the Spectacle ponds, along the Racquette river, one early spring day, I
came upon a combination of white pine, red pine, and paper-birch that
was simply dazzling in effect. This birch has bark, as every one knows,
of a shining creamy white. Not only its color, but its tenacity,
resistance to decay, and wonderful divisibility, make this bark one of
the most remarkable of nature's fabrics. To the Indian and the trapper
it has long been as indispensable as is the palm to the native of the
tropics.
[Illustration: Yellow birches]
There are other good native birches, and one foreigner--the true white
birch--whose cut-leaved form, a familiar lawn tree of drooping habit, is
worth watching and liking. The name some of the nurserymen have given
it, of "nine-bark," is significantly accurate, for at least nine layers
may be peeled from the glossy whiteness of the bark of a mature tree.
I intend to know more of the birches, and to see how the two kinds of
flowers act to produce the little fruits, which are nuts, though they
hardly look so. And I would urge my tree-loving friends to plant about
their homes these cheery and most elegantly garbed trees.
The spice-bush, of which I spoke above, is really a large shrub, and is
especially notable for two things--the way it begins the spring, and
the way it ends the fall. About my home, it is the first of wild woods
trees to bloom, except perhaps the silver maple, which has a way of
getting through with its flowers unnoticed before spring is thought of.
One finds the delicate little bright yellow flowers of the spice-bush
clustered thickly along the twigs long before the leaves are ready to
brave the chill air. After the leaves have fallen in the autumn, these
flowers stand out in a reincarnation of scarlet and spicy berries, which
masquerade continually as holly berries when cunningly introduced amid
the foliage of the latter. Between spring and fall the spice-bush is
apparently invisible.
[Illustration: Flowers of the spice-bush]
[Illustration: Leaves and berries of the American holly]
How many of us, perfectly familiar with "the holly berry's glow" about
Christmas time, have ever seen a whole tree of holly, set with berries?
Yet the trees, sometimes fifty feet high, of American holly--and this is
very different from the English holly in leaf--grow all along the
Atlantic sea-board, from Maine to Florida, and are especially plenty
south of Maryland and Delaware. There is one superb specimen in Trenton,
New Jersey's capital, which is of the typical form, and when crowded
with scarlet berries it is an object of great beauty. One reason why
many of us have not seen holly growing in the wild is that it seems to
prefer the roughest and most inaccessible locations. Years ago I was
told that I might see plenty of holly growing freely in the Pennsylvania
county of my home. "But," my informant added, "you will need to wear
heavy leather trousers to get to it!" The nurserymen are removing this
difficulty by growing plants of all the hollies--American, Japanese,
English and Himalayan--so that they may easily be set in the home
grounds, with their handsome evergreen foliage and their berries of
red or black.
[Illustration: American holly tree at Trenton, N. J.]
One spring, the season and my opportunities combined to provide a most
pleasing feast of color in the tree quest. It was afforded by the
juxtaposition at Conewago of the bloom-time of the deep pink red-bud,
miscalled "Judas tree," and the large white dogwood,--both set against
the deep, almost black green of the American cedar, or juniper. These
two small trees, the red-bud and the dogwood, are of the class of
admirable American natives that are notable rather for beauty and
brightness of bloom than for tree form or size.
The common dogwood--_Cornus florida_ of the botany--appears in bloom
insidiously, one might say; for the so-called flowers open slowly, and
they are green in color, and easily mistaken for leaves, after they have
attained considerable size. Gradually the green pales to purest white,
and the four broad bracts, with the peculiar little pucker at the end of
each, swell out from the real flowers, which look like stamens, to a
diameter of often four inches. With these flowers clustered thickly on
the usually flat, straight branches, the effect against the green or
brown of near-by trees is startling. The dogwood's horizontal branching
habit makes every scrap of its lovely white blooms effective to the
beholder on the ground below, but far more striking if one may see it
from above, as looking down a hillside.
Though the dogwood blooms before its leaves are put forth, the foliage
sometimes catches up with the flowers; and this foliage is itself a
pleasure, because of its fineness and its regular venation, or marking
with ribs. In the fall, when the flowers of purest white have been
succeeded by oblong berries of brightest scarlet, the foliage remains
awhile to contrast with the brilliance of the fruit. The frosts soon
drop the leaves, and then the berries stand out in all their
attractiveness, offering food to every passing bird, and thus carrying
out another of nature's cunning provisions for the reproduction of the
species. Seeds in the crops of birds travel free and far, and some fall
on good ground!
Is it not sad to know that the brave, bold dogwood, holding out its
spring flag of truce from arduous weather, and its autumn store of
sustenance for our feathered friends, is in danger of extinction from
the forest because its hardy, smooth, even-grained white wood has been
found to be especially available in the "arts"? I feel like begging for
the life of every dogwood, as too beautiful to be destroyed for any mere
utility.
[Illustration: Floral bracts or involucres of the dogwood]
I have been wondering as to the reason for the naming of the cornuses as
dogwoods, and find in Bailey's great Cyclopedia of Horticulture the
definite statement that the name was attached to an English red-branched
species because a decoction of the bark was used to wash mangy dogs!
This is but another illustration of the inadequacy and inappropriateness
of "common" names.
There are many good dogwoods--the Cornus family is admirable, both in
its American and its foreign members--but I must not become encyclopedic
in these sketches of just a few tree favorites. I will venture to
mention one shrub dogwood--I never heard its common name, but it has
three botanical names (_Cornus sericea_, or _coerulea_, or _Amomum_,
the latter preferred) to make up for the lack. It ought to be called
the blue-berried dogwood, by reason of its extremely beautiful fruit,
which formed a singular and delightful contrast to the profusion of red
and scarlet fruits so much in evidence, one September day, in Boston's
berry-full Franklin Park.
[Illustration: The red-bud in bloom]
The red-bud, as I have said, is miscalled Judas-tree, the tradition
being that it was on a tree of this family, but not of the American
branch, happily and obviously, that the faithless disciple hanged
himself after his final interview with the priests who had played upon
his cupidity. Indeed, tradition is able to tell even now marvelous
stories to travelers, and not long ago I was more amused than edified to
hear an eloquent clergyman just returned from abroad tell how he had
been shown the fruits of the Judas-tree, "in form like beautiful apples,
fair to the eye, but within bitter and disappointing;" and he moralized
just as vigorously on this fable as if it had been true, as he thought
it. He didn't particularly relish the suggestion that the pulpit ought
to be fairly certain of its facts, whether of theology or of science, in
these days; but he succumbed to the submission of authority for the
statement that the Eastern so-called Judas-tree, _Cercis siliquastrum_,
bore a small pod, like a bean, and was not unpleasant, any more than the
pod was attractive.
I mention this only in reprobation of the unpleasant name that really
hurts the estimation of one of the most desirable and beautiful of
America's smaller trees. The American red-bud is a joy in the spring
about dogwood time, for it is all bloom, and of a most striking color.
Deep pink, or purplish light red, or clear bright magenta--all these
color names fit it approximately only. One is conscious of a warm glow
in looking toward the little trees, with every branch clear down to the
main stem not only outlined but covered with richest color.
There is among the accompanying illustrations (page 201) a photograph of
a small but characteristic red-bud in bloom, looking at which reminds me
of one of the pleasantest experiences of my outdoor life. With a
cameristic associate, I was in a favorite haunt, seeing dogwoods and
red-buds and other things of spring beauty, when a sudden warm thunder
shower overtook us. Somewhat protected in our carriage--and it would
have been more fun if we had stood out to take the rain as comfortably
as did the horse--we saw the wonder of the reception of a spring shower
by the exuberant plant life we were there to enjoy. When the clouds
suddenly obscured the sky, and the first drops began to fall, the soft
new umbrellas of the May-apples, raised to shield the delicate white
flowers hidden under them from the too ardent sunshine, reversed the
usual method by closing tightly and smoothly over the blooms, thus
protecting perfectly their pollen hearts, and offering little resistance
to the sharp wind that brought the rain. At our very feet we could see
the open petals of the spring beauty coil up into tight little spirals,
the young leaves on the pin-oaks draw in toward the stems from which
they had been expanding. Over the low fence, the blue phlox, that dainty
carpeting of the May woods, shut its starry flowers, and lay close to
the ground. Quiet as we were, we could see the birds find sheltered
nooks in the trees about us.
But soon the rain ceased, the clouds passed away, and the sun shone
again, giving us a rainbow promise on the passing drops. Everything woke
up! The birds were first to rejoice, and a veritable oratorio of praise
and joyfulness sounded about our ears. The leaves quickly expanded,
fresher than ever; the flowers uncurled and unfolded, the May-apple
umbrellas raised again; and all seemed singing a song as joyous as that
of the birds, though audible only to the nerves of eye and brain of the
human beings who had thus witnessed another of nature's interior
entertainments.
How much we miss by reason of fear of a little wetting! Many of the
finest pictures painted by the Master of all art are visible only in
rain and in mist; and the subtlest coloring of tree leaf and tree stem
is that seen only when the dust is all washed away by the shower that
should have no terrors for those who care for the truths of nature. In
these days of rain-proof clothing, seeing outdoors in the rain is not
even attended by the slightest discomfort, and I have found my camera
quite able to stand a shower!
Another of the early spring-flowering small trees--indeed, the earliest
one that blooms in white--is the shad-bush, or service-berry. Again the
"common" names are trifling and inadequate; shad-bush because the
flowers come when the shad are ascending the rivers along which the
trees grow, and service-berry because the pleasant fruits are of
service, perhaps! June-berry, another name, is better; but the genus
owns the mellifluous name of Amelanchier, and the term Canadensis
belongs to the species with the clouds of little white flowers shaped
like a thin-petaled star. The shad-bush blooms with the trilliums--but I
may not allow the spring flowers to set me spinning on another hank!
[Illustration: Blooms of the shad-bush]
Searching for early recollections of trees, I remember, when a boy of
six or seven, finding some little green berries or fruits, each with its
long stem, on the pavement under some great trees in the Capitol Park of
my home town. I could eat these; and thus they pleased the boy as much
as the honey-sweet flowers that gave rise to them now please the man.
The noble American linden, one of the really great trees of our forests,
bears these delicate whitish flowers, held in rich clusters from a
single stem which is attached for part of its length to a curious long
green bract. If these flowers came naked on the tree, as do those of the
Norway maple, for instance, they would be easily seen and admired of
men, but being withheld until the splendid heart-shaped foliage is well
out, the blooms miss the casual eye. But the bees see them; they know
the linden for their own, and great stores of sweetest honey follow a
year when abundant pasture of these flowers is available.
[Illustration: Flowers of the American linden]
A kindly tree is this linden, or lime, or basswood, to give it all its
common names. Kindly as well as stately, but never rugged as the oak, or
of obvious pliant strength as the hickory. The old tree invites to shade
under its limbs crowded with broad leaves; the young tree is lusty of
growth and clean of bark, a model of rounded beauty and a fine variant
from the overworked maples of our streets.
Again, the tale of woe! for the great lindens of our forests are nearly
all gone. Too useful for timber; too easy to fell; its soft, smooth,
even wood too adaptable to many uses! Cut them all; strip the bark for
"bast," or tying material; America is widening; the sawmills cannot be
idle; scientific and decent forestry, so successful and so usual in
Europe, is yet but a dream for future generations here in America!
But other lindens, those of Europe especially, are loved of the
landscape architect and the Germans. "Unter den Linden," Berlin's famous
street, owes its name, fame and shade to the handsome European species,
the white-lined leaves of which turn up in the faintest breeze, to show
silvery against the deep green of their upper surfaces. Very many of
these fine lindens are being planted now in America by landscape
architects, and there are some lindens on Long Island just as prim and
trim as any in Berlin. Indeed, there is a sort of German "offiziere"
waxed-mustache air of superiority about them, anyway!
[Illustration: The American linden]
There is an all-pervading Middle States tree that I might give a common
name to as the "fence-post tree," because it is so often grown for that
use only, by reason of its enduring timber and its exceeding vigor under
hard usage. Yet the common black locust is one of the most distinct and
pleasing American trees of moderate height. Distinct it is in its
framework in winter, mayhap with the twisted pods of last season's
fruits hanging free; distinct again in its long-delayed late-coming
acacia-like foliage; but fragrant, elegant and beautiful, as well as
distinct, when in June it sets forth its long, drooping racemes of
whitest and sweetest flowers. These come only when warm weather is an
assured fact, and the wise Pennsylvania Germans feel justified in
awaiting the blooming of the locust before finally discarding their
winter underclothing!
For years a family of my knowledge has held it necessary, for its proper
conduct, to have in order certain floral drives. First the apple
blossom drive introduces the spring, and the lilac drive confirms the
impression that really the season is advancing; but the locust drive is
the sweetest of all, taking these nature lovers along some shady lanes,
beside the east bank of a great river, and in places where, the trees
planted only for the fence utility of the hard yellow wood, these
fragrant flowers, hanging in grace and elegance far above the highway,
have redeemed surroundings otherwise sordid and mean.
[Illustration: Flowers of the black locust]
I want Americans to prize the American locust for its real beauty. The
French know it, and show with pride their trifling imported specimens.
We cannot exterminate the trees, and there will be plenty for posts,
too; but let us realize its sweetness and elegance, as well as the
durability of its structure.
[Illustration: Young trees of the black locust]
There are fashions in trees, if you please, and the nurserymen set them.
Suddenly they discover the merits of some long-forgotten tree, and it
jumps into prominence. Thus, only a few years ago, the pin-oak came into
vogue, to the lasting benefit of some parks, avenues and home grounds.
Then followed the sycamore, but it had to be the European variety, for
our own native "plane tree," or "button-ball," is too plentiful and easy
to sing much of a tree-seller's song about. This Oriental plane is a
fine tree, however, and the avenue in Fairmount Park that one may see
from trains passing over the Schuylkill river is admirable. The bark is
mottled in green, and especially bright when wet with rain. As the
species is free from the attacks of a nasty European "bug," or fungus,
which is bothering the American plane, it is much safer to handle,
commercially.
But our stately American sycamore is in a different class. One never
thinks of it as a lawn tree, or as bordering a fashionable roadway;
rather the expectation is to find it along a brook, in a meadow, or in
some rather wild and unkempt spot. As one of the scientific books begins
of it, "it is a tree of the first magnitude." I like that expression;
for the sycamore gives an impression of magnitude and breadth; it
spreads out serenely and comfortably.
My friend Professor Bailey says _Platanus occidentalis_, which is the
truly right name of this tree, has no title to the term sycamore; it is
properly, as his Cyclopedia gives it, Buttonwood, or Plane. Hunting
about a little among tree books, I find the reason for this, and that it
explains another name I have never understood. The sycamore of the
Bible, referred to frequently in the Old Testament, traditionally
mentioned as the tree under which Joseph rested with Mary and the young
child on the way to Egypt, and into which Zaccheus climbed to see what
was going on, was a sort of fig tree--"Pharaoh's Fig," in fact. When
the mystery-plays of the centuries gone by were produced in Europe, the
tree most like to what these good people thought was the real sycamore
furnished the branches used in the scene-setting--and it was either the
oriental plane, or the sycamore-leaved maple that was chosen, as
convenient. The name soon attached itself to the trees; and when
homesick immigrants looked about the new world of America for some
familiar tree, it was easy enough to see a great similarity in our
buttonwood, which thus soon became sycamore.
[Illustration: The sycamore, or button-ball]
So much for information, more or less legendary, I confess; but the
great tree we are discussing is very tangible. Indeed, it is always in
the public eye; for it carries on a sort of continuous disrobing
performance! The snake sheds his skin rather privately, and comes forth
in his new spring suit all at once; the oak and the maple, and all the
rest of them continually but invisibly add new bark between the
splitting or stretching ridges of the old; but our wholesome friend the
sycamore is quite shamelessly open about it, dropping off a plate or a
patch here and there as he grows and swells, to show us his underwear,
which thus at once becomes overcoat, as he goes on. At first greenish,
the under bark thus exposed becomes creamy white, mostly; and I have had
a conceit that the colder the winter, the whiter would be those portions
of Mr. Buttonball's pajamas he cared to expose to us the next spring!
[Illustration: Button-balls--fruit of the sycamore]
The leaves of the sycamore are good to look at, and efficient against
the sun. The color above is not as clear and sharp as that of the maple;
underneath the leaves are whitish, and soft, or "pubescent," as the
botanical term goes. Quite rakishly pointed are the tips, and the whole
effect, in connection with the balls,--which are first crowded clusters
of flowers, and then just as crowded clusters of seeds--is that of a
gentleman of the old school, dignified in his knee-breeches and cocked
hat, fully aware that he is of comfortable importance!
Those little button-balls that give name to this good American tree
follow the flower clusters without much change of form--they _were_
flowers, they _are_ seeds--and they stay by the tree persistently all
winter, blowing about in the sharp winds. After a while one is banged
often enough to open its structure, and then the carrying wind takes on
its wings the neat little cone-shaped seeds, each possessed of its own
silky hairs to help float it gently toward the ground--and thus is
another of nature's curious rounds of distribution completed.
A tree is never without interest to those whose eyes have been opened to
some of the wonders and perfections of nature. Nevertheless, there is a
time in the year's round when each tree makes its special appeal. It may
be in the winter, when every twig is outlined sharply against the cold
sky, and the snow reflects light into the innermost crevices of its
structure, that the elm is most admirable. When the dogwood has on its
white robe in May and June, it then sings its song of the year. The
laden apple tree has a pure glory of the blossoms, and another warmer,
riper glory of the burden of fruit, but we think most kindly of its
flowering time. Some trees maintain such a continuous show of interest
and beauty that it is difficult to say on any day, "_Now_ is this tulip
or this oak at its very finest!" Again, the spring redness of the swamp
maple is hardly less vivid than its mature coloring of the fall.
But as to the liquidambar, or sweet-gum, there can be no question.
Interesting and elegant the year round, its autumn covering of polished
deep crimson starry leaves is so startlingly beautiful and distinct as
to almost take it out of comparison with any other tree. Others have
nearly the richness of color, others again show nearly the elegance of
leaf form, but no one tree rivals completely the sweet-gum at the time
when the autumn chill has driven out all the paleness in its leaf
spectrum, leaving only the warm crimson that seems for awhile to defy
further attacks of frost.
As to shape, the locality settles that; for, a very symmetrical small to
maximum-sized tree in the North and on high dry places, in the South
and in wet places north it becomes another "tree of the first
magnitude," wide-spreading and heavy. A stellar comparison seems to fit,
because of these wonderful leaves. They struck me at first, hunting
photographs one day, as some sort of a maple; but what maple could have
such perfection of star form? A maple refined, perfected, and indeed
polished, one might well think, for while other trees have shining
leaves, they are dull in comparison with the deep-textured gloss of
these of the sweet-gum.
[Illustration: The liquidambar]
Here, too, is a tree for many places; an adaptable, cosmopolitan sort of
arboreal growth. At its full strength of hard, solid, time-defying
wooded body on the edge of some almost inaccessible swamp of the South,
where its spread-out roots and ridgy branches earn for it another common
name as the "alligator tree," it is in a park or along a private
driveway at the North quite the acme of refined tree elegance, all the
summer and fall. It takes on a rather narrow, pyramidal head, broadening
as it ages, but never betraying kin with its fellow of the swamp, save
perhaps when winter has bared its peculiar winged and strangely "corky"
branches.
[Illustration: The star-shaped leaves and curious fruits of the
liquidambar, late in the summer.]