Forest Trees and Forest Scenery

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Title: Forest Trees and Forest Scenery
Author: Schwarz, G. Frederick
Language: English
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Transcriber’s Notes

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations
in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and
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FOREST TREES AND
FOREST SCENERY

[Illustration: A River Scene in Florida]

FOREST TREES AND
FOREST SCENERY

BY
G. FREDERICK SCHWARZ

ILLUSTRATED

[Illustration: Publisher’s Device]

NEW YORK
THE GRAFTON PRESS
1901

PREFACE

In the ensuing pages I have made simple inquiries into the sources
of beauty and attractiveness in American forest trees and sylvan
scenery. In the concluding chapter, by way of contrast, I have given
a short account of the esthetic effects of the artificial forests of
Europe. The system which shaped these forests and gave them their
present appearance should, however, possess more than a comparative
interest for Americans. It has, in fact, a further connection, though
a slight one, with the subject, and therefore requires a few words of
explanation.

It is well known that in many parts of Europe the forests have long
been subjected to a systematic treatment known as forestry. The term,
at first strange, is gradually becoming quite familiar to us Americans,
for the application of this comparatively new science has already begun
in many sections of our country. The principles of European forestry
will naturally undergo many modifications in their new environment,
and the vastness of our forest areas, as well as the long life that
naturally belongs to trees, will impose a very gradual progress.
Nevertheless, the movement for a rational use of our forests is rapidly
advancing and is certain in time to find a very wide application.

Although the aims of forestry are utilitarian and not artistic, the
technical character of the operations which it involves impresses upon
natural forest scenery a changed aspect. Eventually the work performed
upon our forests will be manifested in a new outward appearance, a
change that cannot but be preferable to the scenes ordinarily presented
by our cut-over and abandoned timberlands, and one that will be
appreciated not only by forest lovers in general, but also by those who
are engaged in the lumber industry itself, who are often forced through
competition and prevailing methods to leave a desolate picture behind.

In a word, forestry interests us here because, having already obtained
a foothold in our country, through it forest beauty stands on the
threshold of a new relationship. This relationship, which is to grow
more intimate with time, appears to justify a certain discrimination in
the choice of the trees and forests herein described, and an occasional
reference to some of the less technical matters of forestry that may
incidentally suggest themselves as being of some interest to the
general reader. To have attempted more than this would have detracted
from the unity of the subject. While the reader may, therefore, find in
these pages some facts that are new to him, he will notice that these
facts have been made subordinate to the leading object of the book,
an appreciation of the esthetic value of some of our commonest forest
trees.

The illustrations have been derived from various sources. The plates
facing pages 38, 58, 62, 64, 66, 116, 120, 130, are reproductions
from original photographs that were furnished through the courtesy
of the Bureau of Forestry, United States Department of Agriculture.
My grateful acknowledgments are due Mr. Overton W. Price, Assistant
Chief of the Bureau of Forestry, for photographs chosen out of his
collection to supply the plates facing pages 69, 148, 158. The
remaining illustrations have been reproduced from photographs in my own
collection.

Notes of reference, which are indicated by superior figures in the
text, and an index to the names of the trees that have been described
or specially referred to in these pages, will be found at the close of
the book. The index has been compiled from a well-known bulletin of the
Bureau of Forestry, United States Department of Agriculture, entitled
“Check List of the Forest Trees of the United States.” Courteous
acknowledgment is here made to the author, Mr. George B. Sudworth,
and to the Division of Publications, of the same Department, for kind
permission to make extracts from the bulletin referred to.

CONTENTS

PAGE

I FOREST TREES 1

The Broadleaf Trees 3

The Cone-Bearers 29

II FOREST ADORNMENT 63

III DISTRIBUTION OF AMERICAN FORESTS 83

IV CHARACTER OF THE BROADLEAF FORESTS 97

V THE CONIFEROUS FORESTS 116

VI THE ARTIFICIAL FORESTS OF EUROPE 141

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

A River Scene in Florida _Frontispiece_

Facing page

Foliage of the White Oak 8

Spray of the Sugar Maple 12

Spray of the Red Maple 12

The Dogwood in Bloom 22

Tulip Trees 26

Character of the White Pine 34

Sugar Pines 36

A Pinery in the South 38

The Bull Pine in its California Home 40

A Silver Fir at Middle Age 50

Redwood Forest in California 58

Devastation in the Forest 60

Where the Sheep Have Been 62

A Passageway through Granite Rocks 64

Shrubbery and River Birches. New Jersey 66

Fern Patch in a Grove of White Birch 69

A Yucca in the Chaparral 78

Virgin Forest Scene in Florida 110

A Group of Conifers. Montana 116

Mount Rainier. Washington 120

A Thicket of White Firs 125

An Open Forest in the Southwest 130

A Storm-beaten Veteran 132

A German “Selection Forest” 148

A “High Forest” of Spruce in Saxony 158

FOREST TREES AND
FOREST SCENERY

“One impulse from a vernal wood
May teach you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can.”
WORDSWORTH.

FOREST TREES

The beauty of a forest is not simple in character, but is due to many
separate sources. The trees contribute much; the shrubs, the rocks, the
mosses, play their part; the purity of the air, the forest silence,
the music of wind in the trees—these and other influences combine to
produce woodland beauty and charm. A first consideration, however,
should be to know the beauty that is revealed by the trees themselves.

Here it will be wise to make a selection: to choose out of the
great variety of our forest flora those trees that most deserve
our attention. Many of our forest trees have naturally a restricted
range; others are narrowing or widening their range through human
interference; still others have already established their right to
a preëminence among the trees of the future, because, possessing to
an unusual degree the qualities that will make them amenable to the
new and improved methods of treatment known as “forestry,” they are
certain to receive special care and attention; while those that are not
so fortunate will be left to fight their own battles, or may even be
exterminated to make room for the more useful kinds. Among all these
the rarest are not necessarily the most beautiful. Those that are
commonest and most useful are often distinguished for qualities that
please the eye or appeal directly to the mind.

In accordance with the ideas already expressed in the Preface, the
considerations that will determine what trees shall be described are
as follows: first, trees of beauty; next, those that are common and
familiar; finally, those that are important both for the present and
the future because they are useful and have an extended geographical
distribution.

The trees selected for description will here be divided into the two
conventional groups of broadleaf species and conifers, beginning with
the former.

THE BROADLEAF TREES

In the “Landscape Gardening” of Downing we read concerning the oak,—

“When we consider its great and surpassing utility and beauty, we are
fully disposed to concede it the first rank among the denizens of the
forest. Springing up with a noble trunk, and stretching out its broad
limbs over the soil,

‘These monarchs of the wood,
Dark, gnarled, centennial oaks,’

seem proudly to bid defiance to time; and while generations of man
appear and disappear, they withstand the storms of a thousand winters,
and seem only to grow more venerable and majestic.”

It would be difficult to say whether Downing had any particular species
of oak in mind when he wrote these words. The common white oak and the
several species of red and black oak possess in an eminent degree the
grandeur and strength which he describes and for which we commonly
admire the tree.

Of all the oaks[1] the white oak is the most important. This tree will
impress us differently as we see it in the open field or in the dense
forest. Where it stands by itself in the full enjoyment of light, it
has a round-topped, dome-shaped crown, and is massive and well poised
in all its parts. Quite as often, however, we shall see it gathered
into little groups of three or four on the greensward of some gently
sloping hill, where it has a graceful way of keeping company. The
groups are full of expression, the effect is diversified from tree
to tree, yet harmonious in the whole. In the denser forest the white
oak often reaches noble proportions and assumes its most individual
expression. There it mounts proudly upward, contending in height at
wide intervals with sugar maples and tulip trees, its common associates
in the forest. Its lofty crown may be seen at a distance, lifted
conspicuously above the heads of its neighbors. Stand beneath it,
however, and look up at its lower branches, and there is revealed an
intricacy of branchwork and a tortuosity of limb such as is unattained
when it stands alone in the field. The boldness with which the white
oak will sometimes throw out its limbs abruptly, and twist and writhe
to the outermost twig, I have never seen quite equaled in the other
oaks. The live oak, it must be admitted, is even more abrupt where the
limb divides from the trunk, but it does not continue its vagaries to
the end.

It is to be noted that these forms are not without a purpose and a
meaning. Under difficulties and obstacles the twigs and branches have
groped their way; often one part has been sacrificed for the good of
another, in order that all gifts of air, and moisture, and light might
be received in the fullness of their worth. Thus the entire framework
of the tree becomes infused with life and meaning, almost with sense,
and its character is reflected in its expression.

The observer is also impressed by the character of the foliage. The
leaves are usually rather blunt and ponderous, varying a little—as,
indeed, do those of several other trees —according to the nature of
their environment. They clothe the tree in profusion, but do not hide
the beauty of the ramification of its branches. In truth, they are not
devoid of beauty themselves. It was natural for Lowell to exclaim,—

A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,
Old oak, give me.

While the leaves of the white oak do not deflect and curve as much in
their growth as those of some of the more graceful and elegant trees,
they nevertheless fall into natural and pleasing groups, unfolding a
pretty variation as they work out their patient spiral ascent, leaf
after leaf, round the stemlet; showing a changefulness in the sizes
of the several leaves, and a choice in the spacing. In the first
weeks of leafing-time there is to be added to these features the
effects derived from transitions of color in the leaves. For the very
young leaves are not green, but of a deep rose or dusky gray. They are
velvety in texture, and lie nestling within the groups of the larger
green leaves that have preceded them. Just as it was said a little
while ago that there was expressiveness throughout the branches, it may
now be said that there is a fitness of the foliage for all parts of the
tree.

[Illustration: Foliage of the White Oak]

In winter, however, the beauty of the oak’s foliage is gone. The dry
leaves still hang on the boughs, sometimes even until spring, but they
look disheveled and dreary. Still, they are not without some esthetic
value, though it be through the sense of hearing instead of sight.
Thoreau says,—

“The dry rustle of the withered oak-leaves is the voice of the wood in
winter. It sounds like the roar of the sea, and is inspirating like
that, suggesting how all the land is seacoast to the aërial ocean.”

Deep and glorious, too, is the light that rests in the oak woods on
midsummer days. It filters, softened and subdued, through the wealth
of foliage, and wraps us in a mellow radiance. Its purity and calm
depth lift the senses to a higher level. Most limpid is the light in a
misty shower, when the sun is low and the level rays break through the
moist leaves and dampened air, while we stand within and see everything
bathed in a golden luster.

Our common chestnut is of less economic value than the oak, but one
suggests the other, for the two are often found together and are
similar in size and habit. The chestnut is, in truth, one of our finest
deciduous trees. It has a luxuriance of healthy, dark-green foliage,
and is happy-looking in its abundance of yellow-tasseled blossoms. It
is even more beautiful in August, when the young burs mingle their even
tinge of brown with the fresh green of the glossy leaves. In old age it
has the same firmness that is so noticeable in the oak, and seems to be
just as regardless of the winds and gales.

The character of the leaf and the manner in which the branches of a
tree divide and ramify have so much to do with certain beautiful
effects, that I shall make some remarks on these features in two of
our maples. The sugar or hard maple is the most useful member of this
genus, and may advantageously be compared with the red maple, which is
perhaps more beautiful.

It is of great advantage to both of these trees that the sweep of
their branches, which is carried out in ample, undulating lines, is
in perfect harmony with the elegance of their foliage. In the sugar
maple the latter spreads over the boughs in soft and pleasing contours.
The leaves are a trifle larger than those of the red maple, and their
edges are wavy or flowing, while their surfaces are slightly undulating
and have less luster than those of the other tree. They are thus well
fitted to receive a flood of light without being in danger of
presenting a clotted appearance. The petioles, or little leaf-stems,
assume a more horizontal position than they do in the red maple, and
the twigs are usually shorter, which allows a denser richness in the
foliage, which every breeze plays upon and ruffles as it passes by.

[Illustration: Spray of the Sugar Maple]

[Illustration: Spray of the Red Maple]

The red maple has a more airy look. This is due partly to the character
of the leaf, but primarily to that of the branchwork. The main branches
spread out in easy, flowing lines, much as they do in the sugar maple;
but they assume an ampler range, and the last divisions, the twigs,
take on decided curves, rising to right and left. On these the leaves
multiply, each leaf poised lightly upon its curved petiole. As
compared with the leaf of its congener, that of the red maple is firmer
and a shade lighter, especially underneath. It is also more agile in
the wind. The effect of the whole is more that of a shower of foliage
than of pillowed masses. The curving lines, the elastic spring of every
part, and a kind of freedom among the many leaves, make the red maple
one of the cheerfullest of trees.

The sugar maple is the larger of the two, and seeks the intervales
and uplands, where its size is well set off in the landscape. The red
maple, which finds its natural home along riverbanks and in moist
places, is interesting at all seasons. When young it is particularly
attractive in summer where it fringes lakes and streams. In winter
its bright, red twigs present a pleasing contrast to the gray bark or
to the snow-covered earth. In the earliest days of spring the little
scarlet blossoms break out in tufts that soon ripen into brilliant
little keys, looking very pretty where they intermingle with the pale
green of the opening leaves.

There is, in fact, more color in the woods in the opening days of
spring than is generally admitted or noticed. Many kinds of trees
unfold their leaves in some tender shade of rose or golden brown;
while others lend a distinct color to a whole section of forest by the
opening of their early blossoms.

The maples, however, are chiefly famous for their wonderful richness
of color in the fall of the year; particularly the sugar and the red
maple, whose brilliancy at this season it would be difficult to match.
They exhibit, in truth, a gamut of beautiful tones, from pale yellow to
deep orange, and from bright scarlet to vivid crimson. They are among
the first to change the color of their leaves, but are quickly followed
by other species of trees, whose varying hues blend together and enrich
the autumn landscape. The “scarlet” and “red” oaks now justify their
names; the flowering dogwood and the sweet gum show their soft depth
of purple; the milder tulip tree takes on a golden tint and shimmers
in the sun, mingling with ruddy hornbeams, browned beeches, variegated
sassafras trees, or the fiery foliage of the tupelos. The swamps are
aflame with the brilliancy of red maples, contrasting with the quieter
tones of alders and willows.

We may speak of brilliancy and color in our leafy woods at the ebb-tide
of the year; but to know their beauty well we must walk among the
trees. Nor can pictures tell us all the truth about the tints of
autumn. How should we receive from them the atmospheric effects that
nature gives, and the indescribable blending and softening that comes
from innumerable rays of diffused and reflected light? The beauty also
changes from day to day and from hour to hour, for weeks.

Some of the other broadleaf trees deserve to be noticed, though in
less detail, as objects of beauty in the forest. The honey locust,
one of our largest trees of this class, is distinguished principally
for the elegant forms of its branches. The smaller divisions, the
twigs, follow a zigzag course which in itself is not beautiful, but
the effect is so bound up with the complex spiral evolutions of the
larger divisions, the boughs and branches, that the result is only to
heighten the elegance of the latter. The foliage of this tree is very
delicate, being composed of numerous elliptically shaped leaflets, that
are gathered into sprays that hang airily among the bold and sweeping
boughs.

Much might be said here in commendation of the sassafras tree, were
it economically more important. Its brown, sculptured bark is very
attractive, and its yellowish blossoms, that break in early spring,
are fragrant. The leaves are of several shades of green, and vary
considerably in outline. When in full leaf, the outward form of the
tree is striking in appearance, its foliage being massed into rounded
and hemispherical shapes that group themselves in the crown of the tree
in well-proportioned and tasteful outlines.

The birches, too, are very attractive trees, especially where they
have ample room to develop. The white birch appears at its best where
it is sprinkled in moderation among open groves of other trees. To
the forester it is of some importance, as its seedlings rapidly cover
denuded or burnt areas. They also shield from excessive sunlight or
from frost the seedlings of more valuable kinds that may have sprouted
in their welcome shade; until, gaining strength, the latter after
a few years push up their tops between the open foliage of their
protecting “nurses.” The white birch may be seen performing this
good office in many a fire-scarred piece of woodland throughout the
Northeastern States. Often, too, we see it standing a little apart, as
at the edge of a forest; its slender branches drooping around the pure
white trunk and its agile leaves gleaming as they wave in the light
breeze. It is like one of those single notes in music that glide into
universal harmony with irresistible charm.

The yellow birch, on the contrary, is most beautiful in the depth of
the forest. It is a large, useful tree. In the Adirondacks I have often
admired its tall, straight trunk as it rose above the neighboring
firs and spruces and unfolded its large, regular crown of dense
dark foliage, relieved underneath by the thin, shining, silvery to
golden-yellow bark, torn here and there into shreds that curled back
upon themselves around the stem.

The white elm, well represented in the avenues of New England, is
widely distributed. It is a tree for the meadow, although its natural
grace and, one might almost say, inborn gentleness are preserved along
the fringes of the forest and on the banks of streams. It needs some
room to show the refinement of its closely interwoven spray. Watch its
beauty as it sways in the light wind; or look at a grove of elms after
a hoar-frost on some early morning in winter, when the leaves are gone
and all its outlines are penciled in finest silver.

The flowering dogwood is one of our smaller trees, but is exceptionally
favored with all manner of beauty. Although it is very common in many
of the States, and is not without its special uses, it occupies a
subordinate position in the eyes of the forester, being often no more
than a mere shrub in form. And yet, while some of the larger trees by
their majestic presence lend grandeur to the forest, the dogwood brings
to it a charm not easily forgotten. In spring, when it is showered all
over with interesting, large, creamy-white flowers, it is an emblem
of purity. Its leaves, which appear very soon after the bloom, are
elegantly curved in outline, soft of texture, light-green in summer,
and of a deep crimson or rich purple-maroon in autumn.[2] In winter the
flowers are replaced by bright, red berries. Its spray of twigs and
branchlets, formed by a succession of exquisitely proportioned waves
and upward curves, is not as conspicuous, though hardly less ornamental
at this season than the fruit.

[Illustration: The Dogwood in Bloom]

As a shrub, being among the very first to bloom, it decorates the
forest borders in spring, or stands conspicuously within the forest. It
is found everywhere in the Appalachian region. In the coastal plain it
is associated with the longleaf pine, or may be seen among broadleaf
trees, or standing among red junipers, as tall as they and quite at
home in their company.

Before turning to coniferous trees, the tulip tree deserves some
attention on account of its usefulness, its extended habitat, and its
beauty as a forest tree. It is closely related to the magnolias, to
which belongs the big laurel of the Gulf region, an evergreen species
that might be called the queen of all broadleaf trees. But the big
laurel must here give place to the tulip tree, because it is not
so distinctively a forest tree, and is much more restricted in its
geographical distribution.

The first general impression of the tulip tree is, I venture to say,
one of strangeness. There is a foreign look about the heavy, truncated
leaves, and an oriental luxury in the large, greenish-yellow flowers.
These appear in May or June, while the conelike fruit ripens in
the fall. When the seeds have scattered, the open cones, upright in
position, remain for a long time on the tree, where they are strikingly
ornamental.

Esthetically the most important feature of the tulip tree is an
expression of dignity and stateliness, which gives it a character of
its own. Its extraordinary size renders it a conspicuous object in
the forest, the more so because we usually find it associated with a
variety of other trees of quite different aspect. Michaux, who has told
us much about the forest flora of the eastern United States, could
find no tree among the deciduous kinds, except the buttonwood, that
would bear comparison with it in size, and he calls it “one of the most
magnificent vegetables of the temperate zone.” Its columnar trunk
continues with unusual straightness and regularity nearly to the summit
of the tree. Its limbs and branches divide in harmonious proportions,
reaching out as if conscious of their strength, and yet with sufficient
gracefulness to lend dignity to the tree. The lower boughs, especially,
are inclined to assume an elegant sweep, deflecting sidewise to the
earth, and ending with an upward curve and a droop at the outer
extremity. Often the crowded environment of the forest does not admit
of such ample development; yet even under such conditions the tulip
tree preserves much of its elegance and is generally well balanced.

[Illustration: Tulip Trees]

When young it does not appear to much advantage, being rather too
symmetrical. Nevertheless I have found it described as a tree of
“great refinement of expression” at that age. As soon as it begins
to put on a richer crown of foliage and to develop a sturdier stem
and more elegant lines in the disposition of its branches, it becomes
invested with its peculiar aspect of magnificence, increasing in
gracefulness and grandeur from year to year. Its bark, at first smooth
and gray, gradually becomes chiseled with sharp small cuts; then takes
on a corrugated appearance, becomes brown, and finally turns into
deeply furrowed ridges in the old tree. Now the foliage, too, seems
to clothe the massive boughs more fitly, being denser and in size of
leaves more in accordance with the increased dimensions of the tree.

The foliage of the tulip tree is, in truth, one of its principal
points of beauty, and is inferior only to the stateliness of its form.
The opening leaf-buds are conical, exquisitely modeled, and of the
tenderest green. The leaves unfold from them much as do the petals in
a flower, but quickly spread apart on the stem. As they grow larger
they still preserve their light-green color, but take on a mild gloss.
They are ready to shift and tremble on their long leaf-stalks in every
breath of wind, which gives them a decided air of cheerfulness. We may
see the same thing in the aspen and in some of the poplars. Under the
tulip tree, however, the light that descends and spreads out on the
ground is far superior. It is softer and purer. We need not look up
to appreciate it, but may watch it on the soil, over which it moves in
flecks of light and dark.

“The chequer’d earth seems restless as a flood
Brushed by the winds, so sportive is the light
Shot through the boughs; it dances, as they dance,
Shadow and sunshine intermingling quick,
And dark’ning, and enlight’ning (as the leaves
Play wanton) every part.”

THE CONE-BEARERS

The cone-bearing trees are usually provided with needle-shaped or
awl-shaped leaves, in contradistinction to the broad and flat ones
that belong to the group described in the preceding section of this
chapter. Most of them preserve their foliage through the winter, and
are commonly recognized by this evergreen habit. They are much more
important to the forester than the other class. The conifers grow
on the true forest soils. They range along mountain crests or are
scattered over dry and semi-arid regions or along the sandy seashore,
while the broadleaf species usually require a better soil and a more
congenial climate. This circumstance causes many deciduous forests to
be cut down, in order that the better land on which they grow may be
utilized for agricultural purposes. Moreover, the wood of the conifers
is generally more useful, being in several of the species of great
economic importance. Lastly, in their habit of denser growth, and from
the fact that these trees are ordinarily found in the form of “pure”
forests (in contradistinction to those forests in which a number
of species grow intermingled), they furnish certain very important
conditions for practical and successful forestry.

The common white pine well deserves to stand at the head of all the
conifers or evergreens east of the Mississippi. Though it once covered
vast areas in more or less “pure” forests it has been largely cut away,
and recurring fires have generally prevented its return; but in certain
places it could even now be restored by careful treatment. At present
the last remnants of these pineries are disappearing swiftly, and
before the methods of the forester can be applied to such extensive
areas, this valuable heritage will probably have vanished. Heretofore
it has been to us Americans in the supply of wood what bread and water
are in daily life. It has been hardly less valued by other nations,
having been planted as a forest tree in Germany a full century ago.

I cannot say what I admire most in the white pine; whether it be the
luxuriance and purity of its foliage, or the very graceful spread of
its boughs. There is hardly a tree that can equal it for softness and
rich color. The tufts of needlelike leaves densely cover the upper
surfaces of the spreading branches, and are of a mild, uniformly
pure olive-green. Seen from beneath they appear tangled in the
beautifully interwoven twigs and stems. It is here that we first begin
to notice the exquisite manner of the white pine. The boughs reach out
horizontally, with here and there one that ascends or turns aside to
assume a position exceptionally graceful and to fill out a space that
seems specially to have been vacated for it. I speak of the white pine
at the age preceding maturity, when it is in its full strength, but
before it has attained the picturesqueness of old age. Following an
easy curve, the branch divides at right and left into dozens of finer
branchlets, all extending forward and straining, as it were, to reach
the light; and these in turn lift up hundreds of twigs and little stems
to enrich the upper surfaces with bushy tufts of lithe green needles.
The elegance of this habit in the white pine appears to advantage when
we stand a little above it on a gentle slope and see the branches
clearly defined against the surface of a lake below or some far-away
gray cloud.

Both in middle age and when it is old the white pine is a
distinguished-looking tree. When young it is sometimes elegantly
symmetrical; but more often, owing to a crowded position, it lacks the
air of neatness that belongs to a few of the other pines and to most
of the firs. At maturity it is a very impressive tree, especially in
the dense forest, where it develops a tall, dark, stately stem. In its
declining years the branches begin to break and fall away, no longer
able to bear the weight of heavy snows. This is often the time when
it is most picturesque.

[Illustration: Character of the White Pine.]

The representatives of the white pine in the West are the silver pine
and the sugar pine. Though both may be easily recognized as near
relatives of the eastern species, either by the typical form of the
cones or by the plan and structure of the foliage, each of the western
trees possesses a majesty and beauty of its own. The silver pine is
more compact in its branches than the white pine, and has somewhat
denser and more rigid foliage. Its dark aspect is well suited to the
mountains and ridges of the Northwest, where it commonly abounds.
The sugar pine, which is the tallest of all pines, impresses us by
its picturesque individuality. Its great perpendicular trunk not
infrequently rises, clear of limbs, to the height of a hundred and
fifty feet, and is surmounted by an open pyramidal crown of half that
length, composed of long and slender branches that are full of motion.
While the texture of the foliage is not as delicate as in the white
pine, it is smooth and elastic, and has an even bluish tinge that shows
to great advantage when the needles are stirred by the wind. Its cones,
which are of enormous size, hang in clusters from the extremities of
the distant boughs, which droop beneath the unusual weight. Two of
these cones, which I have lying before me, measure each nineteen inches
in length. Well might Douglas, the botanist who named this tree, call
it “the most princely of the genus.”

[Illustration: Sugar Pines
Young Bull Pines in the foreground at the right and an Incense Cedar at
the left.]

The longleaf pines of the Southern States should be noticed for
their picturesqueness. The Cuban pine is restricted to isolated tracts
in the region of the Gulf and eastern Georgia. The loblolly pine and
the longleaf pine, near relatives of the Cuban pine, cover extensive
tracts in low, level regions of the Southern States, and are most
interesting in old age. Standing, it may be, on a sandy plain not far
from the sea, among straggling palmettos, they lift their ample crowns
well up on their tall, straight stems, and contort their branches into
surprising forms; so that, looking through their crowns at a distance
in the dry, hazy air of the South, with possibly a red sunset sky for a
background, they are extremely fantastic and entertaining.

There are two other pines that have a similar tortuous habit in the
growth of their branches: the pitch pine of our eastern coast States
and the lodgepole pine of the Rocky Mountains. These, however, have an
esthetic value for quite a different reason. In the case of the pitch
pine it is due to a natural peculiarity otherwise rare among conifers;
for, this tree has the power of sprouting afresh from the stump that
has been left after cutting or forest fires, thus healing in time
the raggedness and devastation resulting from necessity, neglect, or
indifference. The lodgepole pine of the West performs the same patient
work over burned areas through the remarkable power of germination
belonging to its seeds, even after being scorched by fire. Thus both of
these trees not only furnish useful material, but restore health and
calmness to the forest.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
A Pinery in the South]

In connection with the longleaf pines of the Southern States, the
bull pine of the West deserves to be noticed on account of its near
botanical relationship and the somewhat similar economic position which
it occupies. It is the most widely distributed of western trees, being
found in almost every kind of soil and climate along the Pacific coast
and throughout the Rockies. Over so wide a range, growing under very
different conditions of soil, temperature, light, and moisture, it
varies greatly in form and appearance. We encounter it on dry, sterile
slopes or elevated plateaux in the interior, and walk for miles through
the monotony of these dark bull pine forests, in which the trees are
of small stature and seem to be struggling for their life. Again we
meet it on the humid western slopes of the Sierra Nevada, associated
with the sugar pine and other lofty trees. Here we scarcely recognize
it. It holds its own among the company of giants, and is full of
vitality, freedom, and strength; with brighter, redder bark and stout,
sinuous branches; with longer needles and larger cones. The sunlight
fills its ample crown spaces, and the wind murmurs in the foliage
overhead; for the pines are the master musicians of the woods.

[Illustration: The Bull Pine in its California Home]

The Southern States and the Gulf region furnish us with a conifer of
striking originality and great usefulness. This is the bald cypress,
which may have caught the reader’s eye in some northern park by
the elegant forms of its spirelike growth. It rises high and erect,
a narrow pyramid clothed in the lightest green foliage. The latter
is composed of delicate feathers of little elliptical leaves that
hang drooping among the finely interwoven short branches. This is in
its cultivated northern home, where it seems to thrive well on the
carefully kept greensward. But in reality it is a tree of deep swamps,
seeking the dank, flooded shores of southern rivers, or impenetrable
morasses, where few other trees can live. Here we may paddle our boat
through the strange-looking cypress knees that it sends up above the
water from the roots in the muddy soil beneath, and may admire the
straight, firm trunks that are ridged and buttressed below to form
wide, spreading bases. In this, its native home, when it has grown to
maturity, it looks far different from the trim, tall pyramid that we
see in the park. In place of the lofty spire it bears a broad, flat
crown, that is poised upon the tall, fibrous, reddish-gray trunk. Such
crowns, if the tree has had room to spread, may measure as much as a
hundred feet across; but where closely pressed at the sides by other
trees, they are contracted to much narrower dimensions. The foliage is
soft in texture as ever, and interspersed with little globular cones.
With the coming of winter, however, the sprays of foliage turn brown
and fall from the tree, the bald cypress being one of the very few
cone-bearers that shed their leaves.

In the South, especially in Florida and along the Gulf, the cypress
trees are likely to be overloaded with streamers of gray, mosslike
tillandsia. This epiphytic plant, commonly known as “Florida moss” or
“hanging moss,” sometimes hides the entire mass of foliage, and lends a
funereal aspect to whole groves and forests of these trees, detracting
much from their beauty.

One of the prettiest coniferous trees in the East is the hemlock.
Whatever may be the prejudice against the commercial qualities of this
tree,—for the value of its wood is not now appreciated as it should
be,—its appearance is admired by all who know it. I call it “pretty”
because it is fine and neat when young and grows to be comely and
graceful in middle age, rather than beautiful in the ordinary meaning
of that word. It is an easy, airy tree. And yet the time comes when
it loses its ease and grace, when its trunk grows darker and its
boughs become straggly and rough, when it puts on the strength of age
without its decrepitude and bears unflinchingly the weight of winter
snows. Is it now less interesting than in its youth? I think not.
It makes the woods rough and natural, and we admire its simplicity,
self-sufficiency, and endurance.

When young there is no tree with such elegant and yet loose and pretty
effects in the foliage, unless it should be one of its western cousins.
The spray hangs delicately from the sides of the tree and the top is
gracefully pendent. The little shoots, as they peep out from hundreds
of recesses, buoyant and lifelike, and the pendent top, are in some way
suggestive of a playing fountain, especially in quite young trees. In
the forest the symmetry of the hemlock is not always preserved; yet it
fits into the scene gracefully, whether fringing the mountain stream or
grouping itself among the other trees of the forest.

The two western hemlocks also have exceedingly graceful sprays and
majestic forms, but they are less familiar to most of us and are not as
widely distributed as the smaller eastern species.

One of the trees of widest geographical range in America is the red
cedar, or red jumper, as it should more properly be called. This
statement remains true notwithstanding the recent discovery that the
form of red juniper common to certain parts of the Rockies is distinct
from the eastern tree. Though of small size, except in the bottom lands
of Arkansas and Texas, it possesses some excellent qualities and is
useful in many ways. It is sometimes used in cabinet work, and is one
of the best materials for fence posts. The variety that grows along the
Florida coast furnishes the wood for the indispensable lead pencil.

The red juniper is at its best along the border of the forest or where
it strays a short distance away. Its foliage is dark and bushy, and
infinitely tender and soft in appearance. In the lower Appalachian
region it forms a fine setting for the gorgeous drifts of dogwood and
redbud that skirt the forest edges. It forms changeful and interesting
groups on the rocky knolls and ledges. On our Jersey shores it has
a tasteful way of gathering into little companies, just near enough
to the forest to belong to it, composing scenes that are pleasant to
remember. Singly, on the yellow sands, the young conical red juniper
edges off well against the sky. In its old age the same tree looks
gnarled and picturesque, but still beautiful, with its masses of small
blue-gray berries.[3] Many of us remember it so by the edge of the
ocean, and perhaps others, like myself, have allowed their imagination
to drift and have fancied that it looked solemn and thoughtful,
outlined against the pale-blue sky, listening to the swish and whisper
of the sea.

Several cone-bearing trees of the Western States remain to be
considered. These are the firs and spruces, which belong to the same
class as the pines; and the big tree and redwood, relatives of the bald
cypress.

The Douglas spruce, or red fir, is in reality neither a true spruce
nor a fir, though it has some of the characteristics of each. It was
discovered as long ago as 1795 by the famous explorer, Archibald
Menzies. This species and a smaller one that grows on the arid
mountains of southern California, with possibly a third that is found
in Japan, constitute together the whole genus _Pseudotsuga_. But
whatever its botanical peculiarities, the red fir is an important and
exceedingly useful tree, especially for the purposes of practical and
scientific forestry. Like the white pine it was planted long ago by
those pioneers in forestry, the Germans, and has proved itself among
them to be one of the few trees of foreign extraction that can be
called successful.

When young, the red fir grows rapidly and symmetrically, and has a
fresh, vigorous, healthy look. It then already possesses the bluish
depth to its foliage that it preserves throughout life, a color that
is comparable in its purity only to that of the white pine. In several
of its other features, however, it changes with the lapse of years. It
gradually loses the graceful lower boughs that feather to the ground in
the young tree; its bark becomes rough and very thick; and its trunk
develops into a tall, straight shaft that bears a long, spiry crown of
striking symmetry, in which tier after tier of branches rises to the
narrowing summit, ending some two or three hundred feet in air. This
is its aspect in the favored regions of its growth, near the shores of
Puget Sound and in the moist mountains of Washington and Oregon, where
it once formed forests of extraordinary density and dark grandeur,
portions of which are still preserved over this extensive territory.

Another important conifer is the lowland fir of the Pacific coast.
All the silver firs, to which class this tree belongs, have distinct
features in their foliage and a characteristic habit of growth, a
description of which may enable the reader to picture to himself
not only the lowland fir itself, but to form some conception of the
esthetic value of the entire genus.

[Illustration: A Silver Fir at Middle Age]

The leaves are narrow, flat, and linear, usually about as long as a
pin or a needle, glossy green on the upper side, and streaked with a
longitudinal whitish line underneath. They are crowded horizontally
at the right and left sides of the shoot or twig, like the hairs on
the quill of a feather. The twigs themselves, and, in turn, the boughs
and branches, have a similar tendency to assume a horizontal position;
and thus the tree is built up in neat symmetrical stages, dwindling
in size to the summit, and presenting the typical conical form of the
cone-bearers.

Let it not be presumed, however, that there is anything awkward or
stiff in the appearance of the firs. Young firs are among the neatest
and most elegant objects in a park. The smooth gray bark, the lifelike
air in the distribution of the boughs and smaller branches, the glossy
green as seen from the side or above, varied to a blue or gray when we
stand beneath, redeem them from every charge of conventionality.[4]

The lowland fir as a young tree, and where it is afforded sufficient
room, has more of the drooping, plume-like, graceful air than is usual
with the members of this genus. The leaves are somewhat curled and
scattered about the stem. Like most trees it becomes more expressive as
it grows older and little by little rejects the features and traces of
its earlier years. Its arms gradually bend inward, and the whole tree
becomes more cylindrical, till in its maturity it speaks freely through
its broken and twisted boughs of storms and battles and insect ravages
of long ago; yet it strives to cover its scars with luxuriant masses of
verdure and numberless purplish cones—a truly magnificent spectacle of
a hoary veteran of crisp and sturdy aspect.

The Engelmann spruce, though a smaller tree than either the red fir
or the lowland fir, is one of the most important of the spruces. Its
home is in the elevated regions of Colorado, whence it spreads westward
and northward throughout the Rocky Mountains. Its well rounded hole is
scaly with small cinnamon-red plates, and its foliage is composed of
sharp, short, needlelike leaves, that bristle around the stem and are
bluish-green in color. Its small brown cones droop from the extremities
of the boughs and mass themselves in the top of the tree. Like most of
the spruces, this one climbs to high elevations. Many a wild mountain
slope in the West is covered by the dense ranks of these straight,
slender trees, with tapering spires that are green in summer and
frosted with snow and rime in winter.

The glory of our western forests, however, are the sequoias, those
gigantic trees of California that have become widely famous. The two
sequoias, the big tree of the Sierra Nevada and the redwood of the
Pacific coast, constitute the last remnants of a mighty race that
covered vast areas in North America and Europe in past geological ages.
It is believed that their days are almost over, for the big tree groves
are few in number and small in extent, and even these are falling
rapidly under the ax and saw. Nor does this species appear to reproduce
itself easily; for, although numberless seeds fall from the old trees,
they rarely sprout, and therefore are slow to replace what has been
taken away. The redwoods, too, are threatened with extinction, though
they still cover considerable tracts along the northern half of the
California coast. They are coveted even more than the big trees and
are disappearing with a rapidity that only modern industry has made
possible.

Fortunately the redwood possesses two gifts of inestimable value that
will prolong, but cannot perpetuate, its existence. The unusual amount
of moisture in its wood and the absence of pitch in the sap lessen the
danger from fire; while the same remarkable trait that we noticed in
the pitch pine, otherwise very rare in coniferous trees, of sprouting
from dormant buds at the edge of the stump will replace, for a time at
least, many of the giants that are taken away.

The general appearance or type of the sequoias resembles that of the
cypresses and cedars. The bald cypress is their nearest relative.
The big tree often has the same spreading base, and both have the
fluted, shreddy bark, traits that may also be noticed in the common
white cedar and in arbor-vitæ. The diameter of the trunk of the big
tree is strikingly large even for its wonderful height. Both trees
lift their crowns rather high, and have comparatively short boughs,
with dense, bushy, somewhat straggly-looking foliage. In its youthful
stage the foliage of the redwood, like its congener’s, has a bluish
tinge, which with advancing years turns to a dark and somber green
that contrasts strangely with the red color of the thick, spongy
bark. But the individuality of both trees, especially that of the big
tree, is so impressive and magnificent that all these minor essences
become involved in the majesty of the whole. The mighty bole rises in
splendid proportions to where the distant fronds hang loosely down,
disappearing within their somber shadows, but still carrying upward
the masses of foliage, as if striving to reach the very clouds. As we
view their stately and incomparable forms, so masterly wrought, so
unapproachable in their magnificence, we need hardly be told that these
trees are strangers from a distant and forgotten age.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
Redwood Forest in California]

Much has been said and written concerning the sizes and ages of
these two largest trees of America—indeed, with the exception of the
Australian eucalipti, we might say of the world. It is said that some
of the latter surpass the redwood in height, though a redwood tree was
discovered within recent years on the Eel River, California, whose
stupendous height reached nearly three hundred and fifty feet,
thus surpassing in that dimension, at least, any previously recorded
measurements of the big tree. The ages of the sequoias have been more
difficult to determine, but it appears that in the beginning they
were exaggerated. The mature redwood, doubtless, is apt to be several
centuries younger than the big tree; but so excellent an authority as
Mr. John Muir has said of the latter that “these giants under the most
favorable conditions probably live five thousand years or more, though
few of even the larger trees are more than half as old.”

The redwoods are great lovers of moisture. In the valleys and canyons
near the ocean they bathe in the ascending fog and stand dripping with
condensed vapor. We shall come upon them in dense groves, where the
day is a continuous twilight and the trees surpass in their combined
massiveness even the red firs of Oregon. At other times we shall find
them mingling in more open forest with lowland firs and hemlocks, or,
in their northern range, with the splendid Port Orford cedar. The light
enters these more open forests and calls forth much beautiful young
growth and shrubbery: the rhododendrons of California, with large and
showy purplish blossoms and evergreen leaves; western dogwoods, that
might at first glance be mistaken for the eastern species; barberries
and familiar hazels; and ferns and violets.

[Illustration: Devastation in the Forest]

The reader must not infer, of course, that such scenes are necessarily
of common occurrence in the forest; but they are more agreeable to
contemplate than those that have been despoiled of their attractions.
It should be remembered that if we traveled through these forests we
should often find fresh signs of human interference: sections of trees
lying prone on the ground, abandoned as useless by the lumberman;
stripped crowns that stood in the way of falling trunks, and debris
of bark and slashings. We should also notice the track of the forest
fire among the stumps and charred treetrunks, and here and there the
dying tops of standing trees that were unable to withstand the flames.
Finally, in dry and semi-arid regions, particularly in sections of the
Southwest, we should notice still another danger that threatens our
forests: the excessive or ill-timed grazing of sheep, which trample to
death the young tree seedlings as they pass over the ground in great
herds and devour the last vestiges of vegetation, thus leaving a bare
and dry forest floor, upon which the old trees subsist with difficulty
through the prolonged droughts of summer.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
Where the Sheep Have Been]

FOREST ADORNMENT

Though there can be no forest without trees, it may be asserted with
equal truth that trees alone would make but an incomplete forest.[5]
Under the old trees we find the young saplings that are in future years
to replace them and in their turn are to form a new canopy of shade. In
their company is a vast variety of shrubs, ferns, and delicate grasses
and flowers that decorate the forest floor. Vines and creepers gather
about the old trees and clamber up their furrowed trunks. In autumn the
ground is strewed with fallen leaves, motionless or hurrying along
before the wind. These gather into deep beds, soft to the tread, and
at last molder away in the moist, rich earth. In the needle-bearing
forests of the mountains brilliant green mosses replace the shrubs and
flowers and deck the bare brown earth.

There are _lifeless_ sources of beauty in the woods, too, that are not
easy to pass by unnoticed: rocks with interesting forms and surfaces;
forms that are lifeless, yet take on distinct expression by their
different modes of cleavage, and surfaces that drape themselves in the
choicest paraphernalia of drooping moss and rare lichen; prattling
mountain streams; cascades; and glassy pools. These are “inanimate”
things with a kind of life in them, after all.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
A Passageway through Granite Rocks]

Lastly, there are the true owners of the forest: the bird that hovers
round its borders; the free, chattering squirrel; the casual butterfly
that leads us to the flowers; and the large game that inhabits the
hidden recesses and adds an element of wildness and strange attraction
to these quiet haunts.

All this wealth of detail gives life to the forest. The shrubs,
above the rest, should here interest us somewhat more minutely. They
are often the most conspicuous objects in the embellishment of the
forest; and since our investigation was to be guided to some extent
by considerations of usefulness, it ought to be added that shrubs
not infrequently exercise a beneficial influence on the vigor and
well-being of the trees themselves. Trees, shrubs, and certain of the
smaller plants—so long as their root systems are not too dense and
intricate—are of value on account of their ameliorative effects on
temperature and moisture. This is more important in this country, so
extreme in its climatic variations, than in northern Europe. In the dry
and parching days of summer the shrubbery of the woods, by its shade,
helps to keep the earth cool and moist. This mantle of the earth,
moreover, conducts the rain more gradually to the soil, exercising an
efficient economy. In the fall and winter the shrubs, which are densest
near the forest border, help to break the force of the sweeping winds
which might otherwise carry away the fallen leaves, so useful in their
turn because they are conservators and regulators of moisture and
contain valuable chemical constituents which they return to the soil.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
Shrubbery and River Birches. New Jersey]

The pine barrens of New Jersey illustrate these principles. In close
proximity to the sea a welcome moisture enters the forest with the
ocean breezes. Penetrating farther inland, it is not so entirely
dissipated as to preclude a varied undergrowth of shrubbery, which in
turn renders a welcome aid to the forest by the protection it affords
to the porous, sandy soil, which would soon dry out under the scant
shelter of the pervious pines. Underneath these the kalmia or calico
bush, with its large and showy bunches of flowers, is abundant. In
late summer the sweet pepperbush is there, laden with its fragrant
racemes; in winter, the cheerful evergreen holly of glossy green leaf
and bright berry. In the dry and sunny places we find the wild rose,
the trailing blackberry, with its rich color traceries on the autumn
leaves, and the no less brilliant leaves of the wild strawberries
underfoot. We come upon the creeping wintergreen and the local
“flowering moss.” The fragrant “trailing arbutus,” here as elsewhere,
is an earnest of the generous returning spring. Along the creeks and
brooks are masses of honeysuckles, alder bushes, and sweet magnolias.

[Illustration: Fern Patch in a Grove of White Birch]

The coniferous forests of the Rocky Mountain region are either too dry
or too elevated to promote a luxuriant undergrowth; but we find it in
the humid coast region of Oregon and Washington, within the forests
of fir, pine, and spruce. In the deciduous forests, however, the
shrubbery attains its best development, for its presence depends
largely upon moisture, climate, and soil, and these conditions are
usually most favorable in our broadleaf districts. In the latter,
moreover, the shrubbery exercises its influence most efficiently, for
many of the pines will bear a considerable amount of heat and drought,
and several other conifers show their independence and a different kind
of hardihood at high and humid elevations. The varied and beautiful
forms of undergrowth in our broadleaf forests—the shrubs, the vines and
graceful large ferns, and the smaller plants that live along the forest
borders and penetrate within—may be regarded as one of the distinctive
features of American forest scenery.

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.

[Illustration: A Yucca in the Chaparral]

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.

CHARACTER OF THE BROADLEAF FORESTS

If the individual trees of the two main groups that were described in
the opening chapter impress us differently as they belong to the one
or the other, it will be found that the two kinds of forests likewise
convey distinct impressions. Different in aspect, they are also
distinguished one from the other by the different atmosphere or spirit
that pervades them. Taking leave here of the trees as individuals, I
shall now examine the characteristics of woodland scenery.

It has been said that the broadleaf trees grow naturally over a wide
extent of territory. Of the unbroken wildernesses that covered the
eastern parts of our country when it began to be colonized, only
fragments remain. A few States are still densely wooded, but in these
the forces which have caused the disappearance of similar forests in
other regions have now begun to assert themselves. Some will yield to
their old enemy, the ravaging fire that could so often be prevented;
others must ultimately recede to make way for agriculture; many will be
removed more rapidly for the sake of their material. It is confidently
to be expected, however, in view of the widening influence forestry is
exerting, that where it is desirable a provision will be made for a
future growth to replace the present one.

Of the broadleaf forests there are many types. There are forests of oak
and chestnut, of maple and beech; dry upland forests, and the tangled
woods of the swamps. There are young thickets of birch and aspen, of
willow and alder, and scrubby oak barrens. There are second-growth
forests, and now and then even a patch of fine old virgin timber. In
size, also, there is a great difference, from the grove that covers the
hilltop to the unbroken forest that stretches over an entire mountain
range.

It appears, therefore, that _variety_ is one of the marked
characteristics of our eastern woods. As several hundred different
kinds of trees enter into their composition under every form and
modification of circumstance, we find in these woods an endless novelty
and perennial freshness. The young swamp growth of red maple, white
birch, and alder, bedded in grass and wild flowers, is very different
from the dense young forest of birch and aspen of the northern woods
that, under the influence of ample light, has sprung into being after
some recent fire, the signs of which are still visible in the charred
stumps under the young trees. The open groves of old oak and chestnut
on the hill, with the slanting light of autumn and deep beds of dry,
rustling leaves, are likewise different from the secluded forest in
unfrequented mountains, where young and old growth mingle together:
crooked ashes and moss-covered elms with straight young hickories,
with shrubs and vines, and little seedlings sprouting among the rocks
and mosses.

If we were to proceed in a continuous journey from the staid forests of
the North to the more diversified growth of the intermediate States,
and, going on, were to visit the complex forests of the South, we
should notice only a very gradual transition. Yet if we were to study
any particular region within these larger areas it would be found to
have certain definite characteristics.

Let us imagine ourselves standing, for instance, on some point of
vantage in the Blue Ridge of Virginia, the season being early May. The
view extends across ranges of low, rounded mountains, which are fresh
with the new foliage of spring. On the nearest hills the individual
trees and their combinations into groups can be distinguished; but
receding into the valleys and more distant slopes the forms and colors
grow less distinct, till the tone becomes darker and at last melts
into the familiar hazy blue of the distant hills. Looking again at
the nearer hillsides, we recognize the tulip trees with their shapely
crowns, clothed in a soft green and lifted somewhat above the general
outline. The light green of the opening elms and sweet gums can be
very well distinguished beyond the more shadowy beeches, ashes, and
maples. The remaining spaces are occupied by hickories and chestnuts,
still brown and leafless, and by rusty-hued oaks, which are only just
beginning to break their buds. Within the leafless portions of the
wood an occasional dash of bright yellow or creamy white, not quite
concealed, shows where the sassafras or dogwood is in bloom. The crests
and ridges, however, are likely to be occupied by groups and bands
of pines, while the sides of the mountain brook will be studded with
cedars and hemlocks.

In such scenery, if it be natural, there is no vulgarity and no
faultiness of design. With all the variety there is still a fitness
in form, color, and expression. It is rough, but pure in taste. For
instance, the pine groves on the mountain ridges are not sharply
defined in their margins and thus separated from the rest of the
forest, but they gradually merge with the neighboring trees in a way
that was naturally foreshadowed in the conformation of the land and the
composition of the soil.

A feature so natural and self-evident may hardly appear worthy of
notice; but its value is appreciated as soon as we compare the outlines
referred to with the rigid forms of some of the artificial forests of
Europe. Those who have seen the checkered forests of Germany, where the
design of the planted strip of trees, like a patch upon the mountain,
is unmistakable, will readily note the contrast between the natural and
the artificial type. Neither is there any striving for effect in the
natural forest, an error not uncommon in the tree groupings of parks or
private estates. In these an effort is sometimes made to produce an
impression by contrasts in form and color, but too often the outcome is
mere conspicuousness; while nature, in some subtle way, has touched the
true chord.

Forest scenery, however, need not be as extensive as this in order to
add appreciably to the beauty of landscape. In the valley of southern
Virginia, among the peach orchards and sheep farms, low hills lie
scattered on both sides of the valley road. The mountain ranges beyond
them recede to a great distance, and are partly hidden from view by
these intervening hills. The latter, however, are decked with bits
of woodland: groves of oak, chestnut, and beech, where the horseman
on sunny summer days finds a welcome coolness and shade. Would these
sylvan spots be missed if they were to be removed? They now exercise
a beneficial influence on the drainage and moisture conditions of the
surrounding farmlands, and they supply some of the home wants of the
farmers. But they have an esthetic value also. They are usually in neat
and healthy condition, and, viewed either from within or without, they
are balm to the eyes as they lie scattered promiscuously over the hills.

It is hardly two hundred miles by road from that region to the high
mountains of the North Carolina and Tennessee border, where we find
broadleaf forests of the wildest and roughest kind. These happily still
possess the great charm of undisturbed nature. The small mountain towns
lie scattered far apart. The region is even bleak and dreary—at least
until the summer comes; but when everything turns green the season
is glorious. As we ride through these woods we realize the majesty
of their stillness and strength, and cannot help admiring the great
oaks and chestnuts that contend for the ground, succumbing only after
centuries in the strife.

While the broadleaf forests of western North Carolina and eastern
Tennessee are characterized principally by grandeur, this is not
commonly a pronounced trait of the leafy forests. Rather are they
distinguished for a certain air of cheerfulness, the expression of
which will vary in different localities; but in some way it will
manifest itself almost everywhere. Thus, in the southern half of New
England woodland scenery is marked by a peculiar expression of quiet
gladness. Whether it be in small farm woods among low hills, or in
continuous forest, as in the Berkshires, there is the same happy choice
in bright and cheerful trees: maples, birches, elms, and others; some
bright with early spring blossoms, some adding to the variety of color
by their bark or shining leaves, others agile of leaf and bough in the
frequent breezes. Here we find an abundance of oaks, trees whose fresh,
glossy leaves seem to be specially well fitted to purify the air, for
there is a distinct and refreshing odor in oak forests. We find an
ample choice of tender, springy plants among the moist rocks. These
smaller woods, too, are the favored haunts of the songbirds, for here
they find the glint of sunshine that they so much delight in.

A similar warmth of expression belongs to the leafy woods of other
regions. If we compare New England with Pennsylvania, we shall
find that the broadleaf forests of the latter are denser and more
continuous, while they are at the same time richer in the variety of
trees, shrubs, and other forms of embellishment, which find here a
milder air and a richer soil. Springtime is more luxuriant and replete
with happy surprise and change. But while these forests are perhaps
more elaborate than those of southern New England, I cannot say that
they impress me as being so homelike and engaging.

Along the Gulf and in Florida the dank forests of the swamps and
river bottoms, finding all the conditions favorable to a luxuriant
vegetation, are characterized by extraordinary complexity of growth.
Perhaps we enter some secluded patch of virgin forest, and sit down for
a while in its dense shade, impressed by the strangeness and solitude
of the place. Our curiosity is aroused by the multifarious assemblage
of trees, vines, and shrubbery, and we wonder how many ages it has
been thus, and how far back some of the oldest trees may date in their
history. But they seem rather to have no age at all; only to be linked
in some mysterious way with the dim past out of which they have arisen.

[Illustration: Virgin Forest Scene in Florida]

A mighty live oak leans across the scene, moist and green with
moss; another is noticed farther away among slender palmettos, whose
spear-edged leaves catch the sunlight. Vines and climbers hang about
the stems or droop lazily from the boughs. In the nearby sluggish
water, where the soil is deep and moldy, stands a sweet gum with
curiously chiseled bark, as if some patient artist had been at work;
and a little beyond, some cypresses are roofed by the delicate web of
their own foliage.

We may sit dreaming away a full hour thus, with only the hum of a few
insects and perhaps a stray scarlet tanager flitting by to disturb our
meditations.

It has been indicated in a former chapter that the broadleaf woods,
taken as a whole, are decidedly richer in shrubs and small plants than
the evergreen or coniferous forests. This adventitious source of beauty
has much to do with their general character, because the gay show of
blossom and fruit, bright stem, and diverse habits of growth of these
lesser plants, contributes appreciably to the liveliness of sylvan
scenery. But the effect derived from the blossoms and fruits of many
of the trees themselves should not be overlooked. In this respect the
broadleaf trees are superior to the evergreens. The poplars and willows
ripen their woolly and silvery tassels when the snow has scarcely
disappeared. The bright tufts of the red maple, the little yellow
flowers of the sassafras, the snowy white ones of the serviceberry
and flowering dogwood, the latter’s red berries in fall, the brilliant
fruit of the mountain ash, the perfect flowers of the magnolias, the
heavily clustered locusts, honey locusts, and black cherries, and the
basswoods with fragrant little creamy flowers, alike do their part in
lending character to the forest wherever they may have their range.

Then, in addition to the beauty that appeals to us through the outward
senses, there is a quality in the forests that is dear to us through
an inward sense. It is the influence of a temperament that seems to
belong to the place itself: the pure and health-giving atmosphere, the
quiet and rest that binds up the wounded spirit and brings peace to the
troubled mind.

We leave the turmoil of the city and the thousand little cares of daily
life and seek refuge for a while in sylvan retreats, in some pleasant
leafy forest with murmuring water and sunbeams; and presently the
ruffled concerns of yesterday are smoothed away and the forest, like
sleep, “knits up the raveled sleeve of care.”

In the woods there is harmony in all things; all things are
subordinated to one purpose and desire: that the best may be made out
of life, however small the means. There is a kind of honesty and truth
here, and a self-sufficiency in everything. Shakspere says, in the
words of Duke Senior, who stands surrounded by his followers in the
Forest of Arden (“As You Like it,” act ii, scene 1):—

Are not these woods
More free from peril than the envious court?
Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,
The seasons’ difference; as, the icy fang
And churlish chiding of the winter’s wind,
Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,
Even till I shrink with cold, I smile, and say,
“This is no flattery: these are counselors
That feelingly persuade me what I am.”

* * * * *

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

THE CONIFEROUS FORESTS

It has already been said (page 31) that the evergreen or coniferous
forests differ from those described in the foregoing chapter by
a denser community of growth and by their frequent occurrence as
“pure” forests. Their gregariousness makes it proper to apply such
expressions as the “pine forests of Michigan” and the “spruce forests
of Maine.” It will be seen presently that these special characteristics
are esthetically important. Moreover, it is a fact that they borrow
much grandeur and beauty from the atmospheric conditions of their
environment, which, if we except certain large tracts of pine forests,
is commonly placed among mountains and at considerable elevations
above the sea. To these several sources must be ascribed many of the
qualities that have invested the evergreen forests with a peculiar
magnificence and beauty.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
A Group of Conifers. Montana]

The reader may be surprised at the statement that coniferous forests
are distinguished for a “dense community of growth,” for it must have
been noticed that many of our Rocky Mountain forests do not bear
evidence of this fact. And yet it is true that the typical habit, so to
speak, of the conifers is a close huddling together of individuals. It
is shown in the massive red fir forests of western Washington and the
redwoods of California, which are probably the densest and heaviest in
the world; in the crowded Engelmann spruce and alpine fir groves common
to certain soils and situations in Colorado; and in the dense tracts
of lodgepole pine scattered throughout the mountains of the West. In
the East the same tendency is illustrated by the better sections of the
Adirondack spruce forests and the splendid pineries that once covered
the Great Lake region. If we call to mind these extensive examples, we
realize how the conifers ever strive to build a dense and impenetrable
forest. That they are capable of a like growth in other parts of the
world also, will be attested by those who have seen the spruce and fir
forests of Germany and France.

While the regions that have just been mentioned exhibit the health
and vigor of coniferous forests under favorable natural conditions,
there are certain portions of the Rocky Mountains where the climate is
too dry and the topography and soil are too austere and rocky to suit
even that hardy class of trees. So here, under circumstances that may
almost be pronounced abnormal for forest growth, the evergreens fight
a harder battle, while the broadleaf trees, with the exception of the
poplar tribe, are scarce indeed. We must, therefore, turn to the more
typical coniferous forests that have enjoyed at least a fair share of
nature’s gifts—whether it be within the range of the Rocky Mountains or
elsewhere—to understand those peculiar qualities that are connected
with their surroundings or their characteristic habits of growth.

One of the commonest attributes of such forests is their grandeur;
partly inherent and in part also derived from the sublimity of their
surroundings. Their situation is often in the midst of wild and
picturesque mountain scenery, where they find a proper setting for
their own majestic forms among crags and precipices and on the great
shoulders of mountains; where powerful winds and severe snows test
their endurance and strength. It is here that we chiefly find those
awe-inspiring distant views that harmonize so well with the evergreen
forests. The trees spread over the mountains for miles and miles in
closely fledged masses, and become more impressive with distance as
the color changes from a continuity of dark green to shades of blue and
soft, distant purple. In form and color the trees blend together and
seem to move up the dangerous slopes and difficult passes in mighty
multitudes.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
Mount Rainier. Washington]

Contributing to the same impression of grandeur, we have the
possibility in these lofty regions of certain glorious effects in
sunlight and shade. At sunrise the first rays flash on the pointed
tops of the uppermost trees, and with the advancing hours descend the
dark slopes on their golden errand. Meanwhile the western sides lie in
shadow. At noon a soft haze spreads through the valleys, and in the
twilight hours the intense depth of purple in the distant ranges, where
stratus clouds catch the last rays of the sun, obscures the contours
of the forests and makes them even more sublime. This, too, were not
possible without great mass and uniformity of aspect.

The interchange between lights and shadows cast by the moving clouds is
nowhere so effectively exhibited as in higher altitudes and over the
surfaces of evergreen forests. A wide expanse enables us to follow with
our eyes the interesting chase of the cloud shadows, as they fly up the
slopes, the steeper the faster, and glide noiselessly but swiftly over
outstretched areas of endless green. The clouds seem to move faster
over mountain ranges, as a rule, than they do over the low valleys. Or
is it only because now we see them nearer by and can gage the rapidity
of their flight?

Suppose, instead of a restless day, it should be calm, with cloud
masses heaped in the sky and the sun sinking low. There has been a
loose snowfall in the afternoon, and every twig, branch, and spray
hangs muffled in snow. The rocks are capped with a light cover and
ribbed with snowy lines along their sides. The air is pure and
breathless. The disappearing sun sends back a rosy light to the canopy
of clouds overhead, and the reflection falls upon masses of frosted,
whitened evergreens, lending them a breath of color that deepens as the
sun sinks lower still; and the rays enter the openings of the hills and
flood the opposite slopes, till they glow with a fiery red.

Thus the grandeur of these forests may be due to expanse and volume,
depth of color, sunlight and shade, or to effects borrowed from the
clouds. Finally, we notice another kind of grandeur when coniferous
forests are visited by storms. First comes the moaning of the wind,
mysterious and unsearchable, and different from the roar and rush
that sweeps through the broadleaf woods. Then follows the uneasy
communication from tree to tree, a trembling that spreads from section
to section. When the rush of the wind finally strikes the tall,
straight forms they do not sway their arms about as wildly as do the
maples, elms, or tulip trees, but bend and sway throughout their length
and rock majestically.

[Illustration: A Thicket of White Firs]

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.

[Illustration: _Courtesy of the Bureau of Forestry_
An Open Forest in the Southwest]

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.

[Illustration: A Storm-beaten Veteran]

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.

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.

Many sciences were involved in the solution of these questions.
With the progress in means and methods the aims and objects of the
new profession gradually grew to be more and more clearly defined,
and knowledge and experience ultimately evolved the new science of
forestry. To the forester were finally intrusted the reëstablishment,
protection and preservation, the improvement, the regulation, the
management and administration, as well as the final cutting, of the
forest.

Such interference with the work of nature ultimately affected its
aspect. In the long life of the forest the changes were slow, but in
course of time the stamp of artificiality was impressed upon it, and
the imprint of nature’s own countenance was taken away. To an American,
if he has seen a little of our wildness, a great charm is wanting
in the artificial forests of Europe. The sun does not seem to set
naturally, but to hide behind roads and houses. It may be a lifelike
and harmonious scene, but it does not speak as deeply and expressively
as our wilder woods. The necessity of it is thrust upon you. It seems,
at times, as if the free will and perfect liberty of the air and rain,
of the wind, were wanting.

These forests are crossed by roads and are often divided into sections
of distinct age, kind, and appearance. Shrubs, if any, are few.
The deer’s track is known. The history of these trees is known and
recorded, and even their doom is fixed for a near or distant day.

There is, however, another side to this question. Through their very
design and fitness for an intended object the effects that are produced
are often decidedly pleasing. What these effects are will now appear
from an examination of the four different types or classes that
constitute at present the artificial forests of Europe.

The type of artificial forest that differs least from our own eastern
woods is one that has received the name of “selection forest.” It
constitutes a transition to the more complex forms. As in our own case,
trees of different kinds and of various sizes are intermingled in the
forest; but the European forest has more uniformity than ours, and
expresses a conceived purpose. This is readily explained by the fact
that from the beginning of the new method the trees were never removed
indiscriminately from the wooded area, but that a careful selection
was made from time to time of certain kinds, according to size and
usefulness. Useful material, however, was not the sole consideration.
The cutting was intended also to improve the conditions of growth for
the trees that remained standing, and to increase the proportion of the
species that were most useful or desirable. Finally, by opening up the
forest to a proper degree of sunlight, the way was prepared for the
germination of seeds that might fall from the old trees, in order to
provide early for a new generation in the forest.

[Illustration: A German “Selection Forest”]

It will be readily understood, I believe, that in course of time such
a forest would betray to the eye a certain gradation in the sizes of
the trees, and a fixed proportion in the number of those belonging to
one or another species. To this extent the selection forests differ
from our second-growth woods of the East; and yet, as compared to the
other three European types, their principal merit, esthetically, is
their naturalness. Though very different from our virgin forests, they
nevertheless possess the variety, cheerfulness, and interesting play of
light and shade that have been noted in an earlier chapter. In Germany
they are usually somewhat precise and trim in appearance; but in France
and elsewhere they look a little wilder, and are often enlivened with
holly or ivy, some sportive raspberry, or other gay shrub or vine. In
European countries where forestry has become thoroughly established
this type of forest has gradually disappeared, or has diminished
greatly in proportion, in order to make way for the other more highly
developed forms.

The young forest growth that goes by the name of “coppice” is linked
to the preceding kind by the association of time, for it is also one
of the old forms. The sound of the word brings to mind the copses of
England, those sportive little thickets that we may have read about,
or seen running along the streams, or straggling over the hills. But
the coppice of Germany or France is not quite the same as the copse
of England. It is a young forest of businesslike aspect, in which a
design for usefulness is unmistakable. The purpose in it is to reap an
approximately equal harvest each year, such as firewood from beeches,
hornbeams, or the like, withes from willows, charcoal from chestnut, or
tanbark from oak.

The means to accomplish the end are very simple. Only one kind of tree
composes the coppice, and the forest is graded in sections, each a year
older than the preceding. It is like a series of blocks, in which each
is a little taller than the last. The tallest falls by the ax, and the
next the following year, and so through the series till the cycle is
completed, when it may be resumed as before. The repetition is possible
because a tree is chosen for this kind of forest that will renew itself
by naturally sprouting from the stump that is always left after cutting.

The coppice woods must be seen to appreciate their charm. They have
a distinct flavor and a character that one easily remembers after a
first acquaintance. Not too far removed from the town or village,
yet often hidden in some secluded part of the hills, we find the
coppice a neat-looking place. The small wood that has been cut is
carefully stacked along the roadside in bundles or cords. Within one
of the sections we see the wood-cutters at work with their axes and
bill-hooks, and can fancy them trudging home contentedly at the close
of day. We find the rabbits taking the coppice for their own, sporting
about and wearing tracks in the thickets. A quiet place, and homelike
withal. We can look out above the thicket of young trees at the sky
and the older environing woods. The sounds come mellowed through the
distance to this open spot, as of the heavy ax in the large woods, or
the song of some woman in the far valley.

We have no coppice woods just like these in America. Our willow farms
are the only ones that have been subjected to a system like the one
described, and these are entirely too low to be called woods. They
are graded in size and age from one to four years, and separated into
blocks, just like the willow coppices of Germany. At a distance the
lithe stems with diminutive tufts of foliage at the top, standing in
straight rows, almost as dense as grain, have more the appearance of an
agricultural product than a tree farm.

The Christmas tree plantations, a kind of forest gardening, as it were,
remind us of the coppice in appearance, but cannot truly be called
such. As the conifers that furnish us with Christmas trees are not
capable of sprouting from the stump, the growers must depend upon
planting for their propagation, which is a principle directly opposed
to the idea of coppice.

Throughout the Eastern States there is an abundance of broadleaf
stump-sprout thickets, which have come by inheritance to the ground
from which their progenitors were removed by the wood-cutter’s ax.
While some of these approach nearly to the European coppices in
intention, they do not bear out the resemblance sufficiently for a
comparison. They lack their system and structure, though they depend
upon the same power of reproduction for their existence. Nevertheless,
they have their own charm. I remember one, at the edge of a tall
forest, in which the sprouts were composed of oak, beech, hickory,
tulip tree, dogwood, haw, and a few pine saplings, all of which formed
a dense thicket of young trees. In summer it was pleasant to thread
one’s way through this place, quite concealed by the straight young
growth, or to lie down there and listen for a whole morning to the
twitterings and songs of birds, shut in by a wealth of foliage.

There is another type of European forest known as “coppice under
standards.” This is no more than a coppice growing underneath a
selection forest somewhat different in aspect from the one already
described. In the present case the selection forest is opener, the
trees being fewer in number. Ample light is thus admitted for the
growth of the coppice beneath. The appearance of the whole is that of
an open forest into which the younger thickets have penetrated.

The esthetic effect of this combination may be described in very few
words. While the coppice loses much of its charm, the overspreading
forest gains something by this sacrifice. The former keeps the soil
in fair and fresh condition, thus insuring a healthy growth to the
large trees. It also shades the lower portions of their trunks, in
consequence of which many of them develop into clean specimens, with
strong, well-rounded stems, and graceful, wide-spreading crowns.

The last of the four types, the “high forest,” is the most artificial
and highly developed of the series. In its construction it is in some
respects like the coppice; for, as in that type, there is a uniformity
of size in the trees on restricted areas, and the species that compose
the entire forest are very limited in number. Coniferous high forests,
which are the most common, are often composed of only a single kind of
tree, and broadleaf forests of the same type rarely contain more than
two or three species. These forests, like the coppice, comprise a full
complement of sizes and ages, each confined to a separate section; but
the steps are not single years, as in the coppice, but periods of ten
or twenty years, or even more; so that the high forest, above all, is a
much taller and older one. The sections that compose it are not regular
in outline, except in certain forests on flats and levels, nor do they
necessarily lie side by side in the consecutive order of size and age.
Finally, the high forest also differs from the coppice in the manner of
its origin; for, while the former owes its existence to seedlings that
have grown up spontaneously, or been sown or planted, the coppice is a
young forest that has sprouted from the stumps of trees that have been
cut.

[Illustration: A “High Forest” of Spruce in Saxony]

Thus the high forest, while it may be compared with the coppice in
its construction, is yet in certain respects so different from it as
to convey a very distinct impression. I here disregard the younger
portions of the forest, for, in the light of the present discussion,
they are merely preparatory to the mature forest, destined to be
useful only after the completeness of age. In the older portions
the one distinguishing characteristic is simple dignity. To this one
quality all other points of excellence or beauty conform and adjust
themselves. The young tree or the casual shrub that may have found its
way into the company of the centenarians, is welcome; but the absorbing
interest lies in the noble grandeur of the old trees that have grown
up together. Some, under the influence of better soil or more light,
have done better than others; but they are all sound and stately trees,
and together represent the best product of the forest. Long ago other
trees that grew in their midst, but were less promising, were removed
for the sake of these. Under their continuous roof of foliage there
is a cool, deep shade. The ground is scattered with fern, or covered
with deep beds of leaves, or with the glossy needles of the conifers.
If the forest has originated from seeds borne by a generation of trees
that previously occupied the same spot, and the seeds germinated here
and there and sprouted into a new forest upon the removal of the old,
we shall now find the trees distributed in natural positions. Where,
however, the new forest has been planted, which is often the case with
the conifers, the trees stand in close rank and file, and we walk among
their columns as in natural aisles and corridors. Here there is hardly
a shrub to shut out the gloomy distance, and only at intervals a stray
intruder with exceptional powers of shade endurance, a dwarfed yew
tree, or a beech with refined, fan-like spray, comes into notice in the
vista.

* * * * *

If these are some of the changes that are wrought in forests through
the application of a new science, if, through forestry in Europe,
one kind of beauty has passed away and another kind has been called
forth, will our own forests, it may be asked, undergo in time similar
alterations? We cannot doubt that they will grow more artificial; but
under the modified application of the science of forestry to our own
conditions, so different from those of Europe, the esthetic changes to
be looked for would be difficult to predict. Nor would these changes
be predetermined, but, on the contrary, would depend very largely
upon chance. It should be noted that forestry and landscape art are
distinct; that the former, ordinarily, is not affected by the latter,
and has its own ends and aims—those of material usefulness. I say
_ordinarily_, because there are circumstances under which forestry
_might_, with slight modifications and without a compromise to its
own interests, adjust itself to some of the principles of landscape
art. Indeed, this possible adjustment has been a subject of interest
in Germany for more than twenty years, and the feasibility of a
relationship between landscape art and forestry has been practically
demonstrated by a noted German forester, Herr Heinrich von Salisch,
on his own estates. This gentleman has applied to them the practical
methods of approved forestry under such modifications as his experience
and taste suggested, and has thereby not only made his forest
profitable, but also more beautiful than it was before.[7]

With respect to our own forests it may be asserted that most of the
private forest holdings of the United States, and probably all our
national forest reserves,[8] as such, are destined primarily to serve
purposes of utility, and very often to serve such purposes only. There
are, however, a number of large forest estates owned by individuals,
and some belonging to commonwealths and municipalities, which are
esteemed as highly for their scenic character as for their material
value, and pass in the public mind as emphatically under the name of
parks as they occur to it in the light of financial investments. Such,
for instance, are the Adirondack State Park and several large private
forest estates in the same region, as well as certain large tracts of
exceptionally beautiful forest in the western part of North Carolina
and about the head waters of the Mississippi, which have now for some
time attracted wide attention as desirable public possessions.

In such forests as these, esthetic considerations might suggest
certain departures from the ordinary methods of forestry. Some people
apparently wish to go further, and believe that certain portions of
these tracts should remain entirely undisturbed, in order that their
primeval character may be preserved for the enjoyment of all future
generations.

The idea of a forest park, intact and inviolable, calls to mind our
national parks of the West, which were actually established by Congress
for that very purpose. Possessing, as they do, wonders of nature
and exceptional scenery, these parks have been thought worthy of
preservation solely for their own sakes. This difference in intention
chiefly distinguishes them from the national reserves; so that, while
the latter stand for the material benefit of the nation—whether it
be directly, in the value of the timber, or indirectly, through the
influence of the forest on the flow of streams—the value of the parks,
on the other hand, speaks out of their own countenance. Their merit
consists in the influence of beauty and sublime scenery on the moral
state of man. They are healthful, vigorous breathing-places, where
noise and smoke and harassing cares are laid aside.

It is well to bear this distinction in mind, because it appears not to
be clearly recognized. While the reserves do not necessarily exclude
some of the special advantages of the parks, their value lies, above
all, in their stores of wealth. In this connection it may be said, for
instance, that the designation “Adirondack Park,” that is currently
applied to the State forest of northern New York, is a somewhat
misleading expression; for, although its beauty is well known and
appreciated and the State Constitution at present even forbids any
cutting within its limits, yet the most competent judges believe that
the Adirondack forest is exceedingly well fitted for the purposes of
practical forestry. Indeed, several private tracts within that region
already constitute the best known examples of practical forestry
in our country. If, however, it is intended to separate certain
portions from the remainder, either within this region or that of the
proposed Minnesota reserve, and to preserve these for their unique or
exceptional character, these segregated tracts are parks in themselves,
and should so be called.

But the identity of our five national parks in the farther West is
unmistakable; and these would appear to suggest neither forestry
proper, nor landscape forestry, nor even landscape art. In them nature
speaks for herself. The tasteful and well judged construction of roads
and trails that shall be in harmony with the scenes through which they
pass, or, better still, that shall be as unobtrusive as possible, is
evidently a necessity if the parks are to be enjoyed by large numbers
of people. In exceptional cases the ax may be needed for the very
preservation of the forest. But the principal care should be to protect
these forests from fire, defacement, and spoliation. For to us and
future generations the parks stand, above all, as examples of the glory
of our primeval forests.

The groves of big trees in the national parks of California, the
geologic wonders of Yellowstone, and the specimens of arctic fauna
still living among the matchless glaciers of Mount Rainier, are
national possessions of great interest, for whose preservation not only
Americans, but distinguished Europeans also, have pleaded. These, then,
are ours for their own sakes; but most of our other national forest
possessions will undoubtedly have to submit to further development and
to the dictates of a sterner necessity.

NOTES

Note 1, page 5. There are about fifty distinct species of oak
indigenous to the United States.

Note 2, page 23. The bloom of the dogwood begins to wither and fall
with the appearance of the leaves. In the illustration facing page 22
several leaves are seen among the bloom, but they belong to the bough
of a neighboring tulip tree.

Note 3, page 47. The juniper berries are in reality transformed cones.

Note 4, page 52. The habit of the firs in early life is shown in the
plate facing page 125.

Note 5, page 63. Curiously enough, the old English conception of a
forest was chiefly that of a hunting ground, irrespective of the trees
growing there. Consequently some forests were very open stretches of
ground.

Note 6, page 71. The red-winged blackbird lingers in the Southern
States through the winter.

Note 7, page 163. German forestry—and, in a less degree, European
forestry also—is indebted to Herr von Salisch for elaborating the idea
that forest art can be united with practical, utilitarian forestry.
His book on “Forest Esthetics,” which fills a unique place in the
literature of forestry, is an exposition of this interesting subject,
based upon mature knowledge and experience.

Note 8, page 163. To the reader who is not familiar with the origin
of our forest reserves it may be of interest to know how they became
established. By an act of Congress of March 3rd, 1891, the President
was empowered to segregate from time to time, and for the benefit
of the American people, forest areas situated within the limits of
the public lands of the United States. In accordance with this act
proclamations were issued by Presidents Cleveland, Harrison, and
McKinley, reserving forest areas amounting thus far (September 1st,
1901) to 46,398,369 acres, or approximately 72,500 square miles.
There are, however, within these areas numerous _bona fide_ holdings
of private ownership, in which the owners are carrying on extensive
cutting of timber.

The reserves have been placed under the authority of the Commissioner
of the General Land Office, Department of the Interior, and are
entrusted to the care of specially appointed superintendents,
supervisors, and rangers. Some of these forest tracts are now
undergoing a careful study by experts in forestry, with the aim of
subjecting them to methods of treatment specially adapted to them, in
order that they may yield both useful material and a constant revenue,
without impairing the productive power or vitality of the forest.
The objects will thereby be fulfilled for which these reserves were
established.

INDEX TO THE NAMES OF TREES
and the Synonyms in Common Use

By special permission of the Division of Publications, U. S. Department
of Agriculture

NOTE.—_Only the trees that have been specially described or compared
are included in the index_

COMMON NAME SCIENTIFIC NAME PAGE

BROADLEAF TREES

Basswood _Tilia americana_ Linn. 113
Syn. American Linden
” Limetree
” Whitewood
” Beetree

Beech _Fagus atropunicea_ (Marsh.) Sudworth 16
Syn. Red Beech Syn. _Fagus ferruginea_ Ait.
” White Beech

Big Laurel _Magnolia fœtida_ (Linn.) Sargent 24
Syn. Magnolia Syn. _Magnolia grandiflora_ Linn.
” Bull Bay

Black Cherry _Prunus serotina_ Ehrh. 113
Syn. Wild Black Cherry
” Wild Cherry
” Rum Cherry

California Black Oak _Quercus californica_ (Torr.) Coop. 78
Syn. Black Oak

Canyon Live Oak _Quercus chrysolepis_ Liebm. 78
Syn. Live Oak

Chestnut _Castanea dentata_ (Marsh.) Borkh. 11
Syn. _Castanea vesca β americana_ Michx.
_Castanea vulgaris ν americana _ A. de C.

Flowering Dogwood _Cornus florida_ Linn. 16, 22, 73
Syn. Dogwood
” Boxwood

Honey Locust _Gleditsia triacanthos_ Linn. 17, 113
Syn. Black Locust
” Sweet Locust
” Thorn Locust
” Three-thorned Acacia

Hornbeam _Carpinus caroliniana_ Walt. 16
Syn. Blue Beech
” Water Beech
” Iron wood

Live Oak _Quercus virginiana_ Mill. 6, 110
Syn. _Quercus virens_ Ait.

Locust _Robinia pseudacacia_ Linn. 113
Syn. Black Locust
” Yellow Locust

Mountain Ash _Pyrus americana_ (Marsh.) de C. 113

Redbud _Cercis canadensis_ Linn. 73, 75
Syn. Judas Tree

Red Maple _Acer rubrum_ Linn. 12, 15, 112
Syn. Swamp Maple
” Soft Maple
” Water Maple

Red Oak _Quercus rubra_ Linn. 16
Syn. Black Oak

Sassafras _Sassafras sassafras_ (Linn.) Karst. 18, 112
Syn. _Sassafras officinale_ Nees & Eberm.

Scarlet Oak _Quercus coccinea_ Muenchh. 16
Syn. Red Oak
” Black Oak

Serviceberry _Amelanchier canadensis_ (Linn.) 75, 112
Syn. Juneberry Medic.
” Shad Bush

Sugar Maple _Acer saccharum_ Marsh. 12, 15
Syn. Hard Maple Syn. _Acer saccharinum_ Wang.
” Rock Maple
” Sugar Tree

Sweet Gum _Liquidambar styraciflua_ Linn. 16, 111
Syn. Red Gum
” Liquidamber

Sweet Magnolia _Magnolia glauca_ Linn. 73
Syn. Sweet Bay
” White Bay
” Swamp Laurel
” Swamp Magnolia

Tulip Tree _Liriodendron tulipifera_ Linn. 16, 24
Syn. Whitewood
” Sour Gum
” Pepperidge

Tupelo _Nyssa sylvatica_ Marsh. 16
Syn. Black Gum Syn. _Nyssa multiflora_ Wang.
” Sour Gum
” Pepperidge

White Birch _Betula populifolia_ Marsh. 19
Syn. Gray Birch

White Elm _Ulmus americana_ Linn. 21
Syn. American Elm
” Water Elm
” Elm

White Oak _Quercus alba_ Linn. 5

Yellow Birch _Betula lutea Michx._ f. 20
Syn. Gray Birch

CONIFERS

Arborvitæ _Thuja occidentalis_ Linn. 57
Syn. White Cedar
” Cedar

Bald Cypress _Taxodium distichum_ (Linn.) Rich. 40, 111
Syn. White Cypress
” Black Cypress
” Red Cypress
” Cypress

Big Tree _Sequoia washingtoniana_ (Winsl.) Sudworth 54
Syn. Sequoia
Syn. _Sequoia gigantea_ Decaisne.

Black Hemlock _Tsuga mertensiana_ (Bong.) Carr. 45
Syn. _Tsuga pattoniana_ (Jeffr.)
Engelm.

Blue Spruce _Picea parryana_ (André) Parry 127
Syn. _Picea pungens_ Engelm.

Bull Pine _Pinus ponderosa_ Laws. 39
Syn. Yellow Pine

Cuban Pine _Pinus heterophylla_ (Ell.) Sudworth 37
Syn. Slash Pine Syn. _Pinus cubensis_ Grieseb.
” Swamp Pine

Douglas Spruce _Pseudotsuga taxifolia_ (Lam.) Britton 48
Syn. Red Fir Syn. _Pseudotsuga douglasii_ Carr.
” Douglas Fir
” Yellow Fir
” Oregon Pine

Engelmann Spruce _Picea engelmanni_ Engelm. 53
Syn. White Spruce

Hemlock _Tsuga canadensis_ (Linn.) Carr. 43
Syn. Spruce
” Spruce Pine

Loblolly Pine _Pinus tæda_ Linn. 37
Syn. Oldfield Pine
” Shortleaf Pine

Lodgepole Pine _Pinus murrayana_ “Oreg. Com.” 38
Syn. Tamarack
” Spruce Pine

Longleaf Pine _Pinus palustris_ Mill. 37
Syn. Longleaved Pine
” Georgia Pine
” Yellow Pine
” Longstraw Pine

Lowland Fir _Abies grandis_ Lindl. 50, 52
Syn. White Fir

Pitch Pine _Pinus rigida_ Mill. 38

Red Fir.—See Douglas Spruce.

Red Juniper _Juniperus virginiana_ Linn. 45
Syn. Red Cedar
” Cedar
” Savin

Redwood _Sequoia sempervirens_ (Lamb.) Endl. 54
Syn. Sequoia

Silver Pine _Pinus monticola_ Dougl. 35
Syn. White Pine

Sugar Pine _Pinus lambertiana_ Dougl. 35

Western Hemlock _Tsuga heterophylla_ (Raf.) Sargent 45
Syn. Hemlock Syn. _Tsuga mertensiana_ of authors.
(Not Carr.)

White Cedar _Chamæcyparis thyoides_ (L.) B. S. P. 57
Syn. Juniper Syn. _Chamæcyparis sphæroidea_
Spach.

White Pine _Pinus strobus_ Linn. 31, 127

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Forest Trees and Forest Scenery" ***

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