_September 28th._
Looking out from my window upon the dark sides of the mountains, upon
the massive clouds, upon the wind-blown trees, I see my pet, the
birch, all in a shiver with each blast. The American white birch has
all the grace and delicacy of its European namesake, and, besides, a
sensibility which it borrows from the aspen, or shares with it.
One should have, on every side of a country house, a group of aspens
and birches. Planted together, they will give you motion in charming
variety. On other trees the leaves are so rigid in the stem, that a
wind strong enough to set them in full activity is strong enough to
set all the branches in motion. We recognize the force, and, in large
trees, the grandeur of motion. When a strong wind moves the whole
tree, it swings its great boughs hither and thither, all its leaves
and twigs utter their voices, which in chorus often rise to a roar.
Yet, though the whole tree is agitated, and seems convulsed, one sees
that it is only upon the exterior; while the top and sides are in full
motion, the trunk stands firm, and seems motionless. Not till its very
roots give way will it move, and then it does not bend, but goes down
with stiff trunk.
The elastic birch, with long and slender limbs, avoiding horizontal
positions and aiming at the zenith, flexible to the last degree, moves
in the wind with a grace and elasticity which has no parallel.
The American aspen has a shivering leaf upon a rigid branch. It stands
quite stiff and motionless in bough, while its leaves are quivering
and shivering in the most industrious manner. Right over against the
east door of the Twin Mountain House, New Hampshire, at a little
distance, is a group of aspens, which are my perpetual delight. They
are my wind-meters, or, rather, zephyr measurers. On a hot noon, when
no air seems stirring, and the trees about them doze and slumber, like
good men at church, these twinklers, like roguish boys, are dancing in
an imaginary breeze, and playing with themselves, without a particle
of wind, so far as I can perceive. Now a shiver runs over them from
head to foot; then the topmost leaves shake and swirl, while the
bottom rests. Gradually the motion dies away all over, and the frolic
ends. No, a single leaf begins to wag; it goes on in single
blessedness, with accelerated pace, up and down, round and round,
until, for the life of me, I cannot help bursting into a fit of
laughter at this solitary dance.
At times, in certain moods, one cannot help thinking that the aspen is
striving to communicate something. It seems so sigh and pant. It
supplicates as one that suffers. Then, changing suddenly, it coaxes
and winks and blinks at you as if it was only in fun. It will stand
perfectly still a minute as if looking to see what you will do, and
then a laughing ripple runs all over it. It frolics with the same
tireless grace as a kitten. Indeed, it is a kind of compound
kitten-tree, each particular leaf a kitten, all frolicking together;
though there is not one of them, if the rest won’t play, that is not
ready, kitten-like, as it were, to chase its own tail.
Why have landscape gardeners done so little with birches and aspens?
Maples, oaks, ashes, and evergreens are well; but in what other
direction shall we look for such grace in form, such susceptibility to
aerial influences, and such exquisite motion both of branch and leaf,
as we find in the aspen and birch? The birches grow rapidly, are
extremely hardy, and will flourish upon poor soil, though loving a
generous soil better. In ten years, with birch and aspen, one may
rejoice in a thick grove. If the yellow locust be added to these, and
the silver maple, one who plants at sixty may hope to see high over
his head a respectable young forest, dense enough for shade and high
enough to begin to comfort the imagination.
Long live the aspen and the birch! Only the young have just grounds
for prejudice; but even boys soon outgrow the birch, and watch its
sinewy motion without a thought of moving too, in shivering accord.