Observing an old branchless trunk of the largest size, in a striking
position, where it looked like a broken column, we walked up to
examine it. The shaft rose, without a curve or a branch, to the height
of perhaps forty feet, where it had been abruptly shivered, probably
in some storm. The tree was a chestnut, and the bark of a clear,
unsullied gray; walking round it, we saw an opening near the ground,
and to our surprise found the trunk hollow, and entirely charred
within, black as a chimney, from the root to the point where it was
broken off. It frequently happens that fire steals into the heart of
an old tree, in this way, by some opening near the roots, and burns
away the inside, leaving merely a gray outer shell. One would not
expect the bark to be left in such cases, but the wood at the heart
seems to be more inflammable than the outer growth. Whatever be the
cause, such shafts are not uncommon about our hills, gray without,
charred within.
There is, indeed, much charred wood in our forests; fires which sweep
over the hills are of frequent occurrence here, and at times they do
much mischief. If the flames are once fairly kindled in dry weather,
they will spread in all directions as the wind varies, burning
sometimes for weeks together, until they have swept over miles of
woodland, withering the verdure, destroying the wood already cut, and
greatly injuring many trees which they do not consume. Several years
since, in the month of June, there was quite an extensive fire on
the eastern range of hills; it lasted for ten days or a fortnight,
spreading several miles in different directions. It was the first
important fire of the kind we had ever seen, and of course we
watched its progress with much interest; but the spectacle was a very
different one from what we had supposed. It was much less terrible
than the conflagration of buildings in a town; there was less of power
and fierce grandeur, and more of treacherous beauty about the flames
as they ran hither and thither along the mountain-side. The first
night after it broke out we looked on with admiration: one might have
thought it a general illumination of the forest, as the flames spread
in long winding lines, gaining upon the dark wood every moment, up
and down, and across the hill, collecting here and there with greater
brilliancy about some tall old tree, which they hung with fire like
a giant lustre. But the next day the sight was a sad one indeed: the
deceitful brilliancy of the flames no longer pleased the eye: wreaths
of dull smoke and hot vapors hung over the blighted trees, and
wherever the fire had wandered there the fresh June foliage was
utterly blasted. That night we could no longer take pleasure in the
spectacle; we could no longer fancy a joyous illumination. We seemed
rather to behold the winding coils of some fiery serpent gliding
farther and farther on its path of evil: a rattling, hissing sound
accompanying its movement, the young trees trembling and quivering
with agitation in the heated current which proclaimed its approach.
The fresh flowers were all blighted by its scorching breath, and with
its forked tongue it fed upon the pride of the forest, drying up the
life of great trees, and without waiting to consume them, hurrying
onward to blight other groves, leaving a blackened track of ruin
wherever it passed.
Some fifty years since a fire of this kind is said to have spread
until it inclosed within its lines the lake and the valley, as far as
one could see, surrounding the village with a network of flame, which
at night was quite appalling in its aspect. The danger, however, was
not so great as it appeared, as there was everywhere a cleared space
between the burning forest and the little town. At times, however,
very serious accidents result from these fires: within a few days we
have heard of a small village, in the northern part of the State,
in St. Lawrence county, entirely destroyed in this way, the flames
gaining so rapidly upon the poor people that they were obliged to
collect their families and cattle in boats and upon rafts, in the
nearest pools and streams.
Of course, more or less mischief is always done; the wood and timber
already cut are destroyed, fences are burnt, many trees are killed,
others are much injured, the foliage is more or less blighted for the
season; the young plants are killed, and the earth looks black and
gloomy. Upon the whole, however, it is surprising that no more harm is
done. On the occasion of the fire referred to in these woods, we found
the traces of the flames to disappear much sooner than we had supposed
possible. The next season the smaller plants were all replaced by
others; many of the younger trees seemed to revive, and a stranger
passing over the ground to-day would scarcely believe that fire had
been feeding on those woods for a fortnight only a few seasons back.
A group of tall, blasted hemlocks, on the verge of the wood, is the
striking monument of the event. The evergreens generally suffer more
than other trees, and for some cause or other the fire continued busy
at that point for several days. We repeatedly passed along the highway
at the time, with the flames at work on either side. Of course, there
was no danger, but it looked oddly to be quietly driving along through
the fire. The crackling of the flames was heard in the village, and
the smell of smoke was occasionally quite unpleasant.
A timely rain generally puts a stop to the mischief; but parties of
men are also sent out into the woods to "fight the fire." They tread
out the flames among the dry leaves by trampling them down, and they
rake away the combustible materials, to confine the enemy to its
old grounds, when it soon exhausts itself. The flames spread more
frequently along the earth, than from tree to tree.
* * * * *
[FROM HOUSEHOLD WORDS.]