Forest Trees and Forest Scenery

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.

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.

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.