Part 24

One of the most noted circumstances attending a winter ramble in the woods is their silence. But this silence is an aid to thought as well as observation, and gives importance to every sound, as the white snow gives prominence to visual objects. When the winter sun is bright and the chilly atmosphere is calm, we may listen to the distant village hum with a sensation of melody; and we catch the gurgling sounds of streams under the glistening ice, and the voices of jubilant echoes, that send back in the general stillness every sound that penetrates their secret shell. The crumpling of the hardened snow under our feet produces a tone that silence alone could turn to music; and the rustling of every zephyr seems like a living note in this solitude. The occasional voices of winter birds have a charm hardly less delightful than the melodies of June, when every note is but the part of a general chorus. In winter we listen to sounds because they are few. Even the lowing of herds is musical, reminding us that our present solitude is encompassed by life and civilization.

The wood is no longer a green recess, a temple of leafy beauty, a sanctuary of shade, an orchestra of melodious voices. There is perhaps less solemnity within it than when it is darkened by overarching foliage. The sun shines into it and renders some little nooks more cheerful than at any other season. I have often lingered in one of these sunny retreats to watch the chickadees and woodpeckers, that never fail to appear in sight, diligently exploring every branch of the neighboring trees. It is pleasant to woo this solitude when thus enlivened by the sun, to saunter along the turfy wood-paths, still green with clumps of moss and lycopodium, to look up into the lofty trees which have parted with their shade, observing the sculptured elegance of their limbs and the intricate beauty of their spray; pondering on the rare carvings of their bark, broken into many geometrical forms, and the curious devices of nature displayed in the incrustations upon their surface.

Sometimes a solitary evergreen stands in our way, shedding upon the hoary wood some of the greenness of summer. We should know but half of what is open to observation if we never visited the forest in the winter, and we should miss one of the most remarkable features of a winter landscape if the coniferous evergreens were absent from it. Sad and sombre as they appear when the deciduous trees are putting forth their light green leaves, they are great heighteners of the beauty of a winter scene, and are more valuable than any other woods as a protection from wind and cold.

THE LARCH.

The Larch, though one of the coniferous trees, is not an evergreen. It is generally known in this country as the Hacmatack, a name given it by the Indians. In favorable situations it attains a great height, though we are familiar with it as a tree of but ordinary size and stature. Its branches are very numerous, and irregularly disposed at right angles with the main stem, and not in very apparent whorls. The terminal branches are small and numerous, making considerable spray, but without much character. The American and the European Larch do not differ in their manner of putting forth their larger branches, nor in their botanical characters. They are distinguished, however, by an important difference in the style of their secondary branches. The European tree has a graceful hanging spray, drooping perpendicularly from its horizontal boughs, and swinging in the wind like that of the Norway spruce. The American tree has a shorter spray, not in the least pendent, with an appearance of more sturdiness, and less formality of outline. It displays, therefore, less of that beauty which is caused by flowing lines; on the other hand, it exhibits more firmness in its general aspect, and is a more stately tree. I prefer the American Larch because it departs further from that primness which distinguishes the coniferous trees. As it increases in height, it loses its tapering summit, and forms a head of flattened and irregular shape.

The Larch bears no part in romantic history. Neither the ancient poets nor historians say much about it. Hence it is probable that it was not abundant in the forests of the southern part of Europe in the days of Homer and Virgil. Even its importance in furnishing the most durable wood for naval purposes is a discovery of modern times, and not until a very late period was it employed as an ornamental tree. The Larch is reputed in Europe to surpass all other trees as a fertilizer of the soil by the decomposition of its foliage. Another of its advantages, when used for plantations, is its thrifty habit on lofty sites, having a more elevated range than any other tree of equal importance. Gilpin remarks of the European tree: “It claims the Alps and the Apennines for its native country, where it thrives in higher regions of the air than any other tree of its consequence is known to do, hanging over rocks and precipices which have never been visited by human feet. Often it is felled by some Alpine peasant and thrown athwart some yawning chasm, where it affords a tremendous passage from cliff to cliff, while the cataract, roaring many fathoms below, is seen only in surges of rising vapor.”

The American Larch tends to uniformity of shape when young and to variety when old. Yet the fine pyramidal forms of the young trees, and the fantastic and irregular shapes of those of older growth, are equally characteristic. The foliage is of a light green with a bluish tinge, turning to a deep orange in November, just before it falls. The bright crimson cones of the Larch, that appear in June, may be reckoned among its minor beauties. This tree is more abundant in Maine and New Hampshire than in any other part of the United States, though even there it is scarce compared with other conifers. Above the St. Lawrence, however, as far as Hudson’s Bay, it forms assemblages of several miles in extent.

THE HEMLOCK.

The Hemlock is confessedly one of the most beautiful of the coniferous evergreens, though rather narrow in its dimensions. The principal branches are small and short with very slender terminations, in which it differs from all the other spruces. The multitude of these slender sprays, and their rows of soft delicate leaves, cause those beautiful undulations that characterize the foliage of this tree when moved by the wind. The leaves, of a light green on their upper surface and of a silvery whiteness beneath, are arranged in a row on each side of the branchlets. But while those of the other spruces are sessile, those of the Hemlock have slender footstalks, yielding them a slight mobility. The spangled glitter of the foliage is caused by a slightly tremulous motion of the terminal sprays.

In a deep wood the Hemlock shows some very important defects. There it forms a shaft from fifty to eighty feet in height without any diminution of its size, until near the summit, where it tapers suddenly, forming a head of foliage that projects considerably above the general level of the forest. The trunk is covered with dead branches projecting from it on all sides, causing it to wear a very unsightly appearance; and when the tree is sawed into boards, they are found to extend directly through the sapwood of the tree, making a hole in it as round as if it were bored with an auger. This is caused by the continued growth of the trunk of the tree after the decay of its branches, every year forming a new circle round the branch, but not inosculating with it, as in other trees.

The full beauty of the Hemlock is displayed on the edge of a wood, or on a plain where it has grown without impediment, feathering down to the ground. Here we observe how much less formal it is in shape than other conifers. When there are no gaps in its ramification, the numerous branches are mostly in close contact at their extremities, so that, when viewed from the outside of the wood, it seems nearly one uninterrupted mass of foliage, hiding the interior of the tree almost entirely from sight. In its perfection, when it has enjoyed an isolated growth, without any mechanical accident to mar its symmetry, it presents a fine tapering form without stiffness, and a mass of glittering foliage with which that of but few other trees is comparable.

The branches of the Hemlock are very numerous, perfectly horizontal, and remarkable for the absence of those regular whorls that distinguish other trees of this genus. They are put forth irregularly from all parts of the trunk, turning from their horizontal position gracefully upward, drooping a little at their termination, and endowed with great flexibility. The branches are minutely subdivided, forming with their leaves a flat surface, somewhat like the compound pinnate leaves of the cicuta, or poison hemlock. From this resemblance it undoubtedly obtained its name. These branches lie one above another, each bending over at its extremities upon the surface of those below, like the feathers upon the wings of a bird.

The bark of the Hemlock is of a reddish brown, divided by furrows that separate it into scales. The young trees have a smooth bark, like that of the balsam fir. The cones are very small, numerous, and pendent, of a fine crimson color when they first appear, attached to the ends of the branches, and arriving at maturity in the autumn. The Hemlock occupies all kinds of soil, though trees of a large size are found only where it is deep and fertile. It is fond of moisture, often extending its graceful boughs from the summits of granitic rocks and declivities wet with perpetual springs. “The Hemlock is natural to the coldest regions of America, and begins to appear about Hudson’s Bay, near Lake St. John; in the neighborhood of Quebec it fills the forests, and in Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, the States of Maine and Vermont, and a considerable part of New Hampshire, it constitutes three fourths of the evergreen woods. Further south it is less common, and in the Middle and Southern States it is seldom seen, except on the Alleghanies.”

PINE WOODS.

I have often thought of the pleasure I should feel on entering a forest of tree-ferns, and observing their elegant fronds spread out above my head, displaying a form of vegetation never witnessed except in a tropical country. Yet I doubt whether an assemblage of tree-ferns, a grove of magnolias, or an island of palms could equal a forest of pines in the expression of grandeur and solemnity. A pine wood possesses characters entirely unique, and affects us with sensations which nothing else in nature seems capable of inspiring. Whether this arises from the contrast between the light outside and the darkness within,—a certain harmonious blending of cheerfulness and gloom,—or from the novelty of the whole scene, there comes up from every deep recess and shadowy arbor, every dripping dell, every mossy fountain, and every open glen throughout the wood, an indescribable charm. Notwithstanding the darkness of its interior, and the sombre character of its dense masses of evergreen foliage, as seen from without,—whence the name of black timber, which has been applied to it,—yet the shade and shelter it affords, and the sentiment of grandeur it inspires, cause it to be allied with the most profound and agreeable sensations.

In a pine wood Nature presents one of her most remarkable features; and there is so much that is healthful and delightful in its emanations, and in the atmosphere that is diffused around it, that she has not denied its benefits to any clime. Pines are found in every latitude save the equatorial region, where the broad-leaved palms supply the same enduring shade. Even there pines are distributed over the mountains at a height corresponding with the northern temperate zone. Nature has spread these trees widely over the earth, that the inhabitants of the sunny South and the inhospitable North may equally derive benefit from their protection and their products. There is not a region this side of the equator, where a man may not kneel down under the fragrant shade of a pine wood, and thank the Author of nature for this beneficent gift.

In New England the white pine usually predominates in our evergreen woods, mixed in greater or less degree with pitch-pine and fir. In the gracefulness of its foliage, in its lofty stature and the beautiful symmetry of its wide-spread branches, the white pine exceeds all other species. But the balsamic fragrance that is so agreeable to travellers when journeying over the sandy tracts of some parts of New England comes from the more homely pitch-pine. These odors greet our senses at all seasons, but chiefly during the prevalence of a still south-wind, and are in a different manner almost as charming as a beautiful prospect.

In a dense pine wood we observe certain peculiarities of light and shade seldom seen in a deciduous wood. The foliage that forms the canopy over our heads is so closely woven, that, wherever an opening occurs, the light pours into it with distinct outlines of shadow, very much as it shines into a dark room through a half-opened shutter. These sudden gleams of light, blending with the all-pervading shadow in which we are involved, deepen all our sensations, and cause us to feel a little of that religious awe which is inspired when passing under the interior arches of a cathedral. The presence of a group of deciduous trees always becomes apparent at some distance before we reach it, by the flickering lights among their loose foliage, and a general brightness and cheerfulness in the space occupied by the group.

There are many other agreeable circumstances connected with a pine wood. The foliage that drops from the trees, after the new growth of leaves has been put forth, covers the ground with a smooth brown matting, as comfortable to the footsteps as a gravel walk, while it savors only of nature. The acicular foliage of the pine is so hard and durable, that in summer we always find the last year’s crop lying upon the ground in a state of perfect soundness, and under it that of the preceding year only partially decayed. This bed of foliage is so compact as to prevent the growth of underbrush; and it keeps the space open under the trees, whose tall shafts resemble pillars rising out of the floor of a magnificent temple. Hence a pine wood is pleasantly accessible to the rambler and the student of nature; and the absence of a woody undergrowth permits many plants of a peculiar character to thrive upon this carpeted ground. The purple cypripedia is common here, pushing up its leaves through this mass of decayed foliage, and displaying its beautiful inflated blossoms like some bright flower of a fairer clime. Mushrooms of various species and of divers fantastic shapes are frequent as we pass, some spreading out their hoods like a parasol, some with a dragon-like aspect, others perfectly globular, all having a great diversity of hues. In the deeper wood, where there is no sunshine to green the sprouting herbs, appears that rare genus of plants resembling the pale and sickly slaves of the mine,—the grotesque and singular monotropa.

In an old pine wood our attention is diverted by the great variety of lichens that incrust the bark of the trees and hang from their boughs. Many rare species decorate the trees with their tufts, circles, and protuberances, and their curiously painted dots and patches. All green herbs, however, are checked in their growth by the darkness of the wood. The verdure of a pine wood is chiefly over our heads; there is but little under our feet. But the few plants whose habits permit them to grow here are the more conspicuous because they are not mingled with a crowded assemblage of different species. Hence the little creeping michella, with its checkered green leaves, its twin flowers resembling heath-blossoms, and its scarlet fruit, is very beautiful, clustering at the roots of some tall pine, or garlanding some prostrate tree covered with mosses that mark its decay.

In the Southern States, extensive regions called “pine barrens” form a very conspicuous part of the scenery. Their growth at the present time is seldom so dense as that of a Northern pine wood. Whole forests are so thinly set that you may drive some miles through them on horseback. Still in these pine barrens there is the same breathing of solemnity that makes a Northern pine wood so impressive. The tall, gaunt, and grotesque forms of the trees, the flat, interminable plains which they occupy, the dark drapery of moss that hangs from their boughs, their silence and solitude and their primitive wildness, yield the scene an expression of melancholy grandeur that cannot be described. Occasionally a log-hut varies the prospect, as primitive in its appearance as the wood.

The pine barrens of the Southern States are celebrated as healthful retreats for the inhabitants of the seaports, whither they resort in summer to escape the prevailing fevers. They are generally of a mixed character, consisting of the Northern pitch-pine, the long-leaved pine, and a few other species, intermixed with the Southern cypress, occasional red maples, and a few other deciduous trees. Pines, however, constitute the dominant growth; but the trees are, for the most part, widely separated, so that the surface is green with herbs and grasses, and often covered with flowers. The thinness of these woods may be attributed to the practice, for two centuries past, of tapping the trees for turpentine, causing their gradual decay. Their tall forms and branchless trunks show that they obtained their principal growth in a dense wood.

The first visit I made to the pine barrens was after a long ride by railroad through the plains of North Carolina. It was night; and I often looked from the car windows into the darkness, made still more affecting by the sight of the tall pines that raised their heads almost into the clouds, like monsters watching the progress of our journey. The prospect was rendered almost invisible by the darkness that gave prominence to the dusky forms of the trees as they were pictured against the half-luminous sky. At length the day began to break, and the morning beams revealed to my sight an immense wilderness of giant spectres. The cars made a pause at this hour, allowing the passengers to step outside; and while absorbed in the contemplation of this desolate region, suddenly the loud and mellow tones of the mocking-bird came to my ears, and, as if by enchantment, reversed the character of my thoughts. The desert, no longer a solitude, inspired me with emotions of unspeakable delight. Morning never seemed so lovely as when the rising sun, with his golden beams and lengthened shadows, was greeted by this warbling salutation, as from some messenger of light who seemed to announce that Nature over all scenes has extended her beneficence, and to all regions of the earth dispenses her favors and her smiles.

At the end of my journey I took a stroll into the wood. It was in the month of June, when vegetation was in its prime, before it was seared by the summer drought. Many beautiful shrubs were conspicuous with their flowers, though the wood contained but a small proportion of shrubby undergrowth. During my botanical rambles in this wood, I was struck with the multitude of flowers in its shady arbors, seeming the more numerous to me as I had previously confined my observations to Northern woods. The phlox grew here in all its native delicacy, where it had never known the fostering hand of man. Crimson rhexias—called by the inhabitants deerweed—were distributed among the grassy knolls, like clusters of picotees. Variegated passion-flowers were conspicuous on the bare white sand that checkered the green surface, displaying their emblematic forms on their low repent vines, and reminding the wanderer in these solitudes of that faith which was founded on humility and crowned with martyrdom. Here too the spiderwort of our gardens, in a meeker form of beauty and a paler radiance, luxuriated under the protection of the wood. I observed also the predominance of luxuriant vines, indicating our near approach to the tropics, rearing themselves upon the tall and naked shafts of the trees, some, like the bignonia, in a full blaze of crimson, others, like the climbing fern, draping the trees in perennial verdure.

THE FIR.

The Fir and the spruce are readily distinguished from the pine by their botanical characters and by those general marks which are apparent to common observers. They have shorter leaves than the pine, not arranged in fascicles, but singly and in rows along the branch. The cones of the American species are smaller than those of the pine, and they ripen their seeds every year; their lateral branches are smaller and more numerous, and are given out more horizontally. They are taller in proportion to their spread, and more regularly pyramidal in their outlines. The principal generic distinction between the Fir and the spruce is the manner in which they bear their cones; those of the Fir stand erect upon their branch, while those of the spruce are suspended from it. Botanists have lately separated the spruce from the Fir, which they describe under the generic name of Picea. As my descriptions of trees are physiognomical rather than botanical, I shall have no occasion to adopt or to reject this innovation. The spruces, however, are always described by travellers as firs. Whenever they speak of Fir woods, they include in them both the Fir and the spruce.

THE BALSAM FIR.

This tree is the American representative of the silver fir of Europe, but is inferior to it in all respects. The silver fir is one of the tallest trees on the continent of Europe, remarkable for the beauty of its form and foliage, and for the value of its timber. The American tree is inferior to it in height, in density of foliage, in longevity, and in the durability of its wood. Both trees, however, display the same general characters to observation, having a bluish-green foliage, with a silvery under surface, closely arranged upon the branches, that curve gracefully upward at the extremities. The secondary branches have the same upward curvature, never hanging down in the formal manner of the Norway spruce. There is an airiness in its appearance that is quite charming, and to a certain extent makes amends for its evident imperfections. When the Balsam Fir is young, it is very neat and pretty; but as it advances in years it becomes bald, and displays but little foliage except on the extremities of the branches. This is a remarkable defect in many of this family of trees. European writers complain of it in the silver fir. It is observed in the hemlock, except in favorable situations, and in the black spruce, but in a less degree in the white and Norway spruces.