lies the broad region of prairies and plains. Though trees are found
for the greater part only along the banks of streams, this region has
a curious interest for the forester. It is believed by many that this
wide country, now waving in grain and grass and covered with extensive
farms, was at one time enriched with scattered forests; but that
these have disappeared under the ravages of repeated fires, kindled,
it is supposed, chiefly by the Indians. At present our own race is
perseveringly reclothing these prairie lands with groves and avenues
of trees, and is planting belts of them about farms and orchards for
protection from hot or frosty winds. Thus the fringed borders of the
streams are widening. The outcome of this activity is a development
that stands in marked contrast with the hurried consumption of our
other forests.
Then, lastly, there lies beyond this region the vast territory of
the Rockies and the ranges of the Pacific coast. Extending over so
great a part of our country, the forests of this region exhibit many
transitions that reveal the intimate relations between trees and
their natural environment; yet here we cannot but notice the enormous
preponderance of the coniferous over the broadleaf trees. Indeed, it
amounts almost to an exclusion of the latter; for, while some of the
poplars and willows and several species of oaks and a few maples are
indigenous to this part of the country, the last two in particular to
portions of California, other broadleaf trees are mere stragglers in
the land.
The forests of the West retain much more of the flavor of wildness
than do those of the East, though they likewise show many evidences
of the hand of man. It is true that paths and roads lead from many
familiar resorts into these mountain forests, that there are signs
of the lumber industry and of fires, and that there are large barren
areas where sheep have been continuously driven for pasture. Extensive
as this interference with original conditions has been, however, the
changed aspect of the forest has not always remained permanent, because
nature, where it is possible, comes back patiently to restore life and
beauty to the wasted places. Over lofty ranges and in inaccessible
places we may still find the original forest bequeathed to us from
early days; but not in such places only: for if we look closely we
shall also recognize the old character and expression in the harvested
forests that have long since been deserted and forgotten and at last
returned, like lost children, to the fostering care of their mother.
The forests of the West may be fitly separated into two parts. The
greater part embraces the Rocky Mountain ranges, while the other
extends from the crests of the Sierra Nevada to the sea. In the former
the forests are sometimes open in character and separated by parks or
grassy plains, or they constitute a scattered tree growth on the high
altitudes of the rougher ridges. This open character is sometimes due
to devastation by fires, but generally it is the result of climatic
conditions. And yet there are wide tracts and spaces within this
region that bear dense forests, notwithstanding the barren soil and
the austere climate; forests that have been but little or in no wise
disturbed, and whose expression differs in an unmistakable manner from
the opener growth of the broadleaf forests of the East.
Denser than these and more awe-inspiring are the forests of the States
bordering the Pacific. Here the moisture from the sea, an equable
climate, and a generous soil, have produced the tall and somber red
firs, the stately hemlocks and cedars, the redwoods of the coast, and
the consummate beauty and magnificence of those opener groves of big
trees, sugar pines, and bull pines, that have always commanded the
admiration and wonder of visitors to that region.
IV
CHARACTER OF THE BROADLEAF FORESTS
If the individual trees of the two main groups that were described in
the opening chapter impress us differently as they belong to the one
or the other, it will be found that the two kinds of forests likewise
convey distinct impressions. Different in aspect, they are also
distinguished one from the other by the different atmosphere or spirit
that pervades them. Taking leave here of the trees as individuals, I
shall now examine the characteristics of woodland scenery.
It has been said that the broadleaf trees grow naturally over a wide
extent of territory. Of the unbroken wildernesses that covered the
eastern parts of our country when it began to be colonized, only
fragments remain. A few States are still densely wooded, but in these
the forces which have caused the disappearance of similar forests in
other regions have now begun to assert themselves. Some will yield to
their old enemy, the ravaging fire that could so often be prevented;
others must ultimately recede to make way for agriculture; many will be
removed more rapidly for the sake of their material. It is confidently
to be expected, however, in view of the widening influence forestry is
exerting, that where it is desirable a provision will be made for a
future growth to replace the present one.
Of the broadleaf forests there are many types. There are forests of oak
and chestnut, of maple and beech; dry upland forests, and the tangled
woods of the swamps. There are young thickets of birch and aspen, of
willow and alder, and scrubby oak barrens. There are second-growth
forests, and now and then even a patch of fine old virgin timber. In
size, also, there is a great difference, from the grove that covers the
hilltop to the unbroken forest that stretches over an entire mountain
range.
It appears, therefore, that _variety_ is one of the marked
characteristics of our eastern woods. As several hundred different
kinds of trees enter into their composition under every form and
modification of circumstance, we find in these woods an endless novelty
and perennial freshness. The young swamp growth of red maple, white
birch, and alder, bedded in grass and wild flowers, is very different
from the dense young forest of birch and aspen of the northern woods
that, under the influence of ample light, has sprung into being after
some recent fire, the signs of which are still visible in the charred
stumps under the young trees. The open groves of old oak and chestnut
on the hill, with the slanting light of autumn and deep beds of dry,
rustling leaves, are likewise different from the secluded forest in
unfrequented mountains, where young and old growth mingle together:
crooked ashes and moss-covered elms with straight young hickories,
with shrubs and vines, and little seedlings sprouting among the rocks
and mosses.
If we were to proceed in a continuous journey from the staid forests of
the North to the more diversified growth of the intermediate States,
and, going on, were to visit the complex forests of the South, we
should notice only a very gradual transition. Yet if we were to study
any particular region within these larger areas it would be found to
have certain definite characteristics.
Let us imagine ourselves standing, for instance, on some point of
vantage in the Blue Ridge of Virginia, the season being early May. The
view extends across ranges of low, rounded mountains, which are fresh
with the new foliage of spring. On the nearest hills the individual
trees and their combinations into groups can be distinguished; but
receding into the valleys and more distant slopes the forms and colors
grow less distinct, till the tone becomes darker and at last melts
into the familiar hazy blue of the distant hills. Looking again at
the nearer hillsides, we recognize the tulip trees with their shapely
crowns, clothed in a soft green and lifted somewhat above the general
outline. The light green of the opening elms and sweet gums can be
very well distinguished beyond the more shadowy beeches, ashes, and
maples. The remaining spaces are occupied by hickories and chestnuts,
still brown and leafless, and by rusty-hued oaks, which are only just
beginning to break their buds. Within the leafless portions of the
wood an occasional dash of bright yellow or creamy white, not quite
concealed, shows where the sassafras or dogwood is in bloom. The crests
and ridges, however, are likely to be occupied by groups and bands
of pines, while the sides of the mountain brook will be studded with
cedars and hemlocks.
In such scenery, if it be natural, there is no vulgarity and no
faultiness of design. With all the variety there is still a fitness
in form, color, and expression. It is rough, but pure in taste. For
instance, the pine groves on the mountain ridges are not sharply
defined in their margins and thus separated from the rest of the
forest, but they gradually merge with the neighboring trees in a way
that was naturally foreshadowed in the conformation of the land and the
composition of the soil.
A feature so natural and self-evident may hardly appear worthy of
notice; but its value is appreciated as soon as we compare the outlines
referred to with the rigid forms of some of the artificial forests of
Europe. Those who have seen the checkered forests of Germany, where the
design of the planted strip of trees, like a patch upon the mountain,
is unmistakable, will readily note the contrast between the natural and
the artificial type. Neither is there any striving for effect in the
natural forest, an error not uncommon in the tree groupings of parks or
private estates. In these an effort is sometimes made to produce an
impression by contrasts in form and color, but too often the outcome is
mere conspicuousness; while nature, in some subtle way, has touched the
true chord.
Forest scenery, however, need not be as extensive as this in order to
add appreciably to the beauty of landscape. In the valley of southern
Virginia, among the peach orchards and sheep farms, low hills lie
scattered on both sides of the valley road. The mountain ranges beyond
them recede to a great distance, and are partly hidden from view by
these intervening hills. The latter, however, are decked with bits
of woodland: groves of oak, chestnut, and beech, where the horseman
on sunny summer days finds a welcome coolness and shade. Would these
sylvan spots be missed if they were to be removed? They now exercise
a beneficial influence on the drainage and moisture conditions of the
surrounding farmlands, and they supply some of the home wants of the
farmers. But they have an esthetic value also. They are usually in neat
and healthy condition, and, viewed either from within or without, they
are balm to the eyes as they lie scattered promiscuously over the hills.
It is hardly two hundred miles by road from that region to the high
mountains of the North Carolina and Tennessee border, where we find
broadleaf forests of the wildest and roughest kind. These happily still
possess the great charm of undisturbed nature. The small mountain towns
lie scattered far apart. The region is even bleak and dreary—at least
until the summer comes; but when everything turns green the season
is glorious. As we ride through these woods we realize the majesty
of their stillness and strength, and cannot help admiring the great
oaks and chestnuts that contend for the ground, succumbing only after
centuries in the strife.
While the broadleaf forests of western North Carolina and eastern
Tennessee are characterized principally by grandeur, this is not
commonly a pronounced trait of the leafy forests. Rather are they
distinguished for a certain air of cheerfulness, the expression of
which will vary in different localities; but in some way it will
manifest itself almost everywhere. Thus, in the southern half of New
England woodland scenery is marked by a peculiar expression of quiet
gladness. Whether it be in small farm woods among low hills, or in
continuous forest, as in the Berkshires, there is the same happy choice
in bright and cheerful trees: maples, birches, elms, and others; some
bright with early spring blossoms, some adding to the variety of color
by their bark or shining leaves, others agile of leaf and bough in the
frequent breezes. Here we find an abundance of oaks, trees whose fresh,
glossy leaves seem to be specially well fitted to purify the air, for
there is a distinct and refreshing odor in oak forests. We find an
ample choice of tender, springy plants among the moist rocks. These
smaller woods, too, are the favored haunts of the songbirds, for here
they find the glint of sunshine that they so much delight in.
A similar warmth of expression belongs to the leafy woods of other
regions. If we compare New England with Pennsylvania, we shall
find that the broadleaf forests of the latter are denser and more
continuous, while they are at the same time richer in the variety of
trees, shrubs, and other forms of embellishment, which find here a
milder air and a richer soil. Springtime is more luxuriant and replete
with happy surprise and change. But while these forests are perhaps
more elaborate than those of southern New England, I cannot say that
they impress me as being so homelike and engaging.
Along the Gulf and in Florida the dank forests of the swamps and
river bottoms, finding all the conditions favorable to a luxuriant
vegetation, are characterized by extraordinary complexity of growth.
Perhaps we enter some secluded patch of virgin forest, and sit down for
a while in its dense shade, impressed by the strangeness and solitude
of the place. Our curiosity is aroused by the multifarious assemblage
of trees, vines, and shrubbery, and we wonder how many ages it has
been thus, and how far back some of the oldest trees may date in their
history. But they seem rather to have no age at all; only to be linked
in some mysterious way with the dim past out of which they have arisen.
[Illustration: Virgin Forest Scene in Florida]
A mighty live oak leans across the scene, moist and green with
moss; another is noticed farther away among slender palmettos, whose
spear-edged leaves catch the sunlight. Vines and climbers hang about
the stems or droop lazily from the boughs. In the nearby sluggish
water, where the soil is deep and moldy, stands a sweet gum with
curiously chiseled bark, as if some patient artist had been at work;
and a little beyond, some cypresses are roofed by the delicate web of
their own foliage.
We may sit dreaming away a full hour thus, with only the hum of a few
insects and perhaps a stray scarlet tanager flitting by to disturb our
meditations.
It has been indicated in a former chapter that the broadleaf woods,
taken as a whole, are decidedly richer in shrubs and small plants than
the evergreen or coniferous forests. This adventitious source of beauty
has much to do with their general character, because the gay show of
blossom and fruit, bright stem, and diverse habits of growth of these
lesser plants, contributes appreciably to the liveliness of sylvan
scenery. But the effect derived from the blossoms and fruits of many
of the trees themselves should not be overlooked. In this respect the
broadleaf trees are superior to the evergreens. The poplars and willows
ripen their woolly and silvery tassels when the snow has scarcely
disappeared. The bright tufts of the red maple, the little yellow
flowers of the sassafras, the snowy white ones of the serviceberry
and flowering dogwood, the latter’s red berries in fall, the brilliant
fruit of the mountain ash, the perfect flowers of the magnolias, the
heavily clustered locusts, honey locusts, and black cherries, and the
basswoods with fragrant little creamy flowers, alike do their part in
lending character to the forest wherever they may have their range.
Then, in addition to the beauty that appeals to us through the outward
senses, there is a quality in the forests that is dear to us through
an inward sense. It is the influence of a temperament that seems to
belong to the place itself: the pure and health-giving atmosphere, the
quiet and rest that binds up the wounded spirit and brings peace to the
troubled mind.
We leave the turmoil of the city and the thousand little cares of daily
life and seek refuge for a while in sylvan retreats, in some pleasant
leafy forest with murmuring water and sunbeams; and presently the
ruffled concerns of yesterday are smoothed away and the forest, like
sleep, “knits up the raveled sleeve of care.”
In the woods there is harmony in all things; all things are
subordinated to one purpose and desire: that the best may be made out
of life, however small the means. There is a kind of honesty and truth
here, and a self-sufficiency in everything. Shakspere says, in the
words of Duke Senior, who stands surrounded by his followers in the
Forest of Arden (“As You Like it,” act ii, scene 1):—
Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference; as, the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,
“This is no flattery: these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.”
* * * * *
And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.
V
THE CONIFEROUS FORESTS
It has already been said (page 31) that the evergreen or coniferous
forests differ from those described in the foregoing chapter by
a denser community of growth and by their frequent occurrence as
“pure” forests. Their gregariousness makes it proper to apply such
expressions as the “pine forests of Michigan” and the “spruce forests
of Maine.” It will be seen presently that these special characteristics
are esthetically important. Moreover, it is a fact that they borrow
much grandeur and beauty from the atmospheric conditions of their
environment, which, if we except certain large tracts of pine forests,
is commonly placed among mountains and at considerable elevations
above the sea. To these several sources must be ascribed many of the
qualities that have invested the evergreen forests with a peculiar
magnificence and beauty.
[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
A Group of Conifers. Montana]
The reader may be surprised at the statement that coniferous forests
are distinguished for a “dense community of growth,” for it must have
been noticed that many of our Rocky Mountain forests do not bear
evidence of this fact. And yet it is true that the typical habit, so to
speak, of the conifers is a close huddling together of individuals. It
is shown in the massive red fir forests of western Washington and the
redwoods of California, which are probably the densest and heaviest in
the world; in the crowded Engelmann spruce and alpine fir groves common
to certain soils and situations in Colorado; and in the dense tracts
of lodgepole pine scattered throughout the mountains of the West. In
the East the same tendency is illustrated by the better sections of the
Adirondack spruce forests and the splendid pineries that once covered
the Great Lake region. If we call to mind these extensive examples, we
realize how the conifers ever strive to build a dense and impenetrable
forest. That they are capable of a like growth in other parts of the
world also, will be attested by those who have seen the spruce and fir
forests of Germany and France.
While the regions that have just been mentioned exhibit the health
and vigor of coniferous forests under favorable natural conditions,
there are certain portions of the Rocky Mountains where the climate is
too dry and the topography and soil are too austere and rocky to suit
even that hardy class of trees. So here, under circumstances that may
almost be pronounced abnormal for forest growth, the evergreens fight
a harder battle, while the broadleaf trees, with the exception of the
poplar tribe, are scarce indeed. We must, therefore, turn to the more
typical coniferous forests that have enjoyed at least a fair share of
nature’s gifts—whether it be within the range of the Rocky Mountains or
elsewhere—to understand those peculiar qualities that are connected
with their surroundings or their characteristic habits of growth.
One of the commonest attributes of such forests is their grandeur;
partly inherent and in part also derived from the sublimity of their
surroundings. Their situation is often in the midst of wild and
picturesque mountain scenery, where they find a proper setting for
their own majestic forms among crags and precipices and on the great
shoulders of mountains; where powerful winds and severe snows test
their endurance and strength. It is here that we chiefly find those
awe-inspiring distant views that harmonize so well with the evergreen
forests. The trees spread over the mountains for miles and miles in
closely fledged masses, and become more impressive with distance as
the color changes from a continuity of dark green to shades of blue and
soft, distant purple. In form and color the trees blend together and
seem to move up the dangerous slopes and difficult passes in mighty
multitudes.
[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
Mount Rainier. Washington]
Contributing to the same impression of grandeur, we have the
possibility in these lofty regions of certain glorious effects in
sunlight and shade. At sunrise the first rays flash on the pointed
tops of the uppermost trees, and with the advancing hours descend the
dark slopes on their golden errand. Meanwhile the western sides lie in
shadow. At noon a soft haze spreads through the valleys, and in the
twilight hours the intense depth of purple in the distant ranges, where
stratus clouds catch the last rays of the sun, obscures the contours
of the forests and makes them even more sublime. This, too, were not
possible without great mass and uniformity of aspect.
The interchange between lights and shadows cast by the moving clouds is
nowhere so effectively exhibited as in higher altitudes and over the
surfaces of evergreen forests. A wide expanse enables us to follow with
our eyes the interesting chase of the cloud shadows, as they fly up the
slopes, the steeper the faster, and glide noiselessly but swiftly over
outstretched areas of endless green. The clouds seem to move faster
over mountain ranges, as a rule, than they do over the low valleys. Or
is it only because now we see them nearer by and can gage the rapidity
of their flight?
Suppose, instead of a restless day, it should be calm, with cloud
masses heaped in the sky and the sun sinking low. There has been a
loose snowfall in the afternoon, and every twig, branch, and spray
hangs muffled in snow. The rocks are capped with a light cover and
ribbed with snowy lines along their sides. The air is pure and
breathless. The disappearing sun sends back a rosy light to the canopy
of clouds overhead, and the reflection falls upon masses of frosted,
whitened evergreens, lending them a breath of color that deepens as the
sun sinks lower still; and the rays enter the openings of the hills and
flood the opposite slopes, till they glow with a fiery red.
Thus the grandeur of these forests may be due to expanse and volume,
depth of color, sunlight and shade, or to effects borrowed from the
clouds. Finally, we notice another kind of grandeur when coniferous
forests are visited by storms. First comes the moaning of the wind,
mysterious and unsearchable, and different from the roar and rush
that sweeps through the broadleaf woods. Then follows the uneasy
communication from tree to tree, a trembling that spreads from section
to section. When the rush of the wind finally strikes the tall,
straight forms they do not sway their arms about as wildly as do the
maples, elms, or tulip trees, but bend and sway throughout their length
and rock majestically.
[Illustration: A Thicket of White Firs]