Hath reared these venerable columns; thou
Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down
Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose
All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun,
Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze,
And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow,
Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died
Among their branches, till at last they stood,
As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark,
Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold
Communion with his Maker. Here are seen
No traces of man's pomp or pride;--no silks
Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes
Encounter; no fantastic carvings show
The boast of our vain race to change the form
Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill'st
The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds
That run along the summits of these trees
In music;--thou art in the cooler breath,
That, from the inmost darkness of the place,
Comes, scarcely felt;--the barky trunks, the ground,
The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee.
Here is continual worship;--nature, here,
In the tranquillity that thou dost love,
Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around,
From perch to perch, the solitary bird
Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs,
Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots
Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale
Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left
Thyself without a witness, in these shades,
Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace,
Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak--
By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem
Almost annihilated--not a prince,
In all the proud old world beyond the deep,
E'er wore his crown as loftily as he
Wears the green coronal of leaves with which
Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root
Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare
Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower,
With scented breath, and look so like a smile,
Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould,
An emanation of the indwelling Life,
A visible token of the upholding Love,
That are the soul of this wide universe.
My heart is awed within me, when I think
Of the great miracle that still goes on,
In silence, round me--the perpetual work
Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed
For ever. Written on thy works, I read
The lesson of thy own eternity.
Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again,
How, on the faltering footsteps of decay,
Youth presses--ever gay and beautiful youth,
In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees
Wave not less proudly than their ancestors
Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost
One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet,
After the flight of untold centuries,
The freshness of her far beginning lies,
And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate
Of his arch-enemy Death--yea, seats himself
Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles,
And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe
Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth
From thine own bosom, and shall have no end.
There have been holy men, who hid themselves
Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave
Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived
The generation born with them, nor seemed
Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks
Around them;--and there have been holy men,
Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus.
But let me often to these solitudes
Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure
My feeble virtue. Here its enemies,
The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink,
And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou
Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire
The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill,
With all the waters of the firmament,
The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods,
And drowns the villages; when, at thy call,
Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself
Upon the continent, and overwhelms
Its cities;--who forgets not, at the sight
Of these tremendous tokens of thy power,
His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by?
O, from these sterner aspects of thy face,
Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath
Of the mad, unchained elements to teach
Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate,
In these calm shades, thy milder majesty,
And, to the beautiful order of thy works,
Learn to conform the order of our lives.
We will conclude this Introduction by recommending the reader, in the
words of the poet, to enjoy the sweet calmness of the Woodland retreat:
If thou art worn and hard beset
With sorrows that thou would'st forget--
If thou would'st read a lesson that will keep
Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep,
Go to the woods and hills!--no tears
Dim the sweet look that nature wears.
* * * * *
Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth, which needs
Experience more than reason, that the world
Is full of guilt and misery, and hast known
Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares,
To tire thee of it,--enter this wild wood,
And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade
Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze,
That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm
To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here
Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men.
And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse
Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth,
But not in vengeance. Misery is wed
To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes
Of undissembled gladness: the thick roof
Of green and stirring branches is alive
And musical with birds, that sing and sport
In wantonness of spirit; while, below,
The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect,
Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade
Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam
That waked them into life. Even the green trees
Partake the deep contentment: as they bend
To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky
Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene.
Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy
Existence, than the winged plunderer
That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves,
The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees,
That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude,
Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots,
With all their earth upon them; twisting high
Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet
Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed
Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks,
Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice
In its own being. Softly tread the marge,
Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren
That dips her bill in water. The cool wind,
That stirs the stream in play shall come to thee,
Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass
Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.
Bryant.
[Illustration: THE ALDER-TREE.]
THE ALDER-TREE.
[_Alnus._[A] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Tetra._]
[A] _Generic characters._ Scales of the barren catkins, 3-lobed,
3-flowered. Perianth 4-cleft. Scales of the fertile catkin ovate,
2-flowered, coriaceous, persistent. Styles 2, parallel, setiform,
deciduous; stigma simple. Fruit a nut, ovate, 2-celled. Kernel solitary,
ovate, acute. Name, Celtic, from _al_, and _lan_, a river bank.
The Common Alder (_A. glutinosa_), is the most aquatic of European
trees. It grows to the height of fifty or sixty feet, in favourable
situations by the sides of streams, and is a somewhat picturesque tree
in its ramification as well as its foliage. It is nearly related, in
nature rather than in form, to the willow tribe; it is more picturesque
than the latter, and perhaps the most so of any of the aquatic species,
except the weeping willow. Gilpin says, that if we would see the Alder
in perfection, we must follow the banks of the Mole, in Surrey, through
the sweet vales of Dorking and Mickleham, into the groves of Esher. The
Mole, indeed, is far from being a beautiful river; it is a silent and
sluggish stream: but what beauty it has it owes greatly to the Alder,
which everywhere fringes its meadows, and in many places forms very
pleasing scenes; especially in the vale between Box Hill and the high
grounds of Norbury Park. Spenser probably once reposed under the shade
of these trees, as he mentions them in his "Colin Clout's come home
again."
One day, quoth he, I sate, as was my trade,
Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hore,
Keeping my sheep among the cooly shade
Of the green Alders on the Mulla shore.
Some of the largest Alders in England grow in the Bishop of Durham's
park, at Bishop Auckland. In speaking of these, Gilpin remarks, that
"the generality of trees acquire picturesque beauty by age; but it is
not often that they are suffered to attain this picturesque period. Some
use is commonly found for them long before that time. The oak falls for
the greater purposes of man, and the Alder is ready to supply a variety
of his smaller wants. An old tree, therefore, of any kind is a
curiosity; and even an Alder, such as those at Bishop Auckland, when
dignified by age, makes a respectable figure."
[Illustration: _Specific character of A. glutinosa. Common Alder._
Leaves roundish, cuneate, waved, serrate, glutinous, downy at the
branching of the veins beneath. A moderately-sized tree, with rugged
bark, and crooked, spreading, smooth branches: barren catkins long,
pendulous; fertile ones short, oval. Flowers in March.]
The Alder grows naturally in Europe from Lapland to Gibraltar, in Asia
from the White Sea to Mount Caucasus, and in the north of Africa, as
well as being indigenous in England. The flowers bloom in March and
April; they have no gay tints or beauty to recommend them, and
consequently afford pleasure only to the botanist or the curious
observer of nature. The leaves begin to open about the 7th of April, and
when fully expanded are of a deep dull green. The bark being smooth and
of a purplish hue, the tree has an agreeable effect among others in all
kinds of plantations of the watery tribe.
The Alder must have grown to a great size in days of yore; for Virgil
speaks of vessels made of this material:
When hollow Alders first the waters tried.
And again:
And down the rapid Po light Alders glide.
Ovid also tells us that
Trees rudely hollowed did the waves sustain,
Ere ships in triumph ploughed the watery main.
Abroad this tree is raised from seed, which is decidedly the best mode,
and secures the finest specimens; though in this country they are
generally propagated by layers or truncheons. The best time for planting
the latter, is in February or March; the truncheons being sharpened at
the end, the ground should be loosened by thrusting an iron crow into
it, to prevent the bark from being torn off; and they should be planted
at the least two feet deep. When cultivated by layers, the planting
should take place in October, and they will then be ready to transplant
in twelve months' time.
The Alder is usually planted as coppice-wood, to be cut down every five
or six years, for conversion into charcoal, which is preferred in making
gunpowder. The bark on the young wood is powerfully astringent, and is
employed by tanners; and the young shoots are used for dyeing red,
brown, and yellow; and in combination with copperas, to dye black. It is
greatly cultivated in Flanders and Holland for piles, for which purpose
it is invaluable, as when constantly under water, or in moist and boggy
situations, it becomes hardened, black as ebony, and will last for ages.
On this account it is also very serviceable in strengthening the
embankments of rivers or canals; and while the roots and trunks are
preventing the encroachment of the stream, they throw out branches which
may be cut for poles every fifth or sixth year, especially if pruned of
superfluous shoots in the spring.
As Alders in the spring, their boles extend,
And heave so fiercely that the bark they rend.
Virgil, _ecl._ x.
Vitruvius informs us, that the morasses about Ravenna were piled with
this timber to build upon; and Evelyn says that it was used in the
foundations of Ponte Rialto, over the Grand Canal at Venice. The wood is
also valuable for various domestic purposes.
Besides the common Alder there are introduced at least six other
species:--
1. _A. Glutinosa_, already described.
2. _Emarginata_, leaves nearly round, wedge-shaped, and edged with
green.
3. _Laciniata_, leaves oblong and pinnatifid, with the lobes acute.
4. _Quercifolia_, leaves sinuated, with the lobes obtuse.
5. _Oxyacanthoefolia_, leaves sinuated and lobed; smaller than those
of the preceding variety, and somewhat resembling the common hawthorn.
6. _Macrocarpa_, leaves and fruit larger than those of the species.
7. _Foliis variegatis_, leaves variegated.
[Illustration: THE ASH-TREE.]
THE ASH-TREE.
[_Fraxinus._[B] Nat. Ord.--_Oleaceæ_; Linn.--_Dian. Monog._]
[B] _Generic characters._ Calyx none, or deeply 4-cleft. Corolla none,
or of 4 petals. Perianth single, or none. Fruit a 2-celled, 2-seeded
capsule, flattened and foliaceous at the extremity (a _samara_). Name
from [Greek: phraxis], separation, on account of the ease with which the
wood may be split.
The Common Ash (_F. excelsior_), is one of the noblest of our
forest-trees, and generally carries its principal stem higher than the
oak, rising in an easy flowing line. Its chief beauty, however,
consists in the lightness of its whole appearance. Its branches at
first keep close to the trunk, and form acute angles with it; but as
they begin to lengthen, they commonly take an easy sweep; and the
looseness of the leaves corresponding with the lightness of the spray,
the whole forms an elegant depending foliage. Nothing can have a better
effect than an old Ash hanging from the corner of a wood, and bringing
off the heaviness of the other foliage with its loose pendent branches.
And yet in some soils, the Ash loses much of its beauty in the decline
of age. The foliage becomes rare and meagre; and its branches, instead
of hanging loosely, start away in disagreeable forms; thus the Ash often
loses that grandeur and beauty in old age, which the generality of
trees, and particularly the oak, preserve till a late period of their
existence.
The Ash also falls under the displeasure of the picturesque eye on
another account, that is, from its leaf being much tenderer than that of
the oak, it sooner receives impressions from the winds and frosts.
Instead, therefore, of contributing its tint in the wane of the year
among the many-coloured offspring of the woods, it shrinks from the
blast, drops its leaf, and in each scene where it predominates, leaves
wide blanks of desolated boughs, amidst foliage yet fresh and verdant.
Before its decay, we sometimes see its leaf tinged with a fine yellow,
well contrasted with the neighbouring greens. But this is one of
Nature's casual beauties. Much oftener its leaf decays in a dark, muddy,
unpleasing tint. And yet, sometimes, notwithstanding this early loss of
its foliage, we see the Ash, in a sheltered situation, when the rains
have been abundant and the season mild, retain its light pleasant green,
when the oak and the elm, in its neighbourhood, have put on their
autumnal attire. The leaves of the common Ash were used as fodder for
cattle by the Romans, who esteemed them better for that purpose than
those of any other tree: and in this country, in various districts, they
were used in the same manner.
The common Ash is indigenous to northern and central Europe, to the
north of Africa, and to Japan. The Romans, it is said, named it
_Fraxinus, quia facile frangitur_, to express the fragile nature of the
wood, as the boughs of it are easily broken. It is supposed that the
name of Ash has been given to this tree, because the bark of the trunk
and branches is of the colour of wood ashes. Some, however, affirm that
the word is derived from the Saxon _Æsc_, a pike.
It is recorded in the fables of the ancients, that Love first made his
arrows of this wood. The disciples of Mars used ashen poles for lances:
A lance of tough ground Ash the Trojan threw,
Rough in the rind and knotted as it grew.
Æneid.
Virgil says that the spears of the Amazons were formed of this wood, and
Homer sings the mighty ashen spear of Achilles:
The noble Ash rewards the planter's toil;
Noble, since great Achilles from her side
Took the dire spear by which brave Hector died.
Rapin.
It is said, in the Edda, that the Ash was held in high veneration, and
that man was formed from its wood. Hesiod, in like manner, deduces his
brazen race of men from the Ash.
The warlike Ash, that reeks with human blood.
There are many remarkable Ash-trees in various parts of the country. One
at Woburn Abbey measures at the ground twenty-three feet in
circumference; at twelve inches from the ground, it is twenty feet; and
fifteen feet three inches at three feet from the ground. It is ninety
feet high, and the ground overshadowed by its branches is one hundred
and thirteen feet in diameter. The trunk of another, near Kennety
Church, in King's County, is twenty-one feet ten inches in
circumference, and seventeen feet high, before the branches break out,
which are of enormous bulk. There formerly stood in the church-yard of
Kilmalie, in Lochaber, an Ash that was considered the largest and most
remarkable tree in the Highlands. Lochiel and his numerous kindred and
clan held it in great veneration for generations, which is supposed to
have hastened its destruction; it being burnt to the ground by the
brutal soldiery in 1746. In one direction its diameter was seventeen
feet three inches, and the cross diameter twenty-one feet; its
circumference at the ground was fifty-eight feet!
[Illustration: _Specific characters of F. excelsior. Common Ash._ Leaves
pinnate, with lanceolate, serrated leaflets: flowers destitute of calyx
and corolla. In old trees, the lower branches, after bending downwards,
curve upwards at their extremities. Flowers, in loose panicles: anthers
large, purple: capsules with a flat leaf-like termination, generally of
two cells, each containing a flat oblong seed. This beautiful tree
assumes its foliage later than any of our trees, and loses it early.
A _variety_ occurs with simple leaves, and another with pendulous
branches. Flowers in April and May; grows in natural woods in many parts
of Scotland.]
Trees raised from the keys of the Ash are decidedly the best. The
"keys," or tongues, should be gathered from a young thriving tree when
they begin to fall (which is about the end of October), laid to dry, and
then sown any time betwixt that and Christmas. They will remain a full
year in the ground before they appear; it is therefore necessary to
fence them in, and wait patiently. The Ash will grow exceedingly well
upon almost any soil, and indeed is frequently met with in ruined walls
and rocks, insinuating its roots into the crevices of decaying
buildings, covering the surface with verdure, while it is instrumental
in destroying that which yields it support. Its winged capsules are
supposed to be deposited in those places by the wind.
The Ash asks not a depth of fruitful mould,
But, like frugality, on little means
It thrives, and high o'er creviced ruins spreads
Its ample shade, or in the naked rock,
That nods in air, with graceful limbs depends.
Bidlake.
Southey, in _Don Roderick_, speaks of the Ash:
--amid the brook,
Gray as the stone to which it clung, half root,
Half trunk, the young Ash rises from the rock,
And there its parent lifts its lofty head,
And spreads its graceful boughs; the passing wind
With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves,
And shakes its rattling tufts.
The roots of the Ash are remarkably beautiful, and often finely veined,
and will take a good polish. There are also certain knotty excrescences
in the Ash, called the _brusca_, and _mollusca_, which, when cut and
polished, are very beautiful. Dr. Plot, in his _History of Oxfordshire_
mentions a dining-table made of them, which represented the exact
figure of a fish.
With the exception of that of the oak, the timber of the Ash serves for
the greatest variety of uses of any tree in the forest. It is excellent
for ploughs.
Tough, bending Ash,
Gives to the humble swain his useful plough,
And for the peer his prouder chariot builds.
Dodsley.
It is also used for axle-trees, wheel-rings, harrows; and also makes
good oars, blocks for pulleys, &c. It is of the utmost value to the
husbandman for carts, ladders, &c., and the branches are very
serviceable for fuel, either fresh or dry. The most profitable age for
felling the Ash, appears to be from eighty to one hundred years. It will
continue pushing from stools or from pollards, for above one hundred
years.
Though a handsome tree, it ought by no means to be planted for ornament
in places designed to be kept neat, because the leaves fall off, with
their long stalks, very early in the autumn, and by their litter destroy
the beauty of such places; yet, however unfit for planting near
gravel-walks, or pleasure-grounds, it is very suitable for woods, to
form clumps in large parks, or to be set out as standards. It should
never be planted on tillage land, as the dripping of the leaves injures
the corn, and the roots tend to draw away all nourishment from the
ground. Neither should it be planted near pasture ground; for if the
kine eat the leaves or shoots, the butter will become rank, and of
little value.
There are many varieties of the common Ash, but that with pendulous
branches is probably the best known: it is called the Weeping Ash, and
is of a heavy and somewhat unnatural appearance, yet it is very
generally admired.
The foliage of the Ash-tree becomes of a brown colour in October.
Like leaves on trees the race of man is found--
Now green in youth, now withering on the ground;
Another race the following spring supplies,
They fall successive, and successive rise:
So generations in their course decay,
So flourish these, when those are past away.
Pope.
There are numerous species of the Ash, but these are so rarely to be met
with in this country, that it is not necessary to particularize any of
them.
[Illustration: THE BEECH-TREE]
THE BEECH-TREE.
[_Fagus._[C] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Poly._]
[C] _Generic characters. Barren_ flowers in a roundish catkin. Perianth
campanulate, divided into 5 or 6 segments. Stamens 8 to 15. _Fertile_
flowers, 2 together, within a 4-lobed prickly involucre. Stigma 3.
Ovaries 3-cornered and 3-celled. Nut by abortion 1 or 2-seeded. Named
from [Greek: phagô], to eat.
The Common Beech (_F. sylvática_), is supposed to be indigenous to
England, but not to Scotland or Ireland. According to Evelyn, it is a
beautiful as well as valuable tree, growing generally to a greater
stature than the Ash: though Gilpin observes, that it does not deserve
to be ranked among timber-trees; its wood being of a soft, spongy
nature, sappy, and alluring to the worm. Neither will Gilpin allow that,
in point of picturesque beauty, it should rank much higher than in point
of utility. Its skeleton, compared with that of the oak, the ash, or the
elm, he says, is very deficient; yet its trunk is often highly
picturesque, being frequently studded with bold knobs and projections,
and having sometimes a sort of irregular fluting about it, which is very
characteristic. It has another peculiarity, also, which is somewhat
pleasing--that of a number of stems arising from the root. The bark,
too, wears often a pleasant hue. It is naturally of a dingy olive; but
it is always overspread, in patches, with a variety of mosses and
lichens, which are commonly of a lighter tint in the upper parts, and of
a deep velvet green towards the root. Its smoothness, also, contrasts
agreeably with these rougher appendages. No bark tempts the lover so
much to make it the depository of his mistress's name. In days of yore,
it seems to have commonly served as the lover's tablet. In Dryden's
translation of Virgil's _Eclogues_, we find the following:--
Or shall I rather the sad verse repeat,
Which on the Beech's bark I lately writ--
I writ, and sang betwixt.
There seems to have been connected with this custom the curious idea,
that as the tree increased in growth, so would the words, and also the
hopes expressed thereon:
The rind of every plant her name shall know,
And as the rind extends the love shall grow.
Our own Thomson, too, narrates that Musidora carved, on the soft bark of
a Beech-tree, the confession of her attachment to Damon:
At length, a tender calm,
Hushed, by degrees, the tumult of her soul;
And on the spreading Beech, that o'er the stream
Incumbent hung, she, with the sylvan pen
Of rural lovers, this confession carved,
Which soon her Damon kissed with weeping joy.
The branches of the Beech are fantastically wreathed and
disproportioned, twining awkwardly among one another, and running often
into long unvaried lines, without any of that strength and firmness
which we admire in the oak, or of that easy simplicity which pleases in
the ash: in short, we rarely see a Beech well ramified. In full leaf, it
is unequally pleasing; it has the appearance of an overgrown bush.
Virgil, indeed, was right in choosing the Beech for its shade. No tree
forms so complete a roof. If you wish either for shade or shelter, you
will find it best
Beneath the shade which Beechen boughs diffuse.
Its bushiness imparts a great heaviness to the tree, which is always a
deformity:
A gloomy grove of Beech.
Sometimes a light branch issues from a heavy mass; and though these are
often beautiful in themselves, they are seldom in harmony with the tree.
They distinguish, however, its character, which will be best seen by
comparing it with the elm. The latter has a rounder, the former a more
pointed foliage; but the elm is always in harmony with itself. Gilpin
can see few beauties in the Beech; but, in conclusion, he admits that it
sometimes has its beauty, and often its use. In distance, it preserves
the depth of the forest, and, even on the spot, in contrast, it is
frequently a choice accompaniment. In the corner of a landscape, too,
when a thick heavy tree is wanted, or a part of one, at least, which is
often necessary, nothing answers the purpose like the Beech.
If we would really appreciate the beauty of this tree, we should walk in
a wood of them. In its juvenility, contrary to the generality of trees,
the Beech is decidedly the most pleasing, not having acquired that
heaviness which Gilpin so loudly complains of. A light, airy young
Beech, with its spiry branches hanging in easy forms, is generally
beautiful. And, occasionally, the forest Beech, in a dry hungry soil,
preserves the lightness of youth in the maturity of age.
We must, however, mention its autumnal hues, which are often beautiful.
Sometimes it is dressed in modest brown, but commonly in glowing orange;
and in both dresses its harmony with the grove is pleasing. About the
end of September, when the leaf begins to change, it makes a happy
contrast with the oak, whose foliage is yet verdant. Some of the finest
oppositions of tint which, perhaps, the forest can furnish, arise from
the union of oak and Beech. We often see a wonderful effect from this
combination; and yet, accommodating as its leaf is in landscape, on
handling, it feels as if it were fabricated with metallic rigour.
[Illustration: _Specific character. F. sylvática. Common Beech._ Leaves
ovate, indistinctly serrate, smooth, ciliate. A large tree, varying from
60 to 100 feet in height, with smooth bark and spreading branches.
Flowers in April and May; grows in woods, particularly on calcareous
soils.]
The leaves are of a pleasant green, and many of them remain on the
branches during winter. In France and Switzerland, when dried, they are
very commonly used for beds, or, instead of straw, for mattresses. Its
fruit consists of "two nuts joined at the base, and covered with an
almost globular involucre, which has soft spines on the outside, but
within is delicately smooth and silky." Beech mast, as it is called, was
formerly used for fattening swine and deer. It affords also a sweet oil,
which the poor in France are said to eat most willingly.
--The Beech, of oily nuts
Prolific.