Chapter VI: The Artificial Forests of Europe 141 (2)

In such forests, and along their borders, the birds like to make their home. Among the bushy thickets they find a secure shelter, and some of them seek their food among the fruits and berries that grow there. They all possess their individual charms, and infuse such varied elements of life and cheer into the woods that even the most commonplace scenes are transmuted by their presence, while those that were already beautiful receive an added attraction. In winter there is nothing more harmonious than a flock of snowbirds flying over frosted evergreens toward some soft gray mist or cloud. For grace and ease of movement I have never seen anything more airy than the Canada jay alighting on some near bough, softly as a snowflake, to watch and wait for the scraps of the forester’s meal. Another interesting bird to watch in his movements is the red-winged blackbird. Out along the edges of the forest and in the swamps and marshes lying between bits of woodland, he may be seen from earliest spring to the last days of fall.[6] We cannot help watching him passing restlessly to and fro by himself, or circling happily about in the flock, returning at last to his clumps of alders and willows, or disappearing among the hazy reeds and grasses. But if, instead of grace and movement, we are more interested in sound, we shall find no songbird with sweeter notes than the thrush. Whatever added name he may bear, we are sure of a fine quality of music; music with modulating notes, plaintive and clear, that drive away all harshness of thought.

Let us again consider the undergrowth in the forest. Where shrubs and tender growths abound the wintry season cannot be desolate or dreary. When the display of summer is over they attract the eye by their bright fruits and their habits of growth. Their branchlets are often strikingly pretty in color and well set off against the snow. Their intricate traceries of twig and stem are an interesting study. The copses of brown hazels that spread along the mountain side and the dusky alders or yellow-tinted willows are in perfect harmony with this season of the year.

It is by crowding into masses that our shrubs of brighter blossom produce some of the most superb effects of spring. A multitude of rhododendrons or great laurels covers some mountain side, carrying its drifts of pale rose far back into the woods. A mass of redbuds and flowering dogwoods, the former again rose-colored, the latter a creamy white, pours out from the forest’s edge among ledges of rock and low hills. The wild plums and thorns, with their delicate flowers, are beautiful in the same manner, and in addition have a pretty habit of straying out and away from the woods, much like the red juniper.

Our shrubs are no less beautiful in their separate parts than they are magnificent in their united profusion. The common sweet magnolia is especially well favored. Its elegantly elliptical leaf, with smooth surfaces, glossy and dark green above, silken and silvery below, is one of the most attractive to be found. Its flower cannot help being beautiful, for beauty is the heritage of all the magnolias. Often, however, half the pure ivory cups lie hidden in the leaves, to surprise us on a closer approach with their beauty and sweet fragrance. Altogether this favored shrub is one of the most exquisite objects of decoration, whether in the swamp, along brooksides, or through the damp places of the forest.

The hawthorns, which, like the sweet magnolia, occur both as trees and as shrubs, combine varied forms of attractiveness, such as compound flowers of white or pinkish hue; sharply edged, elegantly pointed leaves; bright berries; and closely interwoven branchlets stuck about with thorns. The redbud, which I have already mentioned, holds its little bunches of flowers so lightly that they look as if they had been carried there by the wind and had caught along the twigs and branches. Very different from these, yet no less interesting in its way, is the staghorn sumach, which is of erratic growth and bears stately pyramids of velvety flowers of a dark crimson-maroon. There is a fine contrast, too, where the serviceberry, with early delicate white blossoms, blooms among the evergreens and the opening leaves of spring.

Another word about the West. The undergrowth of the northerly portion of the Pacific coast region has already been referred to; but there extends throughout the Southwest, penetrating also northward and eastward, another kind of forest growth that is so distinct in character from all others that it should be specially described. It is, in fact, quite opposite in its nature to the shrubbery of the more humid forest regions in that it shows a tendency to seek the arid, open, sunny slopes, where it forms a scrubby, though interesting, and varied cover to the rough granite boulders and loose, gravelly soils. This growth is everywhere conveniently known as “chaparral,” whether it be the low, even-colored brush on the higher mountains or the dense, scraggy, promiscuous, and impenetrable thicket of the foothills and lower and gentler slopes.

The impression which the chaparral makes depends largely upon the distance at which it is viewed. If we stand in the midst of a dense patch of it we see of how many elements it is composed; how the shrubs of different size, shape, and character crowd each other into a tangle of branches, some not reaching above the waist, others closing in overhead. The ceanothus, with its dull, dark-green foliage and bunches of small white flowers, which appear in June, stands beside the stout-stemmed, knotty, twisted manzanita, with its strikingly reddish-brown bark and sticky, orbicular, olive-colored leaves. Among smaller shrubs we find the aromatic sage brush, of a light-gray, soft appearance, and the richer, darker, small-leaved grease-wood, or chemisal, as it is more commonly called farther north, with its small, white-petaled flowers enclosing a greenish-yellow center. Very plentifully scattered among all these we usually find the scrubby forms of the canyon live oak and the California black oak. Here and there we may see a large golden-flowered mallow, or the queenly yucca raising its fine pyramid of cream-colored flowers out of the dense mass.

The far view is quite different. Distance smoothes the surface and somewhat obliterates the colors, though we may still distinguish a variegated appearance. The eye takes in the larger outlines and the scattered pines that sometimes occur within the chaparral. Nor is the latter, as we now perceive, always a dense growth, but may be separated here and there. Indeed, it is often most interesting when interrupted by large granite boulders and jumbles of rocks, with the clean gray shade of which it forms a fine contrast on a clear morning.

If we look still farther up toward some higher slopes, miles away, we shall see only a uniform and continuous stretch of low brush that appears at that great distance hardly otherwise than a green pasture clothing the barren mountain. As we walk toward it the bluish-green changes to a bronze-green, and then suddenly we recognize the broad sweep of chemisal, with a few scattered scrubby oaks and mountain mahogany in between.

In the account of forest embellishment should be included those humblest plants, the liverworts and mosses and the lichens that so beautifully stain the rocks and color the stems of trees. A close study of all their delicate and tender characters, both of form and color, is always a revelation. Among these lowlier plants it is no uncommon sight in the depth of winter to see a field of fern sending a thousand elegant sprays through the light snow-covering; or half a dozen kinds of mosses, all of different green, but every one pure and brilliant, gleaming in the shadow of some dripping rock. Between the rock and its ice cap, covered by the latter but not concealed from view, there is a fine collection of the most delicate little liverworts and grasses, herbs with tender leaves, and even flowers, it may be, on some earthy speck where the sun has melted the ice—all as if held in cold crystal.

A word also remains to be said about the vines and creepers. As far north as Pennsylvania, and even to the States bordering the Great Lakes, these clambering plants are a conspicuous element in the forest. Virginia creeper, clematis, the hairy-looking poison oak, and the wild grape, are among those that are most familiar. In the woods of the lower Mississippi Valley the wild grapevines often make a strange tangle among the old and twisted trees and hang in long festoons from the boughs. They are not uncommon in some of the northerly States, though less rank and exuberant in growth.

The common ivy is one of the most beautiful of all creepers. It makes a fine setting for the little wood flowers that peep from its leaves. I like it best, however, where it clings to some old oak or other tree and brings out the contrast between its own passiveness and weakness and the strength of the column that gives it support.

III

DISTRIBUTION OF AMERICAN FORESTS

The geographical distribution of trees has been referred to occasionally in the preceding chapters. This distribution, gradually accomplished during the progress of ages, has not been accidental; on the contrary, it has been due to natural causes, and arises out of the special needs and adaptations of each species. The geology of a region, which determines in many respects the character of the physical forces of both the earth and the air, is no small factor in the development of the forest. The character of the climate, the nature of the soil, the degree of moisture in the soil and in the atmosphere, the amount and intensity of the sunlight—in short, the various elements and natural forces that constitute the environment of a tree—are the all-important conditions of its life. On these it depends, and according to its own peculiar nature and its special needs, selects its natural home.

Yet the manner in which this selection is accomplished, though simple in theory, is complicated by many circumstances. Frost, fire, insects, and floods, by destroying the trees or their seeds, may retard the progress of the species. The wind may be unfavorable. The seeds hang upon the trees ready and ripe for germination, but a breeze comes along and carries them to a place where the conditions are ill adapted to their peculiar nature. The following year the wind is propitious and the little trees soon start into life. But presently the seeds of another tree, whose growth is by nature faster, are conveyed to the same spot, and the intruders outstrip the others in rapidity of growth and spread a canopy of foliage that screens the smaller trees from the life-giving sun and dooms them to destruction. Thus only a few of the numberless seeds that are produced each year live, and fewer still are able to maintain or extend the boundaries of the parent tree. Sometimes, too, the frugality or hardiness of a species may be the reason for its exclusive occupation of a certain locality, since other trees may find it impossible to live at high altitudes and on rocky ridges or to subsist upon rough, poor soil. Consequently we shall find some kinds of trees exclusive, gregarious only among themselves, while others mingle freely in the general concourse.

Through the persistency, therefore, of the vital forces of nature, through a suitable climate or situation, through the power of adaptation and the delicate adjustment of many details, the vast armies of trees, like migratory races, have at last accomplished their purpose and found their several homes; and to us the varied aspect of the forests, as we traverse the extended territory of our country, is in a manner explained. There are stretches of land over which the tree growth is dense and uniform; where the forest is given over, it may be, almost entirely to a single kind of tree. In other places the trees may join in varied luxuriance, young and old, familiar and strange, on some fertile, protected plain or well watered mountain side. In still other places they may be seen struggling up the steep slopes and maintaining a precarious existence on bleak, rocky ridges.

While the eastern portion of the United States is, generally speaking, the home of the broadleaf species, and the northern and western portions are similarly occupied by the coniferous forests, these areas may readily be subdivided into specified regions of distinct forest growth. The latter, however, cannot be accurately delimited, since the regions naturally penetrate into one another and overlap, on account of the manner in which forests have extended their bounds.

In the basin of the Great Lakes, where the glaciers of a recent geological age have prepared a light, loose, gravelly or sandy soil, the white pine belt extends through the States of Minnesota, Wisconsin, and Michigan, and penetrates into portions of Pennsylvania, New York, and New England. Once covered with dense tall forests of white pine, interspersed in places with other northern conifers, or broken by smaller areas of broadleaf forests, the white pine belt has now yielded to us its richest treasures. The exacting demands of our modern artificial civilization have drawn ceaselessly upon these resources, and the assiduous ax and the fire that follows in its train have invaded even the most secluded regions. The resulting barren spaces, where they have not become cultivated land, have either reverted to the young white pine itself or have been transformed into oak barrens and open forests of broadleaf trees. Thus the aspect of the region has been altered, though many a limited spot may be found in which the tall majesty of the primeval forest still finds its full expression.

Extending from southern New England along the entire range of the Appalachians, sloping toward the Atlantic, and spreading far westward to the Mississippi and beyond, the region of the eastern broadleaf forests covers a vast territory. Not that the conifers are here entirely absent, for several of these, including the white pine itself, follow the mountain ranges and scatter throughout the hills and plains; but their number dwindles in the proportion of the whole.

Beyond this region to the southward, in the States that border the Gulf east of the Mississippi, in Georgia, and stretching along the coast northward, a region of pines is once more encountered. This section of our forests, though it has already yielded generous supplies, is among the richest in the country. From the pineries of the South is obtained much of our construction timber; and thence, too, we derive our pitch, tar, and turpentine from the sap of the trees.

Finally, within the eastern forests a restricted region at the southern end of Florida, including the Keys, may properly be separated from the rest. For here is found a distinctively tropical vegetation, differing entirely in character from the forest flora to the north. Many trees indigenous to the West India Islands have established themselves upon this small area, on which the number of species exceeds that of any region of equal extent within the United States, not excepting even the varied forest growth of the Mexican border line, to which alone it might be worthily compared.

Separating the forest floras of the western and eastern United States, 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.

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.

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.

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.

Not in outward aspect alone are these forests noble and stately. A nobleness lies in the nature of the living trees themselves; for, though we may call them unconscious, it is life still, and they are expressive with meaning. Far simpler in their habits and requirements than the broadleaf trees, they are, nevertheless, more generous to man. Endurance and hardship is their lot, but noble form of trunk and crown and useful soft wood are the products of their life. There is no forest mantle like theirs to shield from the blast, especially when it is formed of young thickets of the simple but refined spruces and firs. When, at the last, they yield their life to man, it seems to me there is something exalted even in the manner of their fall. The tree hardly quivers under the blows of the ax; a mere trembling in the outermost twigs, and then, hardly as if cut off from the source of life, the tall, straight form sinks slowly to the earth.

Another common attribute of evergreen forests is their characteristic _silence_. Birds do not frequent them as much as the leafy forests. In these solitudes, far removed from village and farm, there is often no sound but the ring of the distant ax and the sough of the wind. In winter, as we push through the thickets of small spruces or hemlocks, or stand for a while beneath lofty pines, while all around is muffled in snow, the silence seems sanctified and vaster than elsewhere.

In addition to their grandeur and sublimity, and their silence, they are distinguished for an element of _softness_. This is seen in the delicate texture and pure color of their foliage, the effect of which is heightened by being massed in the dense forest. We have already noticed the mild olive shade of the eastern white pine. When the wind blows through it, it seems as if the foliage were melting away. It would be difficult, also, to match the green color of the red fir, especially as it looks in winter; or the luxuriant bluish-gray of the western blue spruce.

A further softening in the general effect of evergreen forests is produced by the manner in which the trees intermingle in the dense mass, merging their sharp, individual outlines in the rounded contours and upper surfaces of the combined view. Near at hand, of course, we cannot but notice the attenuated forms and jagged edges of the trees, which, indeed, are interesting enough in themselves; but on looking gradually into the distance we find them thatching into one another, closing up interstices and smoothing away irregularities in a remarkable way. This is particularly true of the spruces and firs; but in some of the opener pine forests, as, for example, in the longleaf pines of the South, the boughs and crowns themselves are rounded into masses and pleasing contours. It should be remembered, also, that these effects are present in winter as well as in summer.

The element of softness is sometimes brought into very beautiful association with certain effects of mists and clouds. The indistinct contours and delicate lights of the drifting vapors and cloud forms, as they wander across the trees, blend with the serene aspect of the forest. At other times the clouds gather into banks and lie motionless in some valley or rest like a veil upon the mountain tops. Wordsworth has described these effects in his graphic way by saying,—

Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills,
A mighty waste of mist the valley fills,
A solemn sea! whose billows wide around
Stand motionless, to awful silence bound:
Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear
That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear.

In spring or summer just before sunrise it is very beautiful to see how these banks of vapor are lifted by the stirring airs of the dawn, how the draperies of mist draw apart and open up vistas of the trees, which drip with moisture, and are presently illumined by the broad shafts of sunlight that pour down upon them.

Lest it be thought that only the dense coniferous forests possess superior qualities, I desire to put in a plea for the open ones also.

It is a universal truth in nature that when a living thing has made the best possible use of its environment, when the power within has been sacrificed and united to the circumstances without, there is evolved a dignity of character and a resulting expression of fitness and beauty. This principle is exemplified in the very open forests of the Southwest. In the mountain ranges of New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California the forests have a hard struggle for existence. The winter months at the higher elevations are severe; in the summer rain is scarce, or entirely absent, and the sun beats down upon the dry earth through the rarefied atmosphere with intense and desiccating power. Naturally the forest trees are scattered, and on the steep, crumbly slopes, dry and rocky, they hug the soil and cling to it with uncertain footing. But in a sheltered ravine, or on the back of a rounded ridge, or in a slight swale or hollow of the mountain—repeatedly, in fact, among those rugged slopes—we meet with the dignity, the beauty, and the peculiar expressiveness of the open coniferous forest, with its fine definition and stereoscopic effects and the depth and perspective of its long vistas.

On the crest of the mountain, where, from the valley below, the early sunlight is first seen to break through, the trees, standing apart, do not appear so much like a forest as like a congregation of individuals, each with an identity of its own. Indeed, there among the fierce gales of autumn and winter each shapes its own life in a glorious independence, expressive in the knotty, twisted boles and the picturesque crowns. But in summer the breezes strain through the foliage with the lethargic sound of the ocean surge; or a halcyon stillness reigns under a deep blue, cloudless sky.

Large old trees, these, with a history, that have braved life together. They have seen companion veterans fall by their side, long ago, into the deep, closely matted needle-mold. Thence arose out of the moister hollows beneath the rotting trunk and boughs a new generation, and the greater number of these have disappeared, too, for some reason or another; only the strongest at last leading, to take the place of the departed. How dignified, how simple are these old, stalwart trees on the exposed ridge of the mountain.

Thus the coniferous forests, by virtue of their inherent qualities and by means of the effects they borrow from their environment, possess a tone that is as original and distinct as the character of the forests belonging to the other class. It has already been intimated that the two are not always strictly separable, but that individual trees, or groups, or whole stretches of woods of the one will sometimes mingle with the other, a fact that has probably been noticed by the most casual observer. While the cone-bearers, however, not infrequently descend into the lower altitudes, the leafy forest trees are not so apt to be found at the high elevations at which many of the former find their natural home. Where the cone-bearers are merely an addition to the broadleaf woods they do not quite preserve their identity, but rather impress us as being merely a part in the general adornment and composition of the forest to which they belong. Where they remain “pure,” however, as they do, for instance, in the pineries of the coastal plain in the South, they never fail to express, in one or another manner, their individuality as a forest; as by their uniformity in size and color, by their odor, or by the scenic character of the region of their occurrence.

All the preceding qualities of coniferous forests practically address themselves in some manner to our physical senses. But, like the broadleaf forests, these also possess a trait that rather addresses itself to our mood or personal temperament. A characteristic air of loneliness and wild seclusion belongs to them that contrasts strikingly with the cheerful tone of the other class. It has been commonly remarked that to some kinds of people the coniferous forests are oppressive, at least on first acquaintance. Such natures feel the weight of their gloom and lose their own buoyancy of spirit if they stay too long within their confines; and it is noticeable that even the inhabitants of these lonely retreats are not infrequently affected with a reticence and a kind of melancholy that impresses the stranger almost like a feeling of resignation. This peculiar temperament, however, may be judged too hastily, and is understood better after a time. It is probably true that the familiar and accessible woods of valley and plain, where trails and wood-roads give us a feeling of security, are more attractive and agreeable to most of us; yet there is a wonderful charm about those dark forests of the mountains that have grown up in undisturbed simplicity. After the first feeling of strangeness wears off, as it soon will, they grow companionable and interesting. There is a virtue in the sturdy forms that have grown to maturity without aid or interference by man. We would not change them in that place for the most beautiful trees in a park. Even the woodsman, whose days are spent here in the hardest toil, feels a longing for the forest, his home, when his short respite in the summer is over. So we, too, though we may long for civilization after a few months in the forest, will yet feel the desire to return to it after once thoroughly making its acquaintance.

The attitude of the woodsman toward the forest is much like the affection which the sailor has for the ocean. There is, indeed, a similarity between their callings, and even the elements in which they pass their lives are not so dissimilar in reality as may appear on the surface. In his vast domain of evergreen trees that cover mountain and valley, the woodsman, too, is shut out from the busier haunts of men. He lives for months in his sequestered camp or cabin, where his bed is often only a narrow bunk of boughs or straw. His food is simple and his clothing rough and plain, to suit the conditions of his life. A large part of the time he is out in snow and rain, tramping over rough rock and soil. The camps that are scattered through the forest are to him like islands, where he can turn aside for food and rest when on some longer journey than usual.

Like the sailor he also has learned some of the secrets of nature. He does not usually possess a compass, but he can tell its points by more familiar signs: by the pendent tops of the hemlocks, which usually bend toward the east, or by the mossy sides of the trees, which are generally in the direction of the coolest and moistest quarter of the heavens. In an extreme case he will even mount one of the tallest of the trees to find his bearings in his oceanlike forest. If well judged, the sighing of the wind in the boughs, I have been told, says much about the coming weather; just as the sickly wash of the waves means something to the sailor. Withal, both he and the woodsman are natural and generally honest fellows, hard workers at perilous callings, and less apt to speak than to commune with their own thoughts.

VI

THE ARTIFICIAL FORESTS OF EUROPE

To some of us, in this age of travel, the forests of Europe have become as familiar as our own. As scenic objects they have their faults and their excellences. While we appreciate their order and neatness, and the beautiful effects that may arise out of the subordination of all components of the forest to one main purpose, we Americans always miss in them the freshness of nature.

These forests, as they now stand, are the result of a long-continued application of the scientific principles of forestry, under special conditions, to the European forests of old. Having referred repeatedly to forestry itself, I now purpose, to the extent which a single chapter will permit, to explain the sources of beauty, or the absence of it, in these artificial forests. I shall thus place in contrast with our own, which are just beginning to undergo a new process of development, those of Europe, which have long been subjected to one in many respects similar.

The importance of forests had long been understood by the people of Europe. The relation which they held to civilized life, both in a material way and otherwise, led, more than a century ago, to a systematic and scientific treatment. It was realized that these forests might be made perpetual, and so might furnish a constant supply of useful material; that they economized and regulated the flow of mountain streams, which are always of great importance to the agricultural lands of subjacent regions; that they held in place the loose soil of the slopes, thus averting avalanches and ruinous floods; that they broke the force of the winds, tempered and purified the air, and I may add, inspired man with better and happier thoughts.

For these reasons the people of Europe determined to guard their forests well, and to aid nature, if possible, in becoming still more useful to man. To this end they made a careful study of the life history of the forest, and investigated the requirements of the trees and their rates of growth under varying conditions of soil, heat, light, and moisture. They also studied the numerous dangers to which the forest is exposed, and invented means and established laws for its protection. In short, they effected an ingenious adjustment between the needs of the forest and the requirements of man, and in course of time laid the foundations for a new system that was destined to be of great importance to the economic interests of nations.