Chapter XII: Preface (5)

To a poetical mind there is no exercise more agreeable than that of tracing in the economy of Nature certain trains of causes and effects that seem to represent her as a kind benefactor, aiming to promote the happiness of all creatures. While we treat of the beauty of trees and of their capacity to afford shelter, shade, and salubrity, it is pleasant, while continuing our observations, to find no end to the advantages that flow from them. We have studied them as the beautifiers of landscape, as the sources of vitality and salubrity in the atmosphere, as our shade in summer and our shelter in winter; as the cause of equability, both of temperature and of moisture. We may also discover in them and their branches an infinite number of lightning-rods, presenting millions of points both for the discharge and the absorption of electricity. Trees differ from other plants in this respect only by presenting their points at a greater elevation, where they can act more immediately upon the clouds.

Trees, especially in dense assemblages, may therefore, in frequent instances, be the immediate occasion of showers, by conducting to the earth the electric fluid of the clouds, and inducing that non-electric state which precedes the discharge of rain. This seems to be effected by electric disorganization. An _organized_ cloud is an aggregation of vaporous particles, which are suspended in the atmosphere and held in a state of _union without contact_. Being in a similarly electrified condition, they are kept separate by that law of electricity which causes two pith-balls, suspended by threads, when similarly electrified, to repel each other at certain distances. All those clouds that show a definite and organized arrangement, and resemble feathers or lace, are charged with electricity. As they accumulate they lose their symmetrical arrangement, but do not mix, until some object, charged with opposite electricity, comes near them and draws from the mass its electric fluid, when the vaporous particles, losing their mutual repulsion, immediately coalesce and descend in rain.

To illustrate the action of trees in producing showers, we will suppose a dense electric cloud to be passing over a dry plain containing only a few trees. Not meeting with any conducting objects of appreciable force on its journey, it remains suspended in the heavens until it reaches either a large collection of water, or encounters a forest, over which, as over a lake, there rests always, in calm weather, a stratum of invisible moisture, which is a powerful conducting agent. The trees, with their numerous vegetable points, and the vapor that overspreads them, combine their force in drawing down the electric fluid from the cloud passing over, causing the whole mass to descend in showers. The damp stratum of air which, in still weather, rests upon the surface of every large sheet of water, being a powerful conductor, serves to explain a phenomenon often observed in a dry season near the coast. A dense electric cloud is seen to pass over our heads, without shedding a drop of rain, until it reaches the ocean, when the humid air above the waves, acting as a conductor, causes the cloud to part with its electric fluid and to fall in copious showers at the same moment.

Occasionally a similar cloud, after rising in the west about thirty degrees, will be turned from its direct course, and repelled by the dry, heated atmosphere resting on the plain, and, attracted by the invisible cloud of moisture that hovers over the river valley, is seen to take the course of the river in its journey toward the sea. Hence it is notorious that in a very dry time the rivers obtain more showers than the plains, and the wooded mountainous regions more than the open and level country. And we may regard it as a happy accident in the economy of nature, that trees should be the most serviceable in nearly all other respects, hardly less than as electric agents, upon those situations which are of the least value for the purposes of agriculture. Their branches on lofty ridges and elevations, extending near the level of the lower clouds, are like so many lightning-rods on the buildings of an elevated city, and exert a powerful influence in conducting the electric fluid from an overcharged atmospheric stratum, and preventing, in some degree, those accumulations that produce thunder-storms. Nature employs this grand vegetable apparatus as one of the means of preserving that equilibrium, both of moisture and electricity, which cannot be greatly disturbed without dangerous commotions.

I have said nothing of trees as a protection from lightning; but there are many curious facts and superstitions on record in relation to this point. “When a thunder-storm threatened,” as Suetonius relates, “Tiberius never failed to wear a crown of laurel-leaves, impressed with the belief that lightning never touched the leaves of this tree.” The general opinion that certain trees are exempt from the stroke of lightning is very ancient. It probably originated in some religious ideas of their sanctity, and men in more enlightened times have endeavored to explain it by philosophy, instead of rejecting it as fable. It was affirmed by Hugh Maxwell, an American writer, that lightning often strikes the elm, the chestnut, the oak, the pine, and less frequently the ash; but it always evades the beech, the birch, and the maple. Captain Dibdin remarks, in a letter to Alexander Wilson, that in the forests of Virginia the pines, though taller than the oaks, were less frequently injured by lightning, and considers them pretty secure when growing among oaks. These accounts by different writers are too various and contradictory to be of much value in aiding us to discover the truth. It is probable that the partial exemption of certain trees from the stroke of lightning, if any such accounts be true, depends on their size and shape. A tall tree in an assemblage would be more exposed than the others. It may also be supposed that if a tree has a regular ramification, smooth and straight branches and trunk, it is better formed for a conductor, and that it would be more liable to receive a charge of the fluid. But all these opinions are probably of the same character with those respecting the antipathy of serpents for certain trees,—traditionary notions which are hardly worthy of investigation. The opinion of the ancients concerning the immunity of the laurel was probably derived from their idea of its sanctity as the tree which was dedicated to Apollo. At the present day there exists in Italy a similar notion concerning the white grapevine. Some of the peasantry of that country are accustomed to twining its branches around the head and waist as a protection from a thunder-stroke.

Trees are generally believed to protect a house adjoining them from lightning; on the contrary, it is known that men and animals seeking refuge under a tree in an open plain are in greater danger than outside of it. The lightning is therefore probably conducted by the water passing down on the surface of the branches and trunk; for if the tree itself were the conductor, the lightning would pass through the trunk into the ground, and, like a lightning-rod, act as a protection to objects near, but not in contact with it. Dr. Franklin thought the safest place a few yards distant from a tree, and a little outside of its widest spread. It is unsafe to stand under the drip of a tree, which might convey to the person an electric charge. It was the opinion of M. Arago, that trees overtopping houses at small distances cannot be regarded as affording sure protection, like a properly adjusted lightning-rod; but he admitted that when a storm passes over a forest it is decidedly enfeebled. The forest certainly diminishes the power of a thunderbolt. The security derived from trees attaches principally to large assemblages. Though a house may receive but little protection from a few tall trees standing near it, it is not to be denied that a village or hamlet is rendered more secure by adjoining woods.

THE GROUND LAUREL.

There is only one Epigea in this country,—a very fragrant and beautiful species, creeping close to the ground, and bearing dense clusters of pearly flowers, edged with crimson. The flowers are not unlike those of some of the heaths, though of larger size. It grows abundantly in many parts of New England, particularly around Plymouth, and in various localities from Canada to Georgia. It is a creeping shrub, occupying dry knolls in swampy land, and growing along on the edges of the swamp upon the upland soil. The leaves are almost round, evergreen, light-colored and slightly russet, partially overlapping the dense clusters of flowers, that possess a great deal of beauty and emit an odor like that of hyacinths.

No plant has more celebrity among our people than the Ground Laurel, the earliest of all our wild flowers. I cannot consent to apply to it the common unmeaning name of “Mayflower,” thus associating it with the fetid Mayweed, and falsifying its character by an anachronism that assigns to the month of May a flower belonging to April. The name of Mayflower, as applied to the Epigea, means nothing except what is false. Almost all our early flowers belong especially to the month of May. This is distinguished from them by appearing almost alone in April. Its popular appellation is a plain misnomer; and as an apology for it, the name is said to have been given to it by the Pilgrims, in commemoration of the ship that brought them to this country. I cannot believe the Pilgrims ever took any notice of it. Mayflower is a name that originated with some ignorant people, who could not think of any better name than the one it bears in common with fifty other species.

THE BEARBERRY.

The Bearberry is a more common plant, and more elegant in its foliage, with less conspicuous flowers, than the ground laurel. This plant covers extensive tracts on the borders of woods and partially under their protection. The foliage, resembling that of the box, has always been admired, and nothing makes a neater or more beautiful covering of the turfs which it adorns. The Bearberry is a native of both continents. It abounds in light sandy soils, forming a frequent undergrowth of a pitch-pine wood. The berries are eaten by quails and robins in winter, when they can seldom find any animal food except a few dormant insects.

THE CHECKERBERRY.

The Checkerberry is peculiarly an American plant, well known by its pleasant aromatic flavor, its shining evergreen leaves, its delicate white flowers, and its scarlet berries. There are no wild fruits so attractive to young persons, from the time they begin to redden in the autumn, and all through the winter, when the ground is open, until they are seen hanging on the vine with the blossoms of spring. Indeed, this fruit is not perfected until it has remained on the bush during the winter. The severest cold has no effect upon it; and the berries increase in size, after the spring opens, until they become as large as strawberries.

This plant is very abundant in all woods in New England, and seems to be confined to no particular soil or situation. Indeed, I doubt whether another woody plant can be found so generally distributed throughout the New England forest. If it has any preferences, they seem to be the lower slopes of wooded hills and mountains. But I have seen it in all locations where it can enjoy the protection of trees, in evergreen as well as deciduous woods; for though the leaves of the pine prevent the growth of any considerable underwood, the Checkerberry is always abundant in the openings of a pine forest.

THE BEECH.

The Beech is a common tree in all our woods, where it is distinguished by the length and size of its smooth clean shaft, which is often perceptibly ribbed or fluted. In dense assemblages these columns, rising to the height of sixty or seventy feet, are very striking, and the more so when the land is covered entirely with Beech timber. The suckering habit of this tree and its vigorous constitution are the important cause of its predominance in any tract that is occupied by it, and the close matting of leaves that covers the ground under a beechen wood prevents any abundance of undergrowth. The same inconvenient habit is the cause of its rareness in dressed grounds. George Barnard says of the English Beech: “In no tree are the decaying hues of autumn more beautiful than in the Golden Beech, its foliage changing from green to the brightest orange, then to glowing red, and eventually to a russet brown, in which state the leaves remain on the tree through the winter.” The leaf of the American Beech, on the contrary, is remarkably dull in its autumnal tints. It turns to a rusty yellow in the autumn, gradually fades to a leather-color, and drops from the tree near midwinter.

The style and spray of the Beech, as observed in its denuded state, are worthy of particular study. The lower branches of the tree are generally very long and rather slender. They take an almost horizontal direction when they start from the tree, but soon make a curvature by turning regularly upwards, and causing a peculiar primness in their general appearance. Every small twig also turns upwards, pointed with elongated leaf-buds, resembling so many little spears. The terminal branches, forming the spray, are very numerous and slender, and remarkably beautiful. The Beech, when in full leaf, is seen to the best advantage where it skirts the edge of a wood, if it has grown up there since the original clearing. In that situation we perceive the elegant sweep of its branches, and the upright character of its leaves, each leaf pointing obliquely upwards in the direction of the spray, instead of hanging loosely in all ways, like the foliage of the large-leaved poplars. Deciduous trees have generally a drooping foliage, and the want of this habit in the Beech gives it a very lively appearance. The heaviness attributed by Gilpin to the English tree is not observed in the American Beech; on the contrary, it is remarkable for a certain airiness, seldom putting forth its branches in masses, but in such a manner that every spray may be traced by the long upright rows of leaves.

I should hesitate in saying that on cultivated ground, and as a standard, the Beech would display those qualities which are most admired. It is chiefly interesting by the woodside, or skirting the banks of a stream. The stiffness of its foliage renders it ungraceful as a solitary standard. It may be remarked, in its favor, that it differs so widely in its ramification from other deciduous trees as to add a pleasing variety to any miscellaneous assemblage of species. I can easily believe that it is not a favorite resort for birds; for its branches are too long and slender for their convenience, and its foliage too thin to give them a feeling of seclusion. If I were to plant a grove of beeches, I would select the crumbling banks of watercourses, where the trees would bind the fragile soil with their roots and cover the banks and the hillside with a beautiful wood and an agreeable shade.

The tendency of the Beech to produce mosses and lichens upon its trunk and branches has been observed by the earliest writers. It is also a matter of common observation among woodmen. No such growth, however, is seen upon beeches that stand alone or in an open grove. These parasites are generated by the dampness of a thick forest; and they attach themselves equally to the bark of other trees in the same damp situations, but cannot adhere to it if it be rough or scaly. The smooth bark of the Beech, and of the red maple while it is young, permits such plants to foster themselves upon it, and adhere to it without disturbance.

THE RUSTIC LANE AND WOODSIDE.

Nature is greatly indebted to Art for many of her attractions, if it has not been exercised for the purpose which is effected by it. We see this not only in wood-paths, which all will agree are the most delightful parts of a wood, but in many other operations of a rude agriculture, more especially in the rustic lane. It is no matter whether the lane be bordered by trees and shrubbery, or only by a plain wooden fence or loose stone-wall, provided for several seasons it has been entirely neglected. It must have been long enough under nature’s spontaneous action to restore that condition of the turf that precedes cultivation, to green the borders with ferns and mosses, and to gem their velvety heaps with anemones and violets. The nice trimming and weeding which are generally apparent in all the paths and avenues of a country-seat or a model farm deprive them of the attractions of the rustic lane. No matter how many flowers are cultivated in the borders of one of these trim avenues, it is, after all, only an exhibition of splendor and luxury. It delights the eye, but it cannot win the heart. It is only a conservatory of elegance; it is not a paradise.

If we follow the course of any rustic lane which has not been improved, bounded by a rude fence of any kind which will form a support for the plants that come up beneath it, we see the climbing and creeping plants in their unrestrained freedom and beauty. If in the course of our walk we meet with a rude shed or any building old enough to be overgrown with mosses and incrusted with lichens, its walls are sure to be covered either with the climbing sumach or the Virginia creeper; for these plants seem designed by nature as the native embroidery of all neglected places and buildings. On many accounts, the most interesting plants are the climbers and creepers. Whether it be that we associate them with the idea of dependence on their part and of protection on the part of the tree of other object that supports them, or whether their ascent may suggest the idea of motion and progression, causing them to resemble a living creature, they never fail to interest the spectator, and to fill his mind with many poetic images.

The Virginia creeper possesses all the advantages of the English ivy, save that it is not an evergreen. But its deciduous character is not to be regarded as a defect, since if it were an evergreen it would want its annual attractions of scarlet and crimson that distinguish it in autumn. In this particular it is not surpassed by any production of the American forest, except the red maple. These colors render it very conspicuous in October, when it surrounds the trunks and branches of some of the tallest trees with its garlands of crimson, hiding them under its own splendid frondage. There is not a rustic lane where it is not seen creeping over the fences and mixing its glowing tints with other wayside plants. It is particularly luxuriant by the woodside; for though it is common in the deep forest it grows feebly and is deficient in leaves until it gains the summits of the trees. It needs the broad eye of day, and prospers only upon trees that stand outside of a wood. No other climbing plant is so generally used in New England as a drapery for houses and fences, taking the place occupied in Europe by the ivy. Many old houses are covered by it, and many an old stone-wall is completely enveloped in its foliage.

The poison ivy, or climbing sumach, is the only rival of the Virginia creeper in our woods. It is even more common in open fields, and though less luxuriant, surpasses it in the beauty of its leaf. It is a very pertinacious parasite, adhering very closely to the object that supports it, with its innumerable rootlets, but sustaining life only by communication with the soil. The growth of this plant is discouraged on account of the liability of many persons to be injuriously affected by its poisonous properties. Those who are not familiar with wild plants are generally unable to distinguish the poison ivy from the Virginia creeper. Their general appearance and habits are nearly the same, but their leaves furnish a sure mark of distinction. They are compound in each; but those of the Virginia creeper are in fives, those of the poison ivy in threes, without exception.

As we pass along the rustic lane, where it is involved in deep shadow by a dense growth of shrubbery and vines we see the woody nightshade adorning the mass with its singular halberd-shaped leaves, its dark blue flowers with a golden centre, and its pendent clusters of scarlet fruit. I know but few plants of which so little has been said that possess a greater share of beauty. There is a common prejudice against the woody nightshade, from its supposed poisonous qualities, and from our habit of identifying it with the deadly nightshade of Europe. If our plant has some poisonous qualities, they are not of a dangerous character. All parts of it may be bruised and handled with impunity, and its berries are so nauseous to the taste and smell that they are not liable to be eaten.

In the wild hedge-rows that skirt our fields and farms, made up of viburnum, elder, cornel, hazel, and wild rose-bushes, the woody nightshade, in company with the glycine, contributes greatly to the interest attached to these flowering thickets. What excites my surprise is that so few persons praise this modest little climber. How would its varied foliage, interwoven with that of more luxuriant plants, the deep but contrasted colors of its flowers and fruit, and its constant presence in the borders of all wet fallows, attract the admiration of a painter who, imbued with a love of nature equal to his love of art, should attempt to paint a New England stone-wall with its many native accompaniments!

A more conspicuous climber, and more common by the woodside than by the rustic lane, is the bitter-sweet. It is seen climbing over trees, not attaching itself by rootlets or tendrils, but twining round its supporter, like the morning-glory. It is often fifteen or twenty feet in height, covering some unfortunate tree with its own dense foliage, and finally causing it to perish by excluding light and air from it. This plant is well known to simplers, who have named it bitter-sweet, from the mingled sweet and bitter of the scarlet and orange-colored berries which they collect for medical use. I cannot learn that they contain any medicinal virtue; but it is well understood, in these days, that the possession of decided efficiency renders any medical substance unpopular. All popular remedies are physic only to the faith; hence the incomparable virtues of saffron and elder-flowers, whiteweed and everlasting!

We are prone, when thinking of plants merely as ornaments of nature, to forget that the fruit-bearing shrubs and vines have in general anything to recommend them except their fruit. It will be admitted that very many of these plants are deficient in beauty; yet I will confess that I have often admired the different species of bramble, which are so common in the rustic lane and woodside, trailing over fences and abrupt elevations, or hanging down from projecting cliffs, and exposing their clusters of red, black, and purple fruit. Our common species are not remarkable for elegance or beauty, but the country waysides would look bald and cheerless without the simple decoration afforded by these plants.

Among the trailing species of bramble, one of the most important as a natural ornament of lanes and field-borders, is the dewberry, or evergreen blackberry. It is very abundant on the edges of woods, where the trees are thin and scattered, and in pastures covered with low shrubs, where it may be recognized by its small, elegant, and shining leaves. These in protected situations remain green all winter, becoming slightly impurpled as spring advances. The dewberry covers with its close network of trailing branches the virgin turf which has been left undisturbed in the borders of lanes and wood-paths. When the soil has been repeatedly turned by the plough, this little inhabitant of the primitive sods gives place to a larger species, that trails in a similar manner upon the ground, and bears an excellent fruit.

The only native species of bramble which is admired for the beauty of its flowers, but not so common in fields and lanes as in old gardens, is the flowering raspberry. It is so called from the size of its large crimson flowers with a yellow disk, resembling a dark red single rose. The leaves of this species are not pinnate, like the leaves of other species of bramble, but palmate, resembling the leaf of the striped maple. We sometimes find it in a shady nook, concealing itself under a stone-wall, and seldom in company with other shrubs. The delicacy of its habit unfits it to contend with its more hardy congeners, and it is soon driven away from its retreat by the ingress of other species.

I have not yet spoken of the grapevine, which, if not very ornamental in gardens, where its beauty is marred by excessive pruning, cannot be surpassed in a certain kind of suggestive or relative beauty. Hence the pleasure it affords us when we see it on the borders of woods, hanging its purple clusters of fruit over some placid stream from the summit of an alder, or hiding the rudeness of a neglected building with its broad foliage. There is hardly an old road or rustic byway in the interior of the country which is not festooned by wild grapevines, and some of the most delightful arbors on old country roadsides are formed by these vines, trellised upon an ancient apple-tree or drooping birch.

When a green by-road passes over a wet meadow and crosses a brook under a natural arch formed by overhanging alders fastened together by creeping vines, the shade afforded by this arbor is greatly heightened by a twining canopy of clematis, or virgin’s bower, climbing over the trees and shrubs, always keeping on the outer surface, and supporting itself by tendrils. We often pass through copses of shrubbery completely overspread by this vine, rendered conspicuous when in fruit by multitudes of little silken and feathery tufts, which are far more beautiful than its flowers. There is not much beauty in this plant, and I attribute the interest attached to it chiefly to its poetical name and the romantic history of the European virgin’s bower.

THE CHESTNUT.

Many admirers of trees place the Chestnut before the oak because it is a taller tree with a proportional spread and denser foliage. A remarkable peculiarity in the style of its foliage is its radiated tufts, giving it a similar appearance to that which is so apparent in the horse-chestnut. But we observe an important difference between the two,—while the radiated tufts of the horse-chestnut are distinctly separated by spaces, those of the Chestnut seem to be involved in a general and more indistinct mass of foliage. A notion prevails in some parts of Europe, that this tree should not be planted near dwelling-houses, “because the flowers emit a powerful and disagreeable odor, which is offensive to most people.” I have not observed any such odor from the American Chestnut.

In general form and proportions there seems to be no specific difference between the English and the American chestnuts. On this continent it is a majestic tree, remarkable for the breadth and depth of its shade; but it is seldom cultivated by roadsides. It displays many of the superficial characters of the red oak, so that in winter we cannot readily distinguish them. The foliage bears some resemblance to that of the beech, but displays more variety. The leaves are long, lengthened to a tapering point, and of a bright and nearly pure green. Though arranged alternately, like those of the beech, on the recent branches, they are clustered in stars, containing from five to seven leaves, on the fruitful branches, that grow out from the perfected wood. When the tree is viewed from a moderate distance, the whole mass seems to consist of tufts, each containing several long pointed leaves, drooping divergently from a common centre. From this centre the aments of the male flowers come out in a similar way; and their bright silvery green, glistening upon a mass of darker foliage, always attracts attention at the time of flowering.

The Chestnut is ranked among the largest of our forest trees, sometimes in favorable situations attaining a height of nearly eighty feet. When growing isolated on a plain, its diameter is sometimes equal to its height. The Chestnut has a rather loose ramification, being in this respect inferior to the red oak, which it resembles. Its larger branches are numerous, but the spray is coarse, the terminal branches being fewer and more straggling than those of the oak. This tree is therefore not comparable in beauty with the oak when divested of its leaves. The Chestnut is a classical tree, being mentioned very frequently in the works of the Greek and Roman poets, who were familiar with it.

THE HICKORY.

The Hickory, including several species, is very generally distributed over this continent, but is found in no other part of the world. It is distinguished from the walnut by its foliage and general habit of growth, by the smaller number of leaflets on the leaf-stem, and by their darker color and firmer texture. The aments of the Hickory are in threes, and the outer shell of the fruit opens at four angles when it is ripe; the aments of the walnut are single, and the outer shell of the nut is undivided. The two trees differ also in their general appearance. The Hickory rises to a greater proportional height, with less length and spread of the branches, the lower ones being higher from the root of the tree and smaller than those of the walnut. Many of the trees are flattened at the top, and take a cylindrical form, when they approach to any regularity; but their outlines are more frequently irregular, displaying frequent gaps, and presenting several distinct masses of foliage.

The Hickory, therefore, when full-grown, has seldom much elegance, and little of the beauty of grace and symmetry. Its picturesque qualities are its sturdy habit, its great height, its dense and dark green foliage, its approach to a cylindrical shape, and its general eccentricity of growth. I have never seen a Hickory with long spreading branches like those of the butternut, nor with neat and prim foliage like that of the ash. The different species are so common in all the southern parts of New England as to form a notable arboreal feature of our landscape. In Massachusetts we see them following the lines of the old stone-walls, having come up from nuts planted by squirrels on the strip of land around the borders of the fields. We are indebted to this fortunate circumstance for thousands of beautiful and valuable trees, which, but for this narrow border of neglected land, would not have been allowed to “cumber the ground.” The trees that originated in these borders had ample room to expand, assume their normal shape, and acquire their full dimensions; and as we see them running upwards with but little width, we may consider this to be their natural style of growth.

Hickories are abundant on fertile slopes, near brooksides, and on rocky hills that abound in clay and yellow loam. They do not prosper on light, sandy soils, and are not found in bogs. They are even a better indication of a fertile soil than the oak. The shellbark alone drops its leaves before they are tinted in the autumn. The most remarkable species in New England are the shellbark, the fignut, the white hickory, and the bitternut. These four have nearly the same outward characters. They are, indeed, so much alike that the shellbark alone is readily distinguished by the exfoliation of the outer rind of its bark as soon as it has come to fruit-bearing. The bark of the other three species is channelled or furrowed, like that of the ash. The fruit of the fignut is fig-shaped; and as the epithet _ficiformis_ was very early applied to this species, it is evident that the vulgar name of pignut is a corruption of the true name, which ought to be restored.

Had the old painters been acquainted with the Hickory, they would have admired it beyond most other trees. The peculiarities of its shape are remarkable. The breaks in its foliage cause that variety and irregularity of outline which are generally regarded as picturesque qualities. I see, while I am writing, directly before my window, a tall Hickory, standing on an elevation that makes the sky its only background. It is tall and narrow in its shape, and its head is divided into five distinct masses of foliage, separated by a considerable opening. Two of these masses are on the right, and three on the left, the highest making a flattened top, projecting over the right side, and hanging down in a large flowing mass. Yet this tree is perfectly normal in its proportions, for I can discover no marks of mutilation in any part of it.

The spray of the Hickory, like other trees with pinnate leaves that bear a large seed, is coarse; but its alternate branching gives it variety, and takes away some of that heaviness so disagreeable in the spray of the ash. All its branches are liable to be twisted, because they cannot be broken by the wind, and these contortions often extend throughout the ramification of the tree. It puts them forth from a central shaft, that usually extends to the summit of the tree, and, being small, they are often bent down very considerably by the weight of their fruit. The geographical bounds of the Hickory are the southern parts of New Hampshire on the north, Tennessee and North Carolina on the south, and the shores of Lake Erie on the west. The wood of the Hickory is exceedingly hard, heavy, and tough, and is in America the symbol of courage and firmness.

RELATIONS OF TREES TO TEMPERATURE.

Not long since, in one of my rambles in Essex County, Massachusetts, which is one of the most open and cultivated sections of the country, I entered a little valley near the sea, comprising about fifty acres of well-cultivated land, surrounded by a sort of amphitheatre of hills, which were covered with a dense forest of pines and firs. It was occupied by an intelligent farmer, whose careful observation had taken note of many things which are overlooked by the generality of his class. He remarked that his seed-time and harvest were several days earlier than on the farms in the open country, and that he had crocuses and tulips in his garden, on the south side of the surrounding wood, so early as to astonish his neighbors in the outer world. In regard to the relative temperature of the woods and of the open plain in summer, he remarked that it varied according to the time of day or night. The woods were cooler than the open country, in clear, calm weather, from about nine o’clock in the morning until near noonday; after this time the heat in them increased more rapidly than in the open country, and at the time of dew-fall it was greater in the woods, and continued so during the early part of the night. If the sky were cloudy, not much difference could be perceived at any hour in the temperature of the two situations. In cold and windy weather the woods afforded a comfortable shelter, and this shelter made them apparently warmer, even when the thermometer would indicate no difference.

The theory of my rustic friend contains the general results of all that science has yet discovered in relation to the temperature of woods. But the effects of clearing the forest are so different in different situations as to have given origin to a multitude of theories. This diversity of opinion, however, comes from a partial observation of facts, without their qualifying circumstances. On a hot summer’s day we sprinkle our floors with water, for the purpose of cooling the air of the room. But how can it produce this effect, when by evaporation it carries heat from the floor into the very air that is cooled by it? The fact is easily explained. The greater coolness felt when the air of the room is saturated with the moisture evaporated from the sprinkled floor might not be exactly indicated by the thermometer. The sensation of coolness is caused by the increased power of the air to conduct the heat rapidly from our persons,—the effect of its greater humidity. By the same law we may explain why, after a few clear cold days in the winter, if a south-wind arises, we feel as if the cold were greater, because this wind, while it raises the temperature, charges the air with invisible moisture.

The coldness of the atmosphere over grassy meadows when the sky is clear, after the decline of the sun in summer, is a matter of common observation. As this phenomenon is most evident on the clearest nights, it has given rise to the notion that the moon cools the night air. In our rambles after sunset, we have all felt these constant changes of temperature, which are remarkable when walking over an uneven road, the degree of heat corresponding nearly with our altitude. When we occupy high ground, the air is warm and dry; as soon as we descend into a valley, we feel a sudden chill. These differences are not observed on a cloudy night, or when a clear brisk wind is blowing. But in a calm state of the atmosphere, as the lowest stratum of air contains the greatest amount of moisture, its capacity for retaining heat is proportionally diminished. Consequently the heat from the ground is radiated with great rapidity through this damp stratum of air, while the higher strata remain unchanged in their temperature. Indeed, it has been found by experiment that while the greatest heat at noonday in calm summer weather is very near the surface of the ground, yet after dew-fall the highest temperature is several feet above this surface, increasing in altitude for some hours after sunset.

The action of a wood checks this radiation in the early part of the night. Like clouds in the evening, the trees form a canopy of foliage over the ground, and thereby retain the heat many hours after it has escaped by radiation in the open plain. According to these laws of the radiation of heat, a longer time would be required to cool a tract of forest than an equal area of open space, down to a given point. But, on the other hand, a proportionally longer time is required to raise the temperature in the woods to a given point. Hence it is still a question among meteorologists whether the mean annual temperature of a large tract of country is higher or lower when covered with forest than when generally open and cleared. The sun acts with greater force upon an open country; but the radiation of heat is greater in the same ratio during the sun’s absence.

In considering the effects of clearing, travellers have often overlooked the important advantages of protection afforded by woods to agricultural crops. Even if the mean annual temperature of a country be the same after it is cleared as when it was covered, it may at the same time be too cold for certain plants which were formerly its common productions, because there are no woods to protect them from the winds by day or from the cold caused by excessive radiation at night. Palestine, two thousand years ago, was a well-wooded country, and all the fruits of the sub-tropical climates were raised there to perfection by its ancient inhabitants. The date-palm, the fig-tree, and the olive grew there and bore fruit abundantly. Palestine is now a treeless country, and the same fruits are incapable of enduring its climate; yet recent observations have demonstrated that its climate is not colder than it was in the days of the kings of Israel. But as the country has been despoiled of its forests, these sub-tropical fruits are deprived of their natural conservatories, and cannot be raised without great labor and expense in preparing artificial protection for them. Let the forests be restored to the hills and mountains of Palestine, and, though the temperature of its summers were not increased, the fields would be protected by these forests from the winds, and the tender fruits, thriving under their protection, would again become abundant.

The principles involved in these and similar facts form a distinct branch of meteorological science, and would require a volume for their illustration. I have only hinted at some of the general conclusions. It is evident, indeed, that the same objects that serve to protect us from cold may in an equal degree protect us from heat. The woodcutters will continue their labor in a deep forest without discomfort on a winter’s day, when they could not endure the intense cold of the open country. The earliest flowers of spring, however, are found neither in a wood nor in an open meadow, but under the protection of a wood on its southern border, in little openings that are exposed to the beams of the sun.

THE BUTTERNUT.

The walnut includes two species in this country, the Butternut and the black walnut, both trees of considerable note and importance. The Butternut is a well-known tree in the Northern States, cultivated to a great extent in rural villages, but not very abundant in the forest, from which it has probably been extirpated for the beauty and value of its wood in cabinet-work. It is everywhere seen in the enclosures of farm-houses, where it is valued for its fruit and admired as a shade-tree. It is not so tall as the hickory, and differs from it in general shape, as I have already remarked, subdividing itself into several large and equal branches, and seldom extending a central shaft above the lowest point of subdivision. It is a tree of wider spread but thinner foliage than that of the hickory. Its pinnate leaves are long, with a great number of leaflets, and of a light and rather mellow green. It resembles the black walnut in its botanical characters; but the fruit of the Butternut is more elongated, that of the black walnut being nearly globular.

Every one is familiar with the Butternut-tree. Its fruit being more easily obtained than that of the hickory, and ripe at an earlier period, the tree is generally plundered before the time for gathering it. The outer rind is pulpy, and full of a bitter sap that blackens the hands when pressed out by cracking the nuts in a green state; for the kernel is ripe while the shell is still green. This stain may be removed by any fresh vegetable acid; and for this purpose boys generally procure the leaves of sheep-sorrel, with which they rub the stains from their hands, and after washing in soft water it is found to be entirely removed, if no soap has been used. I am not sure that painters would see much to admire in this tree; but to a native of New England it is so pleasantly associated with juvenile feasts of nuts in the early autumn, gratuitously strewed by the green wayside, and with the simplicity of country life, that it is difficult to see in the form of this tree anything we do not admire. If its foliage is thin, its proportions are handsome and symmetrical, and when in its prime there is no tree that better adorns a rustic enclosure. The Butternut puts forth its leaves about a week earlier than the hickory. It is common in all the New England States, especially on the Green Mountain range, from the northern parts of New Hampshire to the Sound.

THE BLACK WALNUT.

The Black Walnut is common in all the United States below the latitude of Long Island. It is especially abundant in Pennsylvania, and is also found singly and in small scattered groups in New England. It is a larger and more hardy and rapid-growing tree than the English walnut, but it bears an inferior fruit. This tree does not differ from the butternut in general characters, but it is of greater height and more majestic in appearance. It has very long pinnate leaves, of a pure untarnished green and a warmer look than the darker foliage of the hickory. Both trees produce an elegant wood for cabinet-work, but that of the Black Walnut is preferred, though the wood of the butternut is nearer the color of mahogany.

THE WHORTLEBERRY PASTURE.

Thoreau relates that he once thought of whortleberrying as an occupation for a livelihood. This was said in a quaint and paradoxical humor, but there are multitudes who can sympathize with the feelings that prompted his remark. As a quiet outdoor amusement, it is not surpassed either by angling or botanizing; and I cannot see why the whortleberry field should not have its Izaak Walton as well as the lily-pond or the trout-stream. The freedom enjoyed in the open pasture, the simple and honest people whom we meet there, the tiresome, but still agreeable and emulative task of picking the fruit, are only a fraction of our enjoyments. The chirping of various insects, and their constant sportiveness among the bushes; the motions of birds and the plaintive melody of the wood-sparrow, which is tuneful nearly the whole month of August,—prepare us to be cheerful and delighted with all things. The cattle feeding carelessly upon the hillsides, the scattered groups of trees and the cool shadows they cast upon the green turf, the sweetness of the air, our unrestrained rambling, the precipitous rocks that intercept our way only to disclose a bower of raspberries protected by their walls, the mossy seats under umbrageous pines, the countless wild flowers on every knoll, the pleasant sensation of rest after weariness and of coolness after the heat of exercise and weather, all combine to render the whortleberry pasture a field of delight surpassing all that is written of gardens of orange and myrtle.

The whortleberry is peculiarly an American fruit; though a few species are common in Middle and Northern Europe, they are in no part of the world so abundant as in North America. The whortleberry tribe of plants form a conspicuous feature of New England landscape, especially near the coast. No single species has been domesticated, though any one of them would well reward the labor of the cultivator if the fruit could not be obtained from the fields. Their fruit is well known to the inhabitants of the Eastern States. Very little has been written upon it, and few persons are aware of its importance to the inhabitants of North America. Botanists make no generic distinction between the whortleberry and the blueberry; but we may distinguish the two at once by their different flavor, and not by their color. The whortleberry is less acidulous, less mucilaginous, and contains a harder seed than the blueberry. The flowers of the two species differ as widely as their fruits: those of the blueberry are large and white; those of the whortleberry are greenish, tipped with red, smaller and more contracted in the mouth. There is no family of plants that runs into a greater number of varieties in a wild state; but I have never seen one that seemed to possess the characters of the blueberry and whortleberry combined. With regard to their colors it may be remarked, that while there are blueberries which are black, there is no whortleberry which is purely blue.

It may truly be asserted that if the cherry and the whortleberry, with all their varieties, were to become extinct, the want of the latter would be most painfully felt by the mass of our population. We were not taught by the Europeans to appreciate the value of our wild fruits. “In Scotland,” said one of a company of Scotch girls whom I met in a whortleberry field, “we have no wild fruits. All our fruits are in gardens.” In this country, where whortleberries are so common as to be found in all wild lands that are not densely wooded, their fruit constitutes one of our staple productions, of greater value to us than even the cranberry, except as an article of export. During about three months, from the first of July to the last of September, millions of bushels of whortleberries are consumed in this part of the country. People are often deceived by measuring the importance of any article according to its commercial value. Hence the whortleberry pastures are called “waste lands.” But were these lands deprived of their products of wild fruit, the want of it would be a grievous affliction to the community. How many poor families earn their livelihood in summer by gathering whortleberries for the market! How many delightful excursions does this fruit-gathering annually afford to the children and youths of our land! The robin, the waxwing, and other birds that consume our cherries, would be diverted from the orchard and the garden by a good supply of fruit from the bushes of an adjoining field; and our cultivators might prevent their depredations by planting the different species by the sides of their fences and in all open situations which are not adapted to tillage.

As an object in the landscape and a field for the botanist and student of nature the whortleberry pasture is worthy of study and full of attractions. This scenery, with all the spontaneous mapping of its beds of shrubbery, its groups of trees, its tussocks of mosses and ferns, its little green hollows spangled with flowers, and its projecting rocks covered with brambles, all intersected widely by the smooth greensward, is peculiar to New England. In the Southern States the whortleberry-bushes are more promiscuously scattered, and are not seen in this delightful grouping, forming with the trees, fruits, and flowers a true symbol of the beneficence of nature. A genuine whortleberry pasture is one of the most beautiful of gardens,—a modern Vale of Tempe, a true Eden,—inasmuch as it is without culture; and abounds from early spring till waning autumn in the most interesting shrubs and flowers of our clime; in August and September sparkling with clusters of shining black and azure berries, and possessing a value which only a New-Englander knows how to prize.

The whortleberry pasture consists chiefly of upland, extending out occasionally into a level meadow, but generally of a hilly and uneven surface, covered with groves and coppice. The pasture must have been fed many years by cattle to acquire its distinguishing features. Without the grazing of these animals the ground would be evenly covered with vines and bushes. The cattle, while feeding upon the grass, consume many of the young plants which have not become woody, and in their irregular course gradually produce this grouping in a manner which is entirely inimitable by art. Hence in an old field the scattered beds of shrubbery, with greensward between them, might be compared to a map of islands, the grass being represented on the map by the water and the bushes by the land; the greensward sometimes widening into a broad expanse of verdure, and then beautifully intersected by intricate masses of shrubbery.

In the lands surrounding the older townships only do we see the whortleberry pasture in the perfection of this picturesque grouping, laid out according to the geometry of nature. In the new settlements the bushes are mixed with trees and stumps in the clearings, and have not acquired any arrangement. But if a whortleberry field has long been pastured by cattle that seldom browse upon the shrubs, the different kinds of vegetation stand in beautiful groups of a thousand various forms, like the figures on tapestry. The rocks that lift up their gray heads, sometimes with smooth flat surfaces, sometimes in lofty protuberances, covered with liverworts and patches of variegated lichens and mosses, and fringed on their edges with diminutive shrubs, form no unimportant part of this peculiar scenery. In every old pasture the different kinds of shrubs are more or less distinctly arranged into groups; some, for example, consisting chiefly of bayberry, others of roses or perhaps of brambles. But in general the plats consist of a promiscuous variety of species, in which some one predominates. One of the most common of these social plants is the sweet-fern, universally prized for its fragrance, at the very name of which we are inspired with pleasant recollections of youthful wanderings. The lambkill is especially prone to form exclusive assemblages, and the most beautiful individuals, when in flower, are generally on the outside of the group.