displays neither
lightness, nor elegance, nor brilliancy of verdure, nor autumnal
tinting, nor any flowing beauty of outline. On the contrary, it is
homely and heavy, though it affords a very deep shade. Indeed, when we
view a Horse-Chestnut from a moderate distance, the arrangement of its
leaves give it a very pleasing tufted appearance, unlike what we see in
any other species. George Barnard says of it; “This cannot be called a
picturesque tree, its shape being very formal; but the broad masses of
foliage, although too defined and unbroken to be agreeable to the
painter, are grand and majestic when seen in an avenue or in groups.”

[Illustration: HORSE-CHESTNUT.]

As a shade-tree, or a tree for avenues and pleasure-grounds, none would
deny the merits of the Horse-Chestnut; but when denuded it is a
miserable-looking object, with its terminal branches resembling
drumsticks, its primness without grace, and its amplitude without
grandeur. The birds seldom build their nests among its branches, which
are too wide apart to afford them protection or accommodation; for this
tree is absolutely without any spray. Its fruit, which is borne in great
abundance, sustains neither bird nor quadruped, nor is it profitable for
man. Hence it has always been regarded by poets and moralists as a
symbol of extravagance and waste.

THE CATALPA.

The Catalpa, though an American tree, is not indigenous in New England,
nor farther north than Philadelphia. It is allied, in its botanical
characters, to the bignonia, one of the most magnificent of the American
flowering vines, which in Virginia and the Carolinas climbs the trunks
of the loftiest trees, and, rising to a hundred feet or more, completely
encompasses them with flowers of rare beauty and foliage of the finest
green. The Catalpa requires notice here, because it is not uncommon in
our gardens and pleasure-grounds, and it is becoming more and more
general as a wayside tree. It is remarkable as a late bloomer, putting
forth its large panicles of white flowers late in July, when those of
other trees and shrubs have mostly faded, and covering the tree so
thickly as almost to conceal its dense mass of foliage. The leaves are
very large, but flowing, heart-shaped, and of a light and somewhat
yellowish green. The Catalpa is not yet very common; but it is one of
those rare productions which is never seen without being admired.

FORMS AND EXPRESSION OF TREES.

The different forms of trees, and their endless variety of foliage and
spray, have, from the earliest times, been favorite studies of the
painter and the naturalist. Not only has each species certain
distinguishing marks, but their specific characters are greatly modified
in individual trees. The Psalmist compares a godly man to a tree that is
planted by rivers of water, whose leaf shall not wither,—seeing in the
stateliness and beauty of such a tree an emblem of the noble virtues of
the human heart. Trees are distinguished by their grandeur or their
elegance, by their primness or their grace, by the stiffness of their
leaves and branches or by their waving and tremulous motions. Some stand
forth as if in defiance of the wind and the tempest; others, with long
drooping branches, find security in bending to the gale, like the
slender herbs in the meadow.

Trees are generally classed as landscape ornaments, according to their
general outlines. “Some trees ascend vertically,” says St. Pierre, “and
having arrived at a certain height, in an air perfectly unobstructed,
fork off in various tiers, and send out their branches horizontally,
like an apple-tree; or incline them towards the earth, like a fir; or
hollow them in the form of a cup, like the sassafras; or round them into
the shape of a mushroom, like the pine; or straighten them into a
pyramid, like the poplar; or roll them as wool upon the distaff, like
the cypress; or suffer them to float at the discretion of the winds,
like the birch.” These are the normal varieties in the shape of trees.
Others may be termed accidental, like those of the tall and imperfectly
developed trees, which have been cramped by growing in dense
assemblages, and of the pollards that have issued from the stumps and
roots of other trees.

Trees are generally wanting in that kind of beauty which we admire in a
vase, or an elegant piece of furniture. They have more of those
qualities we look for in a picture and in the ruder works of
architecture. Nature is neither geometrical nor precise in her
delineations. She betrays a design in all her works, but never casts two
objects in the same mould. She does not paint by formulas, nor build by
square and compass, nor plant by a line and dibble; she takes no note of
formal arrangements, or of the “line of beauty,” or of direct adaptation
of means to ends. She shakes all things together, as in a dice-box, and
as they fall out there they remain, growing crooked or straight, mean or
magnificent, beautiful or ugly, but adapted by the infinite variety of
their forms and dispositions to the wants and habits of all creatures.

The beauty of trees is something that exists chiefly in our imagination.
We admire them for their evident adaptation to purposes of shade and
shelter. Some of them we regard as symbols or images of a fine poetic
sentiment. Such are the slender willows and poplars, that remind us of
grace and refinement, becoming the emblems of some agreeable moral
affection, or the embodiment of some striking metaphor. Thus Coleridge
personifies the white birch as the “Lady of the Woods,” and the oak by
other poets is called the monarch, and the ash the Venus of the forest.
The weeping willow, beautiful on account of its graceful spray, becomes
still more so when regarded as the emblem of sorrow. The oak, in like
manner, is interesting as the symbol of strength and fortitude. A young
fir-tree always reminds us of primness; hence the name of spruce, which
is applied to many of the species, is a word used to express formality.
The cedar of Lebanon would be viewed by all with a certain romantic
interest, on account of the frequent mention of it in Holy Writ, as well
as for its nobleness of dimensions and stature.

It is with certain interesting scenes in the romance of travel that we
associate the palms of the tropics. They have acquired singular
attractions by appearing frequently in scenes that represent the life
and manners of the simple inhabitants of the equatorial regions. We see
them in pictures bending their fan-like heads majestically over the
humble hut of the Indian, supplying him at once with milk, bread, and
fruit, and affording him the luxury of their shade. They emblemize the
beneficence of nature, which, by means of their products, supplies the
wants of man before he has learned the arts of civilized life.

Writers in general apply the term “picturesque” to trees which are
devoid of symmetry and very irregular in their outlines, either crooked
from age or from some natural eccentricity of growth. Thus the tupelo is
so called, to distinguish it from round-headed and symmetrical or
beautiful trees. This distinction is not very precise; but it is
sanctioned by general use, and answers very well for common purposes of
vague description. I shall use the words in a similar manner, not
adhering to the distinction as philosophical. Indeed, it is impossible
to find words that will clearly express a complex idea. Words are very
much like tunes played on a jew’s-harp; the notes intended to be given
by the performer are accompanied by the louder ring of the key-note of
the instrument, making it difficult to detect the notes of the tune,
except in the hands of an extraordinary performer.

Nature has provided against the disagreeable effects that would result
from the dismemberment of trees, by giving to those which are the most
common a great irregularity of outline, admitting of disproportion
without deformity. Symmetry in the forms of natural objects becomes
wearisome by making too great a demand upon the attention required for
observing the order and relations of the different parts. But if the
objects in the landscape be irregular, both in their forms and their
distribution, we make no effort to attend to the relations of parts to
the whole, because no such harmony is indicated. Such a scene has the
beauty of repose. The opposite effect is observed in works of
architecture, in which irregularity puzzles the mind to discover the
mutual relations of parts, and becomes disagreeable by disturbing our
calculations and disappointing our curiosity. The charm of art is
variety combined with uniformity; the charm of nature is variety without
uniformity. Nature speaks to us in prose, art in verse.

Though we always admire a perfectly symmetrical oak or elm, because such
perfection is rare, it will be admitted that the irregular forms of
trees are more productive of agreeable impressions on the mind. The oak,
one of the most interesting of all trees, is, in an important sense,
absolutely ugly, especially when old age has increased its picturesque
attractions. Indeed, if we could always reason correctly on the subjects
of our consciousness, we should find that a very small part of that
complex quality which we call beauty yields any organic pleasure to the
sight. The charm of most of the objects in this category exists only in
our imaginations. In trees and the general objects of the landscape we
look neither for symmetry nor proportion; the absence of these qualities
is, therefore, never disagreeable. It is the nonfulfilment of some
expectation, or the apparently imperfect supply of some important want,
that offends the sight, as when a conspicuous gap occurs in some finely
proportioned work of art.

[Illustration: LILAC.]

THE LILAC.

The Lilac, though not one of our native trees, has become so generally
naturalized in our fields and gardens as hardly to be distinguished from
them except by its absence from the forest. It is common in all waste
lands that were formerly the sites of ancient dwelling-houses, marking
the spot where the garden was situated by its irregular clumps; for when
neglected it does not assume the shape of a tree, but forms an
assemblage of long stems from one spreading root, like the barberry and
the sumach. Under favorable conditions it is a very handsome tree,
seldom rising above twelve or fifteen feet, but displaying a round head,
and covered in its season with a profusion of flowers, unfolding their
beautiful pyramidal clusters regularly on the last week in May. The
color of these flowers is perfectly unique, having given the name by
which painters distinguish one of their most important tints. The
foliage of this tree is not remarkable, except for the regular heart
shape of the leaves. It displays no tints in the autumn, but falls from
the tree while its verdure remains untarnished.

The Lilac is still cultivated and prized in all our country villages.
But its praise is seldom spoken in these days, for Fashion, who refuses
to acknowledge any beauty in what is common, discarded this tree as soon
as it became domesticated in humble cottage gardens. Even the rose would
long ago have been degraded from its ancient honors by this vulgar
arbiter of taste, if it had not been multiplied into hundreds of
varieties, permitting one after another to take its turn in monopolizing
to itself those praises which are due to the primitive rose.

THE BARBERRY.

All the inhabitants of New England are familiar with the common
Barberry, one of those humble objects of the landscape that possess
great merit with little celebrity. It is allied in picturesque scenery
with the whortleberry and the bramble. We see it in hilly pastures, upon
soils less primitive than those occupied by the vaccinium, though it is
not uncommon as an under-shrub in many of our half-wooded lands. I have
not yet been able to obtain a definite idea of the nature of those
qualities that entitle a plant to the praises of florists and landscape
gardeners, since we find them admiring the ugly mahonia more than the
common Barberry, and the glutinous and awkward rose-acacia more than the
common locust. The praises of the Barberry have not been spoken; but if
our landscape were deprived of this shrub, half the beauty of our
scenery would be wanting in many places. Its flowers hanging from every
spray in golden racemes, arranged all along in the axils of the leaves
from the junction of the small branches to their extremities, always
attract attention. But though elegant and graceful, they are not so
conspicuous as the scarlet fruit in autumn. There is not in our fields a
more beautiful shrub in October, when our rude New England hills gleam
with frequent clumps of them, following the courses of the loose stone
walls and the borders of rustic lanes. Even after it is stripped of its
fruit, the pale red tints of its foliage render it still an attractive
object in the landscape.

THE MISSOURI CURRANT.

Among the flowering shrubs which are universally admired for the
fragrance and beauty of their early blossoms, the Missouri Currant
deserves more than a passing mention. Though introduced into New England
since the beginning of the present century, it has become a universal
favorite in our gardens, where it is cultivated chiefly for the
agreeable odor of its flowers, resembling that of cloves, and
penetrating the air on all still days in May. This shrub has a small
leaf with irregular pointed lobes, turning to a pale crimson in autumn.
The flowers are in small racemes like those of the common garden
currant, but brighter in their hues, which are of a golden yellow, and
producing only a few large berries of a pure shining black. This species
is chiefly prized for its flowers, and is not cultivated for its fruit.

THE CEANOTHUS, OR JERSEY TEA.

The Ceanothus was formerly well known to the people of the United States
under the name of Jersey Tea. Its leaves were extensively used as an
imitation tea during the Revolution. They seem to possess no decided
medicinal qualities, being somewhat astringent, slightly bitter, but not
aromatic. It has been learned from experience that the aromatic plants,
by constant use as teas, will pall upon the appetite, and injuriously
affect digestion; while those which are slightly bitter, but wanting in
aroma, like the China tea plant, may be used without seriously affecting
the health for an indefinite space of time. I believe it may also be
stated as a maxim, that those plants whose properties are sufficiently
active to be used as medicines have never been long employed by any
people as substitutes for tea.

The flowers of the Ceanothus are white, in full and elegant clusters,
without any formality of shape, having a downy appearance, always
attracting attention, not so much by their beauty as by their delicacy
and their profusion. This plant is abundant in New England, flowering in
June on the borders of dry woods.

FOLIAGE.

Foliage is the most conspicuous of the minute productions of nature. To
the leaves of trees we look, not only for the gratification of our sense
of beauty, but as the chief source of grateful shade and of the general
charms of summer. They are the pride of trees no less than their
flowers, and the cause of healthful freshness in the atmosphere. They
afford concealment to small birds and quadrupeds, they give color to the
woods, and yield constant pleasure to the sight without any weariness.
It is remarkable that we always trace with delight the forms of leaves
in other objects of nature,—in the frostwork on our windows, in the
lichens that cover the rocks in the forest, in the figures on a
butterfly’s wing. Especially in art do we admire the imitation of
foliage. It is, indeed, the source of half the beauty of this earth; for
it constitutes the verdure of field and lawn, as well as of woods.
Flowers are partial in their distribution, but foliage is universal, and
is the material with which nature displays countless forms of beauty,
from the small acicular leaves of the delicate heath plant, to the broad
pennons of the banana, that float like banners over the hut of the
negro.

With the putting forth of leaves we associate the most cheerful and
delightful of seasons. In their plaited and half-unfolded condition and
in their lighter hues we behold the revival of spring, and in their full
development and perfected verdure the wealth, the ripeness, and the
joyful fruition of summer. The different colors they assume are indeed
the true dials of the year; pale shades of all denote its vernal
opening; dark and uniform shades of green mark the summer; and those of
gold, crimson and russet the autumn; so that by the leaves alone we
might determine the month of the year. They form a delightful groundwork
both for fruit and for flowers, harmonizing with each and making no
discord with any hues of vegetation. If we consider leaves only as
individual objects, they will not compare with flowers either in beauty
of form or color. A single leaf seldom attracts a great deal of
attention; but leaves in the aggregate are so important a part of the
beauty of Nature, that she would not possess any great attraction for
the sight without them. A cactus, though admired as a curiosity, and as
the parent of magnificent flowers, is on account of its leafless habit
but a miserable object; and we can imagine how forlorn must be the
scenery of those Peruvian regions where the different species of cactus
are the principal forms of vegetation.

It is very general to admire foliage in proportion as it is dense and
capable of affording an impenetrable shade; but however desirable this
may be to yield us a pleasant retreat on a summer noon, the beauty of a
tree is not much improved by this quality. At a distance it presents a
lumpish and uniform mass, with but little character; while a tree with
moderately thin foliage, so thin as to be penetrated by the flickering
sunshine, often discovers a great deal of character, by permitting the
forms of the branches to be traced through its shadows. When I sit under
a tree, I want to see the blue sky faintly glimmering through the
leaves, and to view their forms on its clear surface when I look
upwards. I would dispense with a profusion of shade, if it could be
obtained only by shutting these things out from observation. Hence I
always feel a sensation of gladness when rambling in a birchen grove, in
which the small thin foliage and airy spray of the trees permit the sun
and shade to meet and mingle playfully around my path.

The lumpish character of the foliage of large-leaved trees, like the
tulip and magnolia, is perceptible at almost any distance, causing them
to appear like green blots upon the landscape. The small-leaved trees,
on the contrary, exhibit a certain neatness of spray, which immediately
affects the eye with a sensation of beauty. This appearance is
beautifully exemplified in the beech. Some of the large-leaved trees,
however, possess a kind of formality that renders them very attractive.
Such is the horse-chestnut, that spreads out its broad palmate leaves
with their tips slightly drooping, like so many parasols held one above
another. People have learned to admire large and broad foliage from
descriptions of the immense size of tropical leaves, and by associating
them with the romance of a voluptuous climate. The long pennon-like
leaves of the banana and the wide fronds of the fan palm naturally
excite the imagination of the inhabitant of the North.

The form of leaves, no less than their size, has a great share in their
general effects, even when viewed from a distant point, where their
outlines cannot be discriminated. If they are deeply cleft, like those
of the river maple and the scarlet oak, or finely pinnate, like those of
the locust and the mountain ash, we perceive a light, feathery
appearance in the whole mass, before we are near enough to distinguish
the form of individual leaves. This quality is apparent in the honey
locust as far off as the tree can be identified. Hence the forms of
leaves do not produce all their effect upon a near view; but in
ornamental designs in the fine arts the delineations of foliage alone
are considered. In the tracery of fenestral architecture, leaves are a
very general and favorite ornament; and in photographic pictures of
single leaves, the beauty of their outlines becomes more evident than in
nature.

The most remarkable quality of foliage is color; and all will admit that
green is the only color that would not produce weariness and final
disgust. Omitting what may be said of autumn tints, the different shades
of green in the forest, both while the foliage is ripening and after its
maturity, constitute a very important distinction of individuals and
species. Pure green is rarely found in any kind, except in its early
stage of ripeness. The foliage of trees, when fully matured, is slightly
tinged with brown or russet, and on the under side with white or blue.
Painters, therefore, seldom use unalloyed green in their foliage; for
even if they would represent its appearance in early summer, when its
verdure is nearly pure, the effects of sunshine and shade upon the green
forest can be produced only by a liberal mixture of the warm tints of
orange and yellow when the sunshine falls upon it, and of purple and
violet when it is in shadow.

If I were to select an example of what seems to me the purest green of
vegetation, I should point to grass when smoothly shorn, as in a
well-dressed lawn, so that the leaf only remains. By comparing the
verdure of different trees with this example, we shall find it generally
of a darker shade and inferior purity. The only trees of our soil that
seem to me lighter, when in leaf, than grass, are the plane and the
catalpa. We must observe trees on a cloudy day to distinguish the
different shades of their foliage with precision. In such a state of the
atmosphere they are all equally favored by the light; while, if the sun
shines upon them, their verdure is modified according to the direction
in which it is viewed.

That kind of foliage to which the epithet “silver” is usually applied is
a very general favorite; but it is admired only because it is rare. I
cannot believe, if the two kinds were equally common, that the silver
leaf would be preferred to the green; for this is the color that affords
the most enduring satisfaction. The white poplar is the most remarkable
example of silver foliage. The river maple has less of this quality,
though it seems to be one of the points for which it is admired. Nature
displays but very little variegated foliage among her wild productions,
except in the spring and autumn. It is evidently an abnormal habit;
hence we find this variegation chiefly in those plants which have been
modified by the cultivator’s art, and it seldom constitutes a specific
mark of distinction.

In our studies of foliage we must not overlook the grasses, which are
composed almost entirely of leaves. They contribute as much to the
beauty of landscape as the verdure of trees, and collectively more than
flowers. We need only a passing thought to convince us how tame and
lifeless the landscape would be, though every hill were crowned with
flowers, and every tree blossomed with gay colors, if there were no
grasses or some kind of herbage to take their place. Hence the superior
beauty of Northern landscape compared with the general scenery of
tropical regions. There are more individual objects in a Southern land
which are curious and beautiful, but its want of green fields soon
renders its scenery wearisome.

There is also an interest attached to hills and meadows covered with
green herbage, and pastured by flocks and herds, that comes from our
sympathies and imagination, and causes the verdure of grass, when
outspread upon their surface, to possess a moral or relative beauty
displayed by few other natural objects. There is nothing else in
landscape to be compared with it, and nearly all outdoor scenes would be
cold and insipid without it. It expresses the fertility of the soil; it
tells of gentle showers that have not been wanting; and it becomes
thereby the symbol of providential care, the sign of pastoral abundance
and rural prosperity. We find the grasses only where nature has made the
greatest provision for the comfort and happiness of man and animals. All
the beauties and bounties of springtime and harvest gather round them;
the dews of morning glisten upon them like stars in the heavens; the
flowers are sprinkled upon them like gems in beautiful tapestry; the
little brooks ripple through them with sounds that are always cheerful,
and flash in the sunlight as they leap over their bending blades. The
merry multitudes of the insect race gain from them shelter and
subsistence, and send up an unceasing chorus of merry voices from their
verdure, which is a beautiful counterpart of the blue of heaven.

It may be truly said that no splendor of flowers or of the foliage of
trees would make amends for the absence of grass. Distant hills and
plains may be made beautiful by trees alone; but all near grounds
require this velvety covering to render them grateful to the sight or
interesting to the mind. This is the picturesque view of the subject;
but in the eyes of a botanist grass is almost infinite in its
attractions. In every field or pasture that offers its tender blades to
the grazing herds, there are multitudes of species, beside the thousands
of herbs and flowers and ferns and mosses which are always blended with
them, and assist in composing their verdure. What seems to the eyes of a
child a mere uniform mass of green is an assemblage of different species
that would afford study for a lifetime. Grasses, though minute objects,
are vast in their assemblages; but if we reflect on the phenomena of
nature, we shall not consider the least thing any less admirable than
the greatest. The same amount of wonderful mechanism is indicated in a
spear of herdsgrass as in the bamboo that exceeds in height the trees of
our forest; and the little cascade that falls over the pebbles in our
footpath is as admirable to one who regards it as evincing the power of
nature, as the Falls of Niagara.

THE TUPELO.

The old town of Beverly, which was a part of Salem during the era of
witchcraft, abounds, like other townships on the northern coast of
Massachusetts Bay, in rugged and romantic scenery. On one of the bald
hills of this town, a pond fed by a spring near the top of the hill
served as a watering-place for the flocks that were pastured there. The
only tree on this elevation of bare granite, interspersed with little
meadows of thin soil, covered with sweet-fern and whortleberry-bushes,
stood on the brink of this pond. It was an ancient Tupelo, and attracted
the attention of every visitor by the singular manner in which it spread
its long branches in a crooked and horizontal direction over this
emerald pool. It became the wonder of all that the tree should adopt
such an eccentricity of habit, hardly showing a single branch on the
land side, and bending over the water like an angler sitting at his
task. It was evident that it had never been trimmed into this shape by
artificial means. Many people, therefore, believed that its grotesque
appearance had some connection with witchcraft, and that the witches who
were hanged upon it had caused all the branches to wither and fall on
the side that held the victims.

This tree has, I believe, no representative on the old continent; and
though there are several species in the United States, only one is found
in New England. Here it is one of the most remarkable trees as a
picturesque object in landscape. Indeed, there is no other tree, not
excepting the oak, that will compare with it in certain eccentricities
of habit. It has received a variety of names in different parts of the
country, being called “Swamp Hornbeam,” from the toughness of its wood;
“Umbrella Tree,” from a peculiar habit of some individuals to become
flattened and slightly convex at the top. Among our country people it is
known as the “Wild Pear,” from a fancied resemblance between its foliage
and that of the common pear-tree. The resemblance seems to consist only
in the size and gloss of its leaves. In the Middle and Southern States
it is called the “Sour Gum,” to distinguish it from the “Sweet Gum,” or
_Liquidambar_. The name of Tupelo was given it by the aboriginal
inhabitants.

The shapes assumed by the Tupelo are exceedingly grotesque, though it is
frequently as regular in its growth as our most symmetrical trees. It is
sometimes quite erect, extending its branches horizontally and pretty
equally on all sides, but generally forming a more or less flattened
top. More frequently the Tupelo displays no symmetry of any kind,
extending its branches mostly on one side, and often putting forth two
or three branches greatly beyond all the others. Many of these are
considerably twisted, inclining downward from a horizontal position, not
with a curve like those of the elm, but straight, like those of the
spruce, though without any of its formality. The spray is very different
from that of other trees. Every important branch is covered all round,
at top, bottom, and sides, with short twigs, at right angles with the
branch. Some of the swamp oaks resemble the Tupelo in fantastic shape,
but they never have a flattened top.

The Tupelo is the very opposite of the ash in its general characters;
the one is precisely regular in its habits, the other eccentric and
grotesque. The leaves and small branches of the ash are opposite, those
of the Tupelo alternate; the one has a coarse, the other a finely
divided spray: so that there are no two trees of the forest so entirely
unlike. It is remarkable that an isolated situation, which is favorable
to symmetry and good proportions in other trees, increases the specific
peculiarities of the Tupelo. If it has stood alone and sent forth its
branches without restraint, it then displays the most grotesque
irregularity, showing that its normal habit of growth is eccentric.

The foliage of the Tupelo is remarkable for its fine glossy verdure. The
leaves are oval, narrowing toward the stem and rounded at the extremity.
The flowers are greenish and inconspicuous, borne in minute umbels on
the end of a long peduncle. They produce small berries of a deep blue
color, containing a hard stone. This tree is one of the brightest
ornaments of our forest in autumn; the fine green color of its foliage
attracts our attention in summer, and in winter its grotesque forms,
rising out of the shallow meres, yield a romantic interest to these
solitary places. It is not well adapted to dressed grounds, but
harmonizes only with rude, desolate, and wild scenery.

THE HORNBEAM.

The Hornbeams, of which in New England there are two species belonging
to a different genus, are small trees, rather elegant in their shape,
and remarkable for the toughness and hardness of their wood. The
American Hornbeam, or Blue Beech, is distinguished by its fluted trunk,
which, as Emerson describes it, “is a short irregular pillar, not unlike
the massive reeded columns of Egyptian architecture, with projecting
ridges, which run down from each side of the lower branches. The
branches are irregular, waving or crooked, going out at various but
large angles, and usually from a low point on its trunk.” Old Gerard
remarks concerning the English Hornbeam: “The wood or timber is better
for arrows and shafts, pulleys for mills, and such like devices, than
elm or witch-hazel; for in time it waxeth so hard that the toughness and
hardness of it may rather be compared to horn than to wood; and
therefore it was called Hornbeam.”

The foliage of the American Hornbeam resembles that of black birch,
neatly corrugated, of a delicate verdure in summer, and assuming a fine
tint of varying crimson and scarlet in the autumn. The name of Blue
Beech was applied to it from the similarity of its branches to the
common beech-tree, while their surface is bluish instead of an ashen
color. Though existing in every part of the country, it is not abundant
anywhere, and is not in any tract of woodland the principal timber. It
is most conspicuous on the borders of woods, by the sides of roads
lately constructed. The scarcity of trees of this species near old
roadsides has been caused by the value of their timber, which is cut for
mechanical purposes wherever it may be found. The wood of this tree is
used for levers, for the spokes of wheels, and for nearly all other
purposes which require extreme hardness of the material used.

THE HOP HORNBEAM.

The Hop Hornbeam is a very different tree from the one just described,
resembling it only in the toughness of its wood, whence the name of
Lever-Wood has been very generally applied to it. This tree is rarely
seen by the wayside. Those only know it whose occupation has led them to
seek it for its service in the arts, or those who have examined it in
their botanical rambles. It is a small tree, that affects the habit of
the elm in its general appearance, of the birch in its inflorescence,
and of the beech in the upward tendency of its small branches. It is so
much like the elm in the style of its foliage, in the fine division and
length of its slender spray, and in the color and appearance of its
bark, that it might easily be mistaken for a small elm, without any of
its drooping habit. It does not, like the elm, however, break into any
eccentric modes of growth. A striking peculiarity of this tree is the
multitude of hop-like capsular heads that contain the seeds.

INSECURITY OF OUR FORESTS.

The American continent is so vast, and so large a part of it is still
covered with wood, that men are not ready to believe there is any danger
of exterminating its forests. Supposing them to be inexhaustible, they
are entirely indiscriminate in their method of clearing them, and treat
them as if they were of no importance further than they subserve the
present wants of the community. They are either reckless or ignorant of
their indispensable uses in the economy of nature, and seem purposely to
shut their eyes to facts and principles in relation to them which are
well known to men of science. Our people look upon the forests as
valuable only so far as they supply material for the arts and for fuel,
for the construction of houses, ships, and public works; and as there is
not much danger of immediately exhausting the supplies for these
purposes, the public mind remains quiet, while certain operations are
going forward which, if not soon checked by some very powerful
restraint, will, before the lapse of another century, reduce half this
wide continent to a desert. The science of vegetable meteorology
deserves more consideration than it has yet received from our professors
of learning. This, if fully explained, would teach men some of the
fearful consequences that would ensue if a country were entirely
disrobed of its forests, and their relations to birds, insects, and
quadrupeds would explain the impossibility of ever restoring them. Man
has the power, which, if exercised without regard to the laws of nature,
may, at no very distant period, render this earth uninhabitable by man.
In his eagerness to improve his present condition, and his senseless
grasp for immediate advantages, he may disqualify the earth for a human
abode.

This matter has been strangely overlooked by legislators in the several
States, though frequently discussed by naturalists and philosophical
writers. In spite of the warnings the people have received from learned
men, very little thought has been given to the subject. How few persons
suspect that in less than a century the greatest affliction this country
is doomed to suffer may be caused by the destruction of its forests!
Springs once full all the year will be dry every summer and autumn;
small rivers will desert their channels; once profitable mill-privileges
will cease to be of any value; every shower will produce inundations;
every summer will be subject to pernicious droughts. The preservation of
the forests in a certain ratio over our whole territory ought to be the
subject of immediate legislation in all the States. It is not a part of
the plan of this work, however, to treat of woods as a subject of
political economy, but rather to prompt our wise men to protect them by
statute, by showing our dependence on them for our existence.

It has been said that the intelligence of an educated and civilized
community like our own ought to save the country from this evil. But it
is our civilization that has created the very danger that threatens us.
A country, while it remains in the possession of barbarians, is never
disforested. It is a false assurance that the general intelligence of
the community will secure them from this danger, unless they have
studied the causes of it. A literary and even a scientific education, as
popularly conducted, does not imply any great amount of this kind of
knowledge. The intelligence of our people would undoubtedly prepare them
to understand the subject when explained to them by some one who has
made it his special study; but reading does not acquaint a person with
facts contained only in books which he never reads, though his habit of
reading only for amusement may keep him ignorant of many things which he
would otherwise learn from observation. The subject of this essay is not
sufficiently exciting to obtain a hearing from the public in a
lecture-room. Every avenue of popular information is so greatly
obstructed by objects designed only to afford amusement, that science
and philosophy, save those branches which some eloquent work has
rendered fashionable, have but very little chance to be heard. Even
among our literary classes, if you speak of trees and woods, there is
only an occasional individual of eccentric habits who seems capable of
taking any other than an æsthetic view of their relations to human
wants.

But it will be said, if a liberal education does not supply men with the
right kind of knowledge on this point, certainly our _practical men_
will understand it. They, I admit, would see at once how much money
could be made by cutting down all the trees in any given tract of
forest; but they are not the men to be consulted respecting the
advantage of any scheme that does not promise to be a profitable
investment of capital. Our practical men are the very individuals from
whose venal hands it is necessary to protect our forests by legislation.
In France, where great evils have followed the destruction of woods,
laws have been enacted for restoring and preserving them in certain
situations. These laws, however, originated, not with practical men, but
with Napoleon III., who obtained his views from men of science. Our
people have less knowledge of this subject than the Europeans, who have
been compelled to study it by the presence of evils which the Americans
are just beginning to experience.

The sentiment of the American public seems to have been excited in favor
of trees individually considered, rather than forests. People look upon
trees as their friends; and more indignation is generally caused by the
felling of a single large tree standing in an open field or by the
roadside, than by the destruction of whole acres of woods. Our love of
trees is a sort of passion; but we need yet to learn that a wood on a
steep hillside is of more importance than as many standards as there are
trees in the same wood, scattered upon a plain. This æsthetic sentiment
seems to be the only conservative principle that has yet produced any
considerable effect in preserving trees and groves. It often extends to
groups of trees, and sometimes to large assemblages, especially on
estates which have remained through several generations in the
possession of one family. But generally the avarice or the necessity of
our farmers has been more powerful to devastate, than the taste and
sentiment of others to preserve our woods.

I have long been persuaded that, unless the governments of the several
States should make this a subject of special legislation, the security
of our forests must depend on men of large property in land. Men of
wealth, if not learned, are generally in communication with men of
learning, from whom they may obtain a knowledge of vegetable
meteorology, and not being obliged, by pecuniary necessity, to cut down
their woods, will, from a sense of their importance in the economy of
nature, become their preservers. The wealth and taste of certain
families in every town and village will save a great many trees, groves,
and fragments of forest. But if our law-makers neglect to legislate for
this end, we must look to the possessors of immense estates, the lords
of whole townships, for the preservation of any large tracts of forest.

ORCHARD TREES.

The orchard trees, though but few of them are indigenous, constitute one
of the most important groups, considered as objects of beauty, to say
nothing of their utility. The most of this class of trees belong to the
natural order of rosaceous plants, among which are some of the fairest
ornaments of Northern climes. Such are the cherry, the peach, the apple,
the pear, also the mountain ash and its allied species down to the
mespilus and hawthorn. These trees are suggestive of the farm and its
pleasant appurtenances, rather than of rude nature; but so closely
allied is Nature to the farm, when under the care of a simple tiller of
the soil, and unbedizened by taste, that its accompaniments seem a
rightful part of her domain. The simplicity of the rustic farm is in
consonance with the fresh, glowing charms of Nature herself. A row of
apple-trees overshadowing the wayside forms an arbor in which the rural
deities might revel as in their own sylvan retreats; and Nature wears a
more charming appearance, when to her own rude costume she adds a wreath
twined by the rosy fingers of Pomona.

[Illustration: THE APPLE.]

The flowers of the orchard trees are invariably white or crimson, or
different shades of these two colors combined. Those of the cherry-tree
and the plum-tree are constantly white; those of the pear-tree are also
white, with brown or purple anthers; those of the peach and apricot are
crimson; those of the apple-tree and quince-tree, when half expanded,
are crimson, changing to white or blush-color as they expand. The colors
of the hawthorn vary, according to their species, which are numerous,
from white to pure crimson. Only a few of the orchard trees have been
cultivated for their flowers alone; among these we find a species of
cherry with double flowers, and a double-flowering almond, which are
common in flower-beds. The Virginia crab-apple is also planted for the
fragrance and beauty of its flowers; and if the Siberian species had no
material value, it would be cultivated for the beauty of its fruit.

As I have frequently remarked, Nature is not lavish of those forms and
hues that constitute pure organic beauty. She displays them very
sparingly under ordinary circumstances, that we may not be wearied by
their stimulus, and thereby lose our susceptibility to agreeable
impressions from homely objects. But at certain times and during very
short periods she seems to exert all her powers to fascinate the senses.
It is when in these moods that she wreathes the trees with flowers for a
short time in the spring, and just before the coming of winter illumines
the forest with colors as beautiful as they are evanescent.

The APPLE-TREE was one of the first trees planted by the original
settlers of New England, who could not in the wilderness raise those
fruits that require the skill of the gardener. This tree is indigenous
in all parts of Europe, Northern Asia, and North America. On this
continent are found two native species, of which the Virginia Crab is
the only important one. This tree bears a small green fruit, agreeable,
odoriferous, and intensely acid; but our attention is chiefly attracted
by its rose-colored flowers, that perfume the whole atmosphere with a
sweetness not surpassed by that of the rose. Nothing in the world can
exceed the purity of this fragrance, which, in connection with its
beautiful flowers, borne in large clusters, render it the admiration of
all. The lover of nature is delighted to find this species in a
perfectly unsophisticated state, and unimproved by culture, which always
tends to insipidity. The Druids paid great reverence to the apple-tree,
because the mistletoe grew upon it. In our own fields it is free from
this parasite, which is not found on the western continent above the
latitude of Virginia.

[Illustration: THE PEAR.]

The apple-tree bears some resemblance to the oak in its general
outlines, displaying, though inferior in size, more sturdiness than
grace. A standard apple-tree commonly resembles a hemisphere, often in
diameter exceeding its own height. This shape might be caused by
training; but the gardener, by cutting off certain branches, does not
change the tendency of the tree to assume its normal shape. The foliage
of the apple-tree is rather coarse, stiff, and inelegant, and deficient
in purity of verdure, being after it is fully developed of a dusky
green, and without tints when ripened, save what may be termed
accidental. There is, nevertheless, a certain kind of beauty in an old
apple-tree which is seen in no other of the orchard trees, rendering it
a very picturesque object in rustic scenery.

The PEAR-TREE is taller than the apple-tree, assuming an imperfectly
pyramidal shape. Its branches have not the horizontal tendency of the
latter; but when growing singly as a standard it greatly surpasses it in
dimensions, and many individuals of a former age, that have escaped the
axe of horticultural improvement, are noble standards, and of no
inferior merit as shade-trees. The foliage of the pear-tree displays
some of the tremulous habit of the aspen, owing to the length and
slenderness of its leaf-stems. It has, moreover, a gloss that
distinguishes it from that of the apple-tree; it is also less stubborn
in retaining its verdure, and partially tinted in autumn. The pear-trees
which have been raised within the last thirty years are mostly dwarfed,
and seldom display their normal shape. They are small, with straggling
branches, and unworthy of consideration in a treatise of this kind. The
old standards, still, occasionally seen in pastures and fallow lands,
are the only ones that affect the beauty of landscape. I have mentioned
several points in which the pear-tree surpasses the apple-tree as a
beautiful and stately object; but its fruit will bear no comparison in
beauty with that of the apple-tree, which produces a greater variety of
beautiful fruit than any other tree that is known.

The QUINCE-TREE, though inferior in size, and not prospering very well
on the soil of New England, which is rather too cold for it, deserves a
passing remark. In botanical characters it bears more resemblance to the
pear than to the apple. The fruit has the same tender and mucilaginous
core; the seeds are not enclosed in a dry hull, like those of the apple;
and the pulp of the quince, like that of the pear, is granulated, while
that of the apple displays in its texture a finer and firmer
organization. I may add the well-known fact that the pear may be grafted
upon a quince stock, while no such union can be effected between the
apple and the quince, or the apple and the pear. The quince-tree makes a
very elegant appearance, both when covered with its large white and
crimson-stained flowers, and when laden with its golden Hesperian fruit.

The PLUM-TREE, in connection with the orchard, hardly deserves mention;
but there are two indigenous species which in some places are
conspicuous objects in our fields. The beach-plum requires no
description. It is a low shrub, very common on many parts of the New
England coast and on the islands around it. There is nothing remarkable
in its appearance or in the beauty of its fruit, which is of a dark-blue
color and about the size of damsons. The other species is a tree of
considerable size, which is very beautiful when covered with its ripe
scarlet berries. In the State of Maine they are called “plumgranates,”
and are very generally used for culinary purposes.

The PEACH-TREE, of all the tenants of the garden and orchard, is the
most beautiful when in flower, varying in the color of its bloom from a
delicate blush to a light crimson. As it puts forth its flowers before
the leaves, the tree presents to view the likeness of a magnificent
bouquet. When covering many acres of ground, nothing in nature can
surpass it in splendor, flowering, as it does, sooner than almost any
other tree. Even in New England, where these trees are now seen only in
occasional groups, they constitute an important object in the landscape,
when in flower. Few persons are aware how much interest the peach-tree
adds to the landscape in early spring, by its suggestions as well as its
beauty. Since the changeableness of our winter and the harshness of our
spring weather have been aggravated by the destruction of our Northern
forests, the peach-tree is so liable to perish that its cultivation has
been neglected, and trees of this species are now very scarce in New
England, except in the gardens of wealthy men. We no longer meet them as
formerly in our journeyings through rustic farms, when they were
interspersed among apple-trees, adorning every byway in the country.

THE AMERICAN ELM.

I will confess that I join in the admiration so generally bestowed upon
the American Elm. To me no other tree seems so beautiful or so majestic.
It does not exhibit the sturdy ruggedness of the oak; it is not so
evidently defiant of wind and tempest. It seems, indeed, to make no
outward pretensions of strength. It bends to the breeze which the oak
defies, and is more seldom, therefore, broken by the wind. The Elm is
especially the wayside tree of New England, and it forms the most
remarkable feature of our domestic landscape. If there be in any other
section of our land as many, they are individuals mingled with the
forest, and are not so frequent by the roadsides. In this part of the
country the Elm has been planted and cherished from the earliest period
of our history, and the inhabitants have always looked upon it with
admiration, and valued it as a landscape ornament above every other
species. It is the most drooping of the drooping trees, except the
willow, which it surpasses in grandeur and in the variety of its forms.

Though the Elm has never been consecrated by the muse of classic song,
or dignified by making a figure in the paintings of the old masters, the
native inhabitant of New England associates the varied forms of this
tree with all that is delightful in the scenery or memorable in the
history of our land. All spacious avenues are bordered with elms, and
their magnificent rows are everywhere familiar to his sight. He has seen
them extending their broad and benevolent arms over many a hospitable
mansion and many a humble cottage, and equally harmonizing with all.
They meet his sight in the public grounds of the city with their ample
shade and flowing spray; and he beholds them in the clearing, where they
were left by the woodman to stand as solitary landmarks of the
devastated space. Every year of his life he has seen the beautiful
hangbird weave his pensile nest upon the long and flexible branches,
secure from the reach of every foe. From its vast dome of branches and
foliage he has listened to the songs of the late and early birds, and
under its canopy he has witnessed many a scene of rustic amusement.

To a native of New England, therefore, the Elm has a character more
nearly approaching that of sacredness than any other tree. Setting aside
the pleasure derived from it as an object of material beauty, it reminds
him of the familiar scenes of home and the events of his early life. How
many a happy assemblage of children and young persons has been gathered
under its shade in the sultry noons of summer! How many a young May
queen has been crowned under its tasselled roof, when the greensward was
just daisied with the early flowers of spring! And how often has the
weary traveller rested from his journey under its wide-spreading boughs,
and from a state of weariness and vexation, when o’erspent by heat and
length of way, subsided into quiet thankfulness and content!

In my own mind the Elm is intimately allied with those old
dwelling-houses which were built in the early part of the last century,
and form one of the principal remaining features of New England home
architecture during that period. They are known by their broad and ample
but low-studded rooms, their two stories in front, their numerous
windows with small panes, their single chimney in the centre of the
roof, that sloped down to one story in the rear, and their general
homely appearance, reminding us of the simplicity of life that
characterized our people before the Revolution. Their very homeliness is
attractive, by leaving the imagination free to dwell upon their
interesting suggestions. Not many of these venerable houses are now
extant; but whenever we see one, it is almost invariably accompanied by
its Elm, standing upon the green open space that slopes down from it in
front, waving its long branches in melancholy grandeur above the old
homestead, and drooping, as with sorrow, over the infirmities of its old
companion of a century.

Early in April the Elm puts forth its flowers, of a dark maroon color,
in numerous clusters, fringing the long terminal spray, and filling up
the whole space so effectually that the branches can hardly be seen;
they appear at the same time with the crimson flowers of the red maple,
and give the tree a very sombre appearance. The seeds ripen early, and
being small and chaffy are wafted in all directions and carried to great
distances by the wind. In the early part of June, soon after the leaves
are expanded, the Elm displays the most beauty. At this time only can
its verdure be considered brilliant: for the leaf soon fades to a dull
green, and displays no tints, except that of a rusty yellow in the
autumn. In perfectly healthy elms, standing on a deep soil, the
brightness of the foliage is retained to a later period; but the trees
near Boston have suffered so much from the ravages of the cankerworm
that their health is injured, and their want of vitality is shown by the
premature fading and dropping of their foliage.

Nothing can exceed the American Elm in a certain harmonious combination
of sturdiness and grace,—two qualities which are seldom united. Along
with its superior magnitude, we observe a great length and slenderness
of its branches, without anything in the combination that indicates
weakness. It is very agreeable to witness the union, under any
circumstances, of two interesting or admirable traits of character which
are supposed to be incompatible. Hence the complacency we feel when we
meet a brave man who is amiable and polite, or a learned man who is
neither reserved nor pedantic. A slender vine, supported by a sturdy
tree, forms a very agreeable image; not less delightful is that
consonance we perceive in a majestic Elm, formed by the union of
grandeur with the gracefulness of its own flowing drapery.

The Elm is generally subdivided into several equal branches, diverging
from a common centre at a small distance above the ground. The height of
this divergence depends on the condition of the tree when it was a
seedling, whether it grew in a forest or in an open field; and the angle
made by these branches is much wider when it obtained its growth in an
isolated situation. The shape of different elms varies more than that of
any other known species. It is indeed almost the only tree which may be
said to exhibit more than one normal figure, setting aside those
variations of form which are the natural effects of youth and age. The
American Elm never displays one central shaft to which the branches are
subordinate, like the English Elm; or rather, I should say, that when it
has only a single shaft it is without any limbs, and is surrounded only
with short and slender twigs. This leads me to speak of its normal
diversities of shape, which were originally described by Mr. Emerson
under several types.

THE DOME.

This is the form which the Elm seems most prone to assume when it stands
from the time it was a seedling until it attains its full stature in an
open space. It then shows a broad hemispherical head, formed by branches
of nearly equal size, issuing chiefly from a common centre, diverging
first at a small angle, and gradually spreading outward with a curve
that may be traced throughout their length. A considerable number of our
roadside elms are specimens more or less imperfect of this normal type.

THE VASE FORM.

One of the most admirable of these different forms is that of the vase.
The base is represented by the roots of the tree as they project above
the ground, making a sort of pedestal for the trunk. The neck of the
vase is the trunk before it is subdivided. The middle of the vase
consists of the lower part of the branches as they swell outwards with a
graceful curve, then gradually diverge, until they bend over at their
extremities and form the lip of the vase by a circle of terminal spray.
Perfect specimens of this beautiful form are rare, but in a row or a
grove of elms there are always a few individuals that approximate to
this type.

THE PARASOL.

The neatest and most beautiful of these forms is the parasol. This
variety is seen in those elms which have grown to their full height in
the forest, and were left by the woodman in the clearing; for such is
the general admiration of this tree, that great numbers of them are left
in clearings in all parts of the country. The State of Maine abounds in
trees of this form, sending forth almost perpendicularly a number of
branches, that spread out rather suddenly at a considerable height, in
the shape of an umbrella. Trees of this type have much of that grandeur
which is caused by great height and small dimensions, as observed in a
palm-tree. A remarkable trait in the character of the Elm is, that,
unlike other trees, it seldom loses its beauty, and is often improved in
shape, by growing while young in a dense assemblage. It is simply
modified into a more slender shape, usually subdivided very near the
ground into several branches that diverge but little until they reach
the summit of the wood. Other trees, when they have grown in a dense
wood, form but a single shaft, without lateral branches.

THE PLUME.

The most singular of the forms assumed by the Elm, and which cannot be
regarded as of a normal character, is the plume, caused by some peculiar
conditions attending its early growth. The shaft is sometimes double,
but usually not divided at all, except into two or three small branches
at its very summit. It is perpendicular to near three fourths of its
height, and then bends over, like one of the outer branches of a
normal-shaped Elm. This whole tree, whether double or single, is covered
from the ground to its summit with a dense embroidery of vine-like twigs
that cluster round it in all ways, often inverted, as if it were covered
with a woody vine. The cause of this form seems to be the removal of the
tree into an uncongenial soil, that is too scanty and innutritious to
sustain a healthy growth. Yet I have seen some trees of this shape in
clearings. They do not seem to be diseased, yet they are evidently in a
stunted condition. One of the most remarkable of the plume elms which I
have seen stands in the northern part of Danvers, near the point where
the Essex Railroad crosses the Ipswich River. I have observed a similar
habit of growth in some English elms, but their shaft is always
perpendicular.

THE ENGLISH ELM.

The English Elm may be seen on Boston Common, and in front of old
mansions in Medford and other ancient towns in Massachusetts. Very few
trees of this species, however, have been planted since the Revolution.
This royal Elm seems to have lost favor when republicanism took the
place of monarchy. Yet in many points the English Elm is superior to the
American species. It is not a drooping tree; it resembles the oak in its
general form, but surpasses it in height. The trunk is not subdivided;
throughout its entire length, the branches are attached to it by wide
angles, sometimes spread out in an almost horizontal direction. Selby
remarks, that, “in point of magnitude, grandeur of form, and majestic
growth, the English Elm has few competitors in the British sylva.” In
the form of the leaf and spray it closely resembles the American tree;
but the leaf is of a brighter green, it comes out several days earlier
in the spring, and continues green in the fall a week or ten days after
the American elm has become entirely denuded. The same difference, in a
less degree, has been observed in the leafing and falling of the leaf of
all European trees, compared with their kindred species in the American
forest.

THE CHERRY-TREE.

Among our fruit-trees the Cherry occupies the most conspicuous place,
considered with reference either to shade or ornament, surpassing all
the others in size and in comeliness of growth. All the species are
handsome trees, and some of them are of great stature. They are natives
of all countries in the northern temperate zone, but not of any region
south of the equator. The three most remarkable species of the family
are the common garden Cherry, or Mazard, which is believed to be a
native of Asia; the Great Northern Cherry, or Gean, of Europe; and the
Black Cherry of the United States.

THE BLACK CHERRY.

The Black Cherry, which is a tree of the first magnitude in favorable
regions, is only a middle-sized tree in the New England States. In the
South and West, especially on the banks of the Ohio River, it attains a
very great size, rising sometimes to one hundred feet, according to
Michaux, with a corresponding diameter. It is sensitive to the extremes
both of cold and heat, and to an excess either of dryness or moisture.
In Maine it is only a small tree, being checked in its growth by the
severe Northern winters. Very far south it suffers from the hot and dry
summers, but prospers well in the mountainous parts. It forms immense
forests in many districts of North America, in company with the honey
locust, the black walnut, the red elm, and the oak. It is sufficiently
common in New England to constitute an important ingredient of our wood
scenery, and though indigenous, it is most abundant in lands which have
been modified by cultivation.

This tree differs very obviously in its ramification from the garden
cherry, in which the branches are always subordinate to the trunk, and
arranged in irregular whorls and stages, one above another, so that, if
they were horizontal, they would resemble those of a fir-tree. The Black
Cherry tree, on the contrary, is subdivided in such a manner that the
main stem cannot easily be traced above the lower junction of the
branches, except in those which have grown in a forest. The branches are
spread out more loosely, without the least of any arrangement in whorls,
and their terminations are longer and smaller. The leaves of the two
trees are also widely different: those of the garden cherry are broad,
ovate, rough, and serrate; those of the American tree are lanceolate and
smooth, and almost as slender as the leaves of the willow. The one bears
its flowers and fruit in racemes, the other in round clusters or umbels.
The trunk and bark of the two species are similar, both resembling the
black birch in the properties of their wood and the outside appearance
of their bark. The branches of the Wild Cherry are too straggling and
sparse to make a beautiful tree, and the leaves being small and narrow,
the whole mass is wanting in depth of shade.

THE CHOKE CHERRY.

When we are rambling in rustic lanes, that lead through rudely
cultivated grounds, we frequently meet with groups of tall handsome
shrubs, covered in May with a profusion of white flowers, and in August
heavily laden with bright scarlet fruit. Such is the Choke Cherry, a
small tree with which all are familiar from their frequent
disappointment on attempting to eat its fruit. Its promises to the sight
are not fulfilled to the taste. Though of an agreeable flavor, it is
exceedingly harsh and astringent. This is a more beautiful tree when in
flower than the black cherry, though it is generally a mere shrub, never
rising above fifteen or twenty feet in height. The racemes, when in
flower, are not drooping, as they are when laden with fruit, but stand
out at right angles with the branch, completely surrounding it, and
giving to every slender twig the appearance of a long white plume. In
the eastern part of Massachusetts I have found this species, as well as
the black cherry, in old graveyards,—so frequently, indeed, that in my
early days these trees were associated with graves, as the Lombardy
poplar is with ancient avenues. I suppose their frequency in these
places to be caused by the birds dropping the seeds at the foot of the
gravestones, where they quickly germinate, and are protected, when
growing, by the stone beside them.

The cultivation of the Gean, or Great Northern Cherry of Europe, which
was named by Linnæus the bird cherry, is encouraged in Great Britain and
on the Continent of Europe for the benefit of the birds, which are
regarded as the most important checks to the over-multiplication of
insects. The fact, not yet understood in America, that the birds which
are the most mischievous as consumers of fruit are the most useful as
destroyers of insects, is well known by all the farmers in Europe; and
while we destroy the birds to save the fruit, and sometimes cut down the
fruit-trees to starve the birds, the Europeans more wisely plant them
for their sustenance and accommodation.

THE SNOWY MESPILUS.

This tree, which is conspicuous in the early part of May from its
profusion of white flowers in the swamps, is very little known except in
Canada and some of the northern provinces of this continent. Yet it is
far from being rare, and is one of the most elegant of the small trees
in our native forest; being allied to the mountain ash, branching in a
similar manner, but exhibiting a neater and more beautiful spray. It is
exclusively a Northern tree, and one of the earliest to put forth
flowers and leaves after the elm and the red maple. This tree is spread
over almost all the northern part of the American continent and the
Alleghany Mountains. From its habit of flowering at the time of the
annual appearance of the shad in our waters, it is very frequently
called the Shad-bush.

The Snowy Mespilus is one of those trees which botanists have described
under so many different names that I should shrink from the task, if the
duty were assigned me, of collecting all that have been applied to it.
But whenever there is much contrariety of opinion among botanists
respecting the generic rank and denomination of any plant, I usually
resort to its earliest botanical title. Indeed, I feel assured that the
nice distinctions upon which later botanists have founded its claims to
a different generic position are very much of the same nature as those
which divide theologians, whose ecclesiastical acuteness enables them to
discern a palpable difference in two doctrinal points, neither of which
to an unregenerate mind have any meaning at all. I therefore prefer to
call this tree a Mespilus, after Linnæus and Michaux, to save myself the
trouble of those infinitesimal investigations that might convince me of
the propriety of placing it in every one of a dozen other different
genera.

The Shad-bush is a small tree inclining to grow in clumps, instead of
making a single stem from the root, and is seldom quite so large or so
tall as the mountain ash. The leaves are small and alternate, resembling
those of a pear-tree, but more elegant, and covered with a soft silken
down on their first appearance; as the foliage ripens, it becomes smooth
and glossy. The flowers are white, but without beauty, growing in loose
panicles at the ends of the branches. The product of these flowers is a
small fruit, about the size of the common wild gooseberry, of a dark
crimson color and a very agreeable flavor. This fruit is used very
generally in the northern provinces, where the tree is larger and more
productive than in New England.

THE CHOKEBERRY.

A smaller species of mespilus, familiarly known as the Chokeberry, is
more interesting as a flowering plant. It is a slender shrub, with
beautiful finely toothed leaves, bearing flowers in clusters very much
like those of the hawthorn, with white petals and purple or crimson
anthers. The flowers stand erect, but the berries, which are very
astringent and are often gathered carelessly with whortleberries, hang
from the branches in full pendent clusters. The flowers of this plant
are very conspicuous in the latter part of May in all our meadows.

THE MOUNTAIN ASH.

The Mountain Ash, or Rowan-tree, is beautiful in all its conditions and
at all seasons. Its elegant pinnate foliage, not flowing, like that of
the locust, but neat, firm, and finely serrate, and its flowers, in
large clusters, like those of the elder, render the tree very
conspicuous when in blossom. But its greatest ornament is the scarlet
fruit that hangs from every branch in the autumn. We could hardly be
persuaded to introduce the Mountain Ash into a picture. The primness of
its form injures it as a picturesque object in landscape. Its beauty is
such as children admire, who are guided by a sense of its material
attractions, and do not generally prize a tree except for its elegance
and colors. The beauty, however, which attracts the sensual eye in this
case is deceitful, for its fruit is of a bitter, sour flavor, and
incapable of improvement. European writers say that thrushes are very
fond of this fruit. In our land it remains untouched, at least until
late in the season, after the black cherries are gone, which tempt all
kinds of birds by their superior flavor. The American Mountain Ash
differs from the European tree only by its smaller fruit.

I have said that the Mountain Ash is wanting in picturesque qualities;
but my remark applies only to its form and habit of growth. On the other
hand, it is peculiarly the tree of romance, being remarkable for the
many superstitious customs connected with it. According to Evelyn,
“There is no churchyard in Wales without a Mountain Ash-tree planted in
it, as the yew-trees are in the churchyards of England. So on a certain
day of the year everybody in Wales religiously wears a cross made of the
wood.” Gilpin says that in his time “a stump of the Mountain Ash was
generally found in some old burial-place, or near the circle of a
Druid’s temple, the rites of which were formerly performed under its
shade.”

Many of the inhabitants of Great Britain still believe that a branch of
the Rowan-tree carried about with them is a charm against the evil
influences of witchcraft. It is remarkable that similar superstitions
connected with this tree prevail among the North American Indians; and
it is not improbable that they were introduced by the early Welsh
colonists, before the discovery of America by Columbus.

[Illustration: MOUNTAIN ASH.]

RELATIONS OF TREES TO WATER.

There is a spot which I used to visit some years ago, that seemed to me
one of the most enchanting of natural scenes. It was a level plain of
about ten acres, surrounded by a narrow stream that was fed by a steep
ridge forming a sort of amphitheatre round more than half its
circumference. The ridge was a declivity of near a hundred feet in
height, and so steep that you could climb it only by taking hold of the
trees and bushes that covered it. The whole surface consisted of a thin
stratum of soil deposited upon a slaty rock; but the growth of trees
upon this slope was beautiful and immense, and the water that was
constantly trickling from a thousand fountains kept the ground all the
year green with mosses and ferns, and gay with many varieties of
flowers. The soil was so rich in the meadow enclosed by this ridge, and
annually fertilized by the _débris_ washed from the hills, that the
proprietor every summer filled his barns with hay, which was obtained
from it without any cultivation.

I revisited this spot a few years since, after a long period of absence.
A new owner, “a man of progress and enterprise,” had felled the trees
that grew so beautifully on the steep sides of this elevation, and
valley and hill have become a dreary and unprofitable waste. The thin
soil that sustained the forest, no longer protected by the trees and
their undergrowth, has been washed down into the valley, leaving nothing
but a bald, rocky surface, whose hideousness is scarcely relieved by a
few straggling vines. The valley is also ruined; for the inundations to
which it is subject after any copious rain destroy every crop that is
planted upon it, and render it impracticable for tillage. It is covered
with sand heaps; the little stream that glided round it, fringed with
azaleas and wild roses, has disappeared, and the land is reduced to a
barren pasture.

The general practice of the pioneers of civilization on this continent
was to cut down the wood chiefly from the uplands and the lower slopes
of the hills and mountains. They cleared those tracts which were most
valuable for immediate use and cultivation. Necessity led them to pursue
the very course required by the laws of nature for improving the soil
and climate. The first clearings were made chiefly for purposes of
agriculture; and as every farm was surrounded by a rampart of woods, it
was sheltered from the force of the winds and pleasantly open to the
sun. But when men began to fell the woods to supply the demands of towns
and cities for fuel and lumber, these clearings were gradually deprived
of their shelter, by levelling the surrounding forest and opening the
country to the winds from every quarter. But the clearing of the wood
from the plains, while it has rendered the climate more unstable, has
not been the cause of inundations or the diminution of streams. This
evil has been produced by clearing the mountains and lesser elevations
having steep or rocky sides; and if this destructive work is not checked
by legislation or by the wisdom of the people, plains and valleys now
green and fertile will become profitless for tillage or pasture, and the
advantages we shall have sacrificed will be irretrievable in the
lifetime of a single generation. The same indiscriminate felling of
woods has rendered many a once fertile region in Europe barren and
uninhabitable, equally among the cold mountains of Norway and the sunny
plains of Brittany.

Our climate suffers more than formerly from summer droughts. Many
ancient streams have entirely disappeared, and a still greater number
are dry in summer. Boussingault mentions a fact that clearly illustrates
the condition to which we may be exposed in thousands of locations on
this continent. In the island of Ascension there was a beautiful spring,
situated at the foot of a mountain which was covered with wood. By
degrees the spring became less copious, and at length failed. While its
waters were annually diminishing in bulk, the mountain had been
gradually cleared of its forest. The disappearance of the spring was
attributed to the clearing. The mountain was again planted, and as the
new growth of wood increased, the spring reappeared, and finally
attained its original fulness. More to be dreaded than drought, and
produced by the same cause,—the clearing of steep declivities of their
wood,—are the excessive inundations to which all parts of the country
are subject.

If it were in the power of man to dispose his woods and tillage in the
most advantageous manner, he might not only produce an important
amelioration of the general climate, but he might diminish the frequency
and severity both of droughts and inundations, and preserve the general
fulness of streams. If every man were to pursue that course which would
protect his own grounds from these evils, it would be sufficient to
bring about this beneficent result. If each owner of land would keep all
his hills and declivities, and all slopes that contain only a thin
deposit of soil or a quarry, covered with forest, he would lessen his
local inundations from vernal thaws and summer rains. Such a covering of
wood tends to equalize the moisture that is distributed over the land,
causing it, when showered upon the hills, to be retained by the
mechanical action of the trees and their undergrowth of shrubs and
herbaceous plants, and by the spongy surface of the soil underneath
them, made porous by mosses, decayed leaves, and other _débris_, so that
the plains and valleys have a moderate oozing supply of moisture for a
long time after every shower. Without this covering, the water when
precipitated upon the slopes, would immediately rush down over an
unprotected surface in torrents upon the space below.

Every one has witnessed the effects of clearing the woods and other
vegetation from moderate declivities in his own neighborhood. He has
observed how rapidly a valley is inundated by heavy showers, if the
rising grounds that form its basin are bare of trees and planted with
the farmer’s crops. Even grass alone serves to check the rapidity with
which the water finds its way to the bottom of the slope. Let it be
covered with bushes and vines, and the water flows with a speed still
more diminished. Let this shrubbery grow into a forest, and the valley
would never be inundated except by a long-continued and flooding rain.
Woods and their undergrowth are indeed the only barriers against
frequent and sudden inundations, and the only means in the economy of
nature for preserving an equal fulness of streams during all seasons of
the year.

At first thought, it may seem strange that the clearing of forests
should be equally the cause both of drought and inundations; but these
apparently incompatible facts are easily explained by considering the
different effects produced by woods standing in different situations. An
excess of moisture in the valleys comes from the drainage of the hills,
and the same conditions that will cause them to be dried up at certain
times will cause them to be flooded at others. Nature’s design seems to
be to preserve a constant moderate fulness of streams and standing
water. This purpose she accomplishes by clothing the general surface of
the country with wood. When man disturbs this arrangement, he may
produce evil consequences which he had never anticipated. We are not,
however, to conclude that we may not improve the soil and climate by
changing the original condition of this wooded surface. The clearing of
the forest may be reduced to a science whose laws are as sure and
unexceptionable as those of mechanics and hydraulics. Though it has not
gained much attention from the public mind, it is well understood by the
learned who have made this branch of vegetable meteorology their special
study. Our danger lies in neglecting to apply these laws to operations
in the forest, and in preferring to obtain certain immediate commercial
advantages, at the risk of inflicting evils of incalculable extent upon
a coming generation.

THE LINDEN-TREE.

The Lime or Linden-tree is generally known among our countrymen as the
Bass, and was not, before the present century, employed as a wayside
tree. The old standards seen in our ancient villages are European Limes.
During the past thirty years the American tree has been very generally
planted by roadsides, in avenues and pleasure-grounds, and few trees are
more highly valued in these situations. But the American has less beauty
than the European tree, which is clothed with softer foliage, has a
smaller leaf, and a neater and more elegant spray. Our native Lime bears
larger and more conspicuous flowers, in heavier clusters, but of
inferior sweetness. Both species are remarkable for their size and
longevity. The Lime in Great Britain is a tree of first magnitude,
frequently rising to the height of eighty or ninety feet, with a trunk
of proportional diameter. The American species is not inferior to it in
size or altitude. Some of the largest trees in Western New York are
Limes.

The Lime has in all ages been celebrated for the fragrance of its
flowers and the excellence of the honey made from them. The famous Mount
Hybla was covered with Lime-trees. The aroma from its flowers is like
that of mignonette; it perfumes the whole atmosphere, though never
disagreeable from excess, and is perceptible to the inhabitants of all
the beehives within the circuit of a mile. The Lime is also remarkable
for a general beauty of proportion, a bright verdure contrasting finely
with the dark-colored branches, and an outline regular and symmetrical
without formality. When covered with leaves, it bears some resemblance
in outward form to the maple, but surpasses it, when leafless, in the
beauty of its ramification. The leaves are roundish heart-shaped, of a
clear and lively green in summer, but acquiring a spotted and rusty look
in autumn, and adding nothing to the splendors of that season. In the
spring, however, no tree of our forest displays a more beautiful verdure
before it acquires the uniform dark green of the summer woods.

The branches of the Lime have a very dark-colored surface,
distinguishing it from other trees that agree with it in size and
general appearance. The bark of the maple, for example, is light and of
an ashen-gray tint, and that of the poplars a sort of greenish
clay-color. This dark hue renders the spray of the Lime very
conspicuous, after a shower, and in spring, when all the leaves are of a
light and brilliant green; but these incidental beauties are not very
lasting. The branches, being alternate, are very minutely subdivided,
and their extremities neatly drawn inwards, so that in a denuded state
it is one of our finest winter ornaments. The spray of the beech is more
airy, that of the elm more flowing, and that of the oak more curiously
netted and interwoven; but the spray of the Lime is remarkable for its
freedom from all defect.

George Barnard, who, being a painter, looks upon trees as they are more
or less adapted to his own art, remarks:—

“When young, or indeed up to an age perhaps of sixty or seventy years,
the Lime has a formal appearance, with little variation in its masses of
foliage; but let some accident occur, such as the breaking down of a
large branch, or the removal of a neighboring tree, it then presents a
charming picture.”

One of the curiosities of the Lime-tree that deserves notice is a
certain winged appendage to the seed, which is a round nut about the
size of a pea. This is attached to a long stem, from the end of which,
joined to it obliquely, descends a ribbon-like bract, causing it, when
it falls, to spin round and travel a long distance upon the wind. If the
tree stands on the borders of a pond, where the seeds fall upon the
surface, this winged appendage performs the part of a sail, and causes
the seeds to be wafted to different points of the opposite shore.

THE KALMIA.

The Kalmia, on account of its superficial resemblance to the green
bay-tree, often called the American laurel, is more nearly allied to the
heath. The name of Kalmia, which is more musical than many others of
similar derivation, was given to this genus of evergreen shrubs by
Linnæus, in honor of Peter Kalm, a distinguished botanist and one of his
pupils. This is exclusively an American family of plants, containing
only five species, three of which are natives of New England soil and
two of them among our most common shrubs.

THE MOUNTAIN LAUREL.

Not one of our native shrubs is so generally admired as the Mountain
Laurel; no other equals it in glowing and magnificent beauty. But the
“patriots” who plunder the fields of its branches and flowers for
gracing the festivities of the “glorious Fourth” will soon exterminate
this noble plant from our land. There are persons who never behold a
beautiful object, especially if it be a flower or a bird, without
wishing to destroy it for some selfish, devout, or patriotic purpose.
The Mountain Laurel is not so showy as the rhododendron, with its deeper
crimson bloom; but nothing can exceed the minute beauty of its
individual flowers, the neatness of their structure, and the delicacy of
their shades as they pass from rose-color to white on different bushes
in the same group. The flower is monopetalous, expanded to a cup with
ten angles and scalloped edges. “At the circumference of the disk on the
inside,” says Darwin, “are ten depressions or pits, accompanied with
corresponding prominences on the outside. In these depressions the
anthers are found lodged at the time when the flower expands. The
stamens grow from the base of the corolla, and bend outwardly, so as to
lodge the anthers in the cells of the corolla. From this confinement
they liberate themselves, during the period of flowering, and strike
against the sides of the stigma.” This curious internal arrangement of
parts renders the flower very beautiful on close examination. The
flowers are arranged in flat circular clusters at the terminations of
the branches.

We seldom meet anything in the forest more attractive than the groups of
Mountain Laurel, which often cover extensive slopes, generally appearing
on the edge of a wood, and becoming more scarce as they extend into the
interior or wander outwardly from the border. But if we meet with an
opening in the wood where the soil is favorable,—some little sunny dell
or declivity,—another still more beautiful group opens on the sight,
sometimes occupying the whole space. The Mountain Laurel does not
constitute the undergrowth of any family of trees, but avails itself of
the protection of a wood where it can flourish without being
overshadowed by it. In the groups on the outside of the wood, the
flowers are usually of a fine rose-color, fading as they are more
shaded, until in the deep forest we find them, and the buds likewise, of
a pure white. I am not acquainted with another plant that is so
sensitive to the action of light upon the color of its flowers. The
buds, except in the dark shade, before they expand, are of a deeper red
than the flowers, and hardly less beautiful.

The Mountain Laurel delights in wet places, in springy lands on rocky
declivities where there is an accumulation of soil, and in openings
surrounded by woods, where the land is not a bog, but wet enough to
abound in ferns. In such places the Kalmia, with its bright evergreen
leaves, forms elegant masses of shrubbery, even when it is not in
flower. Indeed, its foliage is hardly less conspicuous than its flowers.
I believe the Kalmias are not susceptible of modification by the arts of
the florist. Nature has endowed them with a perfection that cannot be
improved.

THE LOW LAUREL, OR LAMBKILL.

The low Laurel, or small Kalmia, is plainly one of nature’s favorite
productions; for, the wilder and ruder the situation, the more luxuriant
is this plant and the more beautiful are its flowers. These are of a
deep rose-color, arranged in crowded whorls around the extremities of
the branches, with the recent shoot containing a tuft of newly formed
leaves surmounting each cluster of flowers. This plant, though not
celebrated in horticultural literature or song, is one of the most
exquisite productions of nature. Many other shrubs which are more showy
are not to be compared with this in the delicate structure of its
flowers and in the beauty of their arrangement and colors. Of this
species the most beautiful individuals are found on the outer edge of
their groups.

There has been much speculation about the supposed poisonous qualities
of this plant and its allied species. Nuttall thought its flowers the
source of the deleterious honey discovered in the nests of certain wild
bees. There is also a general belief that its leaves are poisonous to
cattle and flocks. But all positive evidence is wanting to support any
of these notions. The idea associated with the name of this species is a
vulgar error arising from a corruption of the generic name, from which
Lambkill may be thus derived,—Kalmia, Kallamia, Killamia, Killam,
Lambkill. There is no other way of explaining the origin of its common
English name. I have never been able to discover an authentic account,
and have never known an instance of the death of a sheep or a lamb from
eating the leaves of this plant. It is an error having its origin in a
false etymology; and half the notions that prevail in the world with
regard to the medical virtues and other properties of plants have a
similar foundation.

It is stated in an English manual of Medical Botany that the brown
powder that adheres to the petioles of the different species of Kalmia,
Andromeda, and Rhododendron is used by the North American Indians as
snuff.

[Illustration: KALMIA.]

MOTIONS OF TREES.

While Nature, in the forms of trees, in the color of their foliage and
the gracefulness of their spray, has displayed a great variety of
outline and tinting, and provided a constant entertainment for the
sight, she has increased their attractions by endowing them with a
different susceptibility to motion from the action of the winds. In
their motions we perceive no less variety than in their forms. The
different species differ like animals; some being graceful and easy,
others stiff and awkward; some calm and intrepid, others nervous and
easily agitated. Perhaps with stricter analogy we might compare them to
human beings; for we find trees that represent the man of quiet and
dignified deportment, also the man of excited manners and rapid
gesticulations. Some trees, like the fir, having stiff branches and
foliage, move awkwardly backward and forward in the wind, without any
separate motions of their leaves. While we admire the symmetrical and
stately forms of such trees, we are reminded of men who present a noble
personal appearance, accompanied with ungainly manners.

Some trees, having stiff branches with flexible leaves, do not bend to a
moderate breeze, but their foliage readily yields to the motion of the
wind. This habit is observed in the oak and the ash, in all trees that
have a pendulous foliage and upright or horizontal branches. The poplars
possess this habit in a remarkable degree, and it is proverbial in the
aspen. It is also conspicuous in the common pear-tree and in the small
white birch. Other trees, like the American elm, wave their branches
gracefully, with but little apparent motion of their leaves. We observe
the same habit in the weeping willow, and indeed in all trees with a
long and flexible spray. The wind produces by its action on these a
general sweeping movement without any rustle. It is easy to observe,
when walking in a grove, that the only graceful motions come from trees
with drooping branches, because these alone are long and slender.

The very rapid motion of the leaves of the aspen has given origin to
some remarkable superstitions. The Highlanders of Scotland believe the
wood of this tree to be that of which the holy cross was made, and that
its leaves are consequently never allowed to rest. Impressed with the
awfulness of the tragedy of the crucifixion, they are constantly
indicating to the winds the terrors that agitate them. The small white
birch displays considerable of the same motion of the leaves; but we
take little notice of it, because they are softer and produce less of a
rustling sound. The flickering lights and shadows observed when walking
under these trees, on a bright noonday, have always been admired. All
these habits awaken our interest in trees and other plants by
assimilating them to animated things.

Much of the beauty of the silver poplar comes from its glittering
lights, when it presents the green upper surface of its foliage,
alternating rapidly with the white silvery surface beneath. This we may
readily perceive even in cloudy weather, but in the bright sunshine the
contrasts are very brilliant. In all trees, however, we observe this
glittering beauty of motion in the sunshine. The under part of leaves
being less glossy than the upper part, there is in the assemblage the
same tremulous lustre that appears on the rippled surface of a lake by
moonlight.

We observe occasionally other motions which I have not described, such
as the uniform bending of the whole tree. In a strong current of wind,
tall and slender trees especially attract our attention by bending over
uniformly like a plume. This habit is often seen in the white birch, a
tree that in its usual assemblages takes a plumelike form. When a whole
grove of white birches is seen thus bending over in one direction from
the action of a brisk wind, they seem like a procession of living forms.
In a storm we watch with peculiar interest the bending forms of certain
tall elms, such as we often see in clearings, with their heads bowed
down almost to the ground by the force of the tempest. It is only the
waves of the ocean and the tossing of its billows that can afford us so
vivid an impression of the sublimity of a tempest as the violent swaying
of a forest and the roaring of the winds among the lofty tree-tops.

The motions of an assemblage of trees cannot be observed except from a
stand that permits us to look down upon the surface formed by their
summits. We should then perceive that pines and firs, with all the
stiffness of their branches, display a great deal of undulating motion.
These undulations or wavy movements are particularly graceful in a grove
of hemlocks, when they are densely assembled without being crowded. It
is remarkable that one of the most graceful of trees belongs to a family
which are distinguished by their stiffness and formality. The hemlock,
unlike other firs and spruces, has a very flexible spray, with leaves
also slightly movable, which are constantly sparkling when agitated by
the wind. If we look down from an opposite point, considerably elevated,
upon a grove of hemlocks when they are exposed to brisk currents of
wind, they display a peculiar undulating movement of the branches and
foliage, made more apparent by the glitter of their leaves.

The surface of any assemblage of trees when in motion bears a close
resemblance to the waves of the sea. But hemlocks represent its
undulations when greatly agitated, without any broken lines upon its
surface. Other firs display in their motions harsher angles and a
somewhat broken surface of the waves. We see the tops of these trees and
their extreme branches awkwardly swaying backwards and forwards, and
forming a surface like that of the sea when it is broken by tumultuous
waves of a moderate height. The one suggests the idea of tumult and
contention; the other, that of life and motion combined with serenity
and peace.

THE TULIP-TREE.

The Tulip-tree is pronounced by Dr. Bigelow “one of the noblest trees,
both in size and beauty, of the American forest.” It certainly displays
the character of immensity,—a quality not necessarily allied with those
features we most admire in landscape. It is not very unlike the Canada
poplar, and is designated by the name of White Poplar in the Western
States. The foliage of this tree has been greatly extolled, but it has
the heaviness which is apparent in the foliage of the large-leaved
poplars, without its tremulous habit. The leaves, somewhat palmate in
their shape, are divided into four pointed lobes, the middle rib ending
abruptly, as if the fifth lobe had been cut off. The flowers, which are
beautiful, but not showy, are striped with green, yellow, and orange.
They do not resemble tulips, however, so much as the flowers of the
abutilon and althea.

This tree is known in New England rather as an ornamental tree than as a
denizen of the forest. Its native habitats are nearly the same with
those of the magnolia, belonging to an allied family. There is not much
in the proportions of this tree to attract our admiration, except its
size. But its leaves are glossy and of a fine dark green, its branches
smooth, and its form symmetrical. It is a tree that agrees very well
with dressed grounds, and its general appearance harmonizes with the
insipidity of artificial landscape. It is wanting in the picturesque
characters of the oak and the tupelo, and inferior in this respect to
the common trees of our forest.

THE MAGNOLIA.

The Magnolia, though, excepting one species, a stranger to New England
soil, demands some notice. Any one who has never seen the trees of this
genus in their native soil can form no correct idea of them. I would not
say, however, that they would fall short of his conceptions of their
splendor. When I first beheld one of the large magnolias, though it
answered to my previous ideas of its magnificence, I thought it a less
beautiful tree than the Southern cypress, and less picturesque than the
live-oak, the black walnut, and some other trees I saw there. The
foliage of the Magnolia is very large and heavy, and so dark as to look
gloomy. It is altogether too sombre a tree in the open landscape, and
must add to the gloom of any wood which it occupies, without yielding to
it any other striking character.

There are several species of Magnolia cultivated in pleasure-grounds,
the selection being made from those bearing a profusion of flowers. The
only one that grows wild in New England is of small stature, sometimes
called the Beaver-tree. It inhabits a swamp near Gloucester, about
twenty miles from Boston. This place is its northern boundary. The
flowers are of a dull white, without any beauty, but possessed of a very
agreeable fragrance, causing them to be in great demand. The Magnolia
wood is annually stripped both of flowers and branches, and the trees
will probably be extirpated before many years by this sort of vandalism.

THE LOCUST.

The waysides in the Middle States do not contain a more beautiful tree
than the Locust, with its profusion of pinnate leaves and racemes of
flowers that fill the air with the most agreeable odors. In New England
the Locust is subject to the ravages of so many different insects that
it is commonly stinted in its growth, its branches withered and broken,
and its symmetry destroyed. But the deformities produced by the decay of
some of its important limbs cannot efface the charm of its fine pensile
foliage. In winter it seems devoid of all those proportions we admire in
other trees. It rears its tall form, withered, shapeless, and deprived
of many valuable parts, without proportional breadth, and wanting in any
definite character of outline. Through all the early weeks of spring we
might still suppose it would never recover its beauty. But May hangs on
those withered boughs a green drapery that hides all their deformity;
she infuses into their foliage a perfection of verdure that no other
tree can rival, and a beauty in the forms of its leaves that renders it
one of the chief ornaments of the groves and waysides. June weaves into
this green leafage pendent clusters of flowers of mingled brown and
white, filling the air with fragrance, and enticing the bee with odors
as sweet as from groves of citron and myrtle.

The finely cut and delicate foliage of the Locust and its jewelled white
flowers, hanging gracefully among its dark green leaves, yield it a
peculiar style of beauty, and remind us of some of the finer vegetation
of the tropics. The leaflets, varying in number from nine to twenty-five
on a common stem, have a singular habit of folding over each other in
wet and dull weather and in the night, thus displaying a sensitiveness
that is remarkable in all the acacia family. The Locust is not highly
prized by landscape gardeners, who cannot reconcile its defects to their
serpentine walks and their velvety lawns. But I am not sure that the
accidental deformities of the Locust may not contribute to its
picturesque attractions, when, for example, from its furrowed and
knotted trunk a few imperfect limbs project, and suspend over our heads
a little canopy of the finest verdure.

Phillips says of the Locust, that, when planted in shrubberies, it
becomes the favorite resort of the nightingale, to avail itself of the
protection afforded by its thorns. There are many other small birds that
seek the protection of thorny bushes for their nests. On the borders of
woods, a barberry or hawthorn bush is more frequently selected by the
catbird and the yellow-throat than any other shrub. I have observed that
the indigo-bird shows a remarkable attachment to the Locust, attracted,
perhaps, by some favorite insect that lives upon it. The only nests of
this bird I have ever discovered were in the branches of the Locust. It
is worthy of notice, that, notwithstanding its rapid and thrifty growth
in favorable situations, this tree never occupies exclusively any large
tracts of country. It is found only in small groups, scattered chiefly
on the outside of woods containing different species. The foliage of the
Locust, like that of other leguminous plants, is very fertilizing to the
soil, causing the grassy turf that is shaded by this tree to be always
green and luxuriant.

THE HONEY LOCUST.

The Honey Locust is not an uncommon tree in the enclosures of suburban
dwellings, and by the waysides in many parts of the country. Some of
them have attained a great height, overtopping all our shade-trees
except the elm and the oak. This tree in June bears flowers without any
beauty, hanging from the branches in small greenish aments. The outer
bark peels from the trunk, like that of the shellbark hickory. The
thorns investing the trunk as well as the boughs are very singular,
consisting of one long spine with two and sometimes more shorter ones
projecting out of it, like two little branches, near its base. Three is
the prevailing number of these compound thorns. Hence the name of
Three-Thorned Acacia applied to the Honey Locust.

This tree bears some resemblance to the common Locust; but its leaflets
are smaller, and of a lighter green. It is not liable, however, to the
attacks of insects, and is seen, therefore, in all its normal and
beautiful proportions. It displays much of the elegance of the tropical
acacias in the minute division and symmetry of its compound leaves.
These are of a light and brilliant green, and lie flat upon the
branches, giving them a fan-like appearance, such as we observe in the
hemlock. Though its principal branches are given out at an acute angle,
many of them are horizontal, extending outwards with frequent
contortions. The Honey Locust derives its name from the sweetness of the
pulp that envelops the seeds contained in their large flat pods. This
tree is not an uncommon hedge plant in Massachusetts, but it is not
found in the New England forest. Its native region is the wide valley
between the Alleghanies and the Mississippi River.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO THE ATMOSPHERE.

I have not much faith in the science of ignorant men; for the
foundations of all knowledge are laid in books; and those only who have
read and studied much can possess any considerable store of wisdom. But
there are philosophers among laboring swains, whose quaint observations
and solutions of nature’s problems are sometimes worthy of record. With
these men of untutored genius I have had considerable intercourse, and
hence I oftener quote them than the learned and distinguished, whom I
have rarely met. The ignorant, from want of knowledge, are always
theorists; but genius affords its possessor, how small soever his
acquisitions, some glimpses of truth which may be entirely hidden from
the mere pedant in science. My philosophic friend, a man of genius born
to the plough, entertained a theory in regard to the atmosphere, which,
though not strictly philosophical, is so ingenious and suggestive that I
have thought an account of it a good introduction to this essay.

My friend, when explaining his views, alluded to the well-known fact
that plants growing in an aquarium keep the water supplied with
atmospheric air—not with simple oxygen, but with oxygen chemically
combined with nitrogen—by some vital process that takes place in the
leaves of plants. As the lungs of animals decompose the air which they
inspire, and breathe out carbonic-acid gas, plants in their turn
decompose this deleterious gas, and breathe out pure atmospheric air.
His theory is that the atmosphere is entirely the product of vegetation,
and that nature has no other means of composing it; that it is not
simply a chemical, but a vital product; and that its production, like
its preservation, depends entirely on plants, and would be impossible
without their agency. But as all plants united are not equal in bulk to
the trees, it may be truly averred that any series of operations or
accidents that should deprive the earth entirely of its forests would
leave the atmosphere without a source for its regeneration.

The use of the foliage of trees in renovating the atmosphere is not, I
believe, denied by any man of science. This theory has been proved to be
true by experiments in vital chemistry. The same chemical appropriation
of gases and transpiration of oxygen is performed by all classes of
vegetables; but any work in the economy of nature assigned to vegetation
is the most effectually accomplished by trees. The property of foliage
that requires carbonic-acid gas for its breathing purposes, and causes
it to give out oxygen, is of vital importance; and it is hardly to be
doubted that a close room well lighted by the sun would sustain its
healthful atmosphere a longer time, if it were filled with plants in
leaf, but not in flower, and occupied by breathing animals, than if the
animals occupied it without the plants.

But there is another function performed by the foliage of trees and
herbs in which no chemical process is involved,—that of exhaling
moisture into the atmosphere after it has been absorbed by the roots.
Hence the humidity of this element is greatly dependent on foliage. A
few simple experiments will show how much more rapidly and abundantly
this evaporation takes place when the soil is covered with growing
plants than when the surface is bare. Take two teacups of equal size and
fill them with water. Place them on a table, and insert into one of them
cuttings of growing plants with their leaves, and let the other stand
with water only. In a few hours the water will disappear from the cup
containing the plants, while that in the other cup will not be sensibly
diminished. Indeed, there is reason to believe that gallons of water
might be evaporated into the air by keeping the cup containing the
cuttings always full, before the single gill contained in the other cup
would disappear. If a few cuttings will evaporate a half-pint of water
in twelve hours, we can imagine the vast quantity constantly exhaled
into the atmosphere by a single tree. The largest steam-boiler in use,
kept constantly boiling, would not probably evaporate more water than
one large elm in the same time.

We may judge, from our experiment with the cuttings, that a vastly
greater proportion of moisture would be exhaled into the atmosphere from
any given surface of ground when covered with vegetation, than from the
same amount of uncovered surface, or even of standing water. Plants are
indeed the most important existing agents of nature for conveying the
moisture of the earth into the air. The quantity of transpiring foliage
from a dense assemblage of trees must be immense. The evaporation of
water from the vast ocean itself is probably small compared with that
from the land which it surrounds. And there is reason to believe that
the water evaporated from the ocean would not produce rain enough to
sustain vegetation, if by any accident every continent and island were
deprived of its trees. The whole earth would soon become a desert. I
would remark, in this place, that trees are the agents by which the
superfluous waters of the ocean, as they are supplied by rivers emptying
into it, are restored to the atmosphere and thence again to the surface
of the earth. Trees pump up from great depths the waters as they ooze
into the soil from millions of subterranean ducts ramifying in all
directions from the bed of the ocean.

[Illustration: LEAF OF HOLLY.]

THE HOLLY.

As the hawthorn is consecrated to vernal festivities, the Holly is
sacred to those of winter, and the yew to those attending the burial of
the dead. In Europe, from the earliest ages, the Holly has been employed
for the decoration of churches during Christmas. The poets have made it
a symbol of forethought, because its leaves are saved from the browsing
of animals by the thorns that surround them; and the berries, concealed
by its prickly foliage, are preserved for the use of the winter birds.
The Holly is found only in the southern parts of New England. In
Connecticut it is common, and in the Middle and Southern States it is a
tree of third magnitude. The leaves of the Holly are slightly sinuate or
scalloped, and furnished at each point with short spines. It not only
retains its foliage in the winter, but it loses none of that brilliancy
of verdure that distinguishes it at other seasons.

There seems to be no very notable difference between the American and
European Holly. Selby says of the latter: “The size which the Holly
frequently attains in a state of nature, as well as when under
cultivation, its beauty and importance in forest and woodland scenery,
either as a secondary tree or merely as an underwood shrub, justify our
placing it among the British forest trees of the second rank.” He adds:
“As an ornamental evergreen, whether in the form of a tree or as an
undergrowth, the Holly is one of the most beautiful we possess. The deep
green glittering foliage contrasts admirably with the rich coral hue of
its berries.”

THE SPIRÆA.

In the month of July the wooded pastures are variegated with little
groups of shrubbery full of delicate white blossoms in compound
pyramidal clusters, attracting more attention from a certain downy
softness in their appearance than from their beauty. These plants have
received the name of Spiræa from the spiry arrangement of their flowers.
The larger species among our wild plants, commonly known as the
Meadow-Sweet, in some places as Bridewort, is very frequent on little
tussocks and elevations rising out of wet soil. It is a slender
branching shrub, bearing a profusion of small, finely serrate and
elegant leaves, extending down almost to the roots, and a compound
panicle of white impurpled flowers at the ends of the branches. It is
well known to all who are familiar with the wood-scenery of New England,
and is seen growing abundantly in whortleberry pastures, in company with
the small kalmia and the swamp rose. It is a very free bloomer, lasting
from June till September, often blending a few solitary spikes of
delicate flowers with the tinted foliage of autumn.

THE HARDHACK.

The flowers of the purple Spiræa, or Hardhack, are conspicuous by
roadsides, especially where they pass over wet grounds. It delights in
the borders of rustic wood-paths, in lanes that conduct from the
enclosures of some farm cottage to the pasture, growing all along under
the loose stone-wall, where its crimson spikes may be seen waving in the
wind with the nodding plumes of the golden-rod and the blue spikes of
the vervain, well known as the “Simpler’s Joy.” The Hardhack affords no
less pleasure to the simpler, who has used its flowers from immemorial
time as an astringent anodyne. There is no beauty in any part of this
plant, except its pale crimson flowers, which are always partially faded
at the extremity or unopened at the base, so that a perfect cluster
cannot be found. The leaves are of a pale imperfect green on the upper
surface and almost white beneath, and without any beauty. The
uprightness of this plant, and the spiry form of its floral clusters,
has gained it the name of “Steeplebush,” from our church-going
ancestors.

THE HAWTHORN.

Few trees have received a greater tribute of praise from poets and
poetical writers than the Hawthorn, which in England especially is
consecrated to the pastoral muse and to all lovers of rural life. The
Hawthorn is also a tree of classical celebrity. Its flowers and branches
were used by the ancient Greeks at wedding festivities, and laid upon
the altar of Hymen in the floral games of May, with which from the
earliest times it has been associated. In England it is almost as
celebrated as the rose, and constitutes the most admired hedge plant of
that country. It is, indeed, the beauty of this shrub that forms the
chief attraction of the English hedge-rows, which are not generally
clipped, but allowed to run up and bear flowers. These are the principal
beauties of the plant; for its leaves are neither luxuriant nor flowing.

The Hawthorn in this country is not associated with hedge-rows, which
with us are only matters of pride and fancy, not of necessity, and their
formal clipping causes them to resemble nature only as a wooden post
resembles a tree. Our admiration of the Hawthorn, therefore, comes from
a pleasant tradition derived from England, through the literature of
that country, where it is known by the name of May-bush, from its
connection with the floral festivities of May. The May-pole of the south
of England is always garlanded with its flowers, as crosses are with
holly at Christmas. The Hawthorn is well known in this country, though
unassociated with any of our rural customs. Many of its species are
indigenous in America, and surpass those of Europe in the beauty of
their flowers and fruit. They are considered the most ornamental of the
small trees in English gardens.

The flowers of the Hawthorn are mostly white, varying in different
species through all the shades of pink, from a delicate blush-color to a
pale crimson. The fruit varies from yellow to scarlet. The leaves are
slightly cleft, like those of the oak and the holly. The flowers are
produced in great abundance, and emit an agreeable odor, which is
supposed by the peasants of Europe to be an antidote to poison.

SUMMER WOOD-SCENERY.

I have alluded to a beneficent law of Nature, that causes her to waste
no displays of sublimity or beauty by making them either lasting or
common. Before the light of morn is sufficient to make any objects
distinctly visible, it displays a beauty of its own, beginning with a
faint violet, and melting through a succession of hues into the splendor
of meridian day. It remains through the day mere white transparent
light, disclosing the infinite forms and colors of the landscape, being
itself only the cause that renders everything visible. When at the
decline of day it fades, just in the same ratio as substantial objects
grow dim and undiscernible, this unsubstantial light once more becomes
beautiful, painting itself in soft, tender, and glowing tints upon the
clouds and the atmosphere. Similar phenomena attend both the opening and
the decline of the year. Morning is the spring, with its pale and
delicate tints that gradually change into the universal green that marks
the landscape in summer, when the characterless brilliancy of noonday is
represented on the face of the land. Autumn is emblemized by the
departing tints of sunset; and thus the day and the year equally display
the beneficence of Nature in the gradual approach and decline of the
beauty and the splendor that distinguish them.

The flowering of the forest is the conclusion of the beautiful phenomena
of spring, and summer cannot be said to begin until we witness the full
expansion of its foliage. In the early part of the season each tree
displays modifications of verdure peculiar, not only to the species, but
to the individual and the situation, and hardly two trees in the wood
are shaded alike. As the foliage ripens, the different shades of green
become more thoroughly blended into one universal hue; and this
uniformity, when perfected, distinguishes the true summer phase of
vegetation. As summer advances, this monotony increases until near its
close. The only trees that variegate the prospect are the evergreens, by
their darker and more imperfect verdure, and one or two rare species,
like the catalpa and ailantus, which display a lighter and more lively
green, resembling the verdure of early summer.

It may be said, however, in behalf of summer, that no other season
affords so good an opportunity to note the different effects of sun and
shade in the foliage of the woods and fields. The leaves of the trees
and grass are never so beautiful in their summer dress as they appear
during the hour preceding sunset, when we view them with the sun shining
obliquely toward us. All foliage is more or less transparent, and the
rays of the sun, made slightly golden by the refraction of the
atmosphere, communicate a brilliant yellow tinge to the leaves, as they
shine through them. The same effects are not produced by reflection; for
if we look away from the sun, the foliage and grass present a much less
attractive appearance. A few hours after noonday, before the sunlight is
yellowed by refraction, we may study these phenomena more minutely. When
we look in the direction of the light, as I have just remarked, we see
the least variety of light and shade; for as every leaf is an imperfect
mirror, the surface of the forest presents a glitter that throws a
glazed and whitish appearance over the green of the foliage. The whole
is a mere glare, so that the landscape is almost without expression when
viewed in this manner, and all the tiresome uniformity of summer verdure
is aggravated. The only relief for the eye comes from the shadows of
isolated trees and small forest groups as they are cast upon the ground.

Now let us turn our eyes in an opposite direction. To obtain the best
view, we should look obliquely toward the sun. Then do we behold a
magnificent blending of light and shade; for every mass of foliage has a
dark shadow beneath it, forming a more appreciable contrast on account
of the intense brilliancy, without glitter, caused by the illumination
of every leaf by the sunlight shining through it. Under these
circumstances we can once more distinguish species, to some extent, by
their colors. We shall soon discover that trees which have a thin
corrugated leaf, without gloss, make the most brilliant spectacle when
viewed in this manner. Nothing can surpass the foliage of the elm, the
lime, the maple, and the birch in this peculiar splendor. But trees like
the poplar, the tulip-tree, the oak, and the willow, having a leaf of a
firmer texture and less diaphanous, look comparatively dull under the
same circumstances.

I would repeat that the true summer phase of wood-scenery is that which
succeeds the flowering of the forest, when all the different greens have
faded into one dark shade of verdure. There is no longer that marked and
beautiful variety which is displayed before the maturity of the leaves.
Summer is not, therefore, the painter’s season. It is dull and tame
compared even with winter, when regarded as a subject for the brush or
the pencil, and especially when compared with spring and autumn. Summer
is the time for the observations of the botanist, not for those of the
picturesque rambler; for beneath this sylvan mass of monotonous verdure
the sods are covered with an endless variety of herbs and flowers,
surpassing in beauty those of any other season.

[Illustration: CATKIN OF OAK.]

[Illustration: OAK LEAVES.]

THE OAK.

If the willow be the most poetical of trees, the Oak is certainly the
most useful; though, indeed, it is far from being unattended with poetic
interest, since the ancient superstitions associated with it have given
it an important place in legendary lore. It is not surprising, when we
remember the numerous benefits conferred on mankind by the Oak, that
this tree has always been regarded with veneration, that the ancients
held it sacred to Jupiter, and that divine honors were paid to it by our
Celtic ancestors. The Romans, who crowned their heroes with green Oak
leaves, entitled the “Civic Crown,” and the Druids, who offered
sacrifice under this tree, were actuated by the same estimation of its
pre-eminent utility to the human race. When we consider the sturdy form
of the Oak, the wide spread of its lower branches, that symbolize
protection; the value of its fruit for the sustenance of certain
animals; and the many purposes to which the bark, the wood, and even the
excrescences of this tree may be applied,—we can easily understand why
it is called the emblem of hospitality. The ancient Romans planted it to
overshadow the temple of Jupiter; and in the adjoining grove of
oaks,—the sacred grove of Dodona,—they sought those oracular responses
which were prophetic of the result of any important adventure.

To American eyes, the Oak is far less familiar than the elm as a wayside
tree; but in England, where many

“... a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,”

this tree, formerly associated with the principal religious ceremonies
of that country, is now hardly less sacred in the eyes of the
inhabitants from their experience of its shelter and its shade, and
their ideas of its usefulness in all the arts. The history of the
British Isles is closely interwoven with incidents connected with it,
and the poetry of Great Britain has derived from it many a theme of
inspiration.

The Oak surpasses all other trees, not only in actual strength, but also
in that outward appearance by which this quality is manifested. This
expression is owing to the general horizontal tendency of its principal
boughs, the great angularity of the unions of its smaller branches, the
want of flexibility in its spray, and its great size compared with its
height, all manifesting power to resist the wind and the storm. Hence it
is called the monarch of trees, surpassing all in the qualities of
nobleness and capacity. It is the embodiment of strength, dignity, and
grandeur. The severest hurricane cannot overthrow it, and, by destroying
some of its principal branches, leaves it only with more wonderful proof
of its resistance. Like a rock in mid-ocean, it becomes in old age a
just symbol of fortitude, parting with its limbs one by one, as they are
withered by decay or broken by the gale, but still retaining its
many-centuried existence, when, like an old patriarch, it has seen all
its early companions removed.

A remarkable habit of the Oak is that of putting forth its lower
branches at a wide angle from the central shaft, which rapidly
diminishes in size, but does not entirely disappear above the lower
junction. No other tree displays more irregularities in its
ramification. The beauty of its spray depends on a certain crinkling of
the small branches; yet the Oak, which, on account of these
angularities, is especially adapted to rude situations, is equally
attractive in an open cultivated plain. It forms a singularly noble and
majestic standard; and though surpassed by the elm in grace, beauty, and
variety of form, an Oak of full size and just proportions would attract
more admiration.

The foliage of the Oak may be readily distinguished at all seasons. It
comes out in spring in neatly plaited folds, displaying a variety of
hues, combined with a general cinereous tint. Hence it is very beautiful
when only half developed, having a silvery lustre, intershaded with
purple, crimson, and lilac. The leaves, when fully expanded in all the
typical oaks, are deeply scalloped in a way which is peculiar to this
genus of trees; their verdure is of more than ordinary purity; they are
of a firm texture, and glossy upon their upper surface, like evergreen
leaves. In midsummer few forest trees surpass the Oak in the beauty of
their foliage, or in its persistence after the arrival of frost.

Oak woods possess characters almost as strongly marked as those of a
pine wood. They emit a fragrance which is agreeable, though not sweet,
and unlike that of other trees. They seldom grow as densely as pines,
poplars, and other trees that scatter a multitude of small seeds, and,
being soft-wooded, increase with greater rapidity. The Oak is slow in
its perpendicular growth, having an obstinate inclination to spread. It
has also a more abundant undergrowth than many other woods, because it
sends its roots downward into the soil, instead of monopolizing the
surface, like the beech. One thing that is apparent on entering an Oak
wood is the absence of that uniformity which we observe in other woods.
The irregular and contorted growth of individual trees, twisting in many
directions, and the want of precision in their forms, are apparent at
once. We do not see in a forest of Oaks whole acres of tall slender
trees sending upward a smooth perpendicular shaft, as we observe in a
wood of beech and poplar. Every tree has more or less of a gnarled
growth, and is seldom entirely clear of branches. If the branch of an
Oak in a dense assemblage meets an obstruction, it bends itself around
and upward until it obtains light and space, or else ceases to grow
without decaying, while that of any soft-wooded tree would perish,
leaving the trunk smooth, or but slightly defaced.

TREES IN ASSEMBLAGES.

Open groves, fragments of forest, and inferior groups alone are
particularly interesting in landscape. An extensive and unbroken
wilderness of wood affords but a dreary prospect and an unattractive
journey. Its gloomy uniformity tires and saddens the spectator, after
some hours’ confinement to it. The primitive state of any densely wooded
continent, unmodified by the operations of civilized man, is sadly
wanting in those cheerful scenes which are now so common in New England.
Nature must be combined with art, or rather with the works of man’s
labor, and associated with human life, to be deeply interesting. It is
not necessary, however, that the artificial objects in a landscape
should possess a grand historical character to awaken our sympathies.
Humble objects, indeed, are the most consonant with nature’s aspects,
because they manifest no ludicrous endeavor to rival them. A woodman’s
hut in a clearing, a farmer’s cottage on some half-cultivated slope, a
saw-mill, or even a mere sheepfold, awakens a sympathetic interest, and
enlivens the scene with pastoral and romantic images.

A great part of the territory of North America is still a wilderness;
but the forests have been so extensively invaded that we see the
original wood only in fragments, seldom forming unique assemblages.
Especially in the Western States, the woods are chiefly sections of the
forest, scattered in and around the spacious clearings, without many
natural groups of trees to please the eye with their spontaneous beauty.
They surround the clearing with palisades of naked pillars, unrelieved
by any foliage below their summits. They remind me of city houses which
have been cut asunder to widen an avenue, leaving their interior walls
exposed to sight. These fragments of forest, and the acres of stumps in
the recent clearings, are the grand picturesque deformity of the newly
settled parts of the country. But when a wall of these forest palisades,
a hundred feet in height, bounds the plain for miles of prospect, it
forms a scene of unexceptionable grandeur.

It is chiefly in the old States that we see anything like a picturesque
grouping of trees. There the wood assumes the character of both forest
and grove, displaying a beautiful intermixture of them, combined with
groups of coppice and shrubbery. Thickets generally occupy the low
grounds, and coppice the elevations. The New England system of farming
has been more favorable to the picturesque grouping of wood, and other
objects, than that of any other part of the country. At the South, where
agriculture is carried on in large plantations, we see spacious fields
of tillage, and forest groups of corresponding size. But the small,
independent farming of New England has produced a charming variety of
wood, pasture, and tillage, so agreeably intermixed that we are never
weary of looking upon it. The varied surface of the land has increased
these advantages, producing an endless succession of those limited views
which we call picturesque.

When a considerable space is covered with a dense growth of tall trees,
the assemblage represents overhead an immense canopy of verdure,
supported by innumerable pillars. No man could enter one of these dark
solitudes without a deep impression of sublimity, especially during a
general stillness of the winds. The voices of solitary birds, and other
sounds peculiar to the woods, exalt this impression. Indeed, the
grandeur and solemnity of a magnificent wood are hardly surpassed by
anything else in nature. A very slight sound, during a calm, in one of
these deep woods, has a distinctness almost startling, like the ticking
of a clock in a vast hall. These feeble sounds afford us a more vivid
sense of the magnitude of the place, and of its deep solemnity, than
louder sounds, which are attended with a confused reverberation. The
foliage, spread out in a continuous mass over our heads, produces the
effect of a ceiling, and represents the roof of a vast temple.

In an open grove we experience different sensations. Here pleasantness
and cheerfulness are combined, though a sense of grandeur may be excited
by some noble trees. In a grove, the trees in general are well
developed, having room enough to expand to their normal proportions. We
often see their shadows cast separately upon the ground, which is green
beneath them as in an orchard. If we look upon this assemblage from an
adjoining eminence, we observe a variety of outlines by which we may
identify the different species. A wild wood is sometimes converted into
a grove by clearing it of its undergrowth and removing the smaller
trees. Such an assemblage displays but few of the charms of a natural
grove. A cleared wild wood yields shade and coolness; but the individual
trees always retain their gaunt and imperfect shapes.

Artificial plantations display the characters of a grove; but all
spontaneous growths are bordered and more or less interspersed with
underwood. Hence a limited growth of forest, like a wooded island,
surrounded by water or by a meadow, surpasses any artificial plantation
as a picturesque and beautiful feature of landscape. The painter finds
in these spontaneous collections of wood an endless variety of grouping
and outline for the exercise of his art; and the botanist discovers, in
their glens and hollows, hundreds of species that would perish in an
open grove. Some woods are distinguished by a superfluity, others, like
fir and beech woods, by a deficiency of undergrowth, and this differs in
botanical characters as well as in quantity, according to the
predominant species in the wood. In all woods, however, shrubbery is
more abundant on the borders than in the interior. This border-growth
contributes more than anything else to harmonize wood and field. It is
the outside finish and native embellishment of every spontaneous
assemblage of trees.

A wood in a valley between two open hills does not darken the prospect
as if it covered the hills, though, if it be continuous, it hides the
form of the ground. But when it has come up in scattered groups on a
wide plain, without the interference of art, it surpasses every other
description of wood-scenery. An assemblage of trees on a hillside is
called a “hanging wood,” because it seems to overhang the valley beneath
it. Thus situated it forms oppositions of a very striking sort, by
lifting its summits into the sunshine while it deepens the shadows that
rest upon the valley. Wood on steep declivities is an interesting sight,
especially if an occasional opening reveals to us the precipitous
character of the ground, and shows the difficulties which the trees have
overcome in their struggle for life. Some of our pleasure comes from the
evident utility of such a wood. We see at once that a rocky steep could
not be occupied by any other vegetation, except under the protection of
the trees, and that trees alone could resist the force of occasional
torrents; that without them the ground would be barren, ugly, and
profitless, and difficult and dangerous to those who should attempt to
climb it.

THE WHITE OAK AND OTHER SPECIES.

The most important, though not the largest, of the American trees of the
Oak family, and the one that is most like the English tree, is the
American White Oak. It puts forth its branches at a comparatively small
height, not in a horizontal direction, like the white pine, but
extending to great length with many a crook, and presenting the same
knotted and gnarled appearance for which the English oak is celebrated.
Individual trees of this species differ so widely in their ramification
that it would be difficult to select any one as the true type. Some are
without a central shaft, being subdivided at a small height into
numerous large branches, diverging at rather a wide angle from a common
point of junction, like the elm. Others send up their trunk nearly
straight to the very summit of the tree, giving out lateral branches
from all points almost horizontally. There is a third form that seems to
have no central shaft, because it is so greatly contorted that it can
only be traced among its subordinate branches by the most careful
inspection. The stature of the White Oak, when it has grown in an
isolated situation, is low, and it has a wider spread than any other
American tree.

The leaves of the White Oak are marked by several oblong, rounded lobes,
without deep sinuosities. They turn to a pale chalky red in the autumn,
remain on the tree all winter, and fall as the new foliage comes out in
the spring. The tree may be readily distinguished from other oaks by the
light color and scaly surface of the bark, without any deep
corrugations. In Massachusetts very few standard White Oaks have escaped
the axe of the “timberer,” on account of the great demand for the wood
of this species. Were it not for the protection afforded by men of
wealth to oaks in their own grounds, all the large standards would soon
be utterly destroyed. Democracy, though essential to republican liberty,
is fatal to all objects which are valuable for their poetic or
picturesque qualities. It has no foresight, and no sentimental reverence
for antiquity. It perceives the value of an object for present use; but
it disdains to look forward to the interest of a coming generation. In
regard to nature, what is called progress in America is only another
name for devastation. How great soever the political evil of large
estates, it is evident that in proportion to their multiplication will
be the increased protection afforded to our trees and forests, as well
as to the birds and quadrupeds that inhabit them.

THE SWAMP OAK.

The Swamp Oak bears resemblance in many points to the White Oak; but it
has less breadth, and abounds in strangling branches growing from the
trunk just below the junction of the principal boughs. This gnarled and
contorted growth is one of the picturesque appendages of the Swamp Oak,
distinguishing it from all the other species, and rendering it an
important feature in a wild and rugged landscape. This cluster does not,
like the vinery of the elm, clothe the whole extent of the bole, but
resembles an inferior whorl of branches below the principal head. Above
it, the tree forms rather a cylindrical head, and the principal branches
are short compared with those of other oaks.

The leaves of this tree bear some resemblance to those of the chestnut.
They are almost entire, and bluntly serrated, rather than scalloped.
They are of a slightly reddish green when mature, and turn to a
leather-color in the autumn. Trees of this species are at the present
time very prominent objects of the landscape in Eastern Massachusetts,
where they are very frequent in half-cleared lands that lie only a
little above the sea level and contain considerable clay. The Swamp Oak
in some favorable soils attains great size; but in New England, though
an interesting object in scenery, it is only a tree of second magnitude.
The Chestnut Oak is not uncommon around New Bedford and many other parts
of New England, but it is not an inhabitant of the woods near Boston.

THE RED OAK.

The Red Oak is the largest of the genus belonging to American woods, and
the least useful for any purposes except those of shade and ornament. It
is very regular and well proportioned, having a remarkably wide spread,
and branches comparatively but little contorted. It is taller than the
white oak, and does not branch so near the ground; but it possesses in a
high degree that expression of majesty for which the oak is celebrated.
The scarcity of trees of this species by our roadsides is remarkable,
since they display the union of so many of the qualities which are
desirable in a shade-tree. The Red Oak thrives well on a poor soil, and
grows with great rapidity; its foliage is very beautiful, and deeply
cleft, like that of the scarlet oak, though larger, and its
reddish-purple tints in the autumn are hardly inferior. Perhaps the
scarcity of oaks in general by the wayside is owing to the peculiar
shape of their roots, which extend to a great depth in the soil, and
render the trees very difficult to be transplanted. Hence the wayside
oaks are such as have come up spontaneously in the places they occupy,
and were there when the road was laid out.

THE SCARLET OAK.

The Scarlet Oak in many points resembles the one I have just described.
Like the red oak, its branches are regular and comparatively free from
contortions, and the quality of its timber is inferior. The leaves are
distinguished from those of all other species by their deep sinuosities,
being almost like the skeletons of a leaf, the lobes terminating in
narrow teeth with long sharp points. This tree is greatly admired in
landscape, and on large estates it is constantly preserved as an
ornament. Its chief attraction is the bright color of its autumn
foliage; but the fine gloss and deep verdure of its leaves in summer are
very beautiful. It turns in autumn to a dark crimson, not a scarlet, as
the name would imply. It could not justly be named scarlet, save when it
is brightened by sunshine, which adds to all crimson foliage a little
gold. But as the oaks are very late in assuming their autumnal tints,
and are not in their brightest condition until the maples have faded,
the Scarlet Oak, when it has attained its full splendor, is the most
beautiful tree of the forest.

There are certain trees which we do not highly value in landscape as
single individuals, while they attract our attention in assemblages. Our
hills, for example, in some parts of the country, are nearly covered
with a growth of Scrub Oak, or Bear Oak. They are not ornamental as
single trees, and they are prone to usurp the whole ground, excluding
that charming variety of shrubs which constitutes the beauty of our
half-wooded hills.

THE BLACK OAK.

It is not my intention to enumerate all the species of this genus; but I
must give a passing notice to the Black Oak, because it is a common and
very large tree in favorable situations. It has been named Black Oak on
account of the very dark color of its outer bark; and Yellow Oak,—a name
quite as common as the other,—from the yellow color of its inner bark,
which produces the _quercitron_ used by dyers. It may also have been so
called from the yellowish leather-color of its leaves in the autumn,
resembling the color of a dry oak-leaf. Many large trees of this species
are found in the New England States. In Kentucky it is named Black Jack,
and constitutes the principal timber of those extensive tracts called
Oak Barrens.

THE LAUREL.

Of the Laurel, so celebrated in the romance of classical literature,
there are only two species in the New England States,—the Benzoin and
the Sassafras. But those two shrubs, being deciduous, are not associated
in the minds of the people with the true Laurel. They have given this
name to the Kalmia, which is evergreen and bears a superficial
resemblance to the Laurel of the poets. A curious fact is related by
Phillips, in his “Sylva Florifica,” of the Laurel, which may not be out
of place in these pages. In the Middle Ages, favorite poets, who were
generally minstrels, were crowned with wreaths of Laurel branches
containing the berries; and this custom was imitated in colleges, when
they conferred a degree upon graduating students. “Students,” says
Phillips, “who have taken their degrees at the Universities, are called
_bachelors_, from the French _bachelier_, which is derived from the
Latin _baccalaureus_,—a laurel-berry. These students were not allowed to
marry, lest the duties of husband and father should take them from their
literary pursuits; and in time all single men were called bachelors.”

THE SASSAFRAS.

The Sassafras-tree is usually a shrub in this part of the country,
abounding in almost all woods, and very generally sought for the
pleasant aromatic savor of the bark. Occasionally I have seen the
Sassafras growing to the height of a middle-sized tree in Massachusetts,
but it rarely attains such dimensions except in the Middle and Southern
States. All the large trees in this region have perished, and I have not
seen one since my boyhood, when there were many of them. I am therefore
led to believe that the changes in our climate consequent upon the
general clearing of the forest, whatever their general effects may be,
have not been favorable to the Sassafras, which has become extinct as a
tree in this latitude.

The Sassafras often attains the height of sixty feet in the Southern
States, and nearly forty feet in the country round Philadelphia. The
leaves, when young, are downy, very deeply lobed, mucilaginous, and
aromatic. The flowers are greenish, inconspicuous, and only slightly
fragrant. The berries are of a bright blue color, and are the favorite
food of some small birds. On account of its agreeable aromatic
properties, the Sassafras became known to the Europeans at an early
period, and was very generally employed in medicine. At present it is
simply used as an aromatic stimulant. Gerard calls it the ague-tree, and
it was believed to be efficacious in the cure of many diseases. There is
a tradition that the odors of the Sassafras, wafted from the American
shore, led Columbus to believe that land was near, and encouraged him
and his mutinous crew to persevere on their voyage.

THE BENZOIN.

The Benzoin is never more than a middle-sized shrub, sometimes, though
rarely, attaining the height of eight or ten feet. It is not branching,
but sends up its long stems, like some of the dwarf willows, directly
from the root, without assuming a tree form. We often find these long
branches covered with foliage from the root to the extremity. The leaves
are of a handsome ovate form, and are highly aromatic, but differ
essentially from the Sassafras in their odor. The berries have been used
as spice for culinary purposes.

CLIPPED HEDGE-ROWS.

No art connected with gardening has been so generally ridiculed in
modern times as the topiary art, or that of vegetable sculpture. It is
certainly not worthy of defence; and yet it seems to me quite as
rational to cut out a figure in box or yew, as to shear the branches of
a hedge-row to reduce it to architectural proportions. I cannot see why
vegetable architecture is any more rational than vegetable sculpture. I
cannot see why those persons who admire a clipped hedge-row should
object to an “Adam and Eve in yew,” or a “Green Dragon in box,” nor why
those who are willing to torture a row of shrubbery by this Procrustean
operation should not be pleased with a “Noah’s Ark in holly,” or an “old
maid-of-honor in wormwood,” as described in Pope’s satire. Of the two
operations, I consider the one that still maintains its ground in
popular taste the most senseless. “An old maid-of-honor in wormwood”
would at least have the merit of being ridiculous; but a clipped
hedge-row is simply execrable, without affording any amusement.

TREES AS ELECTRIC AGENTS.

To a poetical mind there is no exercise more agreeable than that of
tracing in the economy of Nature certain trains of causes and effects
that seem to represent her as a kind benefactor, aiming to promote the
happiness of all creatures. While we treat of the beauty of trees and of
their capacity to afford shelter, shade, and salubrity, it is pleasant,
while continuing our observations, to find no end to the advantages that
flow from them. We have studied them as the beautifiers of landscape, as
the sources of vitality and salubrity in the atmosphere, as our shade in
summer and our shelter in winter; as the cause of equability, both of
temperature and of moisture. We may also discover in them and their
branches an infinite number of lightning-rods, presenting millions of
points both for the discharge and the absorption of electricity. Trees
differ from other plants in this respect only by presenting their points
at a greater elevation, where they can act more immediately upon the
clouds.

Trees, especially in dense assemblages, may therefore, in frequent
instances, be the immediate occasion of showers, by conducting to the
earth the electric fluid of the clouds, and inducing that non-electric
state which precedes the discharge of rain. This seems to be effected by
electric disorganization. An _organized_ cloud is an aggregation of
vaporous particles, which are suspended in the atmosphere and held in a
state of _union without contact_. Being in a similarly electrified
condition, they are kept separate by that law of electricity which
causes two pith-balls, suspended by threads, when similarly electrified,
to repel each other at certain distances. All those clouds that show a
definite and organized arrangement, and resemble feathers or lace, are
charged with electricity. As they accumulate they lose their symmetrical
arrangement, but do not mix, until some object, charged with opposite
electricity, comes near them and draws from the mass its electric fluid,
when the vaporous particles, losing their mutual repulsion, immediately
coalesce and descend in rain.

To illustrate the action of trees in producing showers, we will suppose
a dense electric cloud to be passing over a dry plain containing only a
few trees. Not meeting with any conducting objects of appreciable force
on its journey, it remains suspended in the heavens until it reaches
either a large collection of water, or encounters a forest, over which,
as over a lake, there rests always, in calm weather, a stratum of
invisible moisture, which is a powerful conducting agent. The trees,
with their numerous vegetable points, and the vapor that overspreads
them, combine their force in drawing down the electric fluid from the
cloud passing over, causing the whole mass to descend in showers. The
damp stratum of air which, in still weather, rests upon the surface of
every large sheet of water, being a powerful conductor, serves to
explain a phenomenon often observed in a dry season near the coast. A
dense electric cloud is seen to pass over our heads, without shedding a
drop of rain, until it reaches the ocean, when the humid air above the
waves, acting as a conductor, causes the cloud to part with its electric
fluid and to fall in copious showers at the same moment.

Occasionally a similar cloud, after rising in the west about thirty
degrees, will be turned from its direct course, and repelled by the dry,
heated atmosphere resting on the plain, and, attracted by the invisible
cloud of moisture that hovers over the river valley, is seen to take the
course of the river in its journey toward the sea. Hence it is notorious
that in a very dry time the rivers obtain more showers than the plains,
and the wooded mountainous regions more than the open and level country.
And we may regard it as a happy accident in the economy of nature, that
trees should be the most serviceable in nearly all other respects,
hardly less than as electric agents, upon those situations which are of
the least value for the purposes of agriculture. Their branches on lofty
ridges and elevations, extending near the level of the lower clouds, are
like so many lightning-rods on the buildings of an elevated city, and
exert a powerful influence in conducting the electric fluid from an
overcharged atmospheric stratum, and preventing, in some degree, those
accumulations that produce thunder-storms. Nature employs this grand
vegetable apparatus as one of the means of preserving that equilibrium,
both of moisture and electricity, which cannot be greatly disturbed
without dangerous commotions.

I have said nothing of trees as a protection from lightning; but there
are many curious facts and superstitions on record in relation to this
point. “When a thunder-storm threatened,” as Suetonius relates,
“Tiberius never failed to wear a crown of laurel-leaves, impressed with
the belief that lightning never touched the leaves of this tree.” The
general opinion that certain trees are exempt from the stroke of
lightning is very ancient. It probably originated in some religious
ideas of their sanctity, and men in more enlightened times have
endeavored to explain it by philosophy, instead of rejecting it as
fable. It was affirmed by Hugh Maxwell, an American writer, that
lightning often strikes the elm, the chestnut, the oak, the pine, and
less frequently the ash; but it always evades the beech, the birch, and
the maple. Captain Dibdin remarks, in a letter to Alexander Wilson, that
in the forests of Virginia the pines, though taller than the oaks, were
less frequently injured by lightning, and considers them pretty secure
when growing among oaks. These accounts by different writers are too
various and contradictory to be of much value in aiding us to discover
the truth. It is probable that the partial exemption of certain trees
from the stroke of lightning, if any such accounts be true, depends on
their size and shape. A tall tree in an assemblage would be more exposed
than the others. It may also be supposed that if a tree has a regular
ramification, smooth and straight branches and trunk, it is better
formed for a conductor, and that it would be more liable to receive a
charge of the fluid. But all these opinions are probably of the same
character with those respecting the antipathy of serpents for certain
trees,—traditionary notions which are hardly worthy of investigation.
The opinion of the ancients concerning the immunity of the laurel was
probably derived from their idea of its sanctity as the tree which was
dedicated to Apollo. At the present day there exists in Italy a similar
notion concerning the white grapevine. Some of the peasantry of that
country are accustomed to twining its branches around the head and waist
as a protection from a thunder-stroke.

Trees are generally believed to protect a house adjoining them from
lightning; on the contrary, it is known that men and animals seeking
refuge under a tree in an open plain are in greater danger than outside
of it. The lightning is therefore probably conducted by the water
passing down on the surface of the branches and trunk; for if the tree
itself were the conductor, the lightning would pass through the trunk
into the ground, and, like a lightning-rod, act as a protection to
objects near, but not in contact with it. Dr. Franklin thought the
safest place a few yards distant from a tree, and a little outside of
its widest spread. It is unsafe to stand under the drip of a tree, which
might convey to the person an electric charge. It was the opinion of M.
Arago, that trees overtopping houses at small distances cannot be
regarded as affording sure protection, like a properly adjusted
lightning-rod; but he admitted that when a storm passes over a forest it
is decidedly enfeebled. The forest certainly diminishes the power of a
thunderbolt. The security derived from trees attaches principally to
large assemblages. Though a house may receive but little protection from
a few tall trees standing near it, it is not to be denied that a village
or hamlet is rendered more secure by adjoining woods.

THE GROUND LAUREL.

There is only one Epigea in this country,—a very fragrant and beautiful
species, creeping close to the ground, and bearing dense clusters of
pearly flowers, edged with crimson. The flowers are not unlike those of
some of the heaths, though of larger size. It grows abundantly in many
parts of New England, particularly around Plymouth, and in various
localities from Canada to Georgia. It is a creeping shrub, occupying dry
knolls in swampy land, and growing along on the edges of the swamp upon
the upland soil. The leaves are almost round, evergreen, light-colored
and slightly russet, partially overlapping the dense clusters of
flowers, that possess a great deal of beauty and emit an odor like that
of hyacinths.

No plant has more celebrity among our people than the Ground Laurel, the
earliest of all our wild flowers. I cannot consent to apply to it the
common unmeaning name of “Mayflower,” thus associating it with the fetid
Mayweed, and falsifying its character by an anachronism that assigns to
the month of May a flower belonging to April. The name of Mayflower, as
applied to the Epigea, means nothing except what is false. Almost all
our early flowers belong especially to the month of May. This is
distinguished from them by appearing almost alone in April. Its popular
appellation is a plain misnomer; and as an apology for it, the name is
said to have been given to it by the Pilgrims, in commemoration of the
ship that brought them to this country. I cannot believe the Pilgrims
ever took any notice of it. Mayflower is a name that originated with
some ignorant people, who could not think of any better name than the
one it bears in common with fifty other species.

THE BEARBERRY.

The Bearberry is a more common plant, and more elegant in its foliage,
with less conspicuous flowers, than the ground laurel. This plant covers
extensive tracts on the borders of woods and partially under their
protection. The foliage, resembling that of the box, has always been
admired, and nothing makes a neater or more beautiful covering of the
turfs which it adorns. The Bearberry is a native of both continents. It
abounds in light sandy soils, forming a frequent undergrowth of a
pitch-pine wood. The berries are eaten by quails and robins in winter,
when they can seldom find any animal food except a few dormant insects.

THE CHECKERBERRY.

The Checkerberry is peculiarly an American plant, well known by its
pleasant aromatic flavor, its shining evergreen leaves, its delicate
white flowers, and its scarlet berries. There are no wild fruits so
attractive to young persons, from the time they begin to redden in the
autumn, and all through the winter, when the ground is open, until they
are seen hanging on the vine with the blossoms of spring. Indeed, this
fruit is not perfected until it has remained on the bush during the
winter. The severest cold has no effect upon it; and the berries
increase in size, after the spring opens, until they become as large as
strawberries.

This plant is very abundant in all woods in New England, and seems to be
confined to no particular soil or situation. Indeed, I doubt whether
another woody plant can be found so generally distributed throughout the
New England forest. If it has any preferences, they seem to be the lower
slopes of wooded hills and mountains. But I have seen it in all
locations where it can enjoy the protection of trees, in evergreen as
well as deciduous woods; for though the leaves of the pine prevent the
growth of any considerable underwood, the Checkerberry is always
abundant in the openings of a pine forest.

THE BEECH.

The Beech is a common tree in all our woods, where it is distinguished
by the length and size of its smooth clean shaft, which is often
perceptibly ribbed or fluted. In dense assemblages these columns, rising
to the height of sixty or seventy feet, are very striking, and the more
so when the land is covered entirely with Beech timber. The suckering
habit of this tree and its vigorous constitution are the important cause
of its predominance in any tract that is occupied by it, and the close
matting of leaves that covers the ground under a beechen wood prevents
any abundance of undergrowth. The same inconvenient habit is the cause
of its rareness in dressed grounds. George Barnard says of the English
Beech: “In no tree are the decaying hues of autumn more beautiful than
in the Golden Beech, its foliage changing from green to the brightest
orange, then to glowing red, and eventually to a russet brown, in which
state the leaves remain on the tree through the winter.” The leaf of the
American Beech, on the contrary, is remarkably dull in its autumnal
tints. It turns to a rusty yellow in the autumn, gradually fades to a
leather-color, and drops from the tree near midwinter.

The style and spray of the Beech, as observed in its denuded state, are
worthy of particular study. The lower branches of the tree are generally
very long and rather slender. They take an almost horizontal direction
when they start from the tree, but soon make a curvature by turning
regularly upwards, and causing a peculiar primness in their general
appearance. Every small twig also turns upwards, pointed with elongated
leaf-buds, resembling so many little spears. The terminal branches,
forming the spray, are very numerous and slender, and remarkably
beautiful. The Beech, when in full leaf, is seen to the best advantage
where it skirts the edge of a wood, if it has grown up there since the
original clearing. In that situation we perceive the elegant sweep of
its branches, and the upright character of its leaves, each leaf
pointing obliquely upwards in the direction of the spray, instead of
hanging loosely in all ways, like the foliage of the large-leaved
poplars. Deciduous trees have generally a drooping foliage, and the want
of this habit in the Beech gives it a very lively appearance. The
heaviness attributed by Gilpin to the English tree is not observed in
the American Beech; on the contrary, it is remarkable for a certain
airiness, seldom putting forth its branches in masses, but in such a
manner that every spray may be traced by the long upright rows of
leaves.

I should hesitate in saying that on cultivated ground, and as a
standard, the Beech would display those qualities which are most
admired. It is chiefly interesting by the woodside, or skirting the
banks of a stream. The stiffness of its foliage renders it ungraceful as
a solitary standard. It may be remarked, in its favor, that it differs
so widely in its ramification from other deciduous trees as to add a
pleasing variety to any miscellaneous assemblage of species. I can
easily believe that it is not a favorite resort for birds; for its
branches are too long and slender for their convenience, and its foliage
too thin to give them a feeling of seclusion. If I were to plant a grove
of beeches, I would select the crumbling banks of watercourses, where
the trees would bind the fragile soil with their roots and cover the
banks and the hillside with a beautiful wood and an agreeable shade.

The tendency of the Beech to produce mosses and lichens upon its trunk
and branches has been observed by the earliest writers. It is also a
matter of common observation among woodmen. No such growth, however, is
seen upon beeches that stand alone or in an open grove. These parasites
are generated by the dampness of a thick forest; and they attach
themselves equally to the bark of other trees in the same damp
situations, but cannot adhere to it if it be rough or scaly. The smooth
bark of the Beech, and of the red maple while it is young, permits such
plants to foster themselves upon it, and adhere to it without
disturbance.

THE RUSTIC LANE AND WOODSIDE.

Nature is greatly indebted to Art for many of her attractions, if it has
not been exercised for the purpose which is effected by it. We see this
not only in wood-paths, which all will agree are the most delightful
parts of a wood, but in many other operations of a rude agriculture,
more especially in the rustic lane. It is no matter whether the lane be
bordered by trees and shrubbery, or only by a plain wooden fence or
loose stone-wall, provided for several seasons it has been entirely
neglected. It must have been long enough under nature’s spontaneous
action to restore that condition of the turf that precedes cultivation,
to green the borders with ferns and mosses, and to gem their velvety
heaps with anemones and violets. The nice trimming and weeding which are
generally apparent in all the paths and avenues of a country-seat or a
model farm deprive them of the attractions of the rustic lane. No matter
how many flowers are cultivated in the borders of one of these trim
avenues, it is, after all, only an exhibition of splendor and luxury. It
delights the eye, but it cannot win the heart. It is only a conservatory
of elegance; it is not a paradise.

If we follow the course of any rustic lane which has not been improved,
bounded by a rude fence of any kind which will form a support for the
plants that come up beneath it, we see the climbing and creeping plants
in their unrestrained freedom and beauty. If in the course of our walk
we meet with a rude shed or any building old enough to be overgrown with
mosses and incrusted with lichens, its walls are sure to be covered
either with the climbing sumach or the Virginia creeper; for these
plants seem designed by nature as the native embroidery of all neglected
places and buildings. On many accounts, the most interesting plants are
the climbers and creepers. Whether it be that we associate them with the
idea of dependence on their part and of protection on the part of the
tree of other object that supports them, or whether their ascent may
suggest the idea of motion and progression, causing them to resemble a
living creature, they never fail to interest the spectator, and to fill
his mind with many poetic images.

The Virginia creeper possesses all the advantages of the English ivy,
save that it is not an evergreen. But its deciduous character is not to
be regarded as a defect, since if it were an evergreen it would want its
annual attractions of scarlet and crimson that distinguish it in autumn.
In this particular it is not surpassed by any production of the American
forest, except the red maple. These colors render it very conspicuous in
October, when it surrounds the trunks and branches of some of the
tallest trees with its garlands of crimson, hiding them under its own
splendid frondage. There is not a rustic lane where it is not seen
creeping over the fences and mixing its glowing tints with other wayside
plants. It is particularly luxuriant by the woodside; for though it is
common in the deep forest it grows feebly and is deficient in leaves
until it gains the summits of the trees. It needs the broad eye of day,
and prospers only upon trees that stand outside of a wood. No other
climbing plant is so generally used in New England as a drapery for
houses and fences, taking the place occupied in Europe by the ivy. Many
old houses are covered by it, and many an old stone-wall is completely
enveloped in its foliage.

The poison ivy, or climbing sumach, is the only rival of the Virginia
creeper in our woods. It is even more common in open fields, and though
less luxuriant, surpasses it in the beauty of its leaf. It is a very
pertinacious parasite, adhering very closely to the object that supports
it, with its innumerable rootlets, but sustaining life only by
communication with the soil. The growth of this plant is discouraged on
account of the liability of many persons to be injuriously affected by
its poisonous properties. Those who are not familiar with wild plants
are generally unable to distinguish the poison ivy from the Virginia
creeper. Their general appearance and habits are nearly the same, but
their leaves furnish a sure mark of distinction. They are compound in
each; but those of the Virginia creeper are in fives, those of the
poison ivy in threes, without exception.

As we pass along the rustic lane, where it is involved in deep shadow by
a dense growth of shrubbery and vines we see the woody nightshade
adorning the mass with its singular halberd-shaped leaves, its dark blue
flowers with a golden centre, and its pendent clusters of scarlet fruit.
I know but few plants of which so little has been said that possess a
greater share of beauty. There is a common prejudice against the woody
nightshade, from its supposed poisonous qualities, and from our habit of
identifying it with the deadly nightshade of Europe. If our plant has
some poisonous qualities, they are not of a dangerous character. All
parts of it may be bruised and handled with impunity, and its berries
are so nauseous to the taste and smell that they are not liable to be
eaten.

In the wild hedge-rows that skirt our fields and farms, made up of
viburnum, elder, cornel, hazel, and wild rose-bushes, the woody
nightshade, in company with the glycine, contributes greatly to the
interest attached to these flowering thickets. What excites my surprise
is that so few persons praise this modest little climber. How would its
varied foliage, interwoven with that of more luxuriant plants, the deep
but contrasted colors of its flowers and fruit, and its constant
presence in the borders of all wet fallows, attract the admiration of a
painter who, imbued with a love of nature equal to his love of art,
should attempt to paint a New England stone-wall with its many native
accompaniments!

A more conspicuous climber, and more common by the woodside than by the
rustic lane, is the bitter-sweet. It is seen climbing over trees, not
attaching itself by rootlets or tendrils, but twining round its
supporter, like the morning-glory. It is often fifteen or twenty feet in
height, covering some unfortunate tree with its own dense foliage, and
finally causing it to perish by excluding light and air from it. This
plant is well known to simplers, who have named it bitter-sweet, from
the mingled sweet and bitter of the scarlet and orange-colored berries
which they collect for medical use. I cannot learn that they contain any
medicinal virtue; but it is well understood, in these days, that the
possession of decided efficiency renders any medical substance
unpopular. All popular remedies are physic only to the faith; hence the
incomparable virtues of saffron and elder-flowers, whiteweed and
everlasting!

We are prone, when thinking of plants merely as ornaments of nature, to
forget that the fruit-bearing shrubs and vines have in general anything
to recommend them except their fruit. It will be admitted that very many
of these plants are deficient in beauty; yet I will confess that I have
often admired the different species of bramble, which are so common in
the rustic lane and woodside, trailing over fences and abrupt
elevations, or hanging down from projecting cliffs, and exposing their
clusters of red, black, and purple fruit. Our common species are not
remarkable for elegance or beauty, but the country waysides would look
bald and cheerless without the simple decoration afforded by these
plants.

Among the trailing species of bramble, one of the most important as a
natural ornament of lanes and field-borders, is the dewberry, or
evergreen blackberry. It is very abundant on the edges of woods, where
the trees are thin and scattered, and in pastures covered with low
shrubs, where it may be recognized by its small, elegant, and shining
leaves. These in protected situations remain green all winter, becoming
slightly impurpled as spring advances. The dewberry covers with its
close network of trailing branches the virgin turf which has been left
undisturbed in the borders of lanes and wood-paths. When the soil has
been repeatedly turned by the plough, this little inhabitant of the
primitive sods gives place to a larger species, that trails in a similar
manner upon the ground, and bears an excellent fruit.

The only native species of bramble which is admired for the beauty of
its flowers, but not so common in fields and lanes as in old gardens, is
the flowering raspberry. It is so called from the size of its large
crimson flowers with a yellow disk, resembling a dark red single rose.
The leaves of this species are not pinnate, like the leaves of other
species of bramble, but palmate, resembling the leaf of the striped
maple. We sometimes find it in a shady nook, concealing itself under a
stone-wall, and seldom in company with other shrubs. The delicacy of its
habit unfits it to contend with its more hardy congeners, and it is soon
driven away from its retreat by the ingress of other species.

I have not yet spoken of the grapevine, which, if not very ornamental in
gardens, where its beauty is marred by excessive pruning, cannot be
surpassed in a certain kind of suggestive or relative beauty. Hence the
pleasure it affords us when we see it on the borders of woods, hanging
its purple clusters of fruit over some placid stream from the summit of
an alder, or hiding the rudeness of a neglected building with its broad
foliage. There is hardly an old road or rustic byway in the interior of
the country which is not festooned by wild grapevines, and some of the
most delightful arbors on old country roadsides are formed by these
vines, trellised upon an ancient apple-tree or drooping birch.

When a green by-road passes over a wet meadow and crosses a brook under
a natural arch formed by overhanging alders fastened together by
creeping vines, the shade afforded by this arbor is greatly heightened
by a twining canopy of clematis, or virgin’s bower, climbing over the
trees and shrubs, always keeping on the outer surface, and supporting
itself by tendrils. We often pass through copses of shrubbery completely
overspread by this vine, rendered conspicuous when in fruit by
multitudes of little silken and feathery tufts, which are far more
beautiful than its flowers. There is not much beauty in this plant, and
I attribute the interest attached to it chiefly to its poetical name and
the romantic history of the European virgin’s bower.

THE CHESTNUT.

Many admirers of trees place the Chestnut before the oak because it is a
taller tree with a proportional spread and denser foliage. A remarkable
peculiarity in the style of its foliage is its radiated tufts, giving it
a similar appearance to that which is so apparent in the horse-chestnut.
But we observe an important difference between the two,—while the
radiated tufts of the horse-chestnut are distinctly separated by spaces,
those of the Chestnut seem to be involved in a general and more
indistinct mass of foliage. A notion prevails in some parts of Europe,
that this tree should not be planted near dwelling-houses, “because the
flowers emit a powerful and disagreeable odor, which is offensive to
most people.” I have not observed any such odor from the American
Chestnut.

In general form and proportions there seems to be no specific difference
between the English and the American chestnuts. On this continent it is
a majestic tree, remarkable for the breadth and depth of its shade; but
it is seldom cultivated by roadsides. It displays many of the
superficial characters of the red oak, so that in winter we cannot
readily distinguish them. The foliage bears some resemblance to that of
the beech, but displays more variety. The leaves are long, lengthened to
a tapering point, and of a bright and nearly pure green. Though arranged
alternately, like those of the beech, on the recent branches, they are
clustered in stars, containing from five to seven leaves, on the
fruitful branches, that grow out from the perfected wood. When the tree
is viewed from a moderate distance, the whole mass seems to consist of
tufts, each containing several long pointed leaves, drooping divergently
from a common centre. From this centre the aments of the male flowers
come out in a similar way; and their bright silvery green, glistening
upon a mass of darker foliage, always attracts attention at the time of
flowering.

The Chestnut is ranked among the largest of our forest trees, sometimes
in favorable situations attaining a height of nearly eighty feet. When
growing isolated on a plain, its diameter is sometimes equal to its
height. The Chestnut has a rather loose ramification, being in this
respect inferior to the red oak, which it resembles. Its larger branches
are numerous, but the spray is coarse, the terminal branches being fewer
and more straggling than those of the oak. This tree is therefore not
comparable in beauty with the oak when divested of its leaves. The
Chestnut is a classical tree, being mentioned very frequently in the
works of the Greek and Roman poets, who were familiar with it.

THE HICKORY.

The Hickory, including several species, is very generally distributed
over this continent, but is found in no other part of the world. It is
distinguished from the walnut by its foliage and general habit of
growth, by the smaller number of leaflets on the leaf-stem, and by their
darker color and firmer texture. The aments of the Hickory are in
threes, and the outer shell of the fruit opens at four angles when it is
ripe; the aments of the walnut are single, and the outer shell of the
nut is undivided. The two trees differ also in their general appearance.
The Hickory rises to a greater proportional height, with less length and
spread of the branches, the lower ones being higher from the root of the
tree and smaller than those of the walnut. Many of the trees are
flattened at the top, and take a cylindrical form, when they approach to
any regularity; but their outlines are more frequently irregular,
displaying frequent gaps, and presenting several distinct masses of
foliage.

The Hickory, therefore, when full-grown, has seldom much elegance, and
little of the beauty of grace and symmetry. Its picturesque qualities
are its sturdy habit, its great height, its dense and dark green
foliage, its approach to a cylindrical shape, and its general
eccentricity of growth. I have never seen a Hickory with long spreading
branches like those of the butternut, nor with neat and prim foliage
like that of the ash. The different species are so common in all the
southern parts of New England as to form a notable arboreal feature of
our landscape. In Massachusetts we see them following the lines of the
old stone-walls, having come up from nuts planted by squirrels on the
strip of land around the borders of the fields. We are indebted to this
fortunate circumstance for thousands of beautiful and valuable trees,
which, but for this narrow border of neglected land, would not have been
allowed to “cumber the ground.” The trees that originated in these
borders had ample room to expand, assume their normal shape, and acquire
their full dimensions; and as we see them running upwards with but
little width, we may consider this to be their natural style of growth.

Hickories are abundant on fertile slopes, near brooksides, and on rocky
hills that abound in clay and yellow loam. They do not prosper on light,
sandy soils, and are not found in bogs. They are even a better
indication of a fertile soil than the oak. The shellbark alone drops its
leaves before they are tinted in the autumn. The most remarkable species
in New England are the shellbark, the fignut, the white hickory, and the
bitternut. These four have nearly the same outward characters. They are,
indeed, so much alike that the shellbark alone is readily distinguished
by the exfoliation of the outer rind of its bark as soon as it has come
to fruit-bearing. The bark of the other three species is channelled or
furrowed, like that of the ash. The fruit of the fignut is fig-shaped;
and as the epithet _ficiformis_ was very early applied to this species,
it is evident that the vulgar name of pignut is a corruption of the true
name, which ought to be restored.

Had the old painters been acquainted with the Hickory, they would have
admired it beyond most other trees. The peculiarities of its shape are
remarkable. The breaks in its foliage cause that variety and
irregularity of outline which are generally regarded as picturesque
qualities. I see, while I am writing, directly before my window, a tall
Hickory, standing on an elevation that makes the sky its only
background. It is tall and narrow in its shape, and its head is divided
into five distinct masses of foliage, separated by a considerable
opening. Two of these masses are on the right, and three on the left,
the highest making a flattened top, projecting over the right side, and
hanging down in a large flowing mass. Yet this tree is perfectly normal
in its proportions, for I can discover no marks of mutilation in any
part of it.

The spray of the Hickory, like other trees with pinnate leaves that bear
a large seed, is coarse; but its alternate branching gives it variety,
and takes away some of that heaviness so disagreeable in the spray of
the ash. All its branches are liable to be twisted, because they cannot
be broken by the wind, and these contortions often extend throughout the
ramification of the tree. It puts them forth from a central shaft, that
usually extends to the summit of the tree, and, being small, they are
often bent down very considerably by the weight of their fruit. The
geographical bounds of the Hickory are the southern parts of New
Hampshire on the north, Tennessee and North Carolina on the south, and
the shores of Lake Erie on the west. The wood of the Hickory is
exceedingly hard, heavy, and tough, and is in America the symbol of
courage and firmness.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO TEMPERATURE.

Not long since, in one of my rambles in Essex County, Massachusetts,
which is one of the most open and cultivated sections of the country, I
entered a little valley near the sea, comprising about fifty acres of
well-cultivated land, surrounded by a sort of amphitheatre of hills,
which were covered with a dense forest of pines and firs. It was
occupied by an intelligent farmer, whose careful observation had taken
note of many things which are overlooked by the generality of his class.
He remarked that his seed-time and harvest were several days earlier
than on the farms in the open country, and that he had crocuses and
tulips in his garden, on the south side of the surrounding wood, so
early as to astonish his neighbors in the outer world. In regard to the
relative temperature of the woods and of the open plain in summer, he
remarked that it varied according to the time of day or night. The woods
were cooler than the open country, in clear, calm weather, from about
nine o’clock in the morning until near noonday; after this time the heat
in them increased more rapidly than in the open country, and at the time
of dew-fall it was greater in the woods, and continued so during the
early part of the night. If the sky were cloudy, not much difference
could be perceived at any hour in the temperature of the two situations.
In cold and windy weather the woods afforded a comfortable shelter, and
this shelter made them apparently warmer, even when the thermometer
would indicate no difference.

The theory of my rustic friend contains the general results of all that
science has yet discovered in relation to the temperature of woods. But
the effects of clearing the forest are so different in different
situations as to have given origin to a multitude of theories. This
diversity of opinion, however, comes from a partial observation of
facts, without their qualifying circumstances. On a hot summer’s day we
sprinkle our floors with water, for the purpose of cooling the air of
the room. But how can it produce this effect, when by evaporation it
carries heat from the floor into the very air that is cooled by it? The
fact is easily explained. The greater coolness felt when the air of the
room is saturated with the moisture evaporated from the sprinkled floor
might not be exactly indicated by the thermometer. The sensation of
coolness is caused by the increased power of the air to conduct the heat
rapidly from our persons,—the effect of its greater humidity. By the
same law we may explain why, after a few clear cold days in the winter,
if a south-wind arises, we feel as if the cold were greater, because
this wind, while it raises the temperature, charges the air with
invisible moisture.

The coldness of the atmosphere over grassy meadows when the sky is
clear, after the decline of the sun in summer, is a matter of common
observation. As this phenomenon is most evident on the clearest nights,
it has given rise to the notion that the moon cools the night air. In
our rambles after sunset, we have all felt these constant changes of
temperature, which are remarkable when walking over an uneven road, the
degree of heat corresponding nearly with our altitude. When we occupy
high ground, the air is warm and dry; as soon as we descend into a
valley, we feel a sudden chill. These differences are not observed on a
cloudy night, or when a clear brisk wind is blowing. But in a calm state
of the atmosphere, as the lowest stratum of air contains the greatest
amount of moisture, its capacity for retaining heat is proportionally
diminished. Consequently the heat from the ground is radiated with great
rapidity through this damp stratum of air, while the higher strata
remain unchanged in their temperature. Indeed, it has been found by
experiment that while the greatest heat at noonday in calm summer
weather is very near the surface of the ground, yet after dew-fall the
highest temperature is several feet above this surface, increasing in
altitude for some hours after sunset.

The action of a wood checks this radiation in the early part of the
night. Like clouds in the evening, the trees form a canopy of foliage
over the ground, and thereby retain the heat many hours after it has
escaped by radiation in the open plain. According to these laws of the
radiation of heat, a longer time would be required to cool a tract of
forest than an equal area of open space, down to a given point. But, on
the other hand, a proportionally longer time is required to raise the
temperature in the woods to a given point. Hence it is still a question
among meteorologists whether the mean annual temperature of a large
tract of country is higher or lower when covered with forest than when
generally open and cleared. The sun acts with greater force upon an open
country; but the radiation of heat is greater in the same ratio during
the sun’s absence.

In considering the effects of clearing, travellers have often overlooked
the important advantages of protection afforded by woods to agricultural
crops. Even if the mean annual temperature of a country be the same
after it is cleared as when it was covered, it may at the same time be
too cold for certain plants which were formerly its common productions,
because there are no woods to protect them from the winds by day or from
the cold caused by excessive radiation at night. Palestine, two thousand
years ago, was a well-wooded country, and all the fruits of the
sub-tropical climates were raised there to perfection by its ancient
inhabitants. The date-palm, the fig-tree, and the olive grew there and
bore fruit abundantly. Palestine is now a treeless country, and the same
fruits are incapable of enduring its climate; yet recent observations
have demonstrated that its climate is not colder than it was in the days
of the kings of Israel. But as the country has been despoiled of its
forests, these sub-tropical fruits are deprived of their natural
conservatories, and cannot be raised without great labor and expense in
preparing artificial protection for them. Let the forests be restored to
the hills and mountains of Palestine, and, though the temperature of its
summers were not increased, the fields would be protected by these
forests from the winds, and the tender fruits, thriving under their
protection, would again become abundant.

The principles involved in these and similar facts form a distinct
branch of meteorological science, and would require a volume for their
illustration. I have only hinted at some of the general conclusions. It
is evident, indeed, that the same objects that serve to protect us from
cold may in an equal degree protect us from heat. The woodcutters will
continue their labor in a deep forest without discomfort on a winter’s
day, when they could not endure the intense cold of the open country.
The earliest flowers of spring, however, are found neither in a wood nor
in an open meadow, but under the protection of a wood on its southern
border, in little openings that are exposed to the beams of the sun.

THE BUTTERNUT.

The walnut includes two species in this country, the Butternut and the
black walnut, both trees of considerable note and importance. The
Butternut is a well-known tree in the Northern States, cultivated to a
great extent in rural villages, but not very abundant in the forest,
from which it has probably been extirpated for the beauty and value of
its wood in cabinet-work. It is everywhere seen in the enclosures of
farm-houses, where it is valued for its fruit and admired as a
shade-tree. It is not so tall as the hickory, and differs from it in
general shape, as I have already remarked, subdividing itself into
several large and equal branches, and seldom extending a central shaft
above the lowest point of subdivision. It is a tree of wider spread but
thinner foliage than that of the hickory. Its pinnate leaves are long,
with a great number of leaflets, and of a light and rather mellow green.
It resembles the black walnut in its botanical characters; but the fruit
of the Butternut is more elongated, that of the black walnut being
nearly globular.

Every one is familiar with the Butternut-tree. Its fruit being more
easily obtained than that of the hickory, and ripe at an earlier period,
the tree is generally plundered before the time for gathering it. The
outer rind is pulpy, and full of a bitter sap that blackens the hands
when pressed out by cracking the nuts in a green state; for the kernel
is ripe while the shell is still green. This stain may be removed by any
fresh vegetable acid; and for this purpose boys generally procure the
leaves of sheep-sorrel, with which they rub the stains from their hands,
and after washing in soft water it is found to be entirely removed, if
no soap has been used. I am not sure that painters would see much to
admire in this tree; but to a native of New England it is so pleasantly
associated with juvenile feasts of nuts in the early autumn,
gratuitously strewed by the green wayside, and with the simplicity of
country life, that it is difficult to see in the form of this tree
anything we do not admire. If its foliage is thin, its proportions are
handsome and symmetrical, and when in its prime there is no tree that
better adorns a rustic enclosure. The Butternut puts forth its leaves
about a week earlier than the hickory. It is common in all the New
England States, especially on the Green Mountain range, from the
northern parts of New Hampshire to the Sound.

THE BLACK WALNUT.

The Black Walnut is common in all the United States below the latitude
of Long Island. It is especially abundant in Pennsylvania, and is also
found singly and in small scattered groups in New England. It is a
larger and more hardy and rapid-growing tree than the English walnut,
but it bears an inferior fruit. This tree does not differ from the
butternut in general characters, but it is of greater height and more
majestic in appearance. It has very long pinnate leaves, of a pure
untarnished green and a warmer look than the darker foliage of the
hickory. Both trees produce an elegant wood for cabinet-work, but that
of the Black Walnut is preferred, though the wood of the butternut is
nearer the color of mahogany.

THE WHORTLEBERRY PASTURE.

Thoreau relates that he once thought of whortleberrying as an occupation
for a livelihood. This was said in a quaint and paradoxical humor, but
there are multitudes who can sympathize with the feelings that prompted
his remark. As a quiet outdoor amusement, it is not surpassed either by
angling or botanizing; and I cannot see why the whortleberry field
should not have its Izaak Walton as well as the lily-pond or the
trout-stream. The freedom enjoyed in the open pasture, the simple and
honest people whom we meet there, the tiresome, but still agreeable and
emulative task of picking the fruit, are only a fraction of our
enjoyments. The chirping of various insects, and their constant
sportiveness among the bushes; the motions of birds and the plaintive
melody of the wood-sparrow, which is tuneful nearly the whole month of
August,—prepare us to be cheerful and delighted with all things. The
cattle feeding carelessly upon the hillsides, the scattered groups of
trees and the cool shadows they cast upon the green turf, the sweetness
of the air, our unrestrained rambling, the precipitous rocks that
intercept our way only to disclose a bower of raspberries protected by
their walls, the mossy seats under umbrageous pines, the countless wild
flowers on every knoll, the pleasant sensation of rest after weariness
and of coolness after the heat of exercise and weather, all combine to
render the whortleberry pasture a field of delight surpassing all that
is written of gardens of orange and myrtle.

The whortleberry is peculiarly an American fruit; though a few species
are common in Middle and Northern Europe, they are in no part of the
world so abundant as in North America. The whortleberry tribe of plants
form a conspicuous feature of New England landscape, especially near the
coast. No single species has been domesticated, though any one of them
would well reward the labor of the cultivator if the fruit could not be
obtained from the fields. Their fruit is well known to the inhabitants
of the Eastern States. Very little has been written upon it, and few
persons are aware of its importance to the inhabitants of North America.
Botanists make no generic distinction between the whortleberry and the
blueberry; but we may distinguish the two at once by their different
flavor, and not by their color. The whortleberry is less acidulous, less
mucilaginous, and contains a harder seed than the blueberry. The flowers
of the two species differ as widely as their fruits: those of the
blueberry are large and white; those of the whortleberry are greenish,
tipped with red, smaller and more contracted in the mouth. There is no
family of plants that runs into a greater number of varieties in a wild
state; but I have never seen one that seemed to possess the characters
of the blueberry and whortleberry combined. With regard to their colors
it may be remarked, that while there are blueberries which are black,
there is no whortleberry which is purely blue.

It may truly be asserted that if the cherry and the whortleberry, with
all their varieties, were to become extinct, the want of the latter
would be most painfully felt by the mass of our population. We were not
taught by the Europeans to appreciate the value of our wild fruits. “In
Scotland,” said one of a company of Scotch girls whom I met in a
whortleberry field, “we have no wild fruits. All our fruits are in
gardens.” In this country, where whortleberries are so common as to be
found in all wild lands that are not densely wooded, their fruit
constitutes one of our staple productions, of greater value to us than
even the cranberry, except as an article of export. During about three
months, from the first of July to the last of September, millions of
bushels of whortleberries are consumed in this part of the country.
People are often deceived by measuring the importance of any article
according to its commercial value. Hence the whortleberry pastures are
called “waste lands.” But were these lands deprived of their products of
wild fruit, the want of it would be a grievous affliction to the
community. How many poor families earn their livelihood in summer by
gathering whortleberries for the market! How many delightful excursions
does this fruit-gathering annually afford to the children and youths of
our land! The robin, the waxwing, and other birds that consume our
cherries, would be diverted from the orchard and the garden by a good
supply of fruit from the bushes of an adjoining field; and our
cultivators might prevent their depredations by planting the different
species by the sides of their fences and in all open situations which
are not adapted to tillage.

As an object in the landscape and a field for the botanist and student
of nature the whortleberry pasture is worthy of study and full of
attractions. This scenery, with all the spontaneous mapping of its
beds of shrubbery, its groups of trees, its tussocks of mosses and
ferns, its little green hollows spangled with flowers, and its
projecting rocks covered with brambles, all intersected widely by the
smooth greensward, is peculiar to New England. In the Southern States
the whortleberry-bushes are more promiscuously scattered, and are not
seen in this delightful grouping, forming with the trees, fruits, and
flowers a true symbol of the beneficence of nature. A genuine
whortleberry pasture is one of the most beautiful of gardens,—a modern
Vale of Tempe, a true Eden,—inasmuch as it is without culture; and
abounds from early spring till waning autumn in the most interesting
shrubs and flowers of our clime; in August and September sparkling
with clusters of shining black and azure berries, and possessing a
value which only a New-Englander knows how to prize.

The whortleberry pasture consists chiefly of upland, extending out
occasionally into a level meadow, but generally of a hilly and uneven
surface, covered with groves and coppice. The pasture must have been fed
many years by cattle to acquire its distinguishing features. Without the
grazing of these animals the ground would be evenly covered with vines
and bushes. The cattle, while feeding upon the grass, consume many of
the young plants which have not become woody, and in their irregular
course gradually produce this grouping in a manner which is entirely
inimitable by art. Hence in an old field the scattered beds of
shrubbery, with greensward between them, might be compared to a map of
islands, the grass being represented on the map by the water and the
bushes by the land; the greensward sometimes widening into a broad
expanse of verdure, and then beautifully intersected by intricate masses
of shrubbery.

In the lands surrounding the older townships only do we see the
whortleberry pasture in the perfection of this picturesque grouping,
laid out according to the geometry of nature. In the new settlements the
bushes are mixed with trees and stumps in the clearings, and have not
acquired any arrangement. But if a whortleberry field has long been
pastured by cattle that seldom browse upon the shrubs, the different
kinds of vegetation stand in beautiful groups of a thousand various
forms, like the figures on tapestry. The rocks that lift up their gray
heads, sometimes with smooth flat surfaces, sometimes in lofty
protuberances, covered with liverworts and patches of variegated lichens
and mosses, and fringed on their edges with diminutive shrubs, form no
unimportant part of this peculiar scenery. In every old pasture the
different kinds of shrubs are more or less distinctly arranged into
groups; some, for example, consisting chiefly of bayberry, others of
roses or perhaps of brambles. But in general the plats consist of a
promiscuous variety of species, in which some one predominates. One of
the most common of these social plants is the sweet-fern, universally
prized for its fragrance, at the very name of which we are inspired with
pleasant recollections of youthful wanderings. The lambkill is
especially prone to form exclusive assemblages, and the most beautiful
individuals, when in flower, are generally on the outside of the group.

But there is no end of the smaller plants that spring up everywhere,
some in the open space, others under the protection of a tuft of
sedge-grass or a broad-leaved fern. The sweet-scented pyrola is abundant
in all shady thickets, and the cymbidium and arethusa decorate the low
grounds among the nodding panicles of quaking-grass and the spreading
flowers of meadow-rue. The loosestrife, with its long pyramidal spikes
of yellow flowers, is always conspicuously grouped in the low grounds,
side by side with similar plats of low swamp-roses or crimson-spiked
willow herb. But the most attractive flower in the whortleberry pasture
is the red summer lily,—the cynosure of the happy children who assemble
there, the queen of the meadow, and the delight of every rambler in the
coppice.

The man who thinks of nature only as a field for the display of
magnificent art may sneer at these rustic scenes and their native
ornaments. But pride cannot make unadorned nature contemptible, nor can
the grandeur of a princely estate deprive its occupants, if their
culture equals their wealth, of the interest with which they behold a
field covered with spontaneous vegetation, or a simple rustic farm. From
the opening of spring until the fall of the leaf, the whortleberry
pasture is a garden full of the fairest flowers and the most healthful
fruits. And if Great Britain’s isle had been covered with
whortleberries, like our New England hills, these fruits would have been
celebrated in English poetry, like the fruit of the vine and the olive
in the poetry of Greece and Rome.

WHORTLEBERRIES AND HUCKLEBERRIES.

We may vulgarize a word by associating it with the market. The wild
pastures abound in summer with well-known fruits, some of jet and some
of azure. We go out with a few friends and gather them with flowers, for
present amusement. These fruits are _Whortleberries_. This is their
poetical and their botanical name, the one that is associated with all
the beautiful things that cluster in the same field. These fruits are
also gathered for the market, and exposed for sale with cucumbers, new
potatoes, and squashes. They are now _Huckleberries_. Shelley has
defined poetry to be the art “that lifts the veil from the hidden beauty
of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not
familiar.” This is done partly by a choice selection of words; and
whenever a common thing is known by two names equally euphonious, we
should always select that which is not in commercial use. We should say
Whortleberries if we are writing an essay or a poem about them, and
Huckleberries if we are going to buy a few of them in the market. The
usages of the market in other matters ought to be excluded from
literature. In commerce, for example, fishes are fish; in natural
history fish are fishes.

THE HAZEL.

“Now let us sit beneath the grateful shade
Which Hazels interlaced with elms have made.”
_Virgil_, Eclogue V.

The Hazel, under which Menalcas invites his brother-shepherd to sit, is
a tree of considerable size, while the American hazels are mere shrubs,
seldom overtopping a rustic stone-wall. The Hazel among the Romans, like
the olive among the Jews, was regarded as the emblem of peace; and this
estimation of it was transmitted to the people of a later period. Hence,
in popular works of fancy on the language of flowers, this is recorded
as its symbolic meaning; and in ancient times a Hazel rod was supposed
to have power of reconciling friends who had been separated by
disagreement. These superstitions connected with the Hazel, and more
particularly the one relating to the Hazel rod, named the Caduceus,
assigned by the gods to Mercury as a means of restoring harmony to the
human race, probably gave origin to the divining-rod, which was first
made of Hazel and afterwards of the witch-elm. It is remarkable that in
America this use was made of the hamamelis, a very different plant in
its botanical characters, and hence called the Witch-Hazel.

There are two New England species, both delighting in the shelter of
rude fences, and producing their flowers before their leaves. They are
distinguished chiefly by the shape of their fruit. The common Hazel is
the one most generally known. In this the shells or husks that enclose
the nuts are of the same round shape, growing in a cluster, and each
invested with a calyx like that of an ordinary flower. The Beaked Hazel
is a smaller bush and frequents more solitary places than the other.
“The calyx enclosing the nut, densely hispid and round at base, is
contracted like a bottle into a long narrow neck, which is cut and
toothed at the extremity.” The whole nut with its envelope resembles a
bird’s head and beak. A dry sandy loam is the soil generally occupied by
the Hazel. Along the old roads that pass over dry sandy plains, that
border many of the river-banks in the Northern States, the Hazel,
growing in frequent clumps, forms in some of these locations the most
common kind of shrubbery. When we see a pitch-pine wood on one side of a
road, the cultivated land on the opposite side is usually bordered with
a growth of Hazels.

Both species are particularly worthy of protection and preservation.
They produce a valuable nut without our care; they are ornamental to our
fields and by-roads; they feed the squirrels and shelter the birds, and
they add a lively interest to natural objects by their spontaneous
products. The Hazel is associated with many pleasant adventures in our
early days, with nut-gatherings and squirrel-hunts, and with many
pleasant incidents in classical poetry. The Hazel has been a favorite
theme of poets, especially those of the Middle Ages. In the songs of
that period are constant allusions to the Hazel-bush, probably from its
frequency in natural hedge-rows, and its valuable fruit.

THE BUTTON-BUSH.

Not much has been written of the Button-bush. We hear but little of
those shrubs that do not readily admit of culture, and are not
susceptible of modification by the arts of florists. The Button-bush is
confined to wet, solitary places; indeed, it may be considered a true
aquatic, as it grows in most cases directly out of the water. It is
associated with the complaining song of the blackbird, whose nest is
often placed in the forks of its branches, and it accompanies the ruder
aspects of nature. It is far from being an elegant plant; and the little
beauty it possesses belongs to the perfectly globular shape of its heads
of flowers, which are nearly white. It is generally seen bordering the
sluggish streams that flow through the level swamps, and often forms
little islets of shrubbery in the middle of a sheet of water.

THE CLETHRA.

After the flowers of the azalea have faded, we are attracted in like
situations by a similar fragrance from the Clethra, or Spiked Alder,
remarkable as one of the latest bloomers of the American flowering
shrubs. It bears its white flowers in a long spike, or raceme, somewhat
like those of the black cherry-tree. The Clethra, when in blossom, is
not destitute of elegance, and it is valuable for the lateness of its
flowering. The foliage of this plant is homely, and its autumnal tints
are yellow, while the prevailing tints of our wild shrubbery are
different shades of red and purple. It is found in wet and boggy places,
where it is very common, displaying its floral clusters as late as the
fourth week in August. This shrub, when cut up for brushwood, is called
the “Pepperbush” by the fishermen of our coast, from the resemblance of
its roundish fruit to peppercorns. The picturesque attractions of the
Clethra are not to be despised, when its long racemes of white flowers
are seen projecting from crowded masses of verdure on the edges of the
wooded swamps.

THE WESTERN PLANE.

When journeying through the older towns of New England, the melancholy
forms of the ill-fated Planes attract our attention by their superior
size, and still more by the marks of decay which are stamped upon all.
This appearance is most remarkable in the early part of summer; for the
trees are not dead, but some hidden malady caused the first crop of
foliage to perish for several successive years. The trees, after putting
forth a new crop of leaves from a second growth of buds, had not time to
ripen their wood before the frosts of winter came and destroyed their
recent branches. This disaster was repeated annually for ten or fifteen
years, causing an accumulation of twigs at the extremities of the
branches, making a broom-like appendage, and greatly deforming the spray
of the tree.

The Western Plane, or Buttonwood, is a well-known tree by the waysides
in New England and in the forests of the Middle and Western States. It
belongs to a genus of which there are only three known species, and this
genus constitutes a whole natural family. It may, therefore, be
something more than a fanciful hypothesis, that all its noble kindred
have perished and disappeared from the face of the earth, with other
plants of a distant geological era, and that the three remaining species
are destined to share the same fate, as signalized by the mysterious
fatality which has attended both the Western and Oriental Plane. The
Buttonwood is remarkable for its great height and magnitude, its large
palmate leaves, and its globular fruit. The foliage is rather sparse, of
a light, rusty green, and resembles in many points that of the common
grapevine. Near the insertion of every leaf, and a little above it, is a
stipule forming a plaited ruff that encircles the growing branch. These
ruff-like appendages are among its generic marks of distinction.

“The Buttonwood,” says Michaux, “astonishes the eye by the size of its
trunk and the amplitude of its head. But the white elm has a more
majestic appearance, which is owing to its great elevation, to the
disposition of its principal limbs, and the extreme elegance of its
summit.” He considers the Buttonwood “the largest and loftiest tree of
the United States.” He mentions one growing on a small island in the
Ohio River, which at five feet from the ground measured forty feet and
four inches in circumference; and he found another on the right bank of
the Ohio that measured, at four feet from the ground, forty-seven feet
in circumference, or nearly sixteen feet in diameter, and showed no
marks of decay. He states that the Buttonwood is confined “to moist, wet
grounds, where the soil is loose, deep, and fertile, and it is never
found upon dry lands of irregular surface.”

It was probably the rapid growth and great size of the Buttonwood that
caused our ancestors to plant it so extensively as a shade-tree. It
rises also to a great height before it sends out any branches, thereby
affording the inmates of houses the advantage of its shade, without
intercepting their prospect, and without interfering with passing
objects when planted by roadsides. But these noble trees, so conspicuous
and so thrifty thirty years ago, have been slowly perishing from some
mysterious cause which no theory can satisfactorily explain. It is
generally supposed to be connected with a want of hardihood in the
constitution of the tree, that renders it unable to endure all the
vicissitudes of a Northern climate.

In England the same misfortune has fallen upon both the American and
Oriental Plane. The late spring frosts are mentioned as the probable
cause of the phenomenon, though there is but little resemblance between
our climate and that of England. This tendency of the two species has
prevented the general planting of them for shade and ornament. English
writers give their preference to the American Plane, which they assert
equals the other in size, and surpasses it in beauty of foliage. In
England the American Plane has frequently attained a very great
magnitude. Selby mentions one which, at forty years from the time it was
planted, measured a hundred feet in height. The specific differences
between the two Planetrees consist chiefly in the size and shape of
their leaves, those of the Oriental Plane being smaller, and more deeply
lobed or divided into segments. Both species have the same habit of
annually shedding their bark, leaving the trunk with a smooth and
whitish surface.

THE MYRTLE.

Among the Greeks and Romans, the oak was dedicated to Jupiter, the olive
to Minerva, and the Myrtle, from the delicacy and beauty of its foliage,
to Venus; and the temple of this goddess was surrounded by Myrtle
groves. Hence the Myrtle and the rose have always been twined with
garlands and prizes for beauty,—the one being admired for its flowers,
the other for its delicate and aromatic leaves. A great deal of the
romance of botany is lost to us, the inhabitants of the New World, on
account of the absence from our woods of many of the plants most
celebrated in classic poetry and medieval romance. We have not the
heath, nor the olive, nor the ivy; and many of the humble flowers of the
meadow, familiar to the reader of classical lore, are absent from our
soil. Their absence, notwithstanding the beauty and elegance of many
flowers and shrubs that seem to stand in the place of them, can never
cease to be felt. The sacredness which a plant acquires by its
association with ancient poetry and romance and with Holy Writ cannot be
transferred to one of our indigenous plants of equal beauty. But there
is romance in our own lives, and there are plants never mentioned in the
literature of the romantic ages which are associated with certain
hallowed periods and events in our youth that render them ever sacred to
memory.

There are two or three plants in our own land that bear the classical
name of Myrtle, not from any botanical resemblance or affinity to this
plant, either in leaf or in flower, but from the aromatic odor of the
leaves, like that of the true Myrtle. These plants are the Sweet-Gale,
the bayberry, and the sweet-fern.

THE DUTCH MYRTLE, OR SWEET-GALE.

Along the low banks of rivers, and on the wooded shores of ponds and
lakes that do not rise above the water-level, grows a slender and rather
elegant bush, with dark and dull green foliage, possessing a very
agreeable odor, which is perceived when the leaf is crushed. The
Sweet-Gale is indigenous both in Europe and America. It is found only in
wet places, where it forms knolls and copses, excluding all other plants
by the density and vigor of its growth. This exclusive habit is owing to
the multitude and tenacity of its roots, that form a subterranean
network almost impenetrable. The Sweet-Gale is about half aquatic; it
grows out of the water like the button-bush, and is, I believe, never
found except in lands which are annually inundated.

It is this shrub that regales the sight with fresh verdure, rising out
of the bosom of shallow waters in compact masses and forming little
islets of shrubbery, without the mixture of any other plant. Through
these wooded islets, on angling excursions, we propel our boat, while
the surface of the lake is spangled with water-lilies, which,
intermingled with the long blue spikes of pickerelweed and other aquatic
flowers, while the notes of the veery and the red mavis are heard from
the shore, afford the scene a kind of tropical splendor.

THE BAYBERRY.

This species has an odor very similar to that of the sweet-gale, and
from its fragrance and its waxy fruit it has obtained the name of the
Candleberry Myrtle. It delights in dry pastures upon the hills and
uplands, to which it is a humble, but not insignificant ornament. This
plant can make no very evident pretensions to beauty, having rough and
crooked branches, and imperfect flowers and fruit, without any elegance
of form. But its foliage is so regular, so dense, and of so bright a
verdure, that it never fails to attract attention. Indeed, it displays
some of the finest masses of pure green leafage to be seen among our
upland shrubbery. But seldom does any tint except the green of summer
appear in the Bayberry. It takes no part in the grand pageant of autumn.
The fruit of this plant is a subject of great curiosity. It consists of
little greenish-gray berries, stemless, and completely covering the
branches like warts, thickly coated with a waxy substance, which is
soluble in boiling water. This substance, when collected, makes a very
hard wax of a greenish color.

THE SWEET-FERN.

Another of those humble shrubs which, though wanting in the beauty
afforded by flowers, is very generally sought and admired, is the
Sweet-Fern, at the very name of which we are inspired with pleasant
remembrances of spring. The Sweet-Fern is a common plant on all our
hills, the close companion of the bayberry, the wild rose, and the small
kalmia. It is bound into all the nosegays gathered in May, and is a part
of the garlands with which young girls crown the head of their
May-queen, before the eglantine has put forth its leaves, and when the
only flowers of the meadow are a few violets and anemones. This little
shrub occupies a wide extent of territory, mingling its incense with
almost every breeze that is scented by the rose. It is abundant in all
the North-eastern States and the British Provinces.

The Sweet-Fern is a peculiar shrub, branching in such a manner as to
form a perfect miniature tree, beautifully ramified with a neatly
rounded head. The leaves are agreeably aromatic, and shaped unlike those
of any other phenogamous plant, resembling a true fern-leaf, having
alternate indentations that extend not quite to the midrib. It is a very
grateful, not to say beautiful, ornament of our dry hills and pastures,
and is more admired than any other equally homely shrub in our woods.

RELATION OF TREES TO THE SOIL.

I have spoken of trees as the purifiers and renovators of the
atmosphere, as regulators of its humidity, equalizers of the electric
fluid, and as safeguards against both drought and inundations; but I
have not yet alluded to the fact that they are, in dense assemblages,
the actual creators, in many places, of the soil upon which they stand.
The trees by means of their foliage are direct fertilizers of the ground
they cover, causing it to increase in bulk as long as they stand upon
it. But the leaves of trees are not the only source of this increase of
bulk and fertility. The lichens and mosses, and various incrustations
upon their bark, and the offal of birds, insects, and quadrupeds, all
contribute to the same end. Hence the most barren situations will
produce good crops for several years after the removal of their wood;
and from these facts we may learn why a forest is still vigorous, though
it has remained for centuries upon the same ground. If it were
fertilized only by the decayed foliage of the trees, it would gradually
lose its fitness to promote the health and growth of the timber. But the
foreign matters I have enumerated, the decayed cryptogamous plants, and
the relics and deposits of animals which have lived and died there,
supply the soil with nitrogenous ingredients in which decomposed leaves
are wanting.

But what are the sources of all the matters which are furnished by the
trees alone? They are chiefly the atmosphere and the deeper strata of
the soil. The roots of the trees, penetrating to a considerable depth,
draw up from the subsoil certain nutritive salts that enter into the
substance of all parts of the tree. This is restored to the surface by
every tree or branch that falls and moulders upon it, and the leaves
increase its bulk still more by their annual decay. According to
Vaupell, “the carbonic acid given out by decaying leaves, when taken up
by water, serves to dissolve the mineral constituents of the soil, and
it is particularly active in disintegrating feldspar and the clay
derived from its decomposition.” These facts explain why the surface
soil in a forest may constantly increase in bulk, without communication
with any foreign sources of supply.

If a wood be situated in a valley or on a level plain, it retains all
these substances for its own benefit. But if it stand upon a declivity,
a part of the _débris_ will be washed down by floods into the fields
below. Hence, by preserving a growth of wood upon all barren slopes and
elevations, the farmer derives benefit from it, both as a fertilizer and
as a source of irrigation to the lower part of the slopes or the base of
the hill. For some days after a rain, thousands of little rills are
constantly oozing from the spongy bed of the wood, that cannot
immediately become dry like an open surface. Hills, when either very
barren or steep, are unprofitable alike for tillage or pasture. They
require more manure than other grounds, and more labor in its
distribution. Hence, if divested of wood, as I have often repeated, they
are almost useless; while, if densely wooded, they fertilize and
irrigate the lands below, protect them from winds, and afford a certain
annual amount of fuel.

When I am journeying through the country and behold the rocky hills,
sometimes for miles in extent, entirely bare of trees, and affording too
little sustenance to support even a crop of whortleberry-bushes, where
an acre would hardly pasture a single sheep, I am informed by the older
inhabitants that these barren fields were since their childhood covered
with forest. This wood cannot be restored, because the soil has been
washed down from the surface into the plains below, and nothing remains
to support a new growth of trees. And then I think, if our predecessors,
instead of wrangling about theology, had left its mysteries to be
explained by their pastors, and studied some of the plain laws of
meteorology, this devastation had not taken place!

If these rising grounds, like most of the hills in New England, have a
granite foundation and a comparatively barren surface soil, forests are
the only means which can be used by nature to render them productive or
useful in any way to the prosperity of agriculture. Were they stripped
of trees, they could not long maintain their original fertility; for
there is nothing to prevent the soil from washing down their sides,
nothing to prevent inundations from copious rains, nothing to prevent
their becoming rapidly parched by drought during a great part of every
summer. Hence a mountain that is covered with a dense forest, how thin
and meagre soever the soil may be from which the trees derive their
support, is a source of perpetual fertilization to the lands below.
Millions of living creatures, which are harbored in these woods,
annually perish, leaving their remains upon the ground to fertilize it
and increase its bulk. During their lifetime also, besides various
substances which they have manipulated, they are constantly leaving
deposits of many kinds upon the surface; and if the quantity thus spread
upon a single acre of woodland could be measured, we should be
astonished at the amount.

By means of forests, therefore, in favorable situations, a farmer
obtains something apparently out of nothing, and makes the barren rocks
and hills the sources of a part of the substances with which he
fertilizes his grounds.

But I have said nothing of the pasturage afforded to cattle on the
borders of woods. Out of every two or three tons of leaves which are
cast upon the ground, a hundredweight at least is but a solidification
of the gases of the atmosphere. All this would be lost to the farmer, if
the upper parts of his barren elevations and the sides of his steep
declivities were despoiled of their wood and shrubbery. Without this
forest, tons of compost produced by the annual decay of leaves would
never have been created. All that proceeds from living creatures would
also be lost, because they would either have never come into existence,
or they would have lived and died in another place and benefited some
other region.

THE VIBURNUM.

Over all the land, save where excessive cultivation and dressing of the
grounds have stripped the earth of its native garniture, the roadsides
are adorned with the different species of Viburnum. We detect them in
winter by their many colored branches and their finely divided spray.
May clothes them with a profusion of delicate and sweet-scented flowers;
lastly, autumn dyes their foliage purple and crimson, and hangs from
their branches clusters of variegated fruit; so that as native ornaments
of the borders of old fields and roads they are surpassed by no other
shrubs. The Viburnum constitutes a great part of the underwood of our
forests, thriving and bearing fruit under the deep shade of trees, but
assuming a handsome shape only outside of the wood. The flowers, in
circular clusters, or cymes, resemble those of the elder, but have less
fragrance.

THE AMERICAN WAYFARING-TREE.

The largest and most conspicuous of this genus, and the one that seems
to me to bear the most resemblance to the English Wayfaring-tree, is the
Sweet Viburnum. It is a tall and wide-spreading shrub, with numerous
branches and dense and elegant foliage, making a compact and
well-rounded head. The leaves are single and opposite, finely serrate,
and with prominent veins. Many of our shrubs produce more showy flowers,
but few surpass it in the beauty of its fruit. The berries are of the
size of damsons, hanging profusely from the branches like clusters of
grapes. They are dark purple when ripe, with a lustre that is not seen
in the grape. Just before they ripen they are crimson, and berries of
this color are often blended with the ripened fruit. Like the English
Wayfaring-tree, the office of this shrub seems to be to overshadow the
unfrequented byways, and afford coolness and refreshment to the
traveller.

THE GUELDER ROSE.

This species is common to both continents. In Europe it is cultivated
under the name of Guelder Rose. In America it is known as the
Snowball-tree of our gardens, and it seems to be identical with the
Maple-leaved Viburnum of our woods. In the garden variety the clusters
are nearly globular, consisting entirely of barren flowers, and
differing from those of the wild plant in the enlargement of the
florets. In the wild tree some barren florets with enlarged petals may
be seen mingled with others in the cyme, chiefly encircling the disk.
The fruit of this species is of a bright scarlet, and bears a
superficial resemblance to cranberries, having also a similar acid
taste, but a different internal structure.

THE HOBBLE-BUSH.

Why so elegant a plant as this species should bear the disagreeable name
of Hobble-Bush is apparent only when we become entangled by walking over
a bed of it. I have seen it frequently in Maine, where it is called
Moosewood, but seldom in Massachusetts. It is never entirely erect; its
principal branches spread upon the ground, while the smaller ones that
bear the leaves and fruit are erect. The leaves are very large, some
lobed and others heart-shaped or nearly oval. Notwithstanding its
procumbent growth, it is not a homely shrub. The numerous small and
erect branches that spring from the creeping boughs resemble a bed of
dense low shrubbery. And when we see it in an old, dark-shaded wood,
crimsoned by the tinting of autumn, and full of bright scarlet fruit, we
cannot but admire it.

THE ARROW-WOOD.

Among the several species which I shall not attempt to describe, one of
the most common and familiar is the Arrow-Wood, so called from the
general employment of its long, straight, and slender branches by the
Indians for the manufacture of their arrows. This tree seldom rises
above eight or ten feet in height, and is more common in the borders of
fields which are low and wet than any other species. Its fruit is of a
bluish slate-color. These peculiar shrubs are often seen in the damp
forest, and in the borders of wood-paths, bearing conspicuous fruit and
tempting us to gather and eat, while we refrain on account of the
suspicions we naturally feel when we discover the fruit of a strange
plant.

AUTUMN WOODS.

When the golden-rods in field and border have perceptibly faded, and we
are growing weary of the monotony of summer landscape, autumn, the great
limner of the forest, spreads over the earth new and enchanting
pictures. Dim lights spring up daily among the shadows of the trees, and
grove, copse, and thicket suffer a gradual metamorphosis. The woods are
illuminated by such an array of colors that their late dark recesses
appear to have the brightness of sunshine. Where a few days since there
was but a shady obscurity of faded green, there gleams a luminous beauty
from myriads of tinted leaves. As the twilight of the year comes on, the
trees appear one after another in their new garniture, like the clouds
of evening, as sunset deepens into darkness.

There is no scene in nature more purely delightful than the autumn woods
when they have attained the fulness of their splendor. The sentiment of
melancholy which is associated with the fall of the leaf increases our
susceptibility to be affected by these parting glories of the year. So
sweetly blended are the lights and colors in this gorgeous array, that
no sense is wearied. The very imperfection of the hues gives a healthful
zest to the spectacle, causing it never to weary like the more brilliant
colors of a flower-bed. The hues of sunrise are more ethereal and
exhilarating; but there is a sober mellowness in the tints of autumn
that inspires the most healthful temper of mind. Far and near, from the
wooded hills that display a variegated spectacle of gold, scarlet, and
purple; from turrets of rocks embroidered with ferns and sumach; from
old winding roads and lanes, hedged with a countless variety of gleaming
shrubs, and rustic cottages half covered with scarlet creeper, down to
the crimson patches of whortleberry-bushes, on the plains and in the
valleys,—all is serenity and beauty.

I have often observed that the autumn woods never present that picture
of gloom which is so manifest in them on a cloudy day in summer. In one
respect the foliage itself is luminous, presenting warm colors that
reflect light, so that the interior of a wood is actually brightened by
the tinting of the leaves. I find but little pleasure in an evergreen
wood at this time, unless it is illuminated by an occasional group of
deciduous trees. Autumn is a sad time of the year,—the season of parting
with all that was delightful in summer. The darkness of the atmosphere
is even greater than in winter, when the earth is whitened by snow. We
hail these warm tints of the woods, therefore, as a beneficent offering
of nature for the refreshment of our spirits. All these things are
beautiful even in cloudy weather, but the sun greatly enlivens the
colors of the foliage, particularly when it goes down in a clear
atmosphere, and every object is garnished with its beams, and mingles
with golden reflections from hundreds of cottage windows. We watch their
evanescent lights as they fade in the valleys and linger on the
hill-tops, until twilight veils the scene in colorless shadow.

Though every one admires the beauty of autumn woods, not many are aware
how imperfect are the colors that make up this gorgeous pageant. We
speak of the scarlet and crimson of the maple, the oak, and the tupelo,
and of many shrubs that equal them in brilliancy. But there is very
little pure scarlet, crimson, or purple among these tints. If it were
otherwise they would afford us less pleasure. In that case our senses
would be intoxicated; now they are healthfully as well as agreeably
stimulated. Pure colors spread over so wide an extent of surface would
be too intense for perfect enjoyment. All the dyes of autumn foliage are
sobered by the admixture of some earthy hue, something that prevents
their rivalling the tints of heaven.

Green and yellow are often seen in their purity in the leaves of trees;
crimson and scarlet are seldom pure, except in some parts of the
brightest leaves. Even their green is not perfect, save in that stage of
their development that precedes their full expansion. After this period,
as the landscape-painter well knows, all verdure is tarnished and rusty.
Indeed, the colors of leaves will not bear comparison with those of
flowers, either in purity or variety; yet when viewed from a distance,
and illuminated by sunshine, they seem nearly pure. Red leaves of
different shades in sunshine produce at a distance the effect of crimson
or scarlet, chocolate hues that of purple, and browns that of orange.

The hues of autumn are not very conspicuous before the middle of
September, and it is worthy of notice that the brightest and purest
colors are seen at the time when three fourths of the trees still remain
unchanged. As one after another assumes its ruddy, golden and purple
hues, the earlier and more brilliant drop their leaves; and some are
entirely denuded, while others are fully covered with foliage and
verdure. Even different individuals of the same species, of maples
especially, manifest a great difference of habit in this respect, caused
in some cases by the peculiarities of their situation. Trees in swamps
and low grounds lose their leaves earlier than the occupants of a deep
soil in the uplands.

Some species are perfectly uniform in their colors. The poplar and
birch, for example, are invariably yellow; the sumach and whortleberry
are chiefly red; while the maples display as many colors as if they were
of different species. But each individual tree shows nearly the same
every year, as apple-trees bear fruit of the same tints from year to
year. Two red maples growing side by side are seldom alike, and in a
group of them you will see almost as many shades of color as trees. Some
are entirely yellow, others scarlet, some crimson, purple, or orange,
others variegated with several of these colors. There is more uniformity
in the tints of the sugar maple. I have seen long rows of this species
that were only yellow and orange, though its colors generally vary from
orange to scarlet. Purple and crimson are confined chiefly to the red
maple; I have seen in different individuals of this species all the hues
that are ever displayed in the autumn woods. The red maples, more than
all other trees combined, are the crowning glory of a New England
autumn. The sugar maple, though more brilliant, has a narrower range of
colors.

As early as the last week in August, we perceive the tinting of a few
red maples, which always exhibit the earliest change. Sometimes a
solitary branch is tinted, while the remainder of the foliage is green,
as if something affecting its vitality had prematurely colored it.
Frequently the coloring process begins at the top; the purple crown of
autumn is placed upon the green brow of summer, and we behold the two
seasons represented at once in the same tree.

The first coloration is usually seen at the veins of the leaf, extending
outwardly until the whole is tinted. Sometimes it appears in spots, like
drops of blood upon the green surface; and in this case the leaf usually
remains spotted. In the foliage of trees that assume a variety of
colors, yellows generally predominate in the interior of the mass, red
and purple on the outside. In the red maple, and less frequently in the
rock maple when in a protected situation, the leaves are often formally
variegated with figures of yellow, red, green, and purple. Those of the
poison sumach, the cornel, and the snowy mespilus, are sometimes
beautifully striated with yellow or orange upon a darker ground; but I
have searched the woods in vain to find any other than a maple-leaf
configurated like a butterfly’s wing.

In the foliage of the tupelo deep shades of purple first appear,
brightening into crimson or scarlet before it falls. This tree more
invariably shows a mass of unmixed crimson than any other species. Even
in the maple, if the general presentation is red, you will find a
considerable mixture of yellow. The colors of the scarlet oak are seldom
pure or unmixed; but those of the tupelo are invariable, except as they
pass through the gradations from purple to scarlet. If, therefore, the
tupelo were as common in the woods as the maple, it would contribute
more splendor to the scenery of autumn. There are many trees that never
produce a red leaf. I have never found one in the foliage of the poplar,
the birch, the tulip, the hickory, or the chestnut, which are all of
some shade of yellow; but there are usually a few yellow leaves
scattered among the ruddy foliage of any tree that assumes this color.

When all the circumstances attending the season have been favorable to
the tints of autumn, there is no tree of the forest that would attract
more admiration from the beautiful sobriety of its colors than the
American ash. But this tree is so easily affected by drought, that after
a dry summer its leaves fall prematurely and its tints are imperfect.
The colors of the ash are quite unique, and distinguish it from all
other trees. Under favorable circumstances its coloring process is
nearly uniform. It begins with a general impurpling of the whole mass of
foliage nearly at the same time, and its gradual changes remind me of
those observed in sea-mosses during the process of bleaching. There is
an invariable succession in these tints, as in the brightening beams of
morn. They are first of a dark bronze, turning from this to a chocolate,
then to a violet brown, and finally to a salmon-color, or yellow with a
slight shade of lilac. When the leaves are faded nearly yellow, they are
ready to drop from the tree. It is remarkable, that, with all this
variety of hues, neither crimson nor any shade of scarlet is ever seen
in the ash. It ought to be remembered that the gradations of autumn
tints in all cases are in the order of those of sunrise, from dark to
lighter hues, and never the reverse. I make no reference to the browns
of dead leaves, which are darker than yellow or orange, from which they
turn. I speak only of the changes of leaves before they are seared or
dry.

After the middle of October, the oaks are the most conspicuous ornaments
of the forest; but they are seldom brilliant. In their foliage there is
a predominance of what we call leather-colors, with a considerable
mixture of certain shades of red that are peculiar to the oak. We rarely
find pure yellow or scarlet leaves in the foliage of any species of oak.
The color of the scarlet oak is nearer a purple or crimson than any
other shade of red. The white oak turns, with but little variation, to
an ashen-purple or impure violet. The black and red oaks display varying
and imperfect shades of drab and orange. The oaks are remarkable for the
persistence of their foliage, and for the duration of their tints, which
are chiefly the brown and russet of dead leaves with a lively polish.
Long after other deciduous trees have become leafless, the various
sombre shades of the different oaks cast a melancholy tinge over the
waning beauty of the forest.

We are wont to speak of trees as the principal objects of admiration in
autumnal scenery, but the shrubs, though less conspicuous on account of
their inferior size, are not less brilliant. It is also remarkable that
reds predominate in the shrubbery, and yellows in the trees. Reds and
purples distinguish the whortleberry, the cornel, the viburnum, and the
sumach, including all their species. There is indeed so small a
proportion of yellow in the shrubbery, that it is hardly distinguishable
in the general mass of scarlet, crimson, and purple. Among trees, on the
contrary, yellows prevail in all miscellaneous woods. They distinguish
the poplar, the birch, the hickory, the tulip-tree, the elm, and a good
proportion of the maples. It ought to be remarked, however, that there
are more shrubs than trees that do not change materially, but remain
green until the fall of their leaves. The alder remains green; and as it
covers a large proportion of our wet grounds, it might seem to an
observer in those situations that the tints of autumn were confined to
the trees.

Many persons still believe frost to be the great limner of the foliage,
as if it were a sort of dyeing material. On the contrary, the slightest
frost will destroy the tints of every leaf that is touched by it. It is
not uncommon to witness a general tarnishing of the autumnal tints by
frost as early as September. In some years they are spoiled by it before
they have begun to be developed. An autumn rarely passes when the colors
of the foliage are not half ruined before the time when they ought to be
in their brightest condition. But the injury they receive from slight
frosts is not apparent to careless observation. In the meridian of their
beauty, heat will damage the tints as badly as frost. A very hot and
sunny day occurring the first or second week of October makes almost as
much havoc with the ash and the maple as a freezing night, fading their
leaves rapidly and loosening their attachment to the branches, so that
the slightest wind will scatter them to the ground. Yet the action of
heat differs materially from that of frost. Frost imbrowns and crisps or
sears the leaves, while heat only fades them to lighter and more
indefinite shades. Frost is destructive of their colors, heat is only a
bleaching agent. Cool weather in autumn without frost is necessary for
the preservation of its seasonal beauty.

The most brilliant autumnal hues appear after a wet summer, followed by
a cool autumn, unattended with frost. Cool weather preserves not only
the purity of the colors, but also the persistence of the foliage. If
the early frosts are delayed, the tints are brighter for this delay
while the weather remains cool. But a wet summer is so generally
followed by premature cold, that the finest displays of autumn scenery
are often suddenly ruined by a hard frost. Seldom are all the favorable
circumstances for preserving the purity of the tints combined in any one
season. Not more than once in six or eight years are both heat and frost
kept away so as to permit the leaves to pass, unseared and untarnished,
through all their beautiful gradations of color.

There are several herbaceous plants that display tints similar to those
of the woods; but they are not very conspicuous. I must not fail to
mention the samphire, a plant of the salt marshes, possessing no beauty
of form, having neither leaves nor any very discernible flowers, which
every year contributes more beauty of color to the grounds it occupies
than any flower of summer. Though I have seen no printed account of its
magnificent crimson spread interruptedly over miles of salt marsh, my
attention has often been called to it by ladies, who are more sensitive
than the other sex to such appearances, and more careful observers of
them.

The tints of the forest in America are said greatly to surpass those of
the European woods. Having never visited Europe, I cannot speak of the
comparison from my own observation. But from descriptions of them by
different authors who have treated the subject, I have been led to
believe that the difference is caused by a larger admixture of scarlet
and crimson among the tints of our own trees. To aid the reader in
drawing a comparison between them, I have made a synopsis of the tints
of American woods during September and October; and have copied a
similar one, less full and particular, by George Barnard, of English
woods.

NOTE.

There are a few trees and shrubs, of which the alder and buckthorn are
examples, that so seldom show any kind of a tint that I have not
included them in my list; and there are several species of oak that
display such a motley combination of green and rust, with faint shades
of purple and yellow, that it is impossible to classify them. In my
list I have only named the genera, except when the species are
distinguished by important differences. The brown hues of the oak and
the beech are the tints only of their dead leaves or dead parts of
leaves; but pure browns are sometimes seen in the living leaf of the
snowy mespilus, the pear-tree, and the smoke-tree; in others they
occur so seldom that they may be classed as accidental hues. I ought
to add that only a small part of what may be said of the tints of
trees is unqualifiedly correct. They are greatly modified by
circumstances which cannot always be understood. I have seen maples
that always remained green, apple-trees dressed in scarlet and yellow,
and lilacs in a deep violet; but I have never seen a purple, crimson,
or scarlet leaf on any of the trees of Division I. of the Synopsis.

SYNOPSIS OF THE TINTS OF DIFFERENT TREES AND SHRUBS IN SEPTEMBER AND
OCTOBER.

DIVISION I.

_Trees and Shrubs that display Yellow Tints alone, without ever a
Purple or Red Leaf of any Shade._

│SECTION 1.—Verdure of summer unchanged, or with a slight and
Althæa. │sometimes a considerable mixture of yellow leaves, before
│they fall.

Bayberry.│ „

Clethra. │ „

Dutch │ „
Myrtle. │

Elder. │ „

Locust. │ „

Privet. │ „

Willow. │ „

─────────┬─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Black │SECTION 2.—A general mixture of rusty green and yellow,
Walnut. │sometimes pure yellow under favorable circumstances. The rust
│attaches only to dead leaves or to the dead parts of leaves.
Butternut.│ „
Catalpa. │ „
Chestnut.│ „
Elm. │ „
Grapevine.│ „
Hickory. │ „
Horse-Chestnut.│ „
Lime. │ „
Plane. │ „
White │ „
Birch. │
─────────┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Beech. │SECTION 3.—Pure yellow, of different shades.
Birch. │ „
Honey │ „
Locust. │
Mulberry.│ „
Poplar. │ „
Tulip-tree.│ „
Green-Brier.│ „

DIVISION II.

_Trees and Shrubs that display all Shades of Purple, Red, and Yellow._

│SECTION 1.—A predominance of green, with a slight and
│sometimes a considerable mixture of purple, red, and yellow,
Apple-tree.│of different shades. All the rosaceous plants are included in
│this section or the following. Individuals of some of these
│species are occasionally brilliant.
Barberry.│ „
Blackberry.│ „
Cherry. │ „
Hawthorn.│ „
Lilac. │ „
Missouri │ „
Currant. │
Mountain │ „
Ash. │
Pear-tree.│ „
Peach-tree.│ „
Plum-tree.│ „
Quince-tree.│ „
Raspberry.│ „
River │ „
Maple. │
Rose. │ „
Spiræa. │ „
─────────┴┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
Blueberry.│SECTION 2.—Purple, crimson, and scarlet, with only a small
│mixture of yellow, if any.
Cornel. │ „
Hazel. │ „
Poison │ „
Ivy. │
Scarlet │ „
Oak. │
Smooth │ „
Sumach. │
Strawberry-tree.│ „
Tupelo. │ „
Velvet │ „
Sumach. │
Viburnum.│ „
Virginia │ „
Creeper. │
White │ „
Oak. │
Whortleberry.│ „
─────────┬───┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
│SECTION 3.—Variegated tints, comprising all shades of purple,
Mountain │crimson, scarlet, orange, and yellow on the same tree, or on
Maple. │different trees of the same species. Leaves often striated,
│and sometimes figured like a butterfly’s wing.
Red │ „
Maple. │
Rock │ „
Maple. │
Poison-Dogwood.│ „
Smoke-tree.│ „
Snowy │ „
Mespilus.│
Striped │ „
Maple. │
─────────┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────
│Passing through all shades from a dark chocolate to violet,
│brown, and salmon. The ash is perfectly unique in its tints,
The Ash. │having no reds, and being the only tree that shows a clear
│brown as one of its regular series of tints in the living
│leaf.

=[From George Barnard’s “Drawings from Nature.”]=

_Calendar of the different Tints assumed by various Trees toward the End
of September_ (in England).

_English Maple._ The leaves of the maple change first of all to an
ochrey yellow, then to a deeper tone.

_Ash._ Fine lemon yellow, soon falling and leaving bunches of seeds of a
brown hue.

_Hornbeam._ Bright yellow.

_Elm._ Generally orange, but with some irregular patches of bright
yellow.

_Hawthorn._ Tawny yellow, but greatly modified by tones of deep
reddish-brown, and brilliant clusters of berries.

_Hazel._ Pale ochrey yellow, with browner shades for the clusters of
nuts.

_Sycamore._ A dull brown.

_Oak._ Yellowish green.

_Horse-Chestnut._ A great variety of beautiful rich hues, from a pale
yellow to a bright crimson orange [?].

_Beech._ Also finely varied in color, but more of a maroon color than
the chestnut.

_Cherry._ Most diversified and charming, in tints of yellow, red,
crimson, maroon, and purple.

NOTE.—I perceive that the author does not distinguish between the
tints of living and seared or dead leaves.

[Illustration: THE CORNEL.]

THE CORNEL.

The different species of Cornel abound in all places occupied by the
viburnum, to which they bear a superficial resemblance, though the two
genera are not allied. They are graceful and rather prim-looking shrubs,
having a hard and close-grained wood, and containing in their bark a
large proportion of the bitter principle of the cinchona. Their leaves
and branches are opposite, which increases their resemblance to the
viburnum. They are very abundant in the Northern States; and it is
remarkable that the different species might be distinguished by the
colors of their fruit. The Florida Cornel, called the Flowering Dogwood,
bears scarlet berries; there is also a purple-fruited Cornel, a
white-fruited and two blue-fruited species, one leaden-colored, and in
Canada a species with dark brown berries.

It is seldom that the species of any genus of plants differ in the
opposite or alternate characters of the leaves and branches. But the
purple-fruited Cornel is called alternate-leaved, to distinguish it from
the other species. It is not, however, a genuine exception; for the
leaves come out around the stem, not in a true alternate arrangement,
but in imperfect whorls, and mixed with some that are opposite. The
flowers are small, in irregular cymes; the fruit of a dark purple. It is
found in swamps and low moist woods, and, with the other species,
constitutes a fair proportion of the underwood of our deciduous forests.

The white-fruited Cornel is very frequent by waysides, rising a little
above our loose stone-walls. This seems to be the most abundant species
outside of the woods in the vicinity of Boston. Its flowers are white
and rather inconspicuous, and are succeeded by clusters of pearly white
berries. The blue-fruited Cornel, or red osier, is remarkable for its
colored branches and large round leaves with an acuminate termination.
The blue fruit of this species is very ornamental, and it is
distinguished after the fall of the leaf by its bright red stems and
branches. The Cornel is hardly less important than the viburnum in
adding variety to our wood-scenery at all seasons.

By far the most interesting and beautiful species of the genus is the
Florida Cornel, so called from its abundance in the forests on the
American side of the Gulf of Mexico. In all that region, the woods in
May are white with its large conspicuous flowers, sometimes occupying
tracts of many acres exclusively, covering them with an almost unvaried
whiteness, before the leaves of the trees are put forth. The flowers are
borne in semiglobular heads, enclosed in a large spreading involucre,
which is often mistaken for the corolla, the florets within resembling
superficially a collection of stamens. About the first of June, in New
England, these trees are very attractive, seeming like masses of pure
white inflorescence. In the North it does not constitute the principal
growth of any wood; but it is admired by all when they see it scattered
among the greenery, and admired the more from its infrequency in this
region.

The small branches are greenish, striated with longitudinal and
irregular white lines. The leaves are two or three inches long, oval,
and of middle size. The flowers appear on the ends of the branches,
included in an involucre consisting of four divisions. The head of
florets thus enclosed ripens into a bunch of bright scarlet berries,
surrounded by a dark purple calyx. In the autumn all the species turn to
different shades of red and purple.

The little dwarf Cornel, though an herbaceous plant, deserves mention in
connection with the other species. It may be compared to a flower cut
off with a single whorl of leaves, and then inserted into the ground.
You might suppose that the large tree Cornel was buried, and that these
little whorls, with their flowers, were peeping up through the ground
from the branches beneath. At some distance they are easily mistaken for
wood-anemones, though on examination no resemblance is apparent. The
flowers are very showy and attractive in the wild pastures and woods,
and produce in the autumn a round and compact cluster of scarlet
berries, which are said to be pleasant and wholesome, but rather
insipid. In winter they are the food of many species of birds.

[Illustration: THE SUMACH.]

THE SUMACH.

The Sumachs are not the objects of any special admiration. They are not
the favorites of nature or of art, neither adding dignity to the
landscape nor expression to the canvas of the painter. But they blend
their fine pinnate foliage with the wayside shrubbery, varying its
appearance by their original habit of growth; and they are seen
springing in little groups upon sandy plains, where they relieve the eye
that might otherwise be wearied with the monotonous waste of sorrel and
tufted andropogons. They display many of the characters of the tropical
plants in their long compound leaves, and in the exuberant growth of
their recent branches. They are distinguished by their milky, resinous,
and in some cases poisonous sap.

THE VELVET SUMACH.

The most common and conspicuous species in New England is the Staghorn,
or Velvet Sumach, the largest of the genus. Its name is derived from a
certain likeness of its crooked branches, when deprived of their leaves,
to a stag’s horn. This Sumach rises to the dignity of a tree in
favorable situations, and soon becomes a handsome standard, if the
suckers about the roots have no chance to grow. Though its branches are
crooked and irregular, and form a spray that is absolutely ugly, the
tree is very comely when wearing its leafy garniture and decked with
conical bunches of crimson fruit.

The Sumach is sometimes very ornamental in situations that permit the
whole ground to be occupied by it. Its natural habit of growth is in
clumps, gradually spreading over a wide extent of surface. So prone is
this tree to throw up suckers from its long roots, that if it meets with
no opposition it is apt to monopolize the whole ground. The most
appropriate places for it are the banks of railroads and other similar
slopes, which are rendered firm by the network of its numerous roots.
There is no other plant that would in so short a time cover a gravelly
bank with wood and foliage.

The Smooth Sumach is a smaller shrub, averaging only three or four feet
in height. It affects similar localities, being common on the borders of
dry fields and the sides of old roads that pass over a sandy and
gravelly plain. It is not readily distinguished from the larger species;
but its fruit and flowers are borne in loose panicles, and its bunches
have none of that downy substance that characterizes the Velvet Sumach.

THE POISON SUMACH, OR DOGWOOD.

I come now to speak of the Bohon Upas of our land,—the Poison Sumach.
This is confessedly a dangerous plant, and is allied to the shrub from
which the celebrated Wourali poison is made by the natives of Guiana.
The poisonous properties of the sap are said to be dissipated by
boiling. Hence the varnish prepared by the Chinese from the sap of this
plant is free from its injurious properties. Hence also the danger of
being exposed to its fumes, when its branches are burned with other
brush.

The Poison Sumach is a very elegant shrub. It is prim and slender, and
draws attention by its want of resemblance to other trees and shrubs in
our woods. The main stems and principal branches are of an ashen-gray
color, though the recent shoots, before they harden into wood, and the
leaf-stems are of a fine crimson or purple. The leaves are beautifully
pinnate, of a light green hue with purple veins. The flowers and fruit
are greenish, inconspicuous, and without any beauty. This plant, unlike
the other species, is found only in low boggy situations.

There are some unaccountable facts connected with the poisonous
qualities of this tree. While some persons are affected with dangerous
swellings and inflammation on the least exposure to it, others handle
it, breathe its burning fumes, and even chew its leaves and branches
with impunity. Some are rendered more susceptible by having been once
poisoned; others, who were often injuriously affected by it in their
youth, outgrow their susceptibility, and may afterwards handle the plant
without danger. As certain persons are exempt from the malignant effects
of this plant, there is occasionally an instance of similar effects
suffered by individuals from other plants. I am acquainted with a lady
who has been frequently poisoned by handling the branches of the black
wild cherry. Such isolated facts serve to increase the mystery attending
the subject.

A notion prevails in the country, that the recent shoots of the
pitch-pine, if frequently chewed, will render any one safe from the
effects of this poison. The forest undoubtedly abounds in antidotes to
the injurious action of the Poison Sumach and other similar plants; and
I have often thought that the impunity with which the goat browses upon
narcotic herbs may be caused by the counteracting effects of other
plants among the many species which he devours in the field and pasture.
It is admitted that persons who spend much of their time in the woods
are not liable to be affected by this poison. They may, in some way or
other, become inoculated with its antidotes. I have never suffered in
the least degree from it, though I have passed a considerable part of my
lifetime in the forest. Catesby mentions a fact, which he says was well
attested, of an Indian who daubed himself with the juice of the purple
bindweed, and then handled a rattlesnake with his naked hands with
impunity. Some high authority may be quoted to sustain any similar
improbable fact or absurd opinion.

[Illustration: THE ELDER.]

THE ELDER.

Everybody is familiar with the Elder, with its large corymbs of white
flowers, hanging over ditches and watercourses, rivalling the linden in
sweetness and equalling the balm in its healing virtues. It is common in
all wet fallows, flowering in the latter part of June. No shrub is so
generally known, both as a tenant of the fields and as an ingredient in
the packages of the simpler. We have seen its dried flowers in nice
paper bags, neatly done up by some benevolent hands for the benefit of
the sick, and we breathed their odors as they were wafted from the
vessel in which they were steeped, before we ever saw them in the
fields. The Elder is one of the flowering shrubs that first attracts our
attention after the blossoms of the orchard have faded. The bee is seen
to hunt for it before the vine is in blossom, leaving the flowers of the
garden for these abundant stores of native sweets. In autumn we have
seen the fences and brooksides laden with its fruit, while the purple
clusters were stripped day after day by the robin and catbird, until not
one was left to fall to the ground. When the leaves are gone, the
branches are sought by children, who use its hollow wood for making
various juvenile implements.

“The Elder,” says Barnard, speaking of the English plant, “is common,
almost universal, in cottage gardens, hedge-rows, and ruins. It is in
fact a thoroughly domesticated tree, and seldom is it found in England
far from human habitation, although I have seen it in the wildest
valleys of the Pyrenees, when it appeared to have the richest scarlet
berries, instead of black.” The species seen in the Pyrenees is probably
identical with the American panicled Elder, a rare species in New
England, bearing its flowers in spikes, and producing scarlet berries.

The Elder has not much beauty when unadorned either with flowers or
fruit. Its pinnate leaves are of a dull green, and seldom add any tints
to the glory of autumn. Its flowers, borne in large flat cymes, are very
showy, and emit a peculiar though agreeable odor, and are used in Europe
to give to wine the flavor of Frontignac. The berries of the European
Elder, which is believed by Michaux to be the same as the American
common Elder, differing only in its superior size, are said to be
poisonous to poultry. But the fruit of the American shrub possesses no
such properties. It is eagerly devoured by the insectivorous birds, and
is used in the manufacture of a harmless dietetic wine, whose benefits
have been very generally appreciated by nostrum venders.

THE HEATH.

There are no heaths in New England, or on the American Continent. We
know them only as they are described in books, or as they are displayed
in greenhouses. We are strangers to those immense assemblages that
furnish an uninterrupted vegetable covering to the earth’s surface, from
the plains of Germany to Lapland on the north, and to the Ural Mountains
on the east. These plains, called heaths or heathlands, are a kind of
sandy bogs, which are favorable to the growth of the Heath, while other
plants with these disadvantages of soil cannot compete with them. The
tenacity with which they maintain their ground renders them a great
obstacle to agricultural improvement. They overspread large districts to
the almost entire exclusion of other vegetation, rendering the lands
unfit to be pastured, and useless for any purpose except to furnish bees
with an ample repast but an inferior honey.

It is often lamented by the lovers of nature that the Heath, the
poetical favorite of the people, the humble flower of solitude, the
friend of the bird and the bee, affording them a bower of foliage and a
garden of sweets, and furnishing a bulwark to larks and nightingales
against the progress of agriculture,—it is often lamented that this
plant should be unknown as an indigenous inhabitant of the New World.
But if its absence be a cause for regret to those who have learned to
admire it as the poetic symbol of melancholy, and as a beautiful
ornament of the wilds, the husbandman may rejoice in its absence. We
have in America the whortleberry, whose numerous species and varieties
occupy, like the heaths of Europe, those lands which have not been
reduced to tillage, without depriving them of their usefulness to man.
They become in their beneficent products a source of profit to thousands
of indigent gleaners of the pastures, and of simple luxury to all our
inhabitants. Though Nature has denied us the barren flower, and left the
imagination unrequited, she has given us, in the place of it, a simple
fruit that furnishes annual occasions for many a delightful excursion to
the youths and children of our land, and is a simple blessing to the
poor.

The farmers of Eastern Massachusetts, who have seen the dyer’s broom
spread itself over the hills, occupying the whole ground, and entirely
displacing all valuable herbs and grasses, may form some idea of the
mischiefs attending the spread of the Heath in Europe. The heaths might
be described as tree-mosses, bearing a multitude of minute campanulate
flowers of various colors. They are not exceeded by any other plants,
except mosses, in the uniform delicacy of their structure. Hence they
are admired by florists, who find among them those multitudinous
varieties which, in other plants, are produced by culture.

THE ANDROMEDA.

The plants of New England which are most nearly allied to the heath are
the different species of Andromeda. These plants vary in height from one
foot to seven or eight feet. They resemble the whortleberry in their
general appearance, and in their leaves and flowers, but their fruit is
a dry capsule, not a berry, and their foliage is not tinted in the
autumn. They are, I believe, without an English name. Several species
are indigenous in New England, but only two or three of them are common.
One of the most beautiful, though extremely rare, is the Water
Andromeda, which is found near the edges of ponds. This is the species
which suggested to Linnæus the name given by him to the genus. He
describes it in his “Tour of Lapland” as “decorating the marshy grounds
in a most agreeable manner. The flowers are quite blood-red before they
expand; but when full-grown the corolla is of a flesh-color. Scarcely
any painter’s art can so happily imitate the beauty of a fine female
complexion; still less could any artificial color upon the face itself
bear a comparison with this lovely blossom.” He thought of Andromeda as
described by the poets, and traced a fancied resemblance between the
virgin and the plant, to which it seemed to him her name might be
appropriately given.

One of the most common of our small water shrubs, very homely when
viewed from a distance, but neat and elegant under close inspection, is
the Dwarf Andromeda. It covers in some parts of the country wide tracts
of swampy land, after the manner of the heath, and is not very unlike it
in botanical characters, with its slender branches and myrtle-like
foliage. It opens its flowers very early in spring, arranged in a long
row, like those of the great Solomon’s-seal, extending almost from the
roots to the extremities of the branches. The flowers all lean one way,
each flower proceeding from the axil of a small leaf. Though an
evergreen, the verdure of its foliage is so dull and rusty that it is
hardly distinguished in the meadows which are occupied by it.

Another remarkable species is the panicled Andromeda, a tall and very
common shrub in Eastern Massachusetts, distinguished from the
whortleberry by its large compound clusters of densely crowded white
flowers of a nearly globular shape. These flowers are much neater and
more beautiful on examination than those of the blueberry, and resemble
clusters of white beads. They are succeeded by a dry capsular fruit,
bearing a superficial resemblance to white peppercorns. The fishermen of
our coast have always employed the branches of this shrub, with those of
the clethra, on account of their firmness and durability, as coverings
to the “flakes” which are used for the spreading and drying of codfish.
These two shrubs were formerly distinguished by them as the “black and
the white pepper-bush,” one having berries of a lighter color than the
other.

[Illustration: MAYFLOWER.]

[Illustration: BRANCH OF THE RED ROSE.]

THE ROSE.

In my description of flowering trees and shrubs, I must not omit the
Rose, the most celebrated and the most beautiful of flowers: the delight
of mankind in all ages and in every country; the pride of all gardens,
and the chief ornament of the field and woodside; the poetic emblem of
love and the symbol of truth, inasmuch as its beauty is accompanied by
the virtues of sweetness and purity. In every language have its praises
been sung, and poets have bestowed upon it all the epithets that could
be applied to a direct gift from Heaven. From its graces, too, they
borrow those images they would bestow upon the living objects of their
idolatry. The modest blush of innocence is but the tint of the Rose; its
hues are the flush of morning and the “purple light of love.” The
nightingale is supposed to have become the chief of singing birds by
warbling the praises of the Rose, inspired by the beauty of this flower
with that divine ecstasy which characterizes his lay. In all ages the
Rose has had part in the principal festivities of the people, the
offering of love and the token of favor; the crown of the bride at
bridal feasts, and the emblem of all virtue and all delight.

So important a shrub as the Rose cannot be an inconspicuous feature
either in our wild or our domestic scenery. Every wood contains one or
two species in their wild state, and every enclosure in our villages
some beautiful foreign roses, which are equally familiar to our sight. I
have nothing to say of the multitude of improved varieties lately
introduced by florists. There is a point of perfection that cannot be
surpassed in the improvement of any species of plant. An additional
number of petals does not always increase the beauty of a flower. In the
scale of all kinds of perfection, both physical and moral, there is a
degree beyond which improvement is only the addition of insipidity.

THE EGLANTINE, OR SWEETBRIER.

The Eglantine is the poetical name of one of the most charming species
of rose, generally known in this country as the Sweetbrier, noted for
its scented foliage and its multitude of thorns. This species seems to
occupy a mean between the tree-roses and the climbers. It often mounts
to a considerable height, supporting its position by its thorns. I have
seen a Sweetbrier growing wild upon a juniper to the height of fifteen
feet, and covering the whole tree. The flowers are small and of a pale
crimson, having less sweetness than the common rose. The American
Sweetbrier has paler flowers and a smaller leaf; the English plant has
larger flowers of a deeper color, and more luxuriant foliage. The
American species, however, attains the greater height; it is more
fragrant, and more abundant in flowers.

THE SWAMP ROSE.

There is not a sweeter or more beautiful plant, in its native fields,
than the common Wild Rose of our meadows. It flowers early in June,
clustering in all wild pastures and in all neglected fields, forming
beautiful spontaneous hedge-rows by the sides of fences, and groups and
beds of shrubbery in all wild lands. The Swamp Rose varies in height,
according to the quality of the soil it occupies. I have seen it from
four to five feet in height on the alluvial borders of streams, while in
uplands it seldom exceeds two feet. This shrub has a fine glossy pinnate
foliage, and flowers of a deep crimson, somewhat larger than those of
the sweetbrier. Occasionally a variety is seen with white flowers. The
Wild Rose is very common near footpaths through the fields, forming
natural clumps, often extending into the enclosures of some rustic
cottage. In winter it is easily recognized by the fine purple hue of its
smaller branches.

But this shrub finds no favor except from the lovers of nature. I have
seen men employed in “grubbing up” the Wild Rose-bushes that skirted the
lanes extending from their enclosures to an adjoining wood. A similar
vandalism causes them to whitewash their stone-walls and the trunks of
shade-trees, as if beauty consisted in a gloss of art spread over all
the works of nature. If we were to carry out the idea of these
improvers, we should destroy every wilding in the borders of our fields,
and plant florists’ flowers in spots of spaded earth cut out of the
turf. It is fashion alone that causes the florists’ roses to be admired
more than the wild roses of the fields and brooksides. They are, it is
true, more splendid and full. But who would be pleased to find these
petted favorites of gardeners in the rustic lane or the solitary
wood-path? Let them continue to be admired in the parterre; but let not
our admiration of their artificial beauty cause us to neglect or despise
the simple denizens of the field and forest.

THE MAPLE.

In New England and the adjoining States, the maples are among the most
conspicuous and important families of our indigenous trees. Their wood
is used for various purposes in the arts, and their product of sugar is
of incalculable value. Two of the European maples are cultivated here,
distinguished from the American species by their larger leaves and
flowers and their darker verdure. I prefer the latter, because they have
a smaller leaf, and consequently a more lively and airy appearance, and
because they are more beautiful in autumn.

Besides the three most remarkable species in our native woods, there are
several smaller maples in New England, not rising much above the height
of shrubs, but distinguished by their elegance and beauty. One of the
most common of these is the Striped Maple, sometimes called Moosewood.
It is a tree of singular grace and beauty, and in Maine and New
Hampshire it is abundant, intermixed with the undergrowth of the forest.
It is one of the earliest trees in putting forth its flowers. The leaves
are large, broad, not deeply cleft, and finely variegated in their tints
in autumn. The protection of the forest seems needful to this tree, for
it is seldom found among the border shrubbery of fields and waysides.
Mr. Emerson thinks it deserving of cultivation. “I have found it,” he
remarks, “growing naturally twenty-five feet high, and nineteen or
twenty inches in circumference; and Mr. Brown, of Richmond, tells me he
has known it to attain the height of twenty-five feet. It well deserves
careful cultivation. The striking, striated appearance of the trunk at
all times, the delicate rose-color of the buds and leaves on opening,
and the beauty of the ample foliage afterwards, the graceful pendulous
racemes of flowers, succeeded by large showy keys not unlike a cluster
of insects, will sufficiently recommend it. In France, Michaux says it
has been increased to four times its natural size by grafting on the
sycamore.”

The Mountain Maple is another small and elegant species of similar
habits to those of the Moosewood, being almost entirely confined to the
forest, variegated with red and purple tints in autumn. If it is ever
seen by the roadside, it is only when the road is bordered by the
forest.

THE SUGAR MAPLE.

The Rock Maple is distinguished from the red maple by its larger leaves,
which are entire at the margin, and not serrate, having generally three
lobes, sometimes five, separated by a smooth sinus instead of a notch.
The flowers are greenish, and come out at the same time with the
foliage. This tree is larger than any of the other species, it has a
more vigorous growth, and affords a denser shade, but it is difficult to
distinguish them when divested of their leaves. It is the most abundant
species in all the North-eastern States, including the British
Provinces, where it serves more than any other tree, except the white
pine, to give character to the wood-scenery. It is rare in Eastern
Massachusetts, and is not found below this latitude, except among the
Alleghanies.

Dr. Rush, speaking of this tree, remarks: “These trees are generally
found mixed with the beech, hemlock, ash, linden, aspen, butternut, and
wild cherry-trees. They sometimes appear in groves, covering five or six
acres in a body; but they are more commonly interspersed with some or
all of the forest trees above mentioned. From thirty to fifty trees are
generally found upon an acre of land.” Major Strickland says of it: “The
Sugar Maple is probably the most common tree among the hard-wood species
of Canada West. It is found generally in groves of from five to twenty
acres; these are called by the settlers sugar-bushes, and few farms are
without them.”

Though I consider the red maple a more beautiful tree, having more
variety in its ramification, and a greater range of hues in its autumnal
dress, than the Rock Maple, it must be confessed that the latter
surpasses it in some important qualities. The Rock Maple has a deeper
green foliage in summer, and is generally more brilliant in its autumnal
tints, which, on account of the tenacity of its foliage, last from a
week to ten days after the red maple has dropped all its leaves.

THE RIVER MAPLE.

By far the most graceful tree of this genus is the River Maple, to which
the cockneyish epithet of “silver” is applied, from the whitish under
surface of its leaves. It is not found in the woods near Boston, but is
a favorite shade-tree in all parts of New England. It abounds in the
Connecticut Valley and on the banks of some of the rivers in Maine. It
is rather slender in its habit, with very long branches, that droop
considerably in old and full-grown trees. The foliage of this tree is
dull and whitish, but it hangs so loosely as to add grace to the flowing
negligence of its long slender branches. The leaves are very deeply
cleft, like those of the scarlet oak, so that at a considerable distance
they resemble fringe; but they are seldom very highly tinted in autumn.

THE DARK PLAINS
CONTAINING MY FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF A FOREST.

In our early days, when all the scenes about us are full of mysteries,
and even the adjoining country is an unexplored region, we feel the
liveliest impressions from nature and our own imagination. Those who
pass their childhood in the woods, and become acquainted with their
inconveniences and their dangers, learn to regard them as something to
be avoided. The Western pioneer destroys immense tracts of forest to
make room for agriculture and space for his buildings. The inhabitant of
the town, on the contrary, sees the woods only on occasional visits, for
pleasure or recreation, and acquires a romantic affection for them and
their scenes, unfelt by the son of the pioneer or the forester. The
earliest period of my life was passed in a village some miles distant
from an extensive wood, which was associated in my mind with many
interesting objects, from the infrequency of my visits. It was at a very
early age, and when I first began to feel some interest in natural
objects beyond my own home, that I heard my mother describe the “Dark
Plains,” a spacious tract of sandy country, covered with a primitive
growth of pines and hemlocks, such as are now seen only in the solitudes
of Canada and the northern part of Maine.

The very name of this wooded region is highly significant and poetical,
and far removed from the disagreeable character of names vulgarly given
to remarkable places. What eccentric person, among the unpoetic society
of Puritans and pedlers, could have felt sufficient reverence for Nature
to apply to one of her scenes a name that should not either degrade it
or make it ridiculous! The very sound of this name sanctifies the place
to our imagination; and it is one of the very few applied to natural
objects, if the original Indian appellation has been lost, that is not
either vulgar or silly. Nothing can be more solemn or suggestive,
nothing more poetical or impressive, than the name of this remarkable
forest.

I attached a singular mystery to this region of Dark Plains. When I
first heard the words spoken, they brought to mind all that I have since
found so delightful in the green solitudes of nature,—their twilight at
noonday; their dark sombre boughs and foliage, full of sweet sounds from
unknown birds, whose voices are never heard in the garden and orchard;
the indistinct moaning of winds among their lofty branches, like a storm
brewing in the distant horizon, sublime from its seeming distance and
indistinctness, though not loud enough to disturb the melody of thrushes
and sylvias. All these things had been described to me by her to whom I
looked, in that early time of life, for all knowledge and the solution
of all mysteries. I had never visited a wood of great extent, and the
Dark Plains presented to my imagination a thousand indefinable ideas of
beauty and grandeur.

It has often been said that the style of the interior arches of a Gothic
cathedral was indicated by the interlacing and overarching boughs of the
trees as they meet over our heads in a path through the woods. I think
also that the solemnity of its dark halls and recesses, caused by the
multiplicity of arches and the pillars that support them, closely
resembles that of the interior of a forest; and that the genius of the
original architect must have been inspired by the contemplation of those
grand woods that pervaded the greater part of Europe in the Middle Ages.
The solemn services of the Roman Catholic religion found a people whose
imagination having been stimulated by their druidical rites looked upon
these wonderful temples as transcending nature in grandeur; and they
bowed before the Cross with still greater devotion than they had felt
when they made sacrifices under the oak.

There is an indefinable charm in a deep wood, even before we have
learned enough to people it with nymphs and dryads and other mythical
beings. Groups of trees that invite us to their shade and shelter, in
our childhood, on a sultry summer noon, yield us a foretaste of their
sensible comfort; and a fragment of wild wood, if we see nothing more
spacious, with its cawing crows, its screaming jays, and its few wild
quadrupeds, gives us some conception of the immensity of a pathless
forest that never yet resounded with the woodman’s axe. I was already
familiar with these vestiges of nature’s greatness, enough to inspire me
with feelings that do not become very definite until the mind is
matured.

The time had come at last when I was to visit one of these solemn
temples of the gods. I was between eight and nine years of age, and was
to accompany my parents on a journey from Beverly to Concord, my
mother’s native town, in New Hampshire. I give this narrative of
personal experience, to prove that our love of nature is an innate
feeling, which is exalted, but not created, by the imagination. Nothing
ever occupied my mind so intensely as the thought of visiting these Dark
Plains. Other objects seen on our journey were amusing and attractive;
but this wood was the only one that excited in me a passionate interest.
All my thoughts were obscure and indefinite, associated with some dreary
conceptions of beauty and grandeur; for in our early years we aspire
after more exalted feelings than the common scenes of Nature can awaken.

When at length we entered upon the road that led through this forest,
the sweetest music had never held me so completely entranced as when I
looked up to these lofty trees, extending their branches beyond my ken,
with foliage too dense for the sun to penetrate, and all the mysterious
accompaniments of the wood, its silence and darkness, its moanings and
its echoes. I watched the scenes as we rode slowly by them,—the immense
pillars that rose out of a level plain, strewed with brown foliage, and
interspersed with a few bushes and straggling vines; the dark summits of
the white pines that rose above the round heads of the other species
which were the prevailing timber; the twilight that pervaded these woods
even at high noon; and I thought of their seemingly boundless extent, of
their mysterious solitude, and their unspeakable beauty. Certain
religious enthusiasts speak of a precise moment when they feel a certain
change that places them in communication with Heaven. If one is ever in
a similar manner baptized with the love of nature, it was at this moment
I felt that hidden influence which, like the first emotion of love,
binds the heart with an unceasing devotion.

I did not at this early age examine individual objects. Yet now and then
the note of some solitary bird, or the motions of a squirrel on the
outer trees of the wood, held my attention while I was absorbed in a
revery of delight. An occasional clearing, containing a cottage with its
rustic appendages, opened the sunshine into our path, and made the wood
cheerful by this pleasant contrast. When at length we emerged from this
gloomy region into the brightness and cheerfulness of the open country,
I still dwelt upon the quiet grandeur of its solitudes, and have never
forgotten the impressions I had received from them, nor the passionate
interest awakened in me before my journey.

About thirty years afterwards I revisited this wood, and traversed the
greater part of it, accompanied by an old friend of the generation that
had passed before me. From him I learned that the original growth of
timber had been mostly felled, and a second growth of inferior height
and dimensions occupied its place. He pointed out to me how the whole
character of the wood was changed by the simple act of felling the
primitive trees. The ground was not so wet as formerly; the standing
waters did not occupy so wide a space; the forest contained more
openings, the barren elevations not having been supplied with a new
growth of trees. In the place of them were a few scrub oaks, some
whortleberry-bushes, and other native shrubs; the trees were smaller,
and there was a greater predominance of pitch-pine in all the more sandy
parts of the tract, and numerous white birches had sprung up among them.

“Such is the change,” he remarked, “which is gradually taking place over
the whole continent.” He seemed to regret this change, and thought the
progress of the civilized arts, though it rendered necessary the
clearing of the greater part of the wooded country, ought not to be
attended with such universal devastation. Some spacious wood ought to
remain, in every region, in which the wild animals would be protected,
and where we might view the grounds as they appeared when the wild
Indian was lord of this continent. Even at that time I found some acres
of forest which had been unmolested still retaining those grand, wild,
and rugged features that entitled the region to the poetic name of Dark
Plains.

THE RED MAPLE.

Not dainty of its soil, but thriving equally well in a bog or upon a
fertile river-bank, by the side of a stream or upon a dry eminence;
coming forth in the spring, like morning in the east, arrayed in crimson
and purple; bearing itself not proudly, but gracefully, in modest green,
among the more stately trees in summer; and, ere it bids adieu to the
season, stepping forth in robes of gold, vermilion, crimson, and
variegated scarlet, stands the queen of the American forest, the pride
of all eyes and the delight of every picturesque observer of nature,—the
Red Maple. There are but few trees that surpass it in general beauty of
form and proportion, and in the variety and splendor of its autumnal
tints it is not equalled by any known tree. Without this species, the
American forest would hardly be distinguished from that of Europe by any
superiority of tinting. It stands among the occupants of the forest like
Venus among the planets, the brightest in the midst of brightness, and
the most beautiful in a constellation of beauty.

The Red Maple is a tree of second magnitude, very comely at all periods
of its growth, producing many branches, forming a somewhat pyramidal top
while young, but expanding into a round head as it grows old. It is very
evenly subdivided, the central shaft seldom being distinguished above
the lower junction of its principal branches. The leaves are palmate, of
rather a pale green, and the spray, though neat and elegant, does not
equal that of the lime or the birch. We associate this tree with the
valleys and lowlands, but a wet soil is not necessary for its
prosperity. Some of the finest single trees I have known were standing
upon a dry soil; but a forest of them is always located in a swamp.

The Red Maple is one of the most common trees in the southern parts of
New England, and it occupies a very wide geographical range. In the
North it first appears in the latitude of Quebec. It seems to avoid the
company of the rock maple, and forms no large assemblages above the
northern boundary of Massachusetts, below which the kindred species
becomes rare in New England. The Red Maple is abundant in all the
Atlantic States, as far as Florida, and there is no other tree that
occupies so large a proportion of the wet lands in the Middle States.
According to Michaux, it is the last tree which is found in swamps, as
we approach the boundary of vegetation.

Preference is generally given to the other two species for planting by
waysides and in pleasure-grounds in Massachusetts, because they are more
luxuriant in their growth. Perhaps they are chosen for the sake of
variety, being less common in the woods of this State than the Red
Maple; and being planted from nurseries, and costly, they are found
chiefly in dressed grounds. But the Red Maple is far more interesting
and beautiful than any other species, and its lighter foliage, more airy
habit, and more delicate spray bring it into better harmony with wild
and rude scenery, as the paler and less luxuriant wild flowers better
adorn a wood-path than the more showy denizens of the garden. The Red
Maple bears a profusion of crimson flowers in the spring, and from them
it derives its name. When the flowers have dropped their petals, the
keys, or fruit-pods, that succeed them, retain the same crimson hue for
some days, gradually fading into brown as they mature.

THE WHITE BIRCH.

On the sandy plains of many parts of New England, some of the most
prominent objects are coppices of slender White Birch trees,
intermingled with pitch-pine. These trees are seldom more than four or
five inches in diameter, rising to the height of about twenty feet, with
a grayish-white trunk, and, as may be observed in winter, a dense and
dark-colored spray. This species is called Poplar Birch, from the
tremulous habit of the foliage, but is never assembled in large forest
groups. Like the alder, it is employed by Nature for the shading of her
living pictures, and for producing those gradations which are the charm
of spontaneous wood-scenery. In all the Northern States, a pitch-pine
wood is generally fringed with White Birches, and outside of them is a
still more humble growth of hazels, cornels, and vacciniums, uniting
them imperceptibly with the herbage of the plain.

The White Birch is remarkable for its elegance. It seldom divides the
main stem, which extends to the summit of the tree, giving out from all
parts numerous slender branches, forming a very neat and beautiful
spray, of a dark chocolate-color, contrasting finely with the whiteness
of the trunk. This tree, when growing as a standard, has more of a
pyramidal shape than in a wood; but it does not attain in this country
the magnitude of the same species in Europe. The durability of the bark
of the White Birch is said to be unsurpassed by that of any other
vegetable substance. Selby records a fact related by Du Hamel, which is
remarkable. In the ruins of Dworotrkoi, in Siberia, a piece of birch
wood was found changed into stone, while the outer bark, white and
shining, remained in its natural state.

So many of the most delightful scenes of nature are in my own mind
allied with the different birches, that there is not one that does not
immediately call up some charming scenery and impress my mind with
pleasant memories. He who in his early days was a rambler in the woods
is familiar with the White Birch trees. They have shaded him in his
sylvan researches and his solitary musings, his social walks in quest of
flowers with the sex for whom the flowers seemed to be created, or with
his male companions in pursuit of game. When journeying, these graceful
trees, in company with the fragrant pitch-pines, have offered him their
flickering shade, and along the sandy plains have defended him from the
scorching heat of the sun, and spread a leafy canopy over his rustic
path. In the sultry heat of summer noonday, I have often followed the
course of some humble cart-path through their tangled undergrowth,
gathering wild fruits from bush and bramble, or watching the singing
birds that nestled in their boughs and blended their wild notes with the
sound of the green rustling leaves.

All the birches are graceful trees. Their branches are finely divided,
like those of the elm and the lime, and many of them incline to a
drooping habit. There is a remarkable airiness in their slender feathery
spray, rendered still more lively in the White Birch by its small
tremulous leaves. This species is found in the highest latitude in which
any tree can live. It is the last deciduous tree in the northern
boundaries of vegetation in America and Europe, before we reach the
Arctic Circle, and the last that appears when we ascend high mountains,
occupying the belt just below the line of perpetual snow. It is worthy
of notice that the small White Birch in this country, though considered
identical with the White Birch of Europe, is greatly inferior to it in
size. In America, however, the white canoe birch, a very similar
species, equally surpasses the European White Birch. It seems as if the
thrifty habit of the canoe birch had some mysterious influence in
dwarfing the other species in America.

THE CANOE BIRCH.

Some of the most beautiful assemblages of wood in high latitudes on this
continent consist of the Canoe Birch. It is seen in Massachusetts and
Connecticut only in occasional groups; but in the States of Maine and
New Hampshire, on the sandy river-banks and diluvial plains, it forms
woods of great extent and unrivalled beauty. With their tall shafts
resembling pillars of polished marble, supporting a canopy of bright
green foliage, they form one of the picturesque attractions of a
Northern tour. Nature indicates the native habitat of this noble tree by
causing its exterior to display the whiteness of snow. The foliage of
the Canoe Birch is of a very bright green, and exceeds that of all the
family in the depth of its golden tints in autumn. We never see in the
foliage of the birches any of that glaucous or pea-green color so common
in the maples. The leaves of the Canoe Birch deviate from the ovate form
and approach the heart shape. Its bark is almost purely white, and
attracts the attention of every visitor of the woods. The clean white
shafts of a Canoe Birch wood, towering upward among the other trees of
the forest, present a scene with which nothing else is comparable. The
uses which have been made of the bark of this tree are so numerous and
so familiar to all that it would be idle to enumerate them. Indeed, it
would be difficult to estimate its importance to the aboriginal
inhabitants of America.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO BIRDS AND INSECTS.

“My neighbors,” said my philosophic friend, “are the cause of more than
half the injury my crops receive from caterpillars and other insects.
They will not allow the birds a harbor of wood and shrubbery upon their
own grounds, and they shoot those which I endeavor to entice by offering
them a shelter in my farm. It is strange they cannot understand the
mischievous character of their operations of smoothing and grubbing.
That little rising ground you see before you, covered with trees and
shrubs, is hardly more than a bare rock. It occupies about an eighth of
an acre; but no other possible use could be made of it, except as a
quarry. The little grove, or coppice, that stands upon it, is the most
beautiful object in sight from my house. I have never allowed it to be
disturbed or frequented by social assemblages. I keep it sacred for the
use of the birds, and it is a perfect aviary. The birds that feed upon
the destructive insects that infest my grounds are raised in that temple
of the gods, which is watered by numerous little springs that ooze from
the crevices of the rock. While they are rearing their young, all
species, even if they live exclusively upon seeds after they have left
their nest, feed their offspring upon larvæ, which they collect from the
nearest ground that affords them a supply. Hence I consider that bare
rock, with its trees and shrubbery, the most profitable division of my
farm, from the shelter it affords the birds, which are in an important
sense my most profitable stock.”

I have often thought of my neighbor’s remarks, especially when I have
observed the diligence of our farmers in destroying upon their grounds
every acceptable harbor for the birds. When we are traversing a wood, if
we discover an apple-tree growing in a little clearing or open space, we
find it invariably exempt from the ravages of the common apple-borer.
The same exemption is observed in those fruit-trees that stand very near
a wild wood, or any wood containing a spontaneous undergrowth. The
explanation of this fact is that the wood affords a harbor to the birds
that destroy these insects in all their forms. Orchards and gardens, on
the contrary, which are located at any considerable distance from a
wood, have not this security. Robins, it is true, are very abundant in
orchards, which are their breeding-places; but robins, though the most
useful birds that are known to exist, take all their food from the
ground. They destroy vast quantities of cutworms and chrysalids buried
in the soil, but they take no part of their insect food from the trees.
The birds that perform this work are the sylvias, woodpeckers, creepers,
and other species that live only in woods and thickets. Hence an orchard
that is nearly surrounded by a wild wood of much extent is not badly
infested by borers and other injurious insects.

All species of insects multiply in cultivated grounds, while the birds,
with a few exceptions, that feed upon them, can find a nursery and
protection only in the woods. “The locust,” says George P. Marsh, “which
ravages the East with its voracious armies, is bred in vast open plains,
which admit the full heat of the sun to hasten the hatching of the eggs,
gather no moisture to destroy them, _and harbor no bird to feed upon
their larvæ_. It is only since the felling of the forests of Asia Minor
and Cyrene that the locust has become so fearfully destructive in those
countries; and the grasshopper, which now threatens to be almost as
great a pest to the agriculture of North American soils, breeds in
seriously injurious numbers only where a wide extent of surface is bare
of woods.”

Some men destroy trees and shrubbery in their borders, because they are
supposed to harbor insects. But if this be true, it is because they are
not sufficient in extent to shelter the birds that feed upon them. The
insects that multiply upon our lands deposit their eggs some in the
soil, some on the branches of trees and upon fences and buildings. They
are nowise dependent on a wild growth of wood and shrubbery. These pests
of agriculture need nothing better than the under edge of a clapboard or
a shingle whereon to suspend their cocoons or lay their eggs. So minute
are the objects that will afford them all the conveniences they need,
when hatching and when passing through all their transformations, till
they become perfect insects, that no artifice or industry of man can
deprive them of their nurseries, or appreciably lessen their numbers.
All inventions and appliances used to rid the trees and grounds of these
pests never destroyed more than one in a million of their whole number.
It is not in the power of man, with all his science, unassisted by
birds, to prevent the multiplication of insects from being the cause of
his own annihilation. But the farmer, when he destroys the border
shrubbery in his fields and the coppice and wood on his hills,
exterminates the birds by hosts, while the mischievous boy with his gun
destroys only a few individuals. The clipped hedge-row, which is often
substituted for a border of wild shrubbery, may assist in breeding
insects; but the birds never build their nests in a hedge-row, unless it
be a long-neglected one.

I have in another essay spoken of the scarcity of birds and other
animals in the primitive forest. They are not numerous there, because
the forest would yield them only a scanty subsistence. The forest border
is their nursery and their shelter, but their best feeding-places are
the cultivated grounds. There is not a single species whose means of
subsistence are not increased by the clearing of the forest and the
cultivation of the land; but they require a certain proportion of wild
wood for their habitation. Very few species build their nests in the
trees and shrubbery of our gardens, unless they are near a wood. In that
case the catbird often nestles in the garden, that during the rearing of
its young it may be near the grounds that produce larvæ. Most of the
woodpeckers, the sylvias, and the small thrushes, including some of our
most valuable birds, cannot rear their young except in a wild wood. Yet
all these, solitary as they are in their habits, increase under
favorable circumstances with the multiplication of insects consequent
upon the culture of the soil. It may be affirmed as an indisputable
truth, that if their increase were not checked by the sporting habits of
men and boys, and the clearing and grubbing habits of “model farmers,”
birds of every species would increase in the same ratio with the
multiplication of their insect food, and proportionally diminish their
ravages.

THE BLACK OR CHERRY BIRCH.

The epithets “black,” “white,” “red,” and “yellow,” which are so
commonly misapplied to certain trees for specific distinction,—a
misapplication very remarkable with reference to the poplar,—are very
well applied to the different species of birch, and serve as
intelligible marks of identity. The Black Birch, for example, is clothed
with a dark-colored bark, which comes nearer a pure black than any other
color. No person would dispute the color of the white birches; that of
the yellow birch, though not pure, would never be mistaken for anything
but yellow; and the bark of the red birch, though nearly white, is so
thoroughly stained with red as to demonstrate the propriety of its name.

The Black Birch is also named the Cherry Birch, from the resemblance of
the tree to the American black cherry. Its inner bark has the flavor of
checkerberry, and its wood some of the colors of mahogany; and it has
received names corresponding with these characters, such as Sweet Birch
and Mahogany Birch, and was formerly a favorite material for cabinet
furniture. The bark of this species and of the yellow birch has very
little of that leathery or papyraceous quality which is so remarkable in
that of the white birches. This species does not extend so far north as
the others, but has a wider geographical range in and below the latitude
of New England.

The Black Birch puts forth its flowers very early in the year, of a deep
yellow and purple and sensibly fragrant. The foliage also appears early.
The leaves are finely serrate, oval, with conspicuous veins, turning
yellow in the autumn. Not one of the birches ever shows a tint
approaching to red or purple in its foliage. The Black Birch delights in
moist grounds, and commonly occupies a stand on mountain slopes and on
the banks of rivers. When growing singly on a plain, or in an open
space, it takes a hemispherical shape, with its terminal and lower
branches drooping to some extent like those of the elm. This tree is
conspicuous on craggy precipices, among the mountains, where it extends
its roots into the crevices of the rocks, and spreads its branches over
chasms and hollows. On these sites it displays a variety of picturesque
forms, corresponding with the rudeness and the wildness of the scenery
around it. Nature has furnished this tree with a chaffy or winged seed,
which is soon wafted and sown by the winds upon mountain-sides and among
inaccessible rocks, where the soil collected in thin fissures supplies
it with sustenance.

THE YELLOW BIRCH.

The Yellow Birch, named _excelsa_ by botanists, from its superior
height, is perhaps the most beautiful of the genus. Its branches are
extremely numerous, long and slender, corresponding with the superior
length of its trunk, and they are prone, like those of the elm, to
equality in size, and to divergency from nearly a common centre. Indeed,
where this tree has grown as an isolated standard, it commonly displays
a very symmetrical head, differing in form from a perfect elm only by
less inclination to droop. The leaves of this species have much of the
same quality which I have remarked as peculiar to the beech, every leaf
standing erect upon its stem. The flexible appearance of the tree is
derived entirely from its slender flowing branches.

The Yellow Birch is very abundant in Maine and New Brunswick, and
formerly constituted the greater part of the wood which was brought into
Massachusetts for fuel. Many of the logs were of immense size before the
primitive forest was removed. At the present day we seldom find one more
than eighteen inches in diameter, though many slender individuals still
occupy our woods. It delights in cold, damp soils, and I have seen the
finest standards near springs on an open hillside. The Yellow Birch
derives its name from the golden hue of the bark that covers the trunk
and larger limbs. This silken bark, which is rolled into multitudes of
soft ringlets, is peculiar to this tree.

THE RED BIRCH.

The Red Birch is a rare species, and but very little known. By careless
observers it might be mistaken for a white birch, the redness of its
bark seeming only a departure from its usual type. The only trees of
this species I have seen in Massachusetts were in Andover, in a swamp
through which the Shawsheen River flows. If you would behold this tree
to the best advantage, you must follow the streams that glide along the
level woodlands which are inundated a part of the year. There it may be
seen, like some pilgrim bending worshipfully over the stream, by whose
beneficent waters it is sustained in beauty and health. Its picturesque
attractions, arising from the great variety of its outlines and the
peculiar wreathing of its foliage around the stem, are not surpassed by
those of the willow, that delights in similar places. The reddish
whiteness of the bark and wood has given the name to this tree. It is a
tall, bushy tree of rapid growth, rolling up its bark in coarse
ringlets, which are whitish with a stain of crimson.

THE INDIAN SUMMER.

When November arrives, leading along with it the short days and the
darkness of winter, it opens the windows of the deep woods, pervaded all
summer by a sort of artificial twilight. The general denuded state of
the forest admits the sunshine into its interior, and brightens it with
a cheerfulness exceeding that of any other season. Some light-tinted
leaves still remain upon the trees which have been screened by their
situation from the frost and the wind, and many an interesting object is
exposed to view which was concealed by the foliage in summer. A few
asters and gentians still linger in some protected nook, and the
chickadees and hemp-birds make the wood lively by their garrulity and
their motions. The ground is covered with red, brown, and yellow leaves,
making a pleasant carpet for our feet, and increasing all the pleasures
of a woodland ramble.

After the fall of the leaf is completed, then, according to tradition,
comes the Indian Summer,—a fruitful theme both for poets and
philosophical writers, but of which no one knows anything from
experience. It may, after all, be only a myth, like the halcyon days of
the ancients, the offspring of a tradition that originated with certain
customs of the Indian, and which occasional days of fine weather in the
autumn have served to perpetuate. It is certain that we have now in the
Eastern States no regular coming of this delightful term of mildness and
serenity, this smiling interruption of the melancholy days of autumn. We
are greeted occasionally by two or three days resembling it after the
first cool weather of October, and these short visits are in some years
repeated several times. But a true Indian Summer, attended with all the
peculiar phenomena described by some of our early writers both in prose
and verse, rarely accompanies a modern autumn. It has fled from our land
before the progress of civilization; it has departed with the primitive
forest. I will, however, for the present, set aside all my conjectures
of its mythical character, and treat it as a matter of fact.

The Indian Summer, if such a season was ever known, was a phenomenon
produced by some unexplained circumstances attending the universal
wooded state of the country that existed for many years after its
settlement. According to the most apparently authentic accounts, it did
not arrive until November, nor until a series of hard frosts had
destroyed all the leaves of the forest. It then appeared regularly every
year. At the present time people know so little about it that they
cannot name the period of the autumn when, if it were not a thing of the
past, it should be expected. Will the disappearance of this phenomenon
admit of a philosophic explanation? Let us consider some of its probable
causes, and the effects of the changes which have taken place in our
land.

It has been observed that a meadow covered with luxuriant grass and
other herbage cools the atmosphere that rests upon it much more rapidly
than a similar meadow covered with a scanty herbage. The moisture
exhaled into the air by vegetable perspiration is greater than from any
other natural surface; and as the radiation of heat is rapid in
proportion to the moist condition of the atmosphere, the cooling process
over a grassy meadow is vastly greater than over a similar ground bare
of vegetation. A wood, in like manner, by exhaling through its foliage
the moisture it draws from the earth, cools the atmosphere in proportion
to the amount of its foliage, while at the same time it shades the
ground from the sun. Anything that should check this vegetable
perspiration would in the same ratio preserve the heat of the atmosphere
by diminishing the radiation of heat that takes place more slowly in dry
than in moist air.

This is precisely what happens soon after the first severe frosts of
November, when the whole extent of the forest over thousands of miles is
laid bare in the brief space of two or three days. There is a sudden and
universal diminution of the moisture that was given out from the leaves
of trees and other plants before the frost had destroyed them; for the
evaporation caused by the drying of fallen leaves and herbage is
comparatively slight, and ceases after a few hours’ exposure to the sun.
The atmosphere being dry, and the radiation of heat proportionally small
in quantity, all these circumstances, if no unusual atmospheric
disturbances occur from any other hidden cause, unite in producing a
sudden and universal accumulation of heat. The warm period that follows
is the Indian Summer.

A writer in “Silliman’s Journal” of 1833, who advances a very different
theory to explain this phenomenon, makes a statement that favors my
view: “It appears to us that the existence and duration of the Indian
Summer in this country has an important connection with the extensive
forests and uncultivated lands peculiar to America. And it is worthy of
remark, that, according to the recollection of the oldest of our
inhabitants, its former duration was often three or four weeks; whereas
its present continuance is short and uncertain, seldom exceeding ten or
fifteen days. It appears also that this decline has been somewhat
regular, keeping pace with, and evidently influenced by, the gradual
uncovering of the country.”

It is surprising that the writer, after making these observations,
should resort to some unintelligible reasoning about the trade-winds,
and certain assumed electric phenomena, to account for the Indian
Summer. I can easily believe that before the encroachments upon the
American forest were very extensive, this halcyon period of autumn may
have occurred every year with great regularity. But since the clearing
is almost universal, these conditions have been entirely changed. During
the primitive state of the forest, its sudden denudation produced a more
complete revolution on the face of the country than could possibly
happen at the present time. The clearing of the woods has also cast down
the barriers that impeded the circulation of the winds; at present these
winds, sweeping freely over the continent, would counteract any
influences, whatever they might be, that would produce an Indian Summer
in any locality.

The true Indian Summer was a period of very mild weather, lasting from
ten to fifteen days, and accompanied neither by wind nor rain. It has
been incorrectly described by certain writers as attended with fog. The
sky, though somewhat dim, was not obscured by vapor, but by a sort of
ruddy haze, that veiled the prospect, as it often will during a series
of warm, still days happening at any season. I draw my inferences from
what I have reason to consider the most authentic accounts. The air was
dry; and it could not have been otherwise. If it were moist, the
increased radiation would soon dissipate the heat and put an end to the
Indian Summer, which was never known to survive a copious and extensive
fall of rain. The atmosphere was described as being obscured by smoke,
rather than vapor, and this was most apparent in the latter part of the
day. This smoky atmosphere has led some writers to suppose the whole
phenomenon to be caused by fires in the woods.

According to tradition, no part of the year was more delightful than
this short period. Those accounts, however, that extended its duration
beyond the space of fourteen or fifteen days were undoubtedly
exaggerated. The nearest approaches to an Indian Summer which I have
witnessed in its proper season have never lasted a week. In our day,
when a warm week occurs in the autumn, it comes at no regular or
expected time. This irregularity of its occurrence proves that it is not
to be identified as the Indian Summer, which was regular in its
happening immediately after the entire denudation of the forest. Similar
but shorter periods of mild and serene weather may happen, at the
present epoch, in winter and spring as well as in autumn. These
irregularities of the weather cannot be explained; nor can we make
predictions of the time when any of them may happen. But a warm period
in October or December or January is not an Indian Summer, which
belonged to November, and is only a relic of the past.

The origin of the name is explained by Dr. Lyman Foot, in the third
volume of “Silliman’s Journal.” He says: “If you ask an Indian in the
fall when he is going to his hunting-ground, he will tell you when the
fall summer comes, or when the Great Spirit sends our fall summer;
meaning the time in November which we call the Indian Summer. And the
Indians actually believe that the Great Spirit sends this mild season in
November for their special benefit.”

THE POPLAR.

In the latter part of April, some of the most conspicuous groups in many
of the wooded districts of Northern New England are Poplar woods, full
of olivegreen aments, and giving the hue of their blossoms and of their
pale green spray to large portions of the forest in scattered
assemblages. At this period the poplars are an important ingredient in
our wood-scenery, especially as their colors vary considerably from
those of other trees until all kinds are in full foliage. They have the
merit also of preceding a greater part of the forest in the development
of their flowers. The aments of a few species are variegated with red
and purple stamens; but the generality do not vary from a pure olive.
The Poplar has not many of the qualities of a beautiful or picturesque
tree. It is marked by a coarse and straggling spray, without any variety
in its combination. It is deficient in beauty and density of foliage,
which is chiefly remarkable for its fragrance and tremulous habit.

All the poplars are rapid in their growth, and will prosper in almost
all situations. They prefer a moist, sandy soil, but shun the peat
meadow. Their rapidity of growth renders them valuable where a speedy
plantation is wanted. Hence they are very generally planted by the sides
of dusty thoroughfares, not being dainty in their choice of soil and
situation. The species generally employed for such purposes is the
Abele, or Silver Poplar, which possesses these requisite properties in a
higher degree than our native trees. It displays also more beauty of
foliage, and takes a rounder and handsomer shape than most others. One
of the defects which I have frequently observed in the shape of the
large poplars is a leaning of the branches rather awkwardly toward the
south-east, caused by the prevalent north-west winds acting upon
branches of great proportional length, and possessing very little
elasticity. This inclination is observed more or less in other
soft-wooded deciduous trees.

THE CANADA POPLAR.

The Canada or Balm of Gilead Poplar is more frequent by our waysides
than any other species. It is a tree of the first magnitude, attaining a
great size in the bole as well as a superior height. It is distinguished
by its large leaves, of a bright glossy verdure, and its long branches,
always subordinate to the central shaft, which may be traced nearly to
the summit of the tree. Before the leaves begin to expand, the buds are
covered with a yellow glutinous balsam, that diffuses a peculiar and
very penetrating but agreeable odor, unlike any other. Sir John Franklin
remarks that this tree constitutes “the greatest part of the drift
timber observed on the shores of the Arctic Sea.” It has a very wide
geographical range, extending from Canada to the Missouri River, and is
in many places called the Ontario Poplar. It is abundant in the northern
woods, but is found in the southern parts of New England only by the
roadsides and in the enclosures of dwelling-houses. The balsam is
gathered in all parts of the country as a healing anodyne, and for many
ailments it is a favorite remedy in domestic medicine; but no place has
yet been assigned to it in the pharmacopœias. All the poplars produce
more or less of this substance. It is very different from turpentine,
more agreeable when perceived in the air, but pungent and disagreeable
to the taste.

THE BLACK POPLAR.

There are several of the poplars that are not easily distinguished, and
the different and various accounts of them by botanists have increased
this confusion. Part of the difficulty arises from the diœcious
character of the poplar, causing in some instances the male and female
trees to be mistaken for different species. This is particularly
remarkable in the Balm of Gilead poplar. The female tree is smaller than
the male, with larger leaves, and annoys us by the abundance of cottony
down that covers the ground for a considerable space around it. The male
tree is taller and more spreading, and would hardly be recognized as the
same species.

The Black Poplar is often planted by roadsides with the Canada poplar,
and may be distinguished from it by the greater elegance of its
proportions, its smaller foliage, and, when in flower, by its reddish
and purple catkins. It is preferred to other species on account of an
inferior tendency to that suckering habit which is so disagreeable in
the poplar tribe. It seems to me that no persons who should see the
Canada poplar and the Black Poplar growing side by side, would hesitate
in giving preference to the latter, which is in almost every point a
more beautiful tree.

This species is called in Europe the Athenian Poplar. According to
Selby, “the classic appellation of Athenian Poplar led to the
supposition in England that this species is indigenous to Greece, and
that it derived its name from the city of Minerva. Several learned
botanists were misled by this name; but it was finally ascertained that
North America is its native country, and from its abundance in a
particular township called Athens it received the imposing title of
Athenian Poplar.”

THE RIVER POPLAR.

The River Poplar is not rare in the New England forest, but it is little
known as an ornamental tree. Emerson says: “It is much the tallest and
most graceful of those which grow naturally in New England. Its foliage
is equal to that of the Balm of Gilead in size, and superior to it in
depth of color; and the abundance of its aments in the spring, and the
rich colors of its leaf-stalks and young branches, when growing in
somewhat dry situations, make it a beautiful object.” The aments of this
tree are not olive-colored, like those of the two aspens, but inclining
to red, though not so bright as those of the black and Lombardy poplars.
It is very justly called the River Poplar, being found chiefly in wet
places, near brooksides, on the banks of rivers, and in alluvial valleys
which are liable to be inundated in spring. This tree displays the
characteristic peculiarities of the family in giving out its lateral
branches at a sharp angle and subordinate to the trunk.

SOUNDS FROM TREES.

“The earliest chant,” says Momsen, “in the view of the Romans, was that
which the trees sang to themselves, in the green solitudes of the
forest. The whisperings and pipings of the _favorable spirit_ in the
grove were repeated by the singer, with the accompaniment of the pipe.”
Certain trees belonging to the sacred groves gave oracular sounds, which
were interpreted by musicians, and received by all men with faith and
reverence. From the earliest ages men have listened to sounds from trees
as music and as the voice of some deity, affording auguries of future
events; for, as they reasoned, if a deity speaks to us, what sounds
would be a more appropriate medium of communication than those of the
trees which formed their temples and their altars? The sanctity
attributed to certain groves by the ancients was probably owing to some
peculiar sounds emitted by the trees, no less than to the grandeur and
impressiveness of their assemblages.

Every tree, when swept by the winds, gives a sound in harmony with the
character of its leaves and spray. The sounds from the lofty branches of
firs and pines remind the listener of the murmuring of waters, and
inspire the most agreeable sensations. How often have I sat under the
shade of a pine wood, and listened to the fancied roaring of the distant
waves of the sea, as the winds passed through their foliage. When the
breeze commences, we hear the first soft rippling of the waves; as it
increases, succeeding waves of fuller swell flow tremulously upon the
strand, and as the wind subsides melt into silence as they recede from
the shore. Other trees produce very different sounds. The colors of
their leaves, and the glittering lights from their more or less
refractive surfaces, do not differ more than the modifications of sound
drawn from them by the passing winds. Every tree is a delicate musical
instrument, that reminds us of the character of the tree and the season
of the year, from the mellow soothing tones of willow leaves in summer
to the sharp rustling of the dry oak-leaf that tells of the arrival of
winter.

The sounds from trees are a very important part of the music of nature;
but their agreeableness comes rather from certain emotions they awaken
than from the melody of their tones. Nature has accommodated her gifts
to our wants and sensibilities, so that her beneficence is never so
apparent as in the pleasures we derive from the most common objects. If
we are afflicted with grief or wearied with care, we flee to the groves
to be soothed by the quiet of their solitudes, and by the sounds from
their boughs which are tuned to every healthful mood of the mind. Among
the thousand strings that are swept by the winds, there is always a
chord in unison with our feelings; and while each strain comes to the
ear with its accordant vibration, the mind is healed of its disquietude
by sounds that seem like direct messages of peace from the guardian
deities of the wood.

We find in the works of Ossian frequent allusions to the sounds from
trees, to heighten the effect of his descriptions. As the “Spirit of the
Mountain,” he addresses the wind that bends the oaks, and gives out that
deep melancholy sound that precedes a storm, “when Temora’s woods shake
with the blast of the inconstant winds.” He speaks of the “sons of song”
as having gone to rest, while his own voice remains, like the feeble
sounds of the forest, when the winds are laid. When the aged oak of
Morven bends over the stream, its sounds are mournful, like those of a
harp when swept by the wind. According to Ossian, it is the oak that
blends its music with the sounds of lamentation, and sings the dirges of
departed heroes. And the bard declares that he will cease to mourn for
them only when the music of the oak shall no longer be heard in the
groves of echoing Cona.

When a strong wind prevails, the leaves of all trees are put in motion,
and their sounds cannot be distinguished; and during a storm the roar of
winds among their branches is almost deafening. This is the grand chorus
of the elements; but the sounds that affect us most agreeably are such
as come from light movements of the wind and harmonize with the warbling
and chirping of birds. It is the aspen that gives out those lulling
melodies that spring from the gentle gales of summer. When we are
sitting at an open window on a still evening, or sauntering in a wood,
or musing in the shade of a quiet nook, when the wind is so calm that
the hum of the invisible insect-swarms, hovering in the air, is plainly
audible, then is the trembling motion of the aspen leaves peculiarly
significant of the serenity of the elements. They produce a
tranquillizing sound, associated with rest in the languor of noonday, or
with watching in the still hours of a summer night.

When the quiet of the atmosphere begins to yield to the movements of a
rising tempest, the aspen, by its excessive agitation, gives prophetic
warning of its approach. Often, in a sultry evening, the first notice I
have received of a rising thunder-storm came from the increased
trepidation of an aspen that stood before my window. So delicate and
sensitive is the foliage of this tree that it is excited to action by
atmospheric changes before that of any other tree is moved. Thus, while
the rustling of the aspen leaf, when gentle, indicates the tranquillity
of summer weather, there is likewise an expression of melancholy in its
tones when more severely agitated, that forebodes a general stirring of
the winds as they come up from the gathering-place of the storm.

I have spoken only of those sounds from trees which are caused by the
action of the winds upon their leaves and branches. But there are
incidental sounds belonging to the woods, which are modified so as to
produce feelings awakened by no other situation. It is in the deep
stillness of the forest, and over spacious and uninhabited plains, that
we feel most sensibly the peculiar effect of bells, whether it be the
solemn peal of a bell from a church tower or the tinkle of a cow-bell
that reminds us of simple rural life. The ordinary toll of bells is much
more impressive than a chime in these solitudes, because the artificial
melody of the chime does not so agreeably harmonize with natural sounds.

In winter the sounds from trees, except in a pine wood, are greatly
modified by the absence of foliage. It is at this season, therefore,
that we pay the most attention to incidental sounds. When the snow upon
the ground has been hardened by repeated freezing and thawing, I have
often chosen this occasion for winter rambling in the woods. The
loneliness inspired by their seclusion is never so keenly felt as at
this season, when there are but few sounds from birds and insects. Then
does the stroke of the woodman’s axe affect us with the most cheerful
emotions. It reminds us of the presence of other human beings in the
wood, and enlivens the solitude, as the sight of a little cottage in a
wilderness affords the traveller a sensation of the joys of home.

THE LOMBARDY POPLAR.

There are not many trees that take the shape of a long spire; but
Nature, who presents to our eyes an ever-charming variety of forms as
well as colors, has given us this figure in the arbor-vitæ, the juniper,
and the Lombardy Poplar. This was the species which was cultivated by
the Romans, the classic Poplar of Rome and Athens. To this tree Ovid
alludes when he describes the resinous drops from the Poplar as the
tears of Phæton’s sisters, who were transformed into poplars. Smith
says: “Groves of poplar and willow exhibit this phenomenon, even in
England, in hot calm weather, when drops of clear water trickle from
their leaves like a slight shower of rain.”

The Lombardy Poplar is interesting to thousands in this country, who
were familiar with it in their youth as an ornament of roadsides,
village lanes, and avenues. It was once a favorite shade-tree, and still
retains its privileges in some ancient homesteads. A century ago, great
numbers of Lombardy Poplars were planted by village waysides, in front
of dwelling-houses, on the borders of public grounds, and particularly
in avenues leading to houses that stand at some distance from the high
road. A row of these trees is even now suggestive of an approach to some
old mansion, that still retains its primitive simplicity.

[Illustration: LOMBARDY POPLAR.]

Great numbers of Lombardy Poplars were destroyed at the beginning of
this century, from the notion that they generated a poisonous worm or
caterpillar. But some of these ancient rows of poplars are occasionally
seen in old fields where almost all traces of the habitation they
accompanied are gone. There is a melancholy pleasure in surveying these
humble ruins, whose history would illustrate many of the domestic habits
of our ancestors. The cellar of the old house is now a part of the
pasture land; and its form may be dimly traced by an angular depression
of the surface. Sumachs and cornel-bushes have supplanted the exotic
shrubbery in the old garden; and the only ancient companions of the
Poplar now remaining are a few straggling lilacs, some tufts of
houseleek, and perhaps, under the shade of a dilapidated fence, the
white Star of Bethlehem is seen meekly glowing in the rude society of
the wild flowers.

But the Lombardy Poplar, once a favorite wayside ornament, a sort of
idol of the public, and, like many another idol, exalted to honors
beyond its merits, fell suddenly into contempt and neglect. After having
been admired by every eye, it was spurned and ridiculed, and cut down in
many places as a cumberer of the ground. The faults attributed to it
were not specific defects of the tree, but were caused by a climate
uncongenial to its nature. It was brought from the sunny clime of Italy,
where it had flourished by the side of the orange and myrtle, and
transplanted to the snowy plains of New England. The tender habit of the
tree made it incapable of enduring our winters; and every spring
witnessed the decay of many of its small branches. It became prematurely
aged, and in its decline carried with it the marks of its infirmities.

With all these imperfections, it was more worthy of the honors it
received from our predecessors than of its present neglect. It is one of
the fairest of trees in the greenness of its youth, far surpassing any
other poplar in its shape and in the density and general beauty of its
foliage; but nearly all these old trees are gone, and few of the same
species are coming up to supply their places. While I am writing, I see
from my window the graceful spire of one solitary tree, towering above
the surrounding objects of the landscape. It stands there, the symbol of
decayed reputation; in its old age still retaining the primness of its
youth, neither drooping under its infirmities nor losing in its
decrepitude the fine lustre of its foliage. In its disgrace, it still
bears itself proudly, as if conscious that its former honors were
deserved, and not forgetting the dignity that becomes one who has fallen
without dishonor.

There is no other tree that so pleasantly adorns the sides of narrow
lanes and avenues, or so neatly accommodates itself to limited
enclosures. Its foliage is dense and of the liveliest verdure, making
delicate music to the soft touch of every breeze. Its terebinthine odors
scent the vernal gales that enter our open windows with the morning sun.
Its branches, always turning upwards and closely gathered together,
afford a harbor to the singing birds, that make them a favorite resort;
and its long, tapering spire, that points to heaven, gives an air of
cheerfulness and religious tranquillity to village scenery.

THE ASPEN.

All lovers of nature admire the Aspen on account of its name, which,
like that of the willow, is poetical, both from its musical sound and
from association. There is no tree more celebrated in emblematical
literature than the Aspen. Its sensitiveness to the least movement of
the wind, its restless motions, as if some morbid occasion of disquiet
unceasingly attended it, have given it a place in the poetry of all
nations. But setting aside its symbolical meanings, its suggestions of
fickleness and caprice, of levity and irresolution, of impatience and
instability, and the use that has been made of it in satirical writings
to symbolize the “inconstant temper of woman,” the beauty and motion of
its foliage alone would always attract admiration. As the Aspen is the
only tree whose leaf trembles when the wind is apparently calm, its
gentle rustling is always associated with still summer weather.

THE GREAT AMERICAN ASPEN.

The Great American Aspen is a remarkable tree. In height it is
unsurpassed by any of the poplars, though there is little about it that
is attractive except its great height and its peculiar foliage. It is
seldom of large dimensions, and it is without symmetry or elegance in
its ramification. Its branches seem to have a straggling growth, not
extending so widely, nor at so acute an angle, as those of the poplar.
Its foliage is its principal ornament. This would be very dense if it
were not for the scarcity of small branches, which are so far apart as
to give the tree a meagre appearance, even when full of leaves. The leaf
is beautiful, being round ovate, deeply serrate, and put in motion by
the slightest breeze. As a standard the Great Aspen is not highly
prized. It is easily broken by the wind, and is without symmetry,—a
necessary quality in a tree of the poplar tribe, which possesses none of
the properties of grandeur. But when the trees of this species form a
dense wood, they are unsurpassed in the beauty of their perfectly
straight shafts, with their smooth, greenish bark extending upward to an
immense height without a branch. The Great Aspen is very common in the
woods of Maine and New Hampshire, where the second growth of timber
predominates.

The specific name of this tree, _grandidentata_, always affected me
ludicrously, when I considered that it was applied to it merely from the
deep indentations on the edge of its serrate leaves. _Excelsa_ would be
a more appropriate name for the species, on account of its superior
height.

THE SMALL AMERICAN ASPEN.

This tree resembles the great aspen in almost every particular except
size. It is a very common tree in our woods, but is so little esteemed
that it has received no protection and is seldom planted by our
roadsides. It is found chiefly in copses on the sides of some gravelly
bank, growing almost alone, with a few cherry-trees and white birches,
and an undergrowth of brambles and whortleberry-bushes. It is often
abundant on little dry elevations that rise above an oak wood standing
on a clay level. It is remarkable for its slenderness of habit and the
smoothness of its pale-green bark, which becomes whitish and rough as
the tree grows old. Its principal defect is the thinness of its foliage
and spray; its small branches are few and far apart, and its leaves
small and sparse. Yet the beauty of each individual leaf is unrivalled.
It is heart-shaped, finely serrate, and when young is fringed with a
soft, silky, and purple down. It would be difficult to select a branch
from any other tree, when in leaf, so beautiful as a spray of the Small
Aspen.

I do not understand the botanical difference between the Aspen and the
poplar, except that the former includes certain species that possess in
an exaggerated degree the family characteristic of a tremulous leaf. The
Aspen, however, is the proverbial tree, the tree of romance and fable.
Hence we regard it with more interest, though in America the two aspens
fall short of the poplars in almost every point of elegance and beauty.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO POETRY AND FABLE.

From the earliest period of history, mankind have looked upon trees and
woods with veneration, regarding them as special gifts of the gods to
the human race. The ancient priests and philosophers used them as their
places of retirement, both for the study of wisdom and the services of
religion. Hence arose that early custom of planting trees in circles,
forming a kind of amphitheatre, for religious assemblies. The teachers
of philosophy used the same circular groves. These were held in the
greatest reverence; and no man dared to commit the sacrilegious act of
cutting down any part of them or defacing any of the trees. By means of
these circular groves, wise and holy men obtained that seclusion and
quiet which it was not easy to find in towns and cities. They were both
schools and chapels, devoted to religion and philosophy. Hence the
often-quoted remark of Pliny that “the groves were the first temples of
the gods.”

It is not improbable that many of the ancient superstitions relating to
trees and groves originated with wise men, who believed that such holy
fears alone would restrain the people from devastating the whole earth
by the destruction of trees. Science now supplies mankind with rational
motives for their preservation, in place of the religious scruples of
ancient communities. I am inclined to believe that many a rational
principle has been advocated by wise men under the guise of theology.
The druidical priesthood foresaw that the oak, from the superior value
of its timber, could not be saved from the woodman’s axe except by
certain ceremonies on their part that should render it sacred in the
eyes of the people. To impress this idea of its sanctity upon their
minds, they made use of its leaves and branches to consecrate all
important private or public transactions.

In still more ancient times, the priests adopted the expedient of
dedicating to some one of the gods, particularly to Jupiter, certain
woods and groves, which were thenceforth held in veneration by all men,
including even invading armies, whose chiefs, while respecting neither
the lives nor the property of the enemy, held these consecrated groves
sacred and inviolable. Hunting was forbidden within them by this
superstition, and its injunctions were in all cases religiously
observed. It is even asserted that the wild animals in these sacred
groves had become so tame, from the permanent security they enjoyed,
that they did not flee from the presence of man.

Many persons formerly believed that trees felt the stroke of the
woodman’s axe, which disturbed the repose of some resident spirit. The
ancient Greeks supposed certain trees to be inhabited by wood-nymphs,
and that these deities uttered groans when the axe was laid upon the
tree. These sounds gave origin to the sacred oracle of Dodona. There
were two kinds of nymphs supposed to inhabit trees,—an inferior class
that lived during the life of the tree, and died when it perished; and a
superior class, like the dryads, who could pass at will from one tree to
another. “One might fill a volume,” says Evelyn, “with the history of
groves that were violated by wicked men who came to untimely ends;
especially those upon which the mistletoe grew, than which nothing was
reputed more sacred.”

The custom of planting a tree at the birth of a child has prevailed
among certain nations from the earliest times, and is still observed in
some parts of Europe. Connected with this custom was the idea that the
fate of the child was mysteriously associated with that of the natal
tree, which created the strongest motives, arising from parental
affection, to preserve the tree, and on the part of the child to protect
it when he attained his manhood. Nothing is more evident than the
beneficial tendency of all these superstitions, at an early age of the
world, when men were not wise enough to be governed by the principles of
reason and science.

The ancients placed the Naiad and her fountain in the shady arbor of
trees, whose foliage gathers the waters of heaven into her fount and
preserves them from dissipation. From their dripping shades she
distributed the waters which she garnered from the skies over the plain
and the valley; and the husbandman, before he learned the marvels of
science, worshipped the beneficent Naiad, who drew the waters of her
fountain from heaven, and from her sanctuary in the forest showered them
upon the arid glebe, and gave new verdure to the plain. After science
had explained to us the law by which these supplies of moisture are
preserved by the trees, the Naiad still remained a sacred theme of
poetry. We would not remove the drapery of foliage that protects her
fountain, nor drive her into exile by the destruction of the trees,
through which she holds mysterious commerce with the skies, and
preserves our fields from drought.

Evelyn says: “Innumerable are the testimonies I might produce concerning
the inspiring and sacred influence of groves from the ancient poets and
historians. Here the noblest raptures have been conceived; and in the
walks and shades of trees poets have composed verses which have animated
men to glorious and heroic actions. Here orators have made their
panegyrics, historians their grave relations; and here profound
philosophers have loved to pass their lives in repose and
contemplation.”

As man is nomadic before he is agricultural, and a maker of tents and
wigwams before he is a builder of houses and temples, in like manner he
is an architect and an idolater before he becomes a student of wisdom.
He is a sacrificer in temples and a priest at their altars before he is
a teacher of philosophy and an interpreter of nature. After the
perfection of mechanical science, a higher state of mental culture
succeeds, causing us to see all nature invested with beauty, and fraught
with imaginative charms, adding new wonders to our views of creation and
new dignity to life. Man learns now to regard trees in other relations
beside their capacity to supply his physical and mechanical wants. He
looks upon them as the principal ornaments of the landscape, and as the
conservatories in which nature preserves certain plants and small
animals and birds that will thrive only under their protection, and
those insect hosts that charm the student with their beauty and excite
his wonder by their mysterious instincts. Science has built an altar
under the trees, and delivers thence new oracles of wisdom, teaching men
how they are mysteriously wedded to the clouds, and are the instruments
of their beneficence to the earth.

It is difficult to estimate how great a part of all that is cheerful and
delightful in the recollections of our life is associated with trees.
They are allied with the songs of morn, with the quiet of noonday, with
social gatherings under the evening sky, and with the beauty and
attractiveness of every season. Nowhere does nature look more lovely, or
the sounds from birds and insects affect us more deeply, than under
their benevolent shade. Never does the blue sky look more serene than
when its dappled azure glimmers through their green trembling leaves.
Their recesses, which in the early ages were the temples of religion and
science, are still the favorite resorts of the studious, the scenes of
sport for the active and adventurous, and the very sanctuary of peaceful
seclusion for the contemplative and sorrowful.

In our early years we are charmed with the solitude of groves, with the
flowers that dwell in their nooks, with the living creatures that sport
among their branches, and with the birds that convey to us by their
notes a share of their own indefinable happiness. Nature has made use of
trees to wed our minds to the love of homely scenes, and to make us
satisfied with life. How many recollections of village merry-makings, of
rural sports and pastimes, of the frolics of children and of studious
recreation, come to us when we sit down under some old familiar tree
that stands in the open field or by the wayside! Trees are among the
most poetic objects of creation. Every wood teems with legends of
mythology and romance; every tree is vocal with music; and their flowers
and fruits do not afford more luxury to the sense than delight to the
mind. Trees have their roots in the ground; but they send up their
branches toward the skies, and are so many supplicants to Heaven for
blessings on the earth.

In whatever light we regard trees, they deserve attention as the fairest
ornaments of nature; and the more we study them, the more do we think
upon the dangers that await them from the improvidence of man. He takes
but a narrow view of their importance who considers only their
economical value. The painter has always made them a particular branch
of his study; and the poet understands their advantages in increasing
the effect of his descriptions, and considers them the blessed gifts of
nature to render the earth a beautiful abode and sanctify it to our
affections.

THE ALDER.

All persons, however ignorant of trees in general, are familiar with the
common Alder. It abounds everywhere in wet places, skirting the banks of
small rivers, bordering the sides of old turnpike roads, where they pass
over wet grounds, filling up the basins of muddy canals, and covering
with its monotonous green foliage many an unsightly tract of land,
hiding and then revealing the glittering surface of sluggish stream and
lonely mere. The Alder is a homely shrub, employed by Nature merely for
the groundwork of her living pictures, for covering stagnant fens with
verdure in company with the water-flag and the bog-rush, and as a border
growth to the fenny forest, graduating its foliage by a pleasing slope
down to the verdure of the plain. The assemblages of Alder constitute
the plain embroidery of watercourses, and form the ground upon which
many a beautiful flowering shrub is represented and rendered more
interesting.

The Alder among shrubs takes the place which the grasses occupy among
herbs; having no beauty of its own, but contributing to set off to
advantage the beauty of other plants that flourish in the same ground.
Nature likewise employs the roots of this tree as a subterranean
network, to strengthen the banks of streams and defend them from the
force of torrents. The Alder in New England is seldom large enough to be
called a tree; it rarely stands alone, but almost invariably in clumps
or larger assemblages, the different individuals of the collection
forming each a single stem, almost without branches, making an outward
curve a few feet from the ground, and bending inwards toward their
summit.

The foliage of the Alder is homely, but not meagre, and its color is of
a very agreeable tone. It is indeed a very important feature of the
landscape in summer; but in autumn it remains unaffected by the general
tinting of the season, and retains its verdure till the leaves fall to
the ground. Nature seems to regard this tree as a plain and useful
servant, not to be decked with beautiful colors or grand proportions for
the admiration of the world. But, homely as it is, it bears flowers of
some beauty. These consist of a profusion of purplish aments containing
a mixture of gold, and hanging tremulously from their slender sprays.
The extreme length and flexibility of these clusters of flowers render
them exceedingly graceful, and permit them to be set in motion by the
slightest breeze. The buds are seen hanging from the branches all
winter, ready to burst into bloom when vivified by the first breath of
spring.

THE WITCH-HAZEL.

The Witch-Hazel, or American Hamamelis, has many superficial points of
resemblance to the common alder, beside its attachment to wet, muddy
soils. Its ramification is peculiar; its side branches are very short,
and, like the alder, it sends from one root a number of branches
diverging outwards, but with an inward curvature of their extremities.
The leaves are alternate and ovate, narrowest toward the stem and
feather-veined. They turn to a sort of buff-color just before the
flowers appear, which are yellow, having long linear petals, without
beauty, growing in a cluster of four or five in the axils of the leaves.
This tree is worthy of attention chiefly as a curiosity. Like the
witch-elm of Great Britain, it was formerly used for divining-rods. Its
magic powers might have been suggested by its remarkable habit of
bearing flowers late in the autumn, thereby reversing the general order
of nature; also by producing buds, flowers, and fruit in perfection at
the same time. All such phenomena might be supposed to have some
connection with witchcraft.

THE AILANTUS.

The Ailantus is a native of China, where it becomes a very large tree,
often attaining the height of seventy feet. It was imported into Great
Britain more than a century ago, for the benefit of the silk
manufacture. A species of silkworm, which was known to be hardy and
capable of forming its cocoons in the English climate, is attached to
this tree and feeds upon its leaves. “The _Bombyx cynthia_,” says
Mongredien, “thrives well in the open air (of England) in ordinary
seasons, and requires no care after being once placed on the tree. About
August it spins its cocoon on one of the leaflets, bending its edges
inwards, so as to form a partial envelope. As the tree is deciduous, the
leaf would drop and the cocoon with it, were it not that, by an
instinct, the insect, before spinning its cocoon, attaches by its
strongly adhesive threads the stalk of the leaf to the woody twig that
sustains it. Hence the leaves that bear the cocoons are the only ones
that do not drop, and there remain persistent through the whole of the
winter.”

This experiment with the Ailantus proved a failure; but the tree, being
very stately and ornamental, continued to be cultivated in
pleasure-grounds. It was introduced into the United States in the early
part of this century, and is now very common in almost all the States as
a wayside tree. It possesses a great deal of beauty, being surpassed by
very few trees in the size and graceful sweep of its large compound
leaves, that retain their brightness and their verdure after midsummer,
when our native trees have become dull and tarnished.

The leaves of the Ailantus are pinnate, containing from nine to eleven
leaflets, each of these being as large as the leaf of the beech-tree. It
has a great superficial resemblance to the velvet sumach, both in its
foliage and ramification, so that on first sight one might easily be
mistaken for the other; for its branches, though more elegant, have the
same peculiar twist that gives the spray of the sumach the appearance of
a stag’s horn. The flowers are greenish, inconspicuous, and in upright
panicles, resembling those of the poison sumach. They emit a very
disagreeable odor while the flowers are in perfection, impregnating the
air for a week or more.

BURNING-BUSHES.

There is a class of plants, not all belonging to the same genus, which
have received the name of Burning-Bushes from the profusion of scarlet
or crimson fruit that covers their branches after the leaves have
fallen. The most beautiful of these are two species of euonymus,
cultivated in gardens and ornamental grounds, and bearing the names of
strawberry-tree, spindle-tree, and burning-bush. The fruit is from three
to five cleft, of a pale crimson, and before the leaves have dropped,
which in the autumn are nearly of the same color, the tree might, at a
glance, be mistaken for a bush in flames. The euonymus, though abundant
in the forests of the Middle States, is not wild in any part of New
England. Here it is known only as a beautiful occupant of gardens.

Another of the Burning-Bushes is the prinos, very common in wet grounds,
and known in the winter by the scarlet berries, clinging, without any
apparent stems, to every twig and branch, and forming one of the most
attractive objects in a winter landscape. Every part of the bush is
closely covered with this fruit, which is never tarnished by frost and
remains upon it until the spring. This plant has never received a good
specific name. It is sometimes called winter-berry,—a name as indefinite
as Mayflower to mark species, or human being to distinguish persons. It
is also called black alder, because it has a dark rind, to distinguish
it from the true alder, which is also of the same color.

The evergreen species is a more elegant shrub, with bright green leaves
of a fine lustre. It is abundant in Plymouth County in Massachusetts,
around New Bedford, and in Connecticut. It it highly prized in
ornamental grounds and by florists, who bind it into their bouquets and
garlands of cut flowers. The leaves of this plant have some pleasant
bitter properties, and were used by our predecessors as a substitute for
the tea plant, under the name of Appalachian tea.

THE BUCKTHORN.

The Buckthorn would hardly deserve mention in these pages, except that
it is very generally employed for clipped hedge-rows, in the suburbs of
our cities. It is a native both of Europe and America, though as it is
seen only in grounds which have formerly been cultivated, or near them,
it was probably introduced. It attains the height of a small tree. It is
without any beauty, having a thin foliage that falls early and is never
tinted. Its black shining berries are the only ornament it possesses,
and its only merit is that of patiently enduring the shears of the
gardener.

THE PRIVET.

The Privet is a much handsomer shrub of an allied family. Its foliage is
more delicate, both in hue and texture, not so thin, and almost
evergreen. It has become extensively naturalized in our woods, and is
distinguished by its clusters of white flowers in summer and its black,
shining berries in autumn. It is abundant in all lands once tilled which
have become wild, in the vicinity of our old towns, and was probably
introduced at an early period for an ornamental hedge plant.

WOOD-SCENERY IN WINTER.

Winter scenery has met with a remarkable share of neglect both from
authors and painters. Poets have sung of winter festivals and holidays,
of Christmas festivities, of garlands of holly and trailing evergreens;
but they have said little in prose or verse of the beauty or the
sublimity of the season’s ordinary aspects. More effort has been made to
divert attention from winter, as entirely disagreeable, except within
doors, than to lure the mind to its attractions. Its features have been
described as only waste and desolate, and what is really admirable in
them has been set aside as hardly worthy of thought. It is true there is
not much variety in the countenance of winter. Its expressions are wild
and rude, and partake more of sublimity than beauty. It presents an
insufficient number of individual objects that can be brought to the aid
either of painting or poetry; so that the composition must be made up in
great degree by auxiliaries drawn from the imagination.

Winter scenery is plainly monotonous. Instead of the charming mosaic of
agriculture, displayed by summer and autumn in assemblages of fields,
varying in color with the native hue of their different crops, we see
either a dull universal waste of seared vegetation, or one broad expanse
of whiteness, relieved only by the dark slender lines of fences and the
broader stripes of roads and lanes winding over the face of the snow,
interspersed with buildings and occasional woods and thickets. It is
apparent, however, that snow increases the variety of the landscape,
when it is mapped out with groves and fragments of forest, resembling
wooded islets rising out of a white sea.

The charm of winter scenery is greatly heightened by the clearing of the
forest, which hides the surface of the snow and causes the scene to wear
less of the aspect of grandeur than of desolation. Grandeur
characterizes the view wherever an almost uninterrupted expanse of some
miles of surface is completely whitened with snow. The buoyancy we feel
when rambling over such a landscape resembles that produced by great
altitude. Our greater physical vigor in clear winter weather prepares us
to be agreeably affected by surrounding views, because our thoughts are
not diverted by any sense of uncomfortable exertion, as in the languid
heat of summer. Our constant transition from valley to open plain, from
plain to hill, and from hill to wood, keeps the mind constantly amused
with new views. We are also inspired by the grandeur of the whole scene,
and do not, as in summer, give ourselves up to voluptuous sensations,
but to enjoyments more purely intellectual.

Our attention is not so often directed to the beauty of trees in their
denuded state, as when they are dressed in foliage and adorned with
flowers and fruit. But when we consider that for six months of the year
all the deciduous trees, constituting the greater part of the woods, are
leafless, we cannot regard their appearance at this time as an
unimportant study. When trees are in leaf their primary qualities as
objects in landscape are apparent; but many secondary points of beauty
are almost entirely hidden under this mass of foliage. In winter, when
the whole frame of the tree is exposed to view, the delicate sculpture,
the forms, the angles, and the divergences of their branches, present to
sight an infinite variety of picturesque appearances.

There are certain trees, however, which are almost ugly in winter,
though very beautiful in their summer dress. We see nothing attractive
in the horse-chestnut, the sumach, the catalpa, and the ash, in their
denuded state, when the coarseness and deformity of their spray become
their salient points. Of these the horse-chestnut and the catalpa are
not surpassed in beauty when they are in flower, nor the sumach in its
autumnal dress, nor the ash either in summer or autumn. There is as
great a variety in the style of the frame and framework of different
trees as in the forms and colors of their leaves and flowers. Indeed, in
some respects, trees are a more interesting study in their denuded state
than when dressed in foliage. In this condition single trees become more
special objects of attention than assemblages. Yet it is in winter that
we perceive to the best advantage the characters of a forest vista. As
we pass under the interlacing branches of the trees, we observe that
peculiar arch formed by the meeting and contact of those on opposite
sides of an avenue. We see this appearance only in a wide avenue, where
the trees have grown since it was laid out. In the pathless wood, or in
a path made through the forest after the trees have attained maturity,
they have no well-formed lateral branches, and display above our heads
only a formless canopy.

We may observe in the spray of different trees an invariable
correspondence with some of their other characters. Nut-bearers, for
example, have a coarser spray than small seed-bearers; trees with large
or compound leaves, than those with small or simple foliage; and trees
with opposite, than those with alternate branches. Hence the oak and the
hickory have a coarser spray than the birch and the elm, and the
large-leaved poplar than the slender-leaved willow; the ash, with
compound leaves, than the maple with simple leaves, though both have
opposite branches. But if a tree bears a large nut, with leaves compound
and branches opposite, like the horse-chestnut, it has no spray at all.
The beech-tree, however, having a very small nut, has a fine and elegant
spray, not surpassed by any tree of the forest. The opposite character
of the smaller branches of certain trees is never continued in the
larger divisions. But the angularity of the boughs of the oak is
repeated in its angular spray, and the gracefulness of the principal
branches of the elm, the birch, and the lime is traced through all their
minute subdivisions.

All these phenomena are interesting subjects of observation in winter
wood-scenery. But the geometric beauty of the spray of trees is hardly
less remarkable than its different colors. A maple wood, for example, is
gray; a poplar wood is greenish olive; a wood consisting chiefly of
limes, black birches, and cherry-trees has a dark shade. These
differences of coloring, as seen in masses, when viewing the wood from
an elevated stand, often excite the surprise of spectators; for it is
only the most careful observers who have noticed this variety of shades.
In many assemblages of wood that consist of an evenly promiscuous
combination of species, we observe no such picturesque marks of
distinction. But in all unique assemblages, of which our land affords
very frequent examples, the differences between a maple, a poplar, a
willow, and a lime grove are respectively very striking. The study of
these shades is of considerable importance to the painter who should
wish to give a true representation of a winter landscape, with reference
chiefly to its wood.

Some of my most delightful wood rambles have been taken in the winter,
which has always seemed to me less a season of melancholy than autumn.
The sadness we feel while the leaves are falling around us and the light
of noon seems but an ominous twilight passes away after these changes
are completed; we resume our cheerfulness, and look forward in pleasant
anticipation of spring. I have never allowed the winter to interfere
with my rambling, save when the cold was intense, the weather wet or
stormy, or the snow too deep for pedestrian excursions. These
difficulties are seldom in the way for more than a fourth part of the
season. When the snow has been hardened by repeated freezing and thawing
so as to bear our footsteps, or when the ground is bare, a winter walk
affords positive pleasure. At such times I have often passed a day in
the woods, not only to enjoy the physical pleasure of air and exercise
and the sweet odors of the pines, but also to note the changes in the
face of nature, and the manners and habits of the few remaining birds
and quadrupeds.

One of the most noted circumstances attending a winter ramble in the
woods is their silence. But this silence is an aid to thought as well as
observation, and gives importance to every sound, as the white snow
gives prominence to visual objects. When the winter sun is bright and
the chilly atmosphere is calm, we may listen to the distant village hum
with a sensation of melody; and we catch the gurgling sounds of streams
under the glistening ice, and the voices of jubilant echoes, that send
back in the general stillness every sound that penetrates their secret
shell. The crumpling of the hardened snow under our feet produces a tone
that silence alone could turn to music; and the rustling of every zephyr
seems like a living note in this solitude. The occasional voices of
winter birds have a charm hardly less delightful than the melodies of
June, when every note is but the part of a general chorus. In winter we
listen to sounds because they are few. Even the lowing of herds is
musical, reminding us that our present solitude is encompassed by life
and civilization.

The wood is no longer a green recess, a temple of leafy beauty, a
sanctuary of shade, an orchestra of melodious voices. There is perhaps
less solemnity within it than when it is darkened by overarching
foliage. The sun shines into it and renders some little nooks more
cheerful than at any other season. I have often lingered in one of these
sunny retreats to watch the chickadees and woodpeckers, that never fail
to appear in sight, diligently exploring every branch of the neighboring
trees. It is pleasant to woo this solitude when thus enlivened by the
sun, to saunter along the turfy wood-paths, still green with clumps of
moss and lycopodium, to look up into the lofty trees which have parted
with their shade, observing the sculptured elegance of their limbs and
the intricate beauty of their spray; pondering on the rare carvings of
their bark, broken into many geometrical forms, and the curious devices
of nature displayed in the incrustations upon their surface.

Sometimes a solitary evergreen stands in our way, shedding upon the
hoary wood some of the greenness of summer. We should know but half of
what is open to observation if we never visited the forest in the
winter, and we should miss one of the most remarkable features of a
winter landscape if the coniferous evergreens were absent from it. Sad
and sombre as they appear when the deciduous trees are putting forth
their light green leaves, they are great heighteners of the beauty of a
winter scene, and are more valuable than any other woods as a protection
from wind and cold.

THE LARCH.

The Larch, though one of the coniferous trees, is not an evergreen. It
is generally known in this country as the Hacmatack, a name given it by
the Indians. In favorable situations it attains a great height, though
we are familiar with it as a tree of but ordinary size and stature. Its
branches are very numerous, and irregularly disposed at right angles
with the main stem, and not in very apparent whorls. The terminal
branches are small and numerous, making considerable spray, but without
much character. The American and the European Larch do not differ in
their manner of putting forth their larger branches, nor in their
botanical characters. They are distinguished, however, by an important
difference in the style of their secondary branches. The European tree
has a graceful hanging spray, drooping perpendicularly from its
horizontal boughs, and swinging in the wind like that of the Norway
spruce. The American tree has a shorter spray, not in the least pendent,
with an appearance of more sturdiness, and less formality of outline. It
displays, therefore, less of that beauty which is caused by flowing
lines; on the other hand, it exhibits more firmness in its general
aspect, and is a more stately tree. I prefer the American Larch because
it departs further from that primness which distinguishes the coniferous
trees. As it increases in height, it loses its tapering summit, and
forms a head of flattened and irregular shape.

The Larch bears no part in romantic history. Neither the ancient poets
nor historians say much about it. Hence it is probable that it was not
abundant in the forests of the southern part of Europe in the days of
Homer and Virgil. Even its importance in furnishing the most durable
wood for naval purposes is a discovery of modern times, and not until a
very late period was it employed as an ornamental tree. The Larch is
reputed in Europe to surpass all other trees as a fertilizer of the soil
by the decomposition of its foliage. Another of its advantages, when
used for plantations, is its thrifty habit on lofty sites, having a more
elevated range than any other tree of equal importance. Gilpin remarks
of the European tree: “It claims the Alps and the Apennines for its
native country, where it thrives in higher regions of the air than any
other tree of its consequence is known to do, hanging over rocks and
precipices which have never been visited by human feet. Often it is
felled by some Alpine peasant and thrown athwart some yawning chasm,
where it affords a tremendous passage from cliff to cliff, while the
cataract, roaring many fathoms below, is seen only in surges of rising
vapor.”

The American Larch tends to uniformity of shape when young and to
variety when old. Yet the fine pyramidal forms of the young trees, and
the fantastic and irregular shapes of those of older growth, are equally
characteristic. The foliage is of a light green with a bluish tinge,
turning to a deep orange in November, just before it falls. The bright
crimson cones of the Larch, that appear in June, may be reckoned among
its minor beauties. This tree is more abundant in Maine and New
Hampshire than in any other part of the United States, though even there
it is scarce compared with other conifers. Above the St. Lawrence,
however, as far as Hudson’s Bay, it forms assemblages of several miles
in extent.

THE HEMLOCK.

The Hemlock is confessedly one of the most beautiful of the coniferous
evergreens, though rather narrow in its dimensions. The principal
branches are small and short with very slender terminations, in which it
differs from all the other spruces. The multitude of these slender
sprays, and their rows of soft delicate leaves, cause those beautiful
undulations that characterize the foliage of this tree when moved by the
wind. The leaves, of a light green on their upper surface and of a
silvery whiteness beneath, are arranged in a row on each side of the
branchlets. But while those of the other spruces are sessile, those of
the Hemlock have slender footstalks, yielding them a slight mobility.
The spangled glitter of the foliage is caused by a slightly tremulous
motion of the terminal sprays.

In a deep wood the Hemlock shows some very important defects. There it
forms a shaft from fifty to eighty feet in height without any diminution
of its size, until near the summit, where it tapers suddenly, forming a
head of foliage that projects considerably above the general level of
the forest. The trunk is covered with dead branches projecting from it
on all sides, causing it to wear a very unsightly appearance; and when
the tree is sawed into boards, they are found to extend directly through
the sapwood of the tree, making a hole in it as round as if it were
bored with an auger. This is caused by the continued growth of the trunk
of the tree after the decay of its branches, every year forming a new
circle round the branch, but not inosculating with it, as in other
trees.

The full beauty of the Hemlock is displayed on the edge of a wood, or on
a plain where it has grown without impediment, feathering down to the
ground. Here we observe how much less formal it is in shape than other
conifers. When there are no gaps in its ramification, the numerous
branches are mostly in close contact at their extremities, so that, when
viewed from the outside of the wood, it seems nearly one uninterrupted
mass of foliage, hiding the interior of the tree almost entirely from
sight. In its perfection, when it has enjoyed an isolated growth,
without any mechanical accident to mar its symmetry, it presents a fine
tapering form without stiffness, and a mass of glittering foliage with
which that of but few other trees is comparable.

The branches of the Hemlock are very numerous, perfectly horizontal, and
remarkable for the absence of those regular whorls that distinguish
other trees of this genus. They are put forth irregularly from all parts
of the trunk, turning from their horizontal position gracefully upward,
drooping a little at their termination, and endowed with great
flexibility. The branches are minutely subdivided, forming with their
leaves a flat surface, somewhat like the compound pinnate leaves of the
cicuta, or poison hemlock. From this resemblance it undoubtedly obtained
its name. These branches lie one above another, each bending over at its
extremities upon the surface of those below, like the feathers upon the
wings of a bird.

The bark of the Hemlock is of a reddish brown, divided by furrows that
separate it into scales. The young trees have a smooth bark, like that
of the balsam fir. The cones are very small, numerous, and pendent, of a
fine crimson color when they first appear, attached to the ends of the
branches, and arriving at maturity in the autumn. The Hemlock occupies
all kinds of soil, though trees of a large size are found only where it
is deep and fertile. It is fond of moisture, often extending its
graceful boughs from the summits of granitic rocks and declivities wet
with perpetual springs. “The Hemlock is natural to the coldest regions
of America, and begins to appear about Hudson’s Bay, near Lake St. John;
in the neighborhood of Quebec it fills the forests, and in Nova Scotia,
New Brunswick, the States of Maine and Vermont, and a considerable part
of New Hampshire, it constitutes three fourths of the evergreen woods.
Further south it is less common, and in the Middle and Southern States
it is seldom seen, except on the Alleghanies.”

PINE WOODS.

I have often thought of the pleasure I should feel on entering a forest
of tree-ferns, and observing their elegant fronds spread out above my
head, displaying a form of vegetation never witnessed except in a
tropical country. Yet I doubt whether an assemblage of tree-ferns, a
grove of magnolias, or an island of palms could equal a forest of pines
in the expression of grandeur and solemnity. A pine wood possesses
characters entirely unique, and affects us with sensations which nothing
else in nature seems capable of inspiring. Whether this arises from the
contrast between the light outside and the darkness within,—a certain
harmonious blending of cheerfulness and gloom,—or from the novelty of
the whole scene, there comes up from every deep recess and shadowy
arbor, every dripping dell, every mossy fountain, and every open glen
throughout the wood, an indescribable charm. Notwithstanding the
darkness of its interior, and the sombre character of its dense masses
of evergreen foliage, as seen from without,—whence the name of _black
timber_, which has been applied to it,—yet the shade and shelter it
affords, and the sentiment of grandeur it inspires, cause it to be
allied with the most profound and agreeable sensations.

In a pine wood Nature presents one of her most remarkable features; and
there is so much that is healthful and delightful in its emanations, and
in the atmosphere that is diffused around it, that she has not denied
its benefits to any clime. Pines are found in every latitude save the
equatorial region, where the broad-leaved palms supply the same enduring
shade. Even there pines are distributed over the mountains at a height
corresponding with the northern temperate zone. Nature has spread these
trees widely over the earth, that the inhabitants of the sunny South and
the inhospitable North may equally derive benefit from their protection
and their products. There is not a region this side of the equator,
where a man may not kneel down under the fragrant shade of a pine wood,
and thank the Author of nature for this beneficent gift.

In New England the white pine usually predominates in our evergreen
woods, mixed in greater or less degree with pitch-pine and fir. In the
gracefulness of its foliage, in its lofty stature and the beautiful
symmetry of its wide-spread branches, the white pine exceeds all other
species. But the balsamic fragrance that is so agreeable to travellers
when journeying over the sandy tracts of some parts of New England comes
from the more homely pitch-pine. These odors greet our senses at all
seasons, but chiefly during the prevalence of a still south-wind, and
are in a different manner almost as charming as a beautiful prospect.

In a dense pine wood we observe certain peculiarities of light and shade
seldom seen in a deciduous wood. The foliage that forms the canopy over
our heads is so closely woven, that, wherever an opening occurs, the
light pours into it with distinct outlines of shadow, very much as it
shines into a dark room through a half-opened shutter. These sudden
gleams of light, blending with the all-pervading shadow in which we are
involved, deepen all our sensations, and cause us to feel a little of
that religious awe which is inspired when passing under the interior
arches of a cathedral. The presence of a group of deciduous trees always
becomes apparent at some distance before we reach it, by the flickering
lights among their loose foliage, and a general brightness and
cheerfulness in the space occupied by the group.

There are many other agreeable circumstances connected with a pine wood.
The foliage that drops from the trees, after the new growth of leaves
has been put forth, covers the ground with a smooth brown matting, as
comfortable to the footsteps as a gravel walk, while it savors only of
nature. The acicular foliage of the pine is so hard and durable, that in
summer we always find the last year’s crop lying upon the ground in a
state of perfect soundness, and under it that of the preceding year only
partially decayed. This bed of foliage is so compact as to prevent the
growth of underbrush; and it keeps the space open under the trees, whose
tall shafts resemble pillars rising out of the floor of a magnificent
temple. Hence a pine wood is pleasantly accessible to the rambler and
the student of nature; and the absence of a woody undergrowth permits
many plants of a peculiar character to thrive upon this carpeted ground.
The purple cypripedia is common here, pushing up its leaves through this
mass of decayed foliage, and displaying its beautiful inflated blossoms
like some bright flower of a fairer clime. Mushrooms of various species
and of divers fantastic shapes are frequent as we pass, some spreading
out their hoods like a parasol, some with a dragon-like aspect, others
perfectly globular, all having a great diversity of hues. In the deeper
wood, where there is no sunshine to green the sprouting herbs, appears
that rare genus of plants resembling the pale and sickly slaves of the
mine,—the grotesque and singular monotropa.

In an old pine wood our attention is diverted by the great variety of
lichens that incrust the bark of the trees and hang from their boughs.
Many rare species decorate the trees with their tufts, circles, and
protuberances, and their curiously painted dots and patches. All green
herbs, however, are checked in their growth by the darkness of the wood.
The verdure of a pine wood is chiefly over our heads; there is but
little under our feet. But the few plants whose habits permit them to
grow here are the more conspicuous because they are not mingled with a
crowded assemblage of different species. Hence the little creeping
michella, with its checkered green leaves, its twin flowers resembling
heath-blossoms, and its scarlet fruit, is very beautiful, clustering at
the roots of some tall pine, or garlanding some prostrate tree covered
with mosses that mark its decay.

In the Southern States, extensive regions called “pine barrens” form a
very conspicuous part of the scenery. Their growth at the present time
is seldom so dense as that of a Northern pine wood. Whole forests are so
thinly set that you may drive some miles through them on horseback.
Still in these pine barrens there is the same breathing of solemnity
that makes a Northern pine wood so impressive. The tall, gaunt, and
grotesque forms of the trees, the flat, interminable plains which they
occupy, the dark drapery of moss that hangs from their boughs, their
silence and solitude and their primitive wildness, yield the scene an
expression of melancholy grandeur that cannot be described. Occasionally
a log-hut varies the prospect, as primitive in its appearance as the
wood.

The pine barrens of the Southern States are celebrated as healthful
retreats for the inhabitants of the seaports, whither they resort in
summer to escape the prevailing fevers. They are generally of a mixed
character, consisting of the Northern pitch-pine, the long-leaved pine,
and a few other species, intermixed with the Southern cypress,
occasional red maples, and a few other deciduous trees. Pines, however,
constitute the dominant growth; but the trees are, for the most part,
widely separated, so that the surface is green with herbs and grasses,
and often covered with flowers. The thinness of these woods may be
attributed to the practice, for two centuries past, of tapping the trees
for turpentine, causing their gradual decay. Their tall forms and
branchless trunks show that they obtained their principal growth in a
dense wood.

The first visit I made to the pine barrens was after a long ride by
railroad through the plains of North Carolina. It was night; and I often
looked from the car windows into the darkness, made still more affecting
by the sight of the tall pines that raised their heads almost into the
clouds, like monsters watching the progress of our journey. The prospect
was rendered almost invisible by the darkness that gave prominence to
the dusky forms of the trees as they were pictured against the
half-luminous sky. At length the day began to break, and the morning
beams revealed to my sight an immense wilderness of giant spectres. The
cars made a pause at this hour, allowing the passengers to step outside;
and while absorbed in the contemplation of this desolate region,
suddenly the loud and mellow tones of the mocking-bird came to my ears,
and, as if by enchantment, reversed the character of my thoughts. The
desert, no longer a solitude, inspired me with emotions of unspeakable
delight. Morning never seemed so lovely as when the rising sun, with his
golden beams and lengthened shadows, was greeted by this warbling
salutation, as from some messenger of light who seemed to announce that
Nature over all scenes has extended her beneficence, and to all regions
of the earth dispenses her favors and her smiles.

At the end of my journey I took a stroll into the wood. It was in the
month of June, when vegetation was in its prime, before it was seared by
the summer drought. Many beautiful shrubs were conspicuous with their
flowers, though the wood contained but a small proportion of shrubby
undergrowth. During my botanical rambles in this wood, I was struck with
the multitude of flowers in its shady arbors, seeming the more numerous
to me as I had previously confined my observations to Northern woods.
The phlox grew here in all its native delicacy, where it had never known
the fostering hand of man. Crimson rhexias—called by the inhabitants
deerweed—were distributed among the grassy knolls, like clusters of
picotees. Variegated passion-flowers were conspicuous on the bare white
sand that checkered the green surface, displaying their emblematic forms
on their low repent vines, and reminding the wanderer in these solitudes
of that faith which was founded on humility and crowned with martyrdom.
Here too the spiderwort of our gardens, in a meeker form of beauty and a
paler radiance, luxuriated under the protection of the wood. I observed
also the predominance of luxuriant vines, indicating our near approach
to the tropics, rearing themselves upon the tall and naked shafts of the
trees, some, like the bignonia, in a full blaze of crimson, others, like
the climbing fern, draping the trees in perennial verdure.

THE FIR.

The Fir and the spruce are readily distinguished from the pine by their
botanical characters and by those general marks which are apparent to
common observers. They have shorter leaves than the pine, not arranged
in fascicles, but singly and in rows along the branch. The cones of the
American species are smaller than those of the pine, and they ripen
their seeds every year; their lateral branches are smaller and more
numerous, and are given out more horizontally. They are taller in
proportion to their spread, and more regularly pyramidal in their
outlines. The principal generic distinction between the Fir and the
spruce is the manner in which they bear their cones; those of the Fir
stand erect upon their branch, while those of the spruce are suspended
from it. Botanists have lately separated the spruce from the Fir, which
they describe under the generic name of Picea. As my descriptions of
trees are physiognomical rather than botanical, I shall have no occasion
to adopt or to reject this innovation. The spruces, however, are always
described by travellers as firs. Whenever they speak of Fir woods, they
include in them both the Fir and the spruce.

THE BALSAM FIR.

This tree is the American representative of the silver fir of Europe,
but is inferior to it in all respects. The silver fir is one of the
tallest trees on the continent of Europe, remarkable for the beauty of
its form and foliage, and for the value of its timber. The American tree
is inferior to it in height, in density of foliage, in longevity, and in
the durability of its wood. Both trees, however, display the same
general characters to observation, having a bluish-green foliage, with a
silvery under surface, closely arranged upon the branches, that curve
gracefully upward at the extremities. The secondary branches have the
same upward curvature, never hanging down in the formal manner of the
Norway spruce. There is an airiness in its appearance that is quite
charming, and to a certain extent makes amends for its evident
imperfections. When the Balsam Fir is young, it is very neat and pretty;
but as it advances in years it becomes bald, and displays but little
foliage except on the extremities of the branches. This is a remarkable
defect in many of this family of trees. European writers complain of it
in the silver fir. It is observed in the hemlock, except in favorable
situations, and in the black spruce, but in a less degree in the white
and Norway spruces.

THE SPRUCE.

The Spruce, which is indigenous in New England, comprehends the White
and the Black Spruce and the Hemlock. The etymology of this word is
worthy of notice. Evelyn says, “For masts (speaking of firs), those from
Prussia, which we call Spruce, and Norway are the best.” The word seems
to be a corruption of “Pruse,” meaning Prussian. I have formerly thought
that the name was applied to this tree to distinguish it from others of
the same family which display less of this formal symmetry; but the fir
proper is certainly more _spruce_ in its shape than the more flowing
Spruce Fir.

THE WHITE SPRUCE.

The White Spruce is less common as an ornamental tree than the Norway
spruce, which is preferred as more rapid growing and stately. But the
points of difference seem to me very much in favor of the White Spruce.
We may distinguish them by the following marks. The White Spruce is not
so tall as the European tree, and its cones are very much smaller,
though both are pendent. But what is most remarkable is their different
mode of branching. The principal branches of each are given out at right
angles, with this apparent difference only, that the whorls are more
widely separated in the Norway spruce, the distance seeming to be
proportional to the comparative length or height of the trees. The
leaves of the Norway spruce grow only on the top and two sides of the
branch, those of the American spruce cover its whole circumference,
being almost cylindrical.

But the most remarkable difference is observed in the disposition of the
secondary branches. The Norway spruce suspends them almost
perpendicularly from its horizontal boughs. Those of the American tree
are tufted, not pendulous, but merely drooping a little at their
extremities. This gives the whole mass a more sturdy appearance, and
takes away some of that formality which is so tiresome in the Norway
spruce. For we should bear in mind, that, although hanging foliage is
supposed to be less formal than the opposite, it is not invariably so.
The drooping foliage of the elm and the hemlock is graceful, but that of
the Norway spruce resembles an artificial arrangement, and reminds me of
garments hanging upon a patent clothes-line. I think the tufted mode of
growth of the American spruces would be generally preferred to the
formal drooping foliage of the Norway spruce and European larch.

THE BLACK SPRUCE.

The Black Spruce is a taller and larger tree in its native forest than
the white spruce; but the latter, when planted in pleasure-grounds,
makes a more beautiful standard than the other, which is apt to grow
scraggy and defective, like the balsam fir. There is some difficulty in
distinguishing the two American species, until they have been repeatedly
examined and compared, though they do not differ from each other so
obviously as they both differ from the Norway spruce. In the white
spruce the trunk tapers more rapidly, the bark of the recent branches is
lighter colored, the cones are smaller and more elongated, the leaves
have more of a glaucous hue, they are also longer and less numerous, and
do not form so perfect a cylinder by closely surrounding the branch, as
in the Black Spruce.

Notwithstanding their similarity, it is the Black Spruce alone that
produces the essential oil for the manufacture of beer. This species is
also much more valuable for its timber. Emerson remarks that the leaves
and scales of all the pine family, in which are included the spruce and
the fir, are so disposed as to form spirals in two directions.

THE NORWAY SPRUCE.

The Norway Spruce is very favorably known in this part of the country as
an ornamental tree. It is described by European writers as the tallest
tree of the European forest, except the silver fir. In this country no
trees of this species have attained any great altitude, having been all
planted within a space of fifty years. Occasionally we behold a solitary
individual that may have attained about half of its possible height, but
the most do not exceed twenty or thirty feet. In certain situations no
man could help admiring the beauty and majesty of these trees, when, for
example, they border an extensive field, dividing it, as it were, from
the roadside, as may be seen on the southern borders of the Observatory
ground in Cambridge. But as a boundary for a garden or enclosure the
trees of all this family are too gloomy. The Norway Spruce would be more
valuable to plant for its timber than our native species, because it is
more rapid in its growth and would produce a greater length of shaft in
a given number of years. But the two American spruces are more beautiful
trees, as would be apparent to any one who should compare them when
growing together.

THE NORTHERN CYPRESS.

The Northern Cypress, or White Cedar, is a more stately tree than the
juniper, but it is never seen by our waysides; it will thrive only in
swampy soils. This is the tree that covers those extensive morasses
known as cedar swamps, which are, perhaps, the best examples extant of
the primitive forest. The White Cedar is not often called the Cypress in
New England, and in general appearance, and especially in the style of
its foliage, bears but little resemblance to the Southern Cypress; but
its similarity to the juniper is very striking. It is a taller tree than
the European Cypress. By some botanists it is classed with the
arbor-vitæ.

This tree is not confined to inland moors, but is often found upon
marshes which are overflowed by the tide of the ocean. Cedar swamps are
common in all the maritime parts of the country. In many of them in New
England the trees are so closely set that it is difficult to traverse
them. Their wetness presents another obstacle to the traveller, except
in winter, when the water is frozen, or in the driest part of summer. In
these swamps there is a covering, in some parts, of bog-moss, from six
inches to a foot deep, always charged with moisture, in which are
embedded several half-parasitic plants, such as the white orchis. The
White Cedar constitutes with the southern cypress the principal timber
of the Great Dismal Swamp, and is the last tree, except the red maple,
which is discovered when travelling through an extensive morass.

Michaux remarks that in the Southern swamps which are occupied by the
Northern and Southern Cypress, the former “are observed to choose the
centre of the swamps, and the southern cypresses the circumference.” In
the region of the southern cypress the cedar swamps are skirted by the
tupelo and the red maple. There is but little superficial resemblance
between the two cypresses. The foliage of the Northern tree is
evergreen. “Each leaf,” says Michaux, “is a little branch numerously
subdivided, and composed of small, acute, imbricated scales, on the back
of which a minute gland is discovered with the lens. In the angle of
these ramifications grow the flowers, which are scarcely visible, and
which produce very small rugged cones of a greenish tint, that change to
bluish towards the fall, when they open to release the fine seeds.”

THE SOUTHERN CYPRESS.

We have read more perhaps of the Southern Cypress than of any other
American tree; but what we have read relates to some of its
peculiarities, such as the stumps that grow up among the perfect trees,
and of which, in the economy of nature, it is difficult to discover the
advantages. We have read also of the immense gloomy swamps that are
shaded by trees of this species; of the long mosses, called the
“garlands of death,” that hang from their branches, rendering the scene
still more gloomy. But from all our reading we should not discover what
is immediately apparent to our observation, when we see this tree, that
it is one of the most beautiful of the forest.

The Southern Cypress is beginning to be prized here as an ornamental
tree, and the few standards in the enclosures of suburban estates will
convince any one that no species has been brought from the South that
surpasses it in elegance and beauty. The larch, which is a favorite
ornamental tree, will not compare with it, though there is some
superficial resemblance between it and the American larch. They are both
deciduous; and their foliage is brighter in the summer than that of
other conifers. The leaves of the deciduous Cypress are of the most
delicate texture, of a light green, and arranged in neat opposite rows,
like those of the hemlock, on the slender terminal branches.

Michaux remarks that the banks of the Indian River, a small stream in
Delaware, are the northern boundary of the deciduous Cypress. He says it
occupies an area of more than fifteen hundred miles. The largest trees
are found in the swamps that contain a deep, miry soil, with a surface
of vegetable mould, renewed every year by floods. Some of these trees
are “one hundred and twenty feet in height, and from twenty-five to
forty feet in circumference at the conical base, which, at the surface
of the earth, is always three or four times as large as the continued
diameter of the trunk. In felling them the negroes are obliged to raise
themselves upon scaffolds five or six feet from the ground. The base is
usually hollow for three quarters of its bulk.” The conical
protuberances for which this tree is remarkable come from the roots of
the largest trees, particularly of those in very wet soils. “They are,”
says Michaux, “commonly from eighteen to twenty-four inches in height,
and sometimes from four to five feet in thickness. They are always
hollow, smooth on the surface, and covered with a reddish bark like the
roots, which they resemble also in the softness of their wood. They
exhibit no signs of vegetation, and I have never succeeded in obtaining
shoots by wounding their surface and covering them with earth. No cause
can be assigned for their existence. They are peculiar to the Cypress,
and begin to appear when it is twenty or twenty-five feet in height.
They are made use of only by the negroes for beehives.”

The leaves of the Cypress seem like pinnate leaves, with two rows of
leaflets. Their tint is of a light and very bright green, which gives
the tree a liveliness, when in full foliage, that is displayed but by
few other trees. But as the foliage is deciduous, and as the branches in
its native swamps are covered by long tresses of black moss, when it has
shed its leaves nothing in nature can present a more gloomy appearance.
In a dense wood, the foliage is very thin, giving rise to the name of
the Bald Cypress, so that it is only on the outside of the forest that
the tree can be considered beautiful. Its spray is of as fine a texture
as the leaves. When the tree is young it is pyramidal, but the old trees
are invariably flattened at the top.

The wood of this tree, though soft, is very durable, fine grained, and
of a reddish color, and is extensively used for the same purposes for
which the wood of the white pine is employed.

THE JUNIPER.

The Juniper is an historical tree, and has been the subject of many
interesting traditions,—supposed by the ancients to yield a shade that
was injurious to human life; the emblem of faith, because its heart is
always sound; the bearer of fruit regarded as a panacea for all
diseases, and a magic charm which was thrown on the funeral pile to
protect the spirit of the dead from evil, and bound with the leaves to
propitiate the deities by their incense. It is not improbable that the
superstitious notions respecting the power of its fruit to heal diseases
gave origin to the use of it in the manufacture of certain alcoholic
liquors; and it is a remarkable fact that universal belief in its
virtues as a panacea should have attached to a plant which is now used
for no important medical purpose whatever save the flavoring of gin!

The Juniper, very generally called the Red Cedar, and known in many
places as the Savin, is well known to all our people, and is associated
with the most rugged scenery of our coast. On all our rocky hills which
have been stripped of their original growth the Juniper springs up as if
it found there a soil congenial to its wants. On the contrary, the soil
is very poorly adapted to it, for the tree never attains a good size in
these situations. Its presence there may be attributed to the birds that
feed in winter upon its fruit, and scatter its seeds while in quest of
dormant insects among the sods. As we journey southward, we find this
tree in perfection in New Jersey and Maryland; and in all the Atlantic
States south of Long Island Sound the Junipers are large and thrifty
trees.

On our barren hills, near the coast, where they are so common as to be
the most conspicuous feature of certain regions, they display a great
variety of shapes and grotesque peculiarities of outline. Yet the normal
shape of this tree is a perfect spire. When it presents this form, it
is, in the true sense of the word, a beautiful object. Even its
rusty-green foliage gives variety to the hues of the landscape, and
heightens by contrast the verdure of other trees. This effect is the
more remarkable at midsummer, when the green of the different trees has
become nearly uniform in its shades. At this time the mixture of the
duller tints of the Juniper is very agreeable.

The Juniper is very full of branches, irregularly disposed at a small
angle with the trunk, forming an exceedingly dense mass of foliage. A
singular habit of this tree is that of producing tufts of branches with
foliage resembling that of the prostrate Juniper, as if a branch of that
shrub had been ingrafted upon it. The berries, which are abundant in the
fertile trees, are of a light bluish color, and afford a winter repast
to many species of birds, particularly the waxwing. The branches, when
their extremities are brought into contact with the soil, readily take
root. Hence we sometimes find a clump of small trees gathered like
children around the parent tree.

The trunk of this tree diminishes so rapidly in size as to lose its
value for many purposes to which the wood is adapted; but this rapid
diminution in diameter is one of its picturesque properties, and the
cause in part of that spiry form which is so much admired in this tree.
The lateral branches, always inserted obliquely, diminish in size
proportionally with the decrease of the trunk. The Juniper is first
discovered on Cedar Island in Lake Champlain, and, south of this
latitude, extends all along the coast to the Cape of Florida, and along
the shores of the Gulf of Mexico.

THE ARBOR-VITÆ.

The American Arbor-Vitæ is a small tree growing very much in the spiry
form of the juniper, but narrower in the lower part. It is like the
juniper also in its numerous and irregularly disposed branches. It is
not seen in the woods near Boston; and it is rare even in cultivated
grounds, where the Siberian Arbor-Vitæ, on account of its superior
foliage, is preferred. The American tree grows abundantly in high
northern latitudes. It is remarkable, with its kindred species, for the
flattened shape of its leaves; and in its native woods it is hardly ever
without a mixture of yellow and faded leaves interspersed with the green
and healthy foliage. The terminal branch invested by the
leaflets—resembling scales, and not a true leaf—constitutes this
fan-like appendage, resembling the frond of a fern. The leaves have the
flavor and odor of tansy.

In Maine the Arbor-Vitæ, next to the black spruce and hemlock, is more
frequent than any other of the evergreens. It delights in cold, damp
soils, and abounds on the rocky shores of streams and lakes. It
sometimes constitutes a forest of several acres, with but a slight
intermixture of other trees, predominating in proportion to the wetness
of the soil. In the driest parts of these bogs we find the black spruce,
the hemlock, the red birch, and, rarely, a few white pines.

THE YEW.

In Great Britain the Yew is one of the most celebrated of trees, the one
that is generally consecrated to burial-grounds, and that most
frequently overshadows the graves of the dead. It is a tree of second
magnitude, and remarkable for its longevity. The American Yew is seldom
anything more than a prostrate shrub, resembling branches of fir
spreading over the ground. It is said, however, that although it is a
creeping shrub on the Atlantic coast, it becomes a tree on the coast of
the Pacific; in like manner the alder, which is a shrub here, becomes a
tree in Oregon and California.

In New England, the Yew is a solitary tree, growing among deciduous
trees as if it required their protection. It never constitutes a forest
either here or in Europe. It seems to love the shade, and when it is not
under the protection of trees, it is found on the shady sides of hills,
and in moist, clayey soils, but never on sandy plains. I shall not speak
of the romantic customs associated with the European Yew; but the
absence of this tree deprives us of a very romantic feature in
landscape.

THE WHITE PINE.

The pines in general have not the formality that distinguishes the fir
and the spruce. They seldom display so much of a pyramidal shape as we
observe in a symmetrical fir. Their leaves are longer, and their
branches not so regularly given out in whorls. They are also more
generally round-headed when old; their leaves are in small fascicles,
containing from two to five, while those of the fir are arranged singly
along the branch or round it. The pine contains a greater quantity of
turpentine than any other family of resinous trees, and many of the
species are of the highest value in the mechanic arts. In the New
England States three species only are known, and of these two only are
common.

The most remarkable of this family of trees, and the one that comes
nearest the fir in symmetry and formality, is the White Pine. But though
like the fir in symmetry, it resembles it the least in all other
qualities, having the most flexibility of foliage of all the pines, and
bearing its leaves in fives. The White Pine, according to Michaux, “is
the loftiest and most valuable of the productions of the North American
forest. Its summit is seen at an immense distance, aspiring to heaven,
far above the heads of the surrounding trees.”

At first sight of a full-grown and well-proportioned White Pine we are
struck with its evident adaptedness to all purposes of shade and
shelter, in its wide-spread, horizontal branches, and in its silken
tufted foliage. It is not impenetrable to sunshine, but admits it in
constant flickering beams of light; and we perceive immediately that
there is no other tree in whose shade it would be more agreeable to
recline on a hot summer’s day, or under whose protection we might obtain
a greater amount of comfort in winter. The uniform arrangement of its
branches in whorls, forming a series of stages one above another, its
tasselled foliage in long, silky tufts at the ends of the branches, and
its symmetrical outline, constitute in the most obvious sense a
beautiful tree. These tufts, though not pendulous, have none of the
stiff bristling appearance of the other pines; and their verdure is of a
sober, not a sombre tint, though rather dull in lustre.

The symmetry or formality which some writers condemn in the style of
this tree is not of a disagreeable kind, like that of the Norway spruce.
It is combined both with majesty and grace, and increases the grandeur
of its appearance, like the architectural proportions of a temple in
which grandeur could not be produced without symmetry. This tree has
much of the amplitude so remarkable in the cedar of Lebanon. Hence the
look of primness, which the firs always retain, is counteracted by its
nobleness and altitude. It is combined also with a certain negligent
habit of its leafy robes, that softens its dignity into grace, and
causes it to wear its honors like one who feels no constraint under
their burden.

The White Pine has no legendary history. Being an American tree, it is
celebrated neither in poetry nor romance. It is associated with no
classical images, like the oak, nor with sacred literature, like the
cedar of Lebanon. It has no poetic history and no reputation save what
it may have derived from the easy motion of its foliage, the gentle
sweep of its smaller branches, its terebinthine odors, and its pleasant,
romantic shade. It has no factitious charms, but depends on its own
intrinsic merits for the pleasure it affords either the sight or the
mind. In New England, the White Pine contributes more than any other
evergreen to give character to our scenery. It is seen both in large and
small assemblages and in clumps, but not often as a solitary standard.
We see it in our journeys projecting over eminences that are encircled
by old roads, shading the traveller from the sun and protecting him from
the wind. We have sat under its fragrant shade, in our pedestrian tours,
when weary with heat and exercise we sought its coolness, and blessed it
as one of the guardian deities of the wood. We are familiar with it in
all pleasant, solitary places; and in our evening rambles we have
listened underneath its boughs to the notes of the green warbler, who
selects it for his abode, and has caught a plaintive tone from the winds
that sweep through its long sibilant leaves.

The White Pine is a tree that harmonizes with all situations, rude or
cultivated, level or abrupt. On the side of a hill it adds grandeur to
the declivity, and yields a sweeter look of tranquillity to the green
pastoral meadow. It gives a darker frown to the projecting cliff, and a
more awful uncertainty to the mountain pass or the craggy ravine. Over
desolate scenery it spreads a cheerfulness that detracts nothing from
its power over the imagination, while it relieves it of its terrors, by
presenting a green bulwark of defence against the wind and the storm.
Nothing can be more picturesque in scenery than the occasional groups of
White Pines on the bald hills of our New England coast, elsewhere too
often a dreary waste of homely bush and brier.

Such are its picturesque characters. It may also be regarded as a true
symbol of benevolence. Under its outspread roof, numerous small animals,
nestling in the bed of dry leaves that cover the ground, find shelter
and repose. The squirrel feeds upon the kernels obtained from its cones;
the hare browses upon the trefoil and the spicy foliage of the
hypericum, which are protected in its shade, and the fawn reposes on its
brown couch of leaves, unmolested by the outer tempest. From its green
arbors the quails are often roused in midwinter, where they feed upon
the berries of the michella and the spicy wintergreen. Nature, indeed,
seems to have designed this tree to protect her living creatures both in
summer and winter.

The geographical limits of the White Pine are not very extensive. It is
confined to northern regions, but does not extend so far north as the
red pine or the fir. In the Southern and Middle States it is seen only
in the Alleghany range; but it constitutes the principal timber of the
pine forests of Canada and the New England States, which Loudon says are
“the most extensive in the world.” The _débris_ of granite affords the
best soil for the coniferous trees, but the White Pine is seldom found
in marshes. The tree that bears the nearest resemblance to it is the
Lambert pine of California, to which our tree approximates in size.
Michaux measured two trunks near the banks of the Kennebec, one of which
was one hundred and fifty-four feet in length, and fifty-four inches in
diameter; the other, one hundred and forty-two feet in length, and
forty-four inches in diameter.

THE PITCH PINE.

The Pitch Pine differs very widely in its style of growth from the white
pine, and displays fewer of those points that excite our admiration. Its
leaves form larger and more diffusive tufts, and are more bristling and
erect from their superior rigidity. It is remarkable for its rough and
shaggy appearance; hence its Latin name, _rigida_. Indeed there is not a
tree in our forest that equals it in the roughness that is manifest in
every part of it and in every stage of its growth. This is one of the
most common trees in the Southern “pine barrens”; and some of the
ancient pine woods in New England were made up principally of this
species. Such was that extensive wood near Concord, N. H., known by the
poetic appellation of “Dark Plains,” and in the early part of the
century occupying a wide flat region in the valley of the Merrimack
River.

This species does not give out its branches horizontally, nor in regular
whorls. They run up at rather a wide angle with the stem, forming a head
that approaches more nearly to a globular shape than that of any other
of the American conifers. The branches have frequently a tortuous shape;
for when crowded in a dense wood they do not so easily perish as those
of the white pine, but turn in various directions to find light and
space. They are likewise often bent downwards at their terminations,
with a very apparent curvature. There is no conifer that displays so few
straight lines in its composition; and, having no exact symmetry in its
proportions, it may be mutilated to a considerable extent without losing
its normal characters of beauty.

In young trees of this species the whorls of branches may be plainly
distinguished; but as the tree increases in size, so many members of the
whorl become abortive that all regularity of staging in their
arrangement is destroyed. As these branches are numerous, with but
little space between the original whorls, they seem to project from
every part of the trunk. This tree displays very little primness in its
shape, or of a spiry form, save when it is a very young tree. A peculiar
habit of the Pitch Pine is that of producing little branchlets full of
leaves along the stem from the root upwards, completely enveloping some
of the principal boughs. These are rarely anything more than tufts of
leaves standing out as if they had been grafted into the bark of the
tree. It seems to be stimulated to produce this anomalous growth by the
loss of its small branches. It then soon covers itself with this
embroidery, and thus garlanded presents a picturesque appearance more
interesting than that of the perfect trees.

I have seen very beautiful Pitch Pine trees of an abnormal shape, caused
by the loss, when young, of the leading shoot. The lateral branches next
below this terminal bud, being thus converted into leaders, produce two
and sometimes three leading branches, giving the tree some of the
characters of the deciduous species. The white pine is not improved by a
similar accident, as it loses thereby the expression of grandeur that
comes from the length and size of its lateral branches, which are always
diminished by coming from two or more leading shafts. Michaux remarks
that when Pitch-Pines “grow in masses, the cones are dispersed singly
over the branches, and they shed their seeds the first autumn after they
mature. But on solitary trees the cones are collected in groups of four
or five, or even a larger number, and will remain on the trees, closed,
for several years.”

The Pitch Pine abounds all along the coast from Massachusetts to the
Carolinas; but it is rare in the northern parts of Maine and New
Hampshire and north of these States. It is said to have been very
abundant in the southern part of New England before the eighteenth
century, but large forests of it were consumed in making tar for
exportation to Great Britain. The Pitch Pine woods of the present day
consist of small stunted trees, showing by their inferior thrift that
they stand upon an exhausted soil.

The trees of this species, for the most part too homely and rough to
please the sight, are not generally admired as objects in the landscape;
but there is a variety in their shapes that makes amends for their want
of comeliness and gives them a marked importance in scenery. We do not
in general sufficiently estimate the value of homely objects among the
scenes of nature, though they are indeed the groundwork of all charming
scenery, and set off to advantage the beauty of more comely objects.
They give rest and relief to the eye, after it has felt the stimulus of
beautiful forms and colors, that would soon pall upon the sense; and
they leave imagination free to dress the scene according to our own
fancy.

Hence I am led to prize many a homely tree as possessing a high value,
by exalting our susceptibility to beauty, and by relieving nature of
that monotony which is so apparent when all the objects in a scene are
beautiful. We see this monotony in all dressed grounds of considerable
extent. We soon become weary of their ever-flowing lines of grace and
elegance, and the harmonious blending of forms and colors introduced by
art. This principle explains the difficulty of reading a whole volume
written in verse. We soon weary of luxuries; and after strolling in
grounds laid out in gaudy flower-beds and smooth shaven lawn, the tired
eye rests with tranquil delight upon rude pastures bounded by loose
stone-walls, and hills embroidered with ferns and covered with boulders.

The pines are not classed with deciduous trees, yet they shed their
leaves in autumn with constant regularity. Late in October you may see
the yellow or brown foliage, then ready to fall, surrounding the
branches of the previous year’s growth, forming a whorl of brown fringe,
surmounted by a tuft of green leaves of the present year’s growth. Their
leaves always turn yellow before they fall. In the arbor-vitæ there is a
curious intermixture of brown leaves with the green growth of the past
summer; but, before November arrives, all the faded leaves drop, and the
tree forms a mass of unmingled verdure.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in
spelling.
2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed.
3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

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