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series of operations or accidents that should deprive the earth
entirely of its forests would leave the atmosphere without a source
for its regeneration.
The use of the foliage of trees in renovating the atmosphere is not,
I believe, denied by any man of science. This theory has been proved
to be true by experiments in vital chemistry. The same chemical
appropriation of gases and transpiration of oxygen is performed by
all classes of vegetables; but any work in the economy of nature
assigned to vegetation is the most effectually accomplished by trees.
The property of foliage that requires carbonic-acid gas for its
breathing purposes, and causes it to give out oxygen, is of vital
importance; and it is hardly to be doubted that a close room well
lighted by the sun would sustain its healthful atmosphere a longer
time, if it were filled with plants in leaf, but not in flower, and
occupied by breathing animals, than if the animals occupied it
without the plants.
But there is another function performed by the foliage of trees and
herbs in which no chemical process is involved,—that of exhaling
moisture into the atmosphere after it has been absorbed by the roots.
Hence the humidity of this element is greatly dependent on foliage. A
few simple experiments will show how much more rapidly and
abundantly this evaporation takes place when the soil is covered with
growing plants than when the surface is bare. Take two teacups of
equal size and fill them with water. Place them on a table, and insert
into one of them cuttings of growing plants with their leaves, and let
the other stand with water only. In a few hours the water will
disappear from the cup containing the plants, while that in the other
cup will not be sensibly diminished. Indeed, there is reason to believe
that gallons of water might be evaporated into the air by keeping the
cup containing the cuttings always full, before the single gill
contained in the other cup would disappear. If a few cuttings will
evaporate a half-pint of water in twelve hours, we can imagine the
vast quantity constantly exhaled into the atmosphere by a single tree.
The largest steam-boiler in use, kept constantly boiling, would not
probably evaporate more water than one large elm in the same time.
We may judge, from our experiment with the cuttings, that a vastly
greater proportion of moisture would be exhaled into the atmosphere
from any given surface of ground when covered with vegetation, than
from the same amount of uncovered surface, or even of standing
water. Plants are indeed the most important existing agents of nature
for conveying the moisture of the earth into the air. The quantity of
transpiring foliage from a dense assemblage of trees must be
immense. The evaporation of water from the vast ocean itself is
probably small compared with that from the land which it surrounds.
And there is reason to believe that the water evaporated from the
ocean would not produce rain enough to sustain vegetation, if by any
accident every continent and island were deprived of its trees. The
whole earth would soon become a desert. I would remark, in this
place, that trees are the agents by which the superfluous waters of
the ocean, as they are supplied by rivers emptying into it, are
restored to the atmosphere and thence again to the surface of the
earth. Trees pump up from great depths the waters as they ooze into
the soil from millions of subterranean ducts ramifying in all
directions from the bed of the ocean.
LEAF OF HOLLY.
THE HOLLY.
In the month of July the wooded pastures are variegated with little
groups of shrubbery full of delicate white blossoms in compound
pyramidal clusters, attracting more attention from a certain downy
softness in their appearance than from their beauty. These plants
have received the name of Spiræa from the spiry arrangement of
their flowers. The larger species among our wild plants, commonly
known as the Meadow-Sweet, in some places as Bridewort, is very
frequent on little tussocks and elevations rising out of wet soil. It is a
slender branching shrub, bearing a profusion of small, finely serrate
and elegant leaves, extending down almost to the roots, and a
compound panicle of white impurpled flowers at the ends of the
branches. It is well known to all who are familiar with the wood-
scenery of New England, and is seen growing abundantly in
whortleberry pastures, in company with the small kalmia and the
swamp rose. It is a very free bloomer, lasting from June till
September, often blending a few solitary spikes of delicate flowers
with the tinted foliage of autumn.
THE HARDHACK.
The flowers of the purple Spiræa, or Hardhack, are conspicuous by
roadsides, especially where they pass over wet grounds. It delights in
the borders of rustic wood-paths, in lanes that conduct from the
enclosures of some farm cottage to the pasture, growing all along
under the loose stone-wall, where its crimson spikes may be seen
waving in the wind with the nodding plumes of the golden-rod and
the blue spikes of the vervain, well known as the “Simpler’s Joy.” The
Hardhack affords no less pleasure to the simpler, who has used its
flowers from immemorial time as an astringent anodyne. There is no
beauty in any part of this plant, except its pale crimson flowers,
which are always partially faded at the extremity or unopened at the
base, so that a perfect cluster cannot be found. The leaves are of a
pale imperfect green on the upper surface and almost white beneath,
and without any beauty. The uprightness of this plant, and the spiry
form of its floral clusters, has gained it the name of “Steeplebush,”
from our church-going ancestors.
THE HAWTHORN.
Few trees have received a greater tribute of praise from poets and
poetical writers than the Hawthorn, which in England especially is
consecrated to the pastoral muse and to all lovers of rural life. The
Hawthorn is also a tree of classical celebrity. Its flowers and
branches were used by the ancient Greeks at wedding festivities, and
laid upon the altar of Hymen in the floral games of May, with which
from the earliest times it has been associated. In England it is almost
as celebrated as the rose, and constitutes the most admired hedge
plant of that country. It is, indeed, the beauty of this shrub that
forms the chief attraction of the English hedge-rows, which are not
generally clipped, but allowed to run up and bear flowers. These are
the principal beauties of the plant; for its leaves are neither luxuriant
nor flowing.
The Hawthorn in this country is not associated with hedge-rows,
which with us are only matters of pride and fancy, not of necessity,
and their formal clipping causes them to resemble nature only as a
wooden post resembles a tree. Our admiration of the Hawthorn,
therefore, comes from a pleasant tradition derived from England,
through the literature of that country, where it is known by the name
of May-bush, from its connection with the floral festivities of May.
The May-pole of the south of England is always garlanded with its
flowers, as crosses are with holly at Christmas. The Hawthorn is well
known in this country, though unassociated with any of our rural
customs. Many of its species are indigenous in America, and surpass
those of Europe in the beauty of their flowers and fruit. They are
considered the most ornamental of the small trees in English
gardens.
The flowers of the Hawthorn are mostly white, varying in different
species through all the shades of pink, from a delicate blush-color to
a pale crimson. The fruit varies from yellow to scarlet. The leaves are
slightly cleft, like those of the oak and the holly. The flowers are
produced in great abundance, and emit an agreeable odor, which is
supposed by the peasants of Europe to be an antidote to poison.
SUMMER WOOD-SCENERY.
CATKIN OF OAK.
OAK LEAVES.
THE OAK.
If the willow be the most poetical of trees, the Oak is certainly the
most useful; though, indeed, it is far from being unattended with
poetic interest, since the ancient superstitions associated with it have
given it an important place in legendary lore. It is not surprising,
when we remember the numerous benefits conferred on mankind by
the Oak, that this tree has always been regarded with veneration,
that the ancients held it sacred to Jupiter, and that divine honors
were paid to it by our Celtic ancestors. The Romans, who crowned
their heroes with green Oak leaves, entitled the “Civic Crown,” and
the Druids, who offered sacrifice under this tree, were actuated by
the same estimation of its pre-eminent utility to the human race.
When we consider the sturdy form of the Oak, the wide spread of its
lower branches, that symbolize protection; the value of its fruit for
the sustenance of certain animals; and the many purposes to which
the bark, the wood, and even the excrescences of this tree may be
applied,—we can easily understand why it is called the emblem of
hospitality. The ancient Romans planted it to overshadow the temple
of Jupiter; and in the adjoining grove of oaks,—the sacred grove of
Dodona,—they sought those oracular responses which were
prophetic of the result of any important adventure.
To American eyes, the Oak is far less familiar than the elm as a
wayside tree; but in England, where many
“... a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged oaks,”