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31994	----	Transcriber's Note The punctuation and spelling from the original text have been faithfully preserved. FORESTS OF MOUNT RAINIER NATIONAL PARK [Illustration] DEPARTMENT OF THE INTERIOR OFFICE OF THE SECRETARY 1916 For sale by the Superintendent of Documents, Government Printing Office, Washington, D.C. Price, 20 cents. PUBLICATIONS ON MOUNT RAINIER NATIONAL PARK SOLD BY THE SUPERINTENDENT OF DOCUMENTS. Remittances for these publications should be by money order, payable to the Superintendent of Documents, Government Printing Office, Washington, D.C., or in cash. Checks and postage stamps can not be accepted. Features of the Flora of Mount Rainier National Park, by J.B. Flett. 1916. 48 pages, including 40 illustrations. 25 cents. Contains descriptions of the flowering trees and shrubs in the park. Mount Rainier and Its Glaciers, by F.E. Matthes. 1914. 48 pages, including 26 illustrations. 15 cents. Contains a general account of the glaciers of Mount Rainier and of the development of the valleys and basins surrounding the peak. Panoramic view of Mount Rainier National Park, 20 by 19 inches, scale 1 mile to the inch. 25 cents. THE FORESTS OF MOUNT RAINIER NATIONAL PARK. By G.F. ALLEN, _United States Forest Service_. GENERAL STATEMENT. The remarkable development of the forests about the base of Mount Rainier results from climatic conditions peculiarly favorable to tree growth. The winters are mild and short. The ocean winds that pass through the gaps of the Coast Range are laden with moisture which falls in the form of rain or snow on the west slope of the Cascades. The trees are nourished by this moisture through a long season of annual growth, and form an evergreen forest which is, in some respects, the most remarkable in the world. This forest, distinguished by the extraordinary size and beauty of the trees and by the density of the stand, extends into the deep valleys of the rivers which have their sources in the glaciers. On the dividing ridges and in the upper stream basins the composition and character of the forest change with the increasing severity of the climate. The distribution of the different species of trees according to the intervals of altitude at which they occur separate the forests of the Mount Rainier National Park into different types. The lines of separation are to some extent also determined by complex conditions of slope, exposure, and moisture. The successive forest belts are uniform in the composition of their central areas, but blend and overlap where they come together. The low valleys of the main and west forks of White River, of the Carbon, the Mowich, the Nisqually, and the Ohanopecosh are covered with a dense and somber forest of fir, hemlock, and cedar. The trees, pushing upward for light, are very tall and free from limbs for more than half their height. Their tops form a continuous cover which the sunshine rarely penetrates, and on which the light snows of early winter fall and melt, without reaching the ground. Even in midsummer the light is soft and shaded, and the air cool and humid. In the wintertime the young growth is sheltered from wind and the severity of the cold is tempered by the protecting mountain ranges. Saved from fire by the uniform dampness of the air the trees grow until they decay and fall from old age. They are succeeded by the suppressed younger trees. The forest remains mature, not uniformly sound and vigorous, yet not decreasing as a whole in size and volume. Individuals perish, but the character of the forest is constant. The deep alluvial soil covered with moss and decayed vegetation nourishes a luxuriant tangled undergrowth of vine maple, willow, and devil's-club. The forest floor is covered with a deep layer of decayed vegetation and is encumbered with fallen and mossy logs and upturned stumps. The explorer who leaves the trails must be a strong and active man if he can carry his pack 6 or 8 miles in a long summer day. Ascending from the river bottoms to the lower slopes of the dividing ridges the forest becomes more open and the trees are smaller. Salal, Oregon grape, and huckleberry bushes take the place of the taller undergrowth of the valleys. Up to 3,000 feet the Douglas fir and the hemlock still are the dominant species. Above this altitude new species are found intermingled with the trees typical of the lowland, but forming a distinct forest type. The noble and amabilis fir appear, sometimes growing in pure stands, but more often associated with the Douglas fir and western hemlock at the lower limits of the type, and with alpine fir and mountain hemlock at the upper limit. Nearly all the trees of this type have deep and wide-spreading roots which serve to hold in place the surface deposit of volcanic pumice which covers the slopes of the mountain. Evidence afforded by the after effects of forest fires in other parts of the Cascades indicates that the destruction of the forest on the mountain sides is followed by erosion. Heavy rains and the melting of the upper snow banks by warm Chinook winds combine to produce a surface run-off that denudes the steeper declivities down to the underlying bedrock. At elevations above 4,500 feet the lowland trees have disappeared entirely. Subalpine species adapted to withstand the burden of deep snow take their place. Mountain hemlock, alpine fir, and Engelmann spruce grow singly and in scattered groups or form open groves alternating with grassy parks and rocky ridges. The symmetrical outline of the slender pyramidal crowns and rapidly tapering trunks of the spruce and alpine fir trees that stand singly on the greensward of the open parks bring to mind the closely trimmed cultivated evergreens that adorn city parks and lawns. Their lower branches reach the ground and the tops terminate in slender upright spires. As timber line is approached tree growth is confined to dwarfed and flattened mountain hemlocks, alpine firs, and the white-bark pines firmly rooted among the crevices of the rocks. The extreme limit of tree growth on Mount Rainier is 7,600 feet above sea level. There is no well-defined timber line. Scattered clumps of low stunted trees occur up to 7,000 feet. A few very small and flattened mountain hemlocks grow above this elevation. A very large part of the area above 4,500 feet consists of glaciers, talus slopes, barren rocky peaks, and open parks. Basins at the heads of canyons in the high mountains are usually treeless, on account of the great depth of snow which accumulates in them during the winter. On the steep, smooth upper inclines the snow banks frequently slip and form slides which acquire momentum as they rush down the mountain side and break and carry away large trees. Repeated snowslides in the same place keep the slopes nonforested, and their track is marked by light green strips of brush and herbage. The transition of the forest from its lowland to its extreme alpine type is one of the most interesting features of a visit to the mountain. Entering the park at the western boundary close to the Nisqually River the road skirts the base of the lightly timbered spurs and passes into a forest of large and old Douglas fir and western hemlock. Red cedars grow along the streams that cross the road. Little yew trees and vine maples mingle with the young conifers that form the undergrowth; the gloom of the forest is occasionally relieved by the white bark of alders and the smooth gray stems of the cottonwoods that grow on the sandy bank of the Nisqually. After the road crosses the Rainier Fork, noble fir and amabilis fir appear, but the Douglas fir and western hemlock are still the prevailing species. Above Longmire Springs the noble and amabilis fir, mixed with western hemlock, become the dominant type. The trees are shorter and the branches heavier. Mountain ash and yellow cypress grow on the margin of the mountain streams. Huckleberry bushes take the place of the taller undergrowth of the valley. Above Narada Falls the forest is more open, and the trees are still smaller. Mountain hemlock and alpine fir succeed the trees of the lower slope. Little glades and mountain meadows are seen. They become larger and more numerous and the traveler soon enters the open park of Paradise Valley, in which are but scattered groves of trees. The same successive altitudinal types are met in ascending to Moraine and Grand Parks by way of the Carbon Valley, and in following the Mowich watershed, Crater Lake, and Spray Park routes. Approaching the park from the east the routes pass through open western yellow pine forests and western larch stands. Since Mount Rainier is west of and apart from the summit line, these species which are peculiar to the eastern slope are not found within the limits of the park. EFFECTS OF FIRE. [Illustration: FIG. 1.--Whitened spectral monuments of a former forest which was swept by a severe forest fire in 1885. Taken along the road to Camp of the Clouds at an altitude of 5,500 feet. Photograph by A.H. Barnes.] Notwithstanding the shortness of the summer season at high altitudes, the subalpine forests in some parts of the park have suffered severely from fire (fig. 1). The bare white trunks of fire-killed amabilis and alpine firs bear witness to numerous fires which occurred from time to time before the regulations governing the park went into effect. The little resin pockets in the bark of these trees blaze fiercely for a short time and the heat separates the bark from the trunk. In this way the tree is killed, although the naked trunk is left untouched by fire. The destruction of the alpine forest in this way is often erroneously attributed to disease or to the depredations of insects. There has been little apparent change in the alpine burns within the last 30 years. Reforestation at high altitudes is extremely slow. The seed production is rather scanty and the ground conditions are not favorable for its reproduction. It will take more than one century for nature to replace the beautiful groves which have been destroyed by the carelessness of the first visitors to the mountain. At low elevations the forest recovers more rapidly from the effects of fire. Between the subalpine areas and the river valleys there are several large ancient burns which are partly reforested. The most extensive of these tracts is the Muddy Fork burn. It is crossed by the Stevens Canyon Trail from Reflection Lakes through the Ohanopecosh Hot Springs. This burn includes an area of 20 square miles in the park and extends north nearly to the glaciers and south for several miles beyond the park boundary nearly to the main Cowlitz River. The open sunlit spaces and wide outlooks afforded by reforested tracts of this character present a strong contrast to the deep shades and dim vistas of the primitive forest. On the whole they have a cheerful and pleasing appearance, very different from the sad, desolate aspect of the alpine burns which less kindly conditions of climate and exposure have kept from reforestation. The original forest was fire killed many years before the coming of the white man. A few naked and weather beaten stubs are still standing. Only the larger of the fallen trunks remain, and these are rotten except for a few seasoned and weatherworn shells. The second growth is of all ages, from seedlings to trees 12 to 14 inches in diameter. Vine maple, willow, and mountain ash have sprung up along the streams and the hillsides are covered with huckleberry bushes and a variety of grasses and flowering plants. Similar old burns are found on the ridge between Huckleberry Creek and White River, in the northeastern part of the park, and on the ridge between Tahoma Creek and Kautz Creek below Henrys Hunting Ground. The old burns in the middle altitudes of the park occupy regions once frequented by the Klickitat Indians. Every summer parties of hunters and berry pickers from the sagebrush plains crossed the Cascades with their horses. They followed the high divides and open summits of the secondary ridges until they came around to the open parks about Mount Rainier where they turned their horses out to graze and made their summer camp. The woman picked huckleberries and the men hunted deer and goats. They made great fires to dry their berries and kindled smudges to protect their horses from flies. It was also their custom to systematically set out fires as they returned. Burning made the country better for the Indians. The fires kept down the brush and made it more accessible. Deer could be more easily seen and tracked and the huckleberry patches spread more widely over the hills. No considerable part of the lower forests of the park has been burned. The principal danger is from lightning. However, few of the trees struck are ignited and these fires are usually extinguished by the rain. On account of the coolness of the air and its greater humidity the fire danger in the forests on the lower slopes of Mount Rainier seems much less than it is in corresponding situations in the main range of the Cascades. AGE AND DIMENSIONS OF TREES. Trees grow more rapidly at low altitudes than at higher and cooler elevations. Under similar conditions some species increase in size faster than others, but the rate of growth depends principally upon environment. The average increase at the stump in valley land is about 1 inch in 6 years. A Douglas fir growing along the stage road between the park boundary and Longmire's, at the age of 90 to 120 years may have a breast diameter of 20 inches and yield 700 feet of saw timber. But many of the trees of this size may be much older on account of having grown in the shade or under other adverse conditions. The trees between 200 and 300 years of age are often 40 to 50 inches in diameter and may yield an average of from 2,700 to 5,500 board feet. The largest Douglas firs are sometimes over 400 years old and 60 to 70 inches in diameter. Such trees when sound will produce over 8,000 feet of lumber. The western red cedar has a shorter and more tapering trunk and its volume in board feet is proportionally smaller. A tree 50 inches in diameter and 175 feet high contains about 3,400 board feet. The size of the trees decreases rapidly at higher elevations. In the subalpine forest the annual growth is very small. At elevations of 6,000 feet the white-bark pine requires 200 years to attain a diameter of 10 or 12 inches. The annual rings are so close together that they can not be distinguished without a magnifying glass. DESCRIPTIONS OF SPECIES. DOUGLAS FIR (PSEUDOTSUGA TAXIFOLIA). The Douglas fir (figs. 2, 3, 4, and 5) is the best known and the most important timber tree of western North America. It is found from British Columbia southward to northern Mexico. The finest forests occur in Oregon and Washington at low elevations. The Douglas fir is common in the park up to 3,500 feet, sometimes in nearly pure stands, but more often mixed with other species. It grows in all situations. In the higher mountains it prefers warm southern exposures and is seldom found on wind-swept ridges. It seeds annually, but most profusely at intervals three or four years apart. The red squirrels gather and store large quantities of the cones in order to provide a supply of the seeds for their winter rations. The growth of the young tree is very rapid. As the tree becomes older the rate of growth varies with the situation and the character of the soil so that the size does not closely determine the age of the tree. [Illustration: FIG. 2.--Douglas fir (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_).] The Douglas fir is a long-lived tree, and specimens are occasionally found 250 to 270 feet high and over 8 feet in diameter and between 400 and 500 years in age. It reaches its greatest height and most perfect proportions in mature even-age stands growing on fairly moist well-drained bench lands. Under these conditions it is a very tall and beautiful tree. The trunk is straight, round, and free from branches for two-thirds of its height and tapers gently to the crown. The dark-brown deep-furrowed bark is 5 to 10 inches thick at the base of the tree. The Douglas fir ranks first among the trees of the Pacific slope in importance for the production of lumber. It is often sold under the name of Oregon pine. Lumber dealers class the coarse-grained reddish wood produced by the young growth in open forests as "red fir." The older growth produced when the forest is more dense is a finer grained and more valuable wood, sold under the name of "yellow fir." [Illustration: FIG. 3.--Douglas fir (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_).] The Douglas fir is used for nearly all purposes where durability, strength, and hardness are desirable. It is made into dimension timbers, lumber, flooring, and is particularly adapted for masts and spars. The lumber is shipped by rail to the Middle Western States. The foreign cargo shipments are made to all parts of the world. The greatest amount goes to Australia, the west and east coasts of South America, China, the United Kingdom, and Europe, Japan, and the South Sea Islands. Coastwise shipments are made to California, Alaska, and Panama. Large quantities of the seed of this tree are sent to Europe, where the Douglas fir is grown for timber and for ornament. WESTERN RED CEDAR (THUJA PLICATA.)[1] [Illustration: FIG. 4.--Douglas fir (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_).] The western red cedar (title page and fig. 5) ranges from south-eastern Alaska to northern California. It is a common tree in the park. It occurs in patches along the river bottoms where the flat scalelike foliage is conspicuous among the needle-shaped leaves of the hemlock and fir. The bark is fibrous in appearance and may be readily separated into long strips. The trunks of the older trees are swelled and irregularly fluted at the base. The leaves are fragrant and the wood has a pleasing aromatic odor. Nearly all the large trees are hollow at the butt. The roots spread laterally to a great distance, but extend only for a short distance below the surface of the ground. The tree is easily overthrown by the wind and usually grows in sheltered localities. On account of the thinness of the bark it is easily killed by fire. [Illustration: FIG. 5.--Two big Douglas firs and a western red cedar (on the left) along the road up the Nisqually Valley, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Denman.] The red cedar flourishes on fertile and well-watered soils near sea level, where it grows to an enormous size. In the park it is a smaller tree, 150 to 170 feet high and rarely more than 4 or 5 feet through above the swollen butt. It grows occasionally up to an altitude of 4,000 feet, but is a small and insignificant tree in the high mountains. In the sapling stage the red cedar grows rapidly. The mature tree increases very slowly in size. It exceeds all other trees in the Cascades in longevity. Individuals more than 500 years old are not uncommon and there is a well-authenticated instance where the annual rings indicated a growth of more than 1,100 years. While the red cedar forms no great proportion of the forest of the Pacific Northwest, it is peculiarly valuable to the pioneer on account of the durability of the wood and the ease with which it can be split into boards, shakes, and planking. The early settlers used cedar split by hand as a substitute for sawn lumber in flooring and finishing their cabins and for the tables and shelves with which they were furnished. The Indians hollowed the great trunks with fire and made them into canoes, some of which were large and seaworthy enough to be used on the Sound and in making voyages along the coast. They wove the fibrous roots into baskets that carried water and plaited the bark into matting. The wood of the red cedar is reddish brown in color. It is soft, light, and very brittle, but very durable. It is extensively used for shingles, the manufacture of which forms one of the important industries of the State. The clear logs are sawed into lumber used for siding, interior and exterior finish, moldings, tank stock, and similar purposes. Common logs are utilized for shingles. In many localities the entire tree is cut into 52-inch bolts, which are hauled to the mills or floated to them down the streams. The western red cedar makes excellent posts and rails for farm fences. The young trees are used for telegraph and telephone poles. WESTERN HEMLOCK (TSUGA HETEROPHYLLA). Next to the Douglas fir the western hemlock is the most abundant tree in the forests of Oregon and Washington. It occurs from Alaska southward to northern California. About Mount Rainier it is found up to an altitude of 5,000 feet. In the river valleys in moist situations it is a large tree, sometimes reaching a height of 250 feet and a diameter of 5 feet. On the high ridges it is stunted. It grows best on moist deep soils in dense forests, but thrives under almost all conditions of soil and exposure if provided with plenty of moisture. Western hemlock (figs. 6 and 7) is usually associated with Douglas fir and red cedar, but sometimes forms a forest of nearly pure growth. The hemlock produces abundant seed each year, although it is more prolific at irregular intervals. The seeds germinate readily on decayed moss and rotten wood as well as upon the mineral soil. Seedlings frequently grow on fallen logs and extend their vigorous roots around the side until they reach the ground and become firmly anchored in it. Young hemlocks thrive in the shade. On logged-off areas which have not been burned over and which are partially shaded by uncut trees, the reproduction of hemlock springs up, to the exclusion of the more valuable Douglas fir. [Illustration: FIG. 6.--The lower slope forest, near Longmire Springs, altitude 3,000 feet, here composed largely of western hemlock (_Tsuga heterophylla_); the tree on the extreme left is a Douglas fir (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_). Photograph by A.H. Barnes.] The hemlock is long lived and grows slowly. The largest trees are from 200 to 500 years old and are usually hollow-hearted. The bark is thin and the tree very easily killed by ground fire. The wood of the hemlock is tough, light, and straight grained. It is not as durable as the Douglas fir and decays rapidly when exposed to the weather. The clear lumber is suitable for interior finish. The wood is also used for flooring, joists, lath, and paper pulp. The common and rough lumber does not find a ready market, except for the limited amount used in temporary construction. The western hemlock is, however, superior to the eastern hemlock, and its value will probably be recognized as its usefulness for many purposes becomes better known. WESTERN WHITE PINE (PINUS MONTICOLA). [Illustration: FIG. 7.--A forest of Douglas fir, with an understory of western hemlock, on the lower slopes of the hills, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Denman.] The western white pine (fig. 8) is found from southern Alaska to northern California. In the park it occurs occasionally up to 4,000 feet. It usually grows on level benches and gentle slopes associated with Douglas fir, western hemlock, and noble and amabilis fir. It reaches its best development at elevations of from 3,000 to 3,500 feet, where it attains a height of 150 feet and a diameter of 40 inches. The shaft is straight, cylindrical, and clear of limbs. It bears a small, narrow crown of drooping branches. In open areas, where it is exposed to sunlight, its mode of growth is wholly different. The trunk is short, rapidly tapering, and bears wide-spreading branches nearly to the ground. At high elevations the western white pine is very short and stunted. [Illustration: FIG. 8.--Western white pine (_Pinus monticola_). Diameter 24 inches, height 50 feet.] Although the western white pine is not a common tree in the park, it is often noticed on account of its abundance of slender, pendant cones, 6 to 10 inches long. They mature every two years and shed their seed early in September. The seed are provided with long wings and are often carried by the wind for a great distance from the parent tree. The wood is light, soft, free from pitch, and the most valuable of any of the pines of the Cascades. It is used for interior finish, pattern making, and other purposes. The supply of this tree is so limited that it is not of great commercial importance in the Mount Rainier region. AMABILIS FIR (ABIES AMABILIS).[2] Amabilis fir (figs. 9 and 10) ranges from southern Alaska to Oregon. It is abundant in the park at elevations from 2,500 to 5,000 feet on level bench lands, and gentle slopes with a northern exposure. It is rarely found in unmixed stands, but is usually associated with western hemlock, Douglas fir, and noble fir. The largest trees are 150 to 180 feet high and 3 to 5 feet in diameter. In dense forests the stem is free from branches for 50 to 100 feet. [Illustration: FIG. 9.--Amabilis fir (_Abies amabilis_).] At altitudes over 4,000 feet, small amabilis firs often occur in clusters and open groves. The trunk is covered with branches which grow to the ground, turning downward and outward in long graceful curves, admirably adapted to withstand the pressure of the frozen snow. The foliage is a deep and brilliant green, forming a strong contrast to the dark-purple cones. The seeds ripen each year early in October. Like the seed of the other alpine species of trees that grow in the cold and humid climate of the high Cascades, they soon lose their vitality when stored in dry places. The amabilis fir is grown in Europe as an ornamental tree. Under cultivation it loses much of the natural grace and beauty which it acquired in adapting itself to the deep snows and long winters of its native environment. [Illustration: FIG. 10.--The forests of western hemlock, amabilis fir, and other species, on the middle slopes of the mountains, along the Crater Lake trail, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by Geo. O. Ceasar.] The bark is thin and the tree is easily killed by fire. The wood is straw colored, compact, and straight grained. It is not strong and splits easily. It is sold to some extent under the name of larch or mixed with inferior grades of fir and hemlock. The lumber is of little value commercially. NOBLE FIR (ABIES NOBILIS). The noble fir (figs. 11 and 12) is a common mountain tree in the western parts of Washington and Oregon. Like amabilis fir, it is usually called larch by lumbermen. About Mount Rainier it grows at elevations of from 3,500 to 5,000 feet in dense stands associated with amabilis fir, western hemlock, and Douglas fir. The noble fir avoids steep side hills and exposed situations. In moist soils on flats and gentle slopes it often reaches a height of from 150 to 200 feet. The tall and upright trunk supports a rounded crown of bluish green foliage, which is very noticeable among the purer green leaves of its associates. The branches are short, thick, and crowded with stiff, flattened leaves, which turn upward and outward. The light-green bract-covered cones are sometimes 6 inches long and nearly 3 inches thick. They ripen early in September. Seed is borne every year, although in some seasons it is much more abundant than in others. [Illustration: FIG. 11.--Noble fir (_Abies nobilis_).] [Illustration: FIG. 12.--Noble fir (_Abies nobilis_), 6 feet in diameter.] The wood is strong, close grained, and elastic. It is used for lumber and particularly for inside finishing. The noble fir is a slow-growing and long-lived tree. Old trees in mixed forests are easily distinguished from the associated species by the ashy-brown outer bark broken into large irregular plates. ALPINE FIR (ABIES LASIOCARPA).[3] [Illustration: FIG. 13.--A cluster of Alpine firs (_Abies lasiocarpa_), whose spire-shaped crowns are characteristic, at 5,500 feet altitude, in Cowlitz Park, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Barnes.] The alpine fir (fig. 13) ranges from Alaska to New Mexico. It is a common tree in the park at elevations above 4,500 feet. It is a tree of the high mountains and with the white bark pine and the mountain hemlock, is found up to the limit of arborescent life. It demands moisture and is generally restricted to regions of deep snowfall. The alpine fir occurs in unmixed stands, but is often associated with the mountain hemlock. At the lower levels of its range it is a fair-sized tree 50 or 60 feet high. The crown of deep-green foliage is broad at the base and tapers to the top, where it terminates in a slender, pointed tip. At its upper limit it becomes a stunted shrub, with wide extended branches resting on the ground. The alpine fir bears upright clusters of deep-purple cones. It seeds sparingly each year. The seasons of heavy seed production occur at intervals of three or four years. The wood is soft and splits easily. It is of no commercial value. The tree is easily killed by fire, which blisters the thin bark and frequently springs into the drooping lower branches. GRAND FIR (ABIES GRANDIS.)[4] The grand fir (fig. 14), like several other species, is generally given the name of white fir on account of its smooth, light-colored bark. It is a common tree in the river bottoms from British Columbia south to northern California. In the Mount Rainier National Park it occurs up to 4,000 feet. The grand fir is a moisture-loving tree and is usually found firmly rooted in deep alluvial bottom lands along the banks of streams. With the Douglas fir, hemlock, and red cedar it forms the dense forest characteristic of the lower mountain valleys. In favorable conditions the grand fir grows to a height of from 100 to 200 feet and is a noble and stately tree. The trunk tapers rapidly and bears a rounded pyramidal crown. In dense forests the trunk is clear for half its height, but where the trees stand in the open it carries its branches nearly to the ground. The leaves are a bright and shining green. The large light-green cones mature early in the fall. The wood is soft and very heavy before it is seasoned. It rots in a very short time when laid on the ground. When dry it is white, coarse-grained, light, and odorous. It is used for interior finish and for crates and packing boxes, but is of little value commercially. ENGELMANN SPRUCE (PICEA ENGELMANNI). The Engelmann spruce (fig. 15) is a mountain tree ranging from British Columbia to Arizona and New Mexico. It is common along the summit and on the east side of the Cascade Range and occurs on the northeastern and eastern slopes of Mount Rainier at elevations of from 3,500 to 6,000 feet. This tree requires a moist soil and prefers cool northern exposures. Up to 5,000 feet it commonly grows in sheltered basins at the head of canyons and in stream valleys. At its upper limits it is common on flats and depressions and about lakes on level summits. It avoids steep mountain sides and exposed situations. [Illustration: FIG. 14.--Grand fir (_Abies grandis_).] The Engelmann spruce is easily distinguished from its associates by its stiff, bluish-green pointed leaves, which prick the hand when they are grasped. In the mountain parks it is a handsome tree 50 to 60 feet high. When it stands apart from other trees the lower branches are thick and long and extend to the ground. The crown is very broad at the base, but narrow and spirelike at the top. The Engelmann spruce reaches its best development at low elevations, where it often grows in dense, pure stands. Under these conditions it reaches a height of 100 feet. The bole is straight and free from limbs and the top is short and compact. [Illustration: FIG. 15.--Engelmann spruce (_Picea engelmanni_).] The young cones are massed in upright green and purple clusters at the tips of the upper branches. They are notable for the purity and brilliance of their coloring. As they mature they become pendant and fade to a light brown. The seed is produced in abundance nearly every year, although small and seedling trees are not usually numerous. The wood is soft, white, compact, and even grained. It is free from pitch and odor. It is valuable for boxing, cooperage, and certain kinds of finish. It is also an excellent material for the tops of violins and other stringed instruments. The Engelmann spruce is, however, of little importance as a timber tree on account of its scarcity and the scattered stands in which it grows. It is a long-lived tree unless attacked by fire, to which it is very vulnerable. [Illustration: FIG. 16.--A group of yellow cypresses (_Chamaecyparis nootkatensis_) on the high slopes of Mount Rainier National Park, altitude about 6,000 feet. Photograph by A.H. Barnes.] YELLOW CYPRESS (CHAMAECYPARIS NOOTKATENSIS). Yellow cypress (fig. 16) ranges from the seacoast of southern Alaska south to the mountains of Washington and Oregon. It occurs in the park up to the elevation of 7,000 feet. It is common on northern exposures, along streams, and in basins at the head of canyons. It also grows on crests and ridges, where the frequent showers and fogs supply the moisture which it demands. In sheltered localities it grows to a height of 75 or 80 feet, but it is commonly a small tree with, a bent and twisted stem, which, with its pendulous branches, presents a somewhat scrubby appearance. The foliage is green, sometimes with a bluish tinge. It resembles that of the common western red cedar, but the leaves are sharper, more pointed, and rougher to handle. The small, rounded, inconspicuous cones are produced somewhat sparingly. The bark of the young tree is red. On the mature tree it becomes gray and fibrous. The wood is yellow, close grained, and aromatic. Unlike that of the western red cedar, the trunk is usually sound to the center. The wood is used for boat building and cabinetwork. It is very durable. The yellow cypress grows very slowly, particularly at high elevations. The number of annual rings on trees 15 to 20 inches in diameter indicate that they are over 200 years old. LODGEPOLE PINE (PINUS CONTORTA). Lodgepole pine (fig. 17) is widely distributed from Alaska to Lower California and eastward through the Rockies to Dakota and Colorado. It occurs sparingly in the park up to 5,000 feet above sea level. It adapts itself easily to the different conditions of soil, moisture, and exposure. [Illustration: FIG. 17.--Lodgepole pine (_Pinus contorta_), 60 inches in diameter.] This tree varies greatly in the different regions where it is found. About Mount Rainier it does not often exceed 20 to 40 feet in height and is often a much smaller tree. It produces cones at the age of 5 to 7 years. The foliage is a yellowish green. At high elevations the leaves have a peculiar whorled appearance which gives it a different aspect from that of the other pines. The short, heavily limbed trunk bears no resemblance to the tall and slender shaft of the lodgepole pine of the Rocky Mountains. The root system is shallow and the tree is easily fire killed. The wood of the variety which grows in the park is of no commercial value. [Illustration: FIG. 18.--The feathery foliage of mountain hemlock (_Tsuga mertensiana_), Grand Park, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Denman.] MOUNTAIN HEMLOCK (TSUGA MERTENSIANA). The mountain hemlock (figs. 18, 19, and 20) is found on the Pacific coast from the Sierras of California to the northern part of Alaska where it grows at sea level. On Mount Rainier it occurs at altitudes of from 3,500 to 7,500 feet. It forms dense forests under 4,500 feet, where it is often a fair-sized tree 50 to 90 feet high. With the ascent of the mountain it diminishes in height and the branches become gnarled and twisted. Near timber line the trunk is dwarfed and bent at the base and the crown becomes a flattened mass of branches lying close to the ground (fig. 20). [Illustration: FIG. 19.--Two solitary mountain hemlocks (_Tsuga mertensiana_), Spray Park, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by Geo. O. Ceasar.] The mountain hemlock is abundant on high, rocky ridges, but the best stands are on cool, moist soil at the heads of ravines, on flats, and on gentle slopes with a northern exposure. This tree seeds every year. In good seed years the upper branches are laden with a profusion of beautiful, deep-purple cones, often in such abundance as to bend down the branchlets with their weight. The reproduction is slow. In the high mountains the trees are buried in snow from October to late in June, and the growing season is very short. WHITE-BARK PINE (PINUS ALBICAULIS). [Illustration: FIG. 20.--A gnarled, wind-swept mountain hemlock (_Tsuga mertensiana_), near the upper limits of tree growth, Spray Park, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Denman.] The white-bark pine (fig. 21) grows close to timber line in the mountains of the Pacific coast from British Columbia to southern California. In the Canadian Rockies it extends north to the fifty-third parallel. It is the most alpine of all the pines. Its lower limit on Mount Rainier is about 5,000 feet above sea level. In sheltered places where the soil is deep the trees are sometimes 30 to 40 feet high and 20 inches in diameter. The trunks are free from limbs for 8 or 10 feet. The outer bark, from which the tree derives its name, consists of thin, light-gray scales. As the white-bark pine advances up the mountain its habit changes rapidly. The stem shortens and becomes gnarled and twisted. The tough, flexible branches reach the ground and spread over it to a great distance from the tree. On rocky summits and the bleak crests of wind-swept ridges the twisted trunk and branches are quite prostrate and the crown is a dense flattened mass of foliage. The roots of the tree are deep, long, and tenacious. They spread wide and deep and cling so firmly to the rocks that the tree is rarely overthrown by the violent winds that sweep over the mountain. [Illustration: FIG. 21.--A white-bark pine (_Pinus albicaulis_) in its characteristic mountain habitat, Mount Rainier National Park. Photograph by A.H. Denman.] The thick, purple cones require two years to mature. They ripen early in September and produce chocolate-brown seeds a little larger than a grain of corn. They are much relished by the Klickitat Indians, who go to considerable pains to secure them. The wood is close grained and resinous. It makes excellent fuel for the camp fires of sheep herders and mountain travelers. WESTERN YEW (TAXUS BREVIFOLIA).[5] The western yew is found from southern Alaska to northern California. It occurs in the park up to 4,000 feet, growing in rich, gravelly soil on moist flats and benches and in deep ravines. It is a small branching tree, rarely over 20 feet high. The bark is purple or reddish brown. The branches extend almost to the ground. It bears a small, bright, amber-red berry. The dark-brown or red heartwood is very tough, hard and heavy. It takes a fine polish and is used for fancy cabinetwork. The Indians use it for spear handles, bows, and fishhooks. [Illustration: FIG. 22.--Broadleaf maple (_Acer macrophyllum_).] DECIDUOUS TREES. The silva of the Western Cascades is rich in evergreens remarkable for their size and beauty. The deciduous trees are few and insignificant. The forests of the park are almost wholly coniferous. Vine maple and willow are found as undergrowth. On the margins of rivers there are occasional groves of alders and cottonwoods. The lighter hues of the branching trunks and the changing tints of the foliage in these patches of broad-leaved woodland present a pleasing diversity to the evergreen forest. Broadleaf maple (_Acer macrophyllum_) (fig. 22), the largest of the Pacific coast maples, ranges from Alaska to southern California. Near sea level it often attains a height of 50 or 60 feet. In the park it is a short-stemmed, branching tree, occasionally found on the borders of streams. It grows at elevations under 3,000 feet. [Illustration: FIG. 23.--Vine maple (_Acer circinatum_).] Vine maple (_Acer circinatum_) (fig. 23) is abundant from British Columbia to northern California. On rich river bottoms it is sometimes 15 to 20 feet high and 6 inches in diameter. In the park it is usually a bush or low shrub with a bent and curiously crooked stem, growing along streams and as undergrowth in the forest. It is very common up to 3,000 feet. In autumn the leaves are a bright scarlet. The wood is tough and elastic and makes a hot and lasting fire. [Illustration: FIG. 24.--Red alder (_Alnus oregona_).] [Illustration: FIG. 25.--Black cottonwood (_Populus trichocarpa_).] Red alder (_Alnus oregona_) (fig. 24) occurs from Alaska to southern California. It is common about Mount Rainier, in river bottoms, on the banks of large streams, and in swampy places. It usually grows to a height of 30 or 40 feet. The bark varies from nearly white to light gray. It is the most abundant of all the deciduous trees in the park. Black cottonwood (_Populus trichocarpa_) (fig. 25) is common from Alaska to southern California. It is occasionally found in the park up to 4,000 feet. It grows along streams and on sandy river bottoms often associated with the alder. The leaves are almost always in motion, very gentle winds being sufficient to make them twinkle and turn. The wood is soft, but tough and compact. It is used for staves, woodenware, wood pulp, trunks, barrels, and for drawer bottoms. FOOTNOTES [1] This species is known as arbor vitæ in Glacier Park. [2] This species is known as silver fir in Crater Lake Park. [3] This species is known as balsam in Glacier and Yellowstone Parks. [4] This species is known as silver fir in Yellowstone and Glacier Parks. [5] This species is known as Oregon yew in Crater Lake National Park and as yew in Yellowstone and Glacier Parks. INDEX TO SPECIES DESCRIBED. [Roman numerals indicate pages containing descriptions; italic numerals indicate pages containing illustrations.] _Abies amabilis_ 15-16, _15_, _16_ _grandis_ 20, _21_ _lasiocarpa_ 19-20, _19_ _nobilis_ 17-19, _17_, _18_ _Acer circinatum_ 30, _30_ _macrophyllum_ 29, _29_ Alder, red (_Alnus oregona_) 30, _31_ _Alnus oregona_ 30, _31_ Alpine fir (_Abies lasiocarpa_) 19-20, _19_ Amabilis fir (_Abies amabilis_) 15-16, _15_, _16_ Arbor vitæ. _See_ Western red cedar. Balsam. _See_ Alpine fir. Black cottonwood (_Populus trichocarpa_) 30-32, _31_ Broadleaf maple (_Acer macrophyllum_) 29, _29_ Cedar, western red (_Thuja plicata_) 9-11, _10_ _Chamaecyparis nootkatensis_ 23-24, _23_ Cottonwood, black (_Populus trichocarpa_) 30-32, _31_ Cypress, yellow (_Chamaecyparis nootkatensis_) 23-24, _23_ Douglas fir (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_) 6-8, _7_, _8_, _9_, _10_, _12_, _13_ Engelmann spruce (_Picea engelmanni_) 20-23, _22_ Fir, alpine (_Abies lasiocarpa_) 19-20, _19_ amabilis (_Abies amabilis_) 15-16, _15_, _16_ Douglas (_Pseudotsuga taxifolia_) 6-8, _7_, _8_, _9_, _10_, _12_, _13_ grand (_Abies grandis_) 20, _21_ noble (_Abies nobilis_) 17-19, _17_, _18_ silver. _See_ Fir, amabilis; Fir, grand. Grand fir (_Abies grandis_) 20, _21_ Hemlock, mountain (_Tsuga mertensiana_) 25-27, _25_, _26_, _27_ western (_Tsuga heterophylla_) 11-13, _12_, _13_, _16_ Larch. _See_ Noble fir; Amabilis fir. Lodgepole pine (_Pinus contorta_) 24-25, _24_ Maple, broadleaf (_Acer macrophyllum_) 29, _29_ vine (_Acer circinatum_) 30, _30_ Mountain hemlock (_Tsuga mertensiana_) 25-27, _25_, _26_, _27_ Noble fir (_Abies nobilis_) 17-19, _17_, _18_ Oregon yew. _See_ Western yew. _Picea engelmanni_ 20-23, _22_ Pine, lodgepole (_Pinus contorta_) 24-25, _24_ western white (_Pinus monticola_) 13-15, _14_ white-bark (_Pinus albicaulis_) 27-28, _28_ _Pinus albicaulis_ 27-28, _28_ _contorta_ 24-25, _24_ _monticola_ 13-15, _14_ _Populus trichocarpa_ 30-32, _31_ _Pseudotsuga taxifolia_ 6-8, _7_, _8_, _9_, _10_, _12_, _13_ Red alder (_Alnus oregona_) 30, _31_ cedar, western (_Thuja plicata_) 9-11, _10_ Silver fir. _See_ Amabilis fir; Grand fir. Spruce, Engelmann (_Picea engelmanni_) 20-23, _22_ _Taxus brevifolia_ 28-29 _Thuja plicata_ 9-11, _10_ _Tsuga heterophylla_ 11-13, _12_, _13_, _16_ _mertensiana_ 25-27, _25_, _26_, _27_ Vine maple (_Acer circinatum_) 30, _30_ Western hemlock (_Tsuga heterophylla_) 11-13, _12_, _13_, _16_ red cedar (_Thuja plicata_) 9-11, _10_ white pine (_Pinus monticola_) 13-15, _14_ yew (_Taxus brevifolia_) 28-29 White-bark pine (_Pinus albicaulis_) 27-28, _28_ White pine, western (_Pinus monticola_) 13-15, _14_ Yellow cypress (_Chamaecyparis nootkatensis_) 23-24, _23_ Yew, Oregon. _See_ Yew, western. western (_Taxus brevifolia_) 28-29 
11587	----	THE SCHOOL BOOK OF FORESTRY By CHARLES LATHROP PACK PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN TREE ASSOCIATION 1922 [Illustration: FOREST FIRE GUARD STATIONED IN A TREE TOP] THE AUTHOR GRATEFULLY ACKNOWLEDGES INFORMATION AND ASSISTANCE FROM THE WRITINGS AND REPORTS OF COL. W.B. GREELEY, U.S. FORESTER; COL. HENRY S. GRAVES, FORMER U.S. FORESTER; GIFFORD PINCHOT, FORMER U.S. FORESTER; DR. B.E. FERNOW, DR. J.W. TOUMEY, F.W. BESLEY, W.I. HUTCHINSON, R.H.D. BOERKER, PROF. NELSON C. BROWN, PROF. R.S. HOSMER, E.A. STERLING, R.S. KELLOGG, E.T. ALLEN, S. GORDON DORRANCE, DR. HUGH P. BAKER, ALFRED GASKILL, J.S. ILLICK, AND MANY OTHER LEADERS IN FORESTRY. "THE PART OF GOOD CITIZENS" A people without children would face a hopeless future; a country without trees is almost as helpless; forests which are so used that they cannot renew themselves will soon vanish, and with them all their benefits. When you help to preserve our forests or plant new ones you are acting the part of good citizens. --THEODORE ROOSEVELT. INTRODUCTION Our forests, with their billions of trees, are the backbone of agriculture, the skeleton of lumbering, and the heart of industry. Even now, in spite of their depletion, they are the cream of our natural resources. They furnish wood for the nation, pasture for thousands of cattle and sheep, and water supply for countless cities and farms. They are the dominions of wild life. Millions of birds, game animals, and fish live in the forests and the forest streams. The time is coming when our forests will be the greatest playgrounds of America. It is necessary that we preserve, protect, and expand our timberlands. By so doing we shall provide for the needs of future generations. The forest is one of the most faithful friends of man. It provides him with materials to build homes. It furnishes fuel. It aids agriculture by preventing floods and storing the surplus rainfall in the soil for the use of farm crops. It supplies the foundation for all our railroads. It is the producer of fertile soils. It gives employment to millions of workmen. It is a resource which bountifully repays kind treatment. It is the best organized feature of the plant world. The forest is not merely a collection of different kinds of trees. It is a permanent asset which will yield large returns over long periods when properly managed. Our forest fortune has been thoughtlessly squandered by successive generations of spendthrifts. Fortunately, it is not too late to rebuild it through coöperative effort. The work has been well begun, but it is a work of years, and it is to the youth of the country that we must look for its continuous expansion and perpetuation. A part of our effort must be directed toward familiarizing them with the needs and rewards of an intelligent forestry policy. CONTENTS INTRODUCTION CHAPTER I. HOW TREES GROW AND MULTIPLY II. THE FOREST FAMILIES III. FORESTS AND FLOODS IV. WILD LIFE OF THE FOREST V. IMPORTANT FOREST TREES AND THEIR USES VI. THE GREATEST ENEMY OF THE FOREST--FIRE VII. INSECTS AND DISEASES THAT DESTROY FORESTS VIII. THE GROWTH OF THE FORESTRY IDEA IX. OUR NATIONAL FORESTS X. THE NATIONAL FORESTS OF ALASKA XI. PROGRESS IN STATE FORESTRY XII. THE PLAYGROUNDS OF THE NATION XIII. SOLVING OUR FORESTRY PROBLEMS XIV. WHY THE UNITED STATES SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY XV. WHY THE LUMBERMAN SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY XVI. WHY THE FARMER SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY XVII. PUTTING WOOD WASTE TO WORK XVIII. WOOD FOR THE NATION ILLUSTRATIONS Forest Fire Guard Stationed in a Tree Top Section of a Virgin Forest The Sequoias of California A Forest Ranger and His Forest Cabin Pine Which Yields Turpentine and Timber Forest Fires Destroy Millions of Dollars Worth of Timber Every Year Blackened Ruins of a Fire Swept Forest Forest Management Provides for Cutting Mature Trees Seed Beds in a Forest Nursery Sowing Forest Seed in an Effort to Grow a New Forest A Camping Ground in a National Forest Good Forests Mean Good Hunting and Fishing Young White Pine Seeded from Adjoining Pine Trees What Some Kinds of Timber Cutting Do to a Forest On Poor Soil Trees are More Profitable Than Farm Crops A Forest Crop on its Way to the Market [Transcriber's note: "Section of a Virgin Forest" is the seventh (not the second) illustration in the book.] CHAPTER I HOW TREES GROW AND MULTIPLY The trees of the forest grow by forming new layers of wood directly under the bark. Trees are held upright in the soil by means of roots which reach to a depth of many feet where the soil is loose and porous. These roots are the supports of the tree. They hold it rigidly in position. They also supply the tree with food. Through delicate hairs on the roots, they absorb soil moisture and plant food from the earth and pass them along to the tree. The body of the tree acts as a passage way through which the food and drink are conveyed to the top or crown. The crown is the place where the food is digested and the regeneration of trees effected. The leaves contain a material known as chlorophyll, which, in the presence of light and heat, changes mineral substances into plant food. Chlorophyll gives the leaves their green color. The cells of the plant that are rich in chlorophyll have the power to convert carbonic-acid gas into carbon and oxygen. These cells combine the carbon and the soil water into chemical mixtures which are partially digested when they reach the crown of the tree. The water, containing salts, which is gathered by the roots is brought up to the leaves. Here it combines with the carbonic-acid gas taken from the air. Under the action of chlorophyll and sunlight these substances are split up, the carbon, oxygen and hydrogen being combined into plant food. It is either used immediately or stored away for future emergency. Trees breathe somewhat like human beings. They take in oxygen and give off carbonic-acid gas. The air enters the tree through the leaves and small openings in the bark, which are easily seen in such trees as the cherry and birch. Trees breathe constantly, but they digest and assimilate food only during the day and in the presence of light. In the process of digestion and assimilation they give off oxygen in abundance, but they retain most of the carbonic acid gas, which is a plant food, and whatever part of it is not used immediately is stored up by the tree and used for its growth and development. Trees also give off their excess moisture through the leaves and bark. Otherwise they would become waterlogged during periods when the water is rising rapidly from the roots. After the first year, trees grow by increasing the thickness of the older buds. Increase in height and density of crown cover is due to the development of the younger twigs. New growth on the tree is spread evenly between the wood and bark over the entire body of the plant. This process of wood production resembles a factory enterprise in which three layers of material are engaged. In the first two of these delicate tissues the wood is actually made. The inner side of the middle layer produces new wood while the outer side grows bark. The third layer is responsible for the production of the tough, outer bark. Year after year new layers of wood are formed around the first layers. This first layer finally develops into heartwood, which, so far as growth is concerned, is dead material. Its cells are blocked up and prevent the flow of sap. It aids in supporting the tree. The living sapwood surrounds the heartwood. Each year one ring of this sapwood develops. This process of growth may continue until the annual layers amount to 50 or 100, or more, according to the life of the tree. One can tell the age of a tree by counting the number of annual rings. Sometimes, because of the interruption of normal growth, two false rings may be produced instead of a single true ring. However, such blemishes are easy for the trained eye to recognize. Heartwood does not occur in all varieties of trees. In some cases, where both heartwood and sapwood appear, it is difficult to distinguish between them as their colors are so nearly alike. Because it takes up so much moisture and plant food, sapwood rots much more quickly than heartwood. The sapwood really acts as a pipe line to carry water from the roots to the top of the tree. In some of our largest trees the moisture is raised as high as 300 feet or more through the sapwood. Strange though it may seem, trees fight with each other for a place in the sunlight. Sprightly trees that shoot skyward at a swift pace are the ones that develop into the monarchs of the forest. They excel their mates in growth because at all times they are exposed to plenty of light. The less fortunate trees, that are more stocky and sturdy, and less speedy in their climb toward the sky, are killed out in large numbers each year. The weaker, spindly trees of the forest, which are slow growers, often are smothered out by the more vigorous trees. Some trees are able to grow in the shade. They develop near or under the large trees of the forest. When the giants of the woodland die, these smaller trees, which previously were shaded, develop rapidly as a result of their freedom from suppression. In many cases they grow almost as large and high as the huge trees that they replace. In our eastern forests the hemlock often follows the white pine in this way. Spruce trees may live for many years in dense shade. Then finally, when they have access to plenty of light they may develop into sturdy trees. A tree that is a pigmy in one locality may rank as a giant in another region due to different conditions of growth and climate. For example, the canoe birch at its northern limit is a runt. It never grows higher than a few feet above the ground. Under the most favorable conditions in Florida, where this species thrives, such trees often tower to a height of 125 feet. In sheltered regions the seeds of trees may fall, sprout and take root close to their parent trees. As a rule, the wind plays a prominent part in distributing seed in every section of the country. Pine and fir seeds are equipped with wings like those of a bird or an airplane. They enable the seeds to fly long distances on the wind before they drop to the ground and are covered with leaves. Maple seeds fly by means of double-winged sails which carry them far afield before they settle. Ash seeds have peculiar appendages which act like a skate-sail in transporting them to distant sections. Cottonwood seeds have downy wings which aid their flight, while basswood seeds are distributed over the country by means of parachute-like wings. The pods of the locust tree fall on the frozen ground or snow crust and are blown long distances from their source. On the other hand, oak, hickory, and chestnut trees produce heavy seeds which generally remain where they fall. Squirrels are the most industrious foresters in the animal world. Each year they bury great quantities of tree seeds in hoards or caches hidden away in hollow logs or in the moss and leaves of the forest floor. Birds also scatter tree seed here, there, and everywhere over the forests and the surrounding country. Running streams and rivers carry seeds uninjured for many miles and finally deposit them in places where they sprout and grow into trees. Many seeds are carried by the ocean currents to distant foreign shores. The decay of leaves and woodland vegetation forms rich and fertile soils in the forests, in which conditions are favorable for the development of new tree growth. When living tree seeds are exposed to proper amounts of moisture, warmth and air in a fertile soil, they will sprout and grow. A root develops which pushes its way down into the soil, while the leaf-bud of the plant, which springs from the other end of the seed, works its way upward toward the light and air. This leafy part of the seed finally forms the stem of the tree. But trees may produce plenty of seed and yet fail to maintain their proper proportion in the forest. This results because much of the seed is unsound. Even where a satisfactory supply of sound fertile seed is produced, it does not follow that the trees of that variety will be maintained in the forest, as the seed supply may be scattered in unfavorable positions for germination. Millions of little seedlings, however, start to grow in the forest each year, but only a small number survive and become large trees. This is because so many of the seedlings are destroyed by forest fires, cattle and sheep grazing, unfavorable soil and weather conditions, and many other causes. Beech and chestnut trees and others of the broad-leaved type reproduce by means of sprouts as well as by seed. Generally, the young stumps of broad-leaved trees produce more sprouts than the stumps of older trees which have stood for some time. Among the cone-bearing trees reproduction by sprouts is rare. The redwood of California is one of the few exceptions. The pitch pine of the Eastern States produces many sprouts, few of which live and develop into marketable timber. When trees are grown in nurseries, the practice is to sow the seed in special beds filled with rich soil. Lath screens are used as shade. They protect the young seedlings from the sun just as the parent trees would do in the forest. The seedbeds are kept well cultivated and free of weeds so that the seedlings may have the best opportunities for rapid growth. Generally the seeds are sown in the spring between March and May. Such seeds as the elms and soft maples, which ripen in the early summer, are sown as soon as possible after they are gathered. Practical tests have shown that thick sowings of tree seeds give the best results. There is little danger of weeds smothering out the seedlings under such conditions. After the seed has germinated the beds may be thinned so that the seedlings will have more room to develop. During the fall of the same year, or in the following spring, the seedlings should be transplanted to nursery rows. Thereafter it is customary to transplant the young trees at least once again during damp weather. When the trees finally are robust and vigorous and have reached the age of two to five years, they are dug up carefully and set out permanently. The usual practice is to keep the seedlings one year in the seedbed and two years in the nursery rows before they are set out. Whether the transplanting should take place during the spring or fall depends largely on the climate and geography of the locality. Practical experience is the best guide in such matters. Some farmers and land owners are now interested in setting out hardwood forests for commercial purposes. If they do not wish to purchase their seedlings from a reliable nursery-man, they can grow them from carefully selected seed planted in well-prepared seedbeds. The popular practice is to sow the seed in drills about 2 to 3 feet apart so that horses may be used for cultivation. The seeds are sown to a depth of 2 to 3 times their thickness. They are placed close enough in the drill so that from 12 to 15 seedlings to the linear foot result. In order to hasten the sprouting of the seeds, some planters soak them in cold water for several days before sowing. In the case of such hard-coated seed as the black locust or honey locust, it is best to soak them in hot water before planting. CHAPTER II THE FOREST FAMILIES Trees are as queer in picking out places to live and in their habits of growth as are the peoples of the various races which inhabit the world. Some trees do best in the icy northland. They become weak and die when brought to warm climates. Others that are accustomed to tropical weather fail to make further growth when exposed to extreme cold. The appearance of Jack Frost means death to most of the trees that come from near the equator. Even on the opposite slopes of the same mountain the types of trees are often very different. Trees that do well on the north side require plenty of moisture and cool weather. Those that prosper on south exposures are equipped to resist late and early frosts as well as very hot sunshine. The moisture needs of different trees are as remarkable as their likes and dislikes for warmth and cold. Some trees attain large size in a swampy country. Trees of the same kind will become stunted in sections where dry weather persists. In some parts of the United States forestry experts can tell where they are by the local tree growth. For example, in the extreme northern districts the spruce and the balsam fir are native. As one travels farther south these give way to little Jack pine and aspen trees. Next come the stately forests of white and Norway pine. Sometimes a few slow-growing hemlock trees appear in the colder sections. If one continues his journey toward the equator he will next pass through forests of broad-leaved trees. They will include oak, maple, beech, chestnut, hickory, and sycamore. In Kentucky, which is a centre of the broad-leaved belt, there are several hundred different varieties of trees. Farther south, the cone-bearing species prevail. They are followed in the march toward the Gulf of Mexico by the tropical trees of southern Florida. If one journeys west from the Mississippi River across the Great Plains he finally will come to the Rocky Mountains, where evergreen trees predominate. If oak, maple, poplar, or other broad-leaved trees grow in that region, they occur in scattered stands. In the eastern forests the trees are close together. They form a leafy canopy overhead. In the forests of the Rockies the evergreens stand some distance apart so that their tops do not touch. As a result, these Western forests do not shade the ground as well as those in the east. This causes the soils of these forests to be much drier, and also increases the danger from fire. The forests of western Washington and Oregon, unlike most timberlands of the Rocky Mountain Region, are as dense as any forests in the world. Even at midday it is as dark as twilight in these forests. The trees are gigantic. They tower 150 to 300 feet above the ground. Their trunks often are 6 feet or larger in diameter. They make the trees of the eastern forests look stunted. They are excelled in size only by the mammoth redwood trees of northern California and the giant Sequoias of the southern Sierras. [Illustration: THE SEQUOIAS OF CALIFORNIA] Differences of climate have largely influenced tree growth and types in this country. The distribution of tree families is changing all the time. It shifts just as the climate and other conditions change. Trees constantly strive among themselves for control of different localities. For a time one species will predominate. Then other varieties will appear and displace the ones already established. The distribution of trees changes very remarkably from one century to another. For example, in some sections, the red and black oaks are replacing the white oaks. Some trees are light-lovers. They require much more sunlight than others that do well under heavy shade. Oak trees require plenty of light; maples or beeches thrive on little light. The seed of trees requiring little light may be scattered in a dense forest together with that of trees which need plenty of daylight in order to make normal growth. The seedlings that like shade will develop under such conditions while those that need light will pine away and die. Gradually the shade-loving trees will replace the light-loving trees in such a forest stand. Even the different trees of the same family often strive with one another for light and moisture. Each tree differs from every other one in shape and size. Trees will adapt themselves to the light and moisture conditions to which they are exposed. A tree that has access to plenty of moisture and sunlight grows evenly from the ground to its top with a bushy, wide-spreading crown. The same tree, if it grows in the shade, will reach a greater height but will have a small compact crown. Trees run a race in their rapidity of growth. The winners get the desirable places in the sunlight and prosper. The losers develop into stunted trees that often die, due to lack of light exposure. A better quality of lumber results from tall straight trees than that produced by the symmetrical, branching trees. That is why every forester who sets out trees tries to provide conditions which will make them grow tall and with the smallest possible covering of branches on the lower part of the trunks. Where trees are exposed to strong winds, they develop deep and strong root systems. They produce large and strong trunks that can bend and resist violent winds which sway and twist them in every direction. Such trees are much stronger and sturdier than those that grow in a sheltered forest. The trees that are blown down in the forest provide space for the introduction and growth of new varieties. These activities are constantly changing the type of tree growth in the forest. Our original forests which bordered the Atlantic coast line when America was first settled, were dense and impenetrable. The colonists feared the forests because they sheltered the hostile Indians who lurked near the white settlements. In time this fear of the forest developed into hatred of the forest. As a result, the colonists cut trees as rapidly as they could. In every way they fought back the wilderness. They and their children's children have worked so effectively that the original wealth of woodlands has been depleted. At present, cleared fields and cutover areas abound in regions that at one time were covered with magnificent stands of timber. In many sections of the country our forests are now so reduced that they are of little commercial importance. However, these areas are not yet entirely denuded. Predictions have been made frequently that our woodlands would soon disappear. Scientific foresters report that such statements are incorrect. There are only a few districts in the country which probably will never again support much tree growth. Their denuded condition is due largely to the destruction of the neighboring mountain forests and to the activities of erosion. Under ordinary conditions, natural reforestation will maintain a satisfactory tree growth on lands where a practical system of forest protection is practiced. The complete removal of the forest is now accomplished only in fertile farming regions, where the agricultural value of the land is too high to permit it to remain longer in forest cover. Even in the Mississippi Valley and the Great Lakes belts there are still large areas of forest land. Most of the farms have woodlots which provide fuel, fencing, and some lumber. For the most part, these farm woodlots are abused. They have not been managed correctly. Fortunately, a change for the better is now evident. The farm woodlot owners are coming to appreciate the importance of protecting the trees for future use. In some cases, they are even replanting areas that have been cut over. There are large tracts of sandy, rocky and swampy land in these districts that are satisfactory for tree production. In fact, about all these fields are good for is the growing of timber. Campaigns are now under way to increase tree planting and develop the production of lands adapted for forestry which previously have been idle. The United States of the future will not be a desert, tree-less country. However, immediate measures to save our remaining trees must be developed. The greater part of our virgin timber has already been felled. The aftermath forests, which succeed the virgin stand, generally are inferior. Our supplies of ash, black walnut and hickory, once abundant, are now seriously limited. Formerly, these mixed forests covered vast stretches of country which today support only a scant crop of young trees which will not be ready for market for many years. These second-growth stands will never approach in value or quality the original forests. Over large areas, poplar, white birch, and Jack pine trees now predominate on lands which formerly bore dense stands of white pine. In many places, scrubby underbrush and stunted trees occupy lands which heretofore have been heavy producers of marketable timber trees. Generally speaking, farm lands should not be used for forestry purposes. On the other hand, some forest lands can be profitably cleared and used for agriculture. For example, settlers are felling trees and fighting stumps in northern Wisconsin, Michigan, and Minnesota. Some of these virgin lands are valuable for farming purposes, others are not. It is preferable that they should produce farm crops instead of tree crops if the land is best adapted to agricultural use. It is an economic necessity that all lands in this country best suited for farming purposes should be tilled. Our ever-increasing population demands that every acre of land useful for growing crops should be cleared and devoted to farming. Under such conditions, the settlers should reserve sufficient woodlands for their home needs, carefully distinguishing between the land that is best for agricultural purposes and the land that is best for forestry purposes, and thus doubling their resources. Thoughtless lumbermen have pillaged millions of acres of our most productive forests. The early lumbermen wasted our woodland resources. They made the same mistakes as everyone else in the care and protection of our original forests. The greatest blame for the wasting of our lumber resources rests with the State and Federal authorities who permitted the depletion. Many of our lumbermen now appreciate the need of preserving and protecting our forests for future generations. Some of them have changed their policies and are now doing all in their power to aid forest conservation. The ability of a properly managed forest to produce new crops of trees year after year promises us a future supply of wood sufficient for all our needs if only we will conserve our timberlands as they deserve. It is our duty to handle the forests in the same way that fertile farming fields are managed. That is to say, they should be so treated that they will yield a profitable money crop every year without reducing their powers of future production. Private owners and farmers are coming slowly to realize the grave importance of preserving and extending our woodlands. The public, the State and the Nation are now solidly behind the movement to improve our forestry and to safe-guard our forests. Several of the States, including New York and Pennsylvania, have purchased large areas of timberlands for State forests. These will be developed as future sources of lumber supply. CHAPTER III FORESTS AND FLOODS Forests are necessary at the headwaters of streams. The trees break the force of the rain drops, and the forest floor, acting as a large sponge, absorbs rainfall and prevents run-off and floods. Unless there are forests at the sources of streams and rivers, floods occur. The spring uprisings of the Mississippi, Ohio and Missouri Rivers are due largely to the lack of forests at their headwaters. In the regions drained by these streams the run-off water is not absorbed as it should be. It flows unimpeded from the higher levels to the river valleys. It floods the river courses with so much water that they burst their banks and pour pell-mell over the surrounding country. Many floods which occur in the United States occur because we have cut down large areas of trees which formerly protected the sources of streams and rivers. A grave danger that threatens western farming is that some time in the future the greater part of the vegetation and forest cover on the watersheds of that section may entirely disappear. Such a condition would cause floods after every heavy rain. The available supplies of rainwater which are needed for the thirsty crops would be wasted as flood waters. These floods would cause great damage in the valleys through which they rushed. The freshets would be followed by periods of water famine. The streams would then be so low that they could not supply the normal demands. Farmers would suffer on account of the lack of irrigation water. Towns and cities that depended on the mountain streams for their water supplies would be handicapped severely. In a thousand and one ways, a deficient water supply due to forest depletion would cause hardships and suffering in the regions exposed to such misfortune. The important part which forests play in the development of our country is shown by the fact that from the streams of the National Forests over 700 western cities and towns, with an aggregate population of nearly 2,500,000, obtain their domestic water supply. The forests include 1266 irrigation projects and 325 water-power plants, in addition to many other power and irrigation companies which depend on the Government timberlands for water conservation and the regulation of rain water run-off and stream flow. The National Forests aid greatly in conserving and making available for use the precious limited rainfall of the arid regions. That is why settlers in irrigated districts are deeply interested in the cutting of timber in the Federal woodlands. Destructive lumbering is never practiced in these forests. In its place has been substituted a system of management that assures the continued preservation of the forest-cover. Uncle Sam is paying special attention to the western water-sheds which supply reclamation and irrigation projects. He understands that the ability of the forest to regulate stream flow is of great importance. The irrigation farmers also desire a regular flow, evenly distributed, throughout the growing season. One of the chief reasons for the establishment of the National Forest was to preserve the natural conditions favorable to stream flow. In a treeless country, the rise of the streams is a very accurate measure of the rainfall. In the region where forests are frequent, an ordinary rain is scarcely noticed in its effect on the stream. In a denuded district no natural obstacles impede the raindrops as they patter to the ground. The surface of the soil is usually hard. It is baked and dried out by the sun. It is not in condition to absorb or retain much of the run-off water, consequently, the rain water finds little to stop it as it swirls down the slopes. In torrents it rushes down the stream beds, like sheets of water flowing down the steep roof of a house. Conditions are very different in a region where forest cover is abundant. In the forests, the tops of the trees catch much of the rain that falls. The leaves, twigs, branches and trunks of the trees also soak up considerable moisture. The amount of rainfall that directly strikes the ground is relatively small. The upper layer of the forested ground consists of a network of shrubs, and dead leaves, branches, and moss. This forest carpet acts like an enormous sponge. It soaks up the moisture which drops from the trees during a storm. It can absorb and hold for a time a rainfall of four or five inches. The water that finally reaches the ground sinks into the soil and is evaporated or runs off slowly. The portion that is absorbed by the soil is taken up by the roots of the trees and plants or goes to supply springs and watercourses. The power of the trees and forest soil to absorb water regulates the rate at which the rainfall is fed to the streams and rivers. Frequently it takes weeks and even months for all the waters of a certain rain to reach these streams. This gradual supplying of water to the streams regulates their flow. It prevents floods and freshets. Careful observation and measurements have shown that unforested regions will discharge rain water at least twice as fast as will forested districts. The stealing of soil by erosion occurs where run-off waters are not obstructed by forest growth. Silt, sand, and every other kind of soil are swept from their natural positions and spritted away by the foaming waters as they surge down the steep slopes. The stream or river which is flooded by these rushing waters roars down its narrow channel, tearing loose and undermining the jutting banks. In some cases, it will break from its ordinary course to flood exposed fields and to carry away more soil. As the speed of the stream increases its power to steal soil and carry it off is increased. Engineers report that the carrying power of a stream is increased 64 times when its rate of flow is doubled. If the flow of a river is speeded up ten times, this raging torrent will be able to carry one million times as much foreign material as it did when it was flowing at a normal rate of speed, causing inexpressible damage and destruction of life and property. The protection afforded by forests on the water-sheds of streams furnishing the domestic water supply for cities and towns is becoming more fully realized. A large number of cities and towns have purchased and are maintaining municipal or communal forests for this very reason. CHAPTER IV WILD LIFE OF THE FOREST The forests of our country are the home and breeding grounds of hundreds of millions of birds and game animals, which the forests provide with food and shelter. If we had no forests, many of these birds and animals would soon disappear. The acorns and other nuts that the squirrels live upon are examples of the food that the forest provides for its residents. In the clear, cold streams of the forests there are many different kinds of fish. If the forests were destroyed by cutting or fire many of the brooks and rivers would either dry up or the water would become so low that thousands of fish would die. The most abundant game animals of forest regions are deer, elk, antelope and moose. Partridge, grouse, quail, wild turkeys and other game birds are plentiful in some regions. The best known of all the inhabitants of the woods are the squirrels. The presence of these many birds and animals adds greatly to the attractiveness of the forest. Predatory animals, such as wolves, bears, mountain lions, coyotes and bobcats also live in the forest. They kill much livestock each year in the mountain regions of the Western States and they also prey on some species of bird life. The Federal and some State governments now employ professional hunters to trap and shoot these marauders. Each year the hunters kill thousands of predatory animals, thus saving the farmers and cattle and sheep owners many thousands of dollars. Sportsmen are so numerous and hunting is so popular, that game refuges have to be provided in the forests and parks. Were it not for these havens of refuge where hunting is not permitted, some of our best known wild game and birds would soon be extinct. There are more than 11,640,648 acres of forest land in the government game refuges. California has 22 game refuges in her 17 National Forests. New Mexico has 19, while Montana, Idaho, Colorado, Washington and Oregon also have set aside areas of government forest land for that purpose. In establishing a game refuge, it is necessary to pick out a large area of land that contains enough good feed for both the summer and winter use of the animals that will inhabit it. [Illustration: A FOREST RANGER AND HIS FOREST CABIN] Livestock is sometimes grazed on game refuges, but only in small numbers, so that plenty of grass will be left for the support of the wild game. The refuges are under the direction of the Federal and the State game departments. To perpetuate game animals and game birds, it is not enough to pass game laws and forbid the shooting of certain animals and birds except at special times of the year; it is also necessary to provide good breeding grounds for the birds and animals where they will not be molested or killed. The game refuges provide such conditions. The division of the range country into small farms and the raising of all kinds of crops have, it is claimed, done more to decrease our herds of antelope, elk, deer and other big game than have the rifles of the hunters. The plow and harrow have driven the wild life back into the rougher country. The snow becomes very deep in the mountains in the winter and the wild animals could not get food were it not for the game refuges in the low country. In the Yellowstone National Park country great bands of elk come down from the mountains during severe winters and have to be fed on hay to keep them from starving, as there is not sufficient winter range in this region to supply food for the thousands of elk. Where the elk are protected from hunters they increase rapidly. This means that some of the surplus animals have to be killed, otherwise, the elk would soon be so numerous that they would seriously interfere with the grazing of domestic livestock. In different sections of the elk country, a count is made every few years on the breeding animals in each band. Whenever a surplus accumulates, the state permits hunters to shoot some of the elk. If the breeding herds get too small, no hunting is allowed. In this way, a proper balance is maintained. In many states the wild game birds and fur-bearing animals of the forests are protected by closed seasons during which hunting is not permitted. It is realized that birds and animals are not only of interest to visitors to the forests, but that they, as well as the trees, are a valuable forest product. CHAPTER V IMPORTANT FOREST TREES AND THEIR USES Of our native trees, the white pine is one of the best and most valuable. It is a tall straight tree that grows to a height of 100 to 150 feet. It produces wood that is light in weight and easy to work because it is so soft. At one time there were extensive pine forests in the northeastern states. Many of the trees were very large, and occasionally one may still see pine stumps that are 5 to 6 feet in diameter. White pine made fine lumber for houses and other buildings and this timber was among the first to be exhausted in the country. Spruce trees have long furnished the bulk of the woodpulp used in making our supplies of paper. These trees live in the colder climates of the northern states. They like to grow in low, wet localities close to lakes or rivers. The spruces generally do not grow higher than 75-100 feet. The wood is soft like pine and even whiter in color. The aboriginal Indians used the roots of the spruce trees as thread, twine and rope. The cedar trees, which are landmarks in many of our northern states, yield light, soft, durable wood that is useful in making poles, fence posts, lead pencils and cedar chests. The wood of the red cedar gives off a peculiar odor which is said to keep moths away from clothes stored in cedar chests, but it is the close construction of the chest which keeps them out. These trees are becoming scarce in all parts of the country. Cedars generally are small trees that grow slowly and live a long time. The outside wood is white and the heartwood is red or yellow. Cedar posts last a long time and are excellent for use in farm fences. Chestnut blight, which destroys entire forests of chestnut timber, is gradually exhausting our supplies of this wood. Chestnut timber has long been used for railroad ties, fence posts and in the manufacture of cheap furniture. The wood is soft and brown in color. The bark and wood are treated at special plants in such a way that an extract which is valuable for tanning leather is obtained. Chestnut trees are upstanding, straight trees that tower 80 to 100 feet above the ground. The extinction of our chestnut forests threatens as no effectual control measures for checking the chestnut blight disease over large areas has yet been discovered. The yellow poplar or tulip poplar furnishes timber for the manufacture of furniture, paper, the interior of railroad cars and automobiles. The dugouts of the early settlers and Indians were hewed out of poplar logs. These boats were stronger than those made of canoe birch. Poplar wood is yellow in color and soft in texture. The poplar is the largest broad-leaf tree in this country and the trees are of great size and height. Some specimens found in the mountains of the South have been over 200 feet high and 8 to 10 feet in diameter, while poplars 125 to 150 feet high are quite common. Among our most useful and valuable trees are the white oak, and its close kin, the red oak, which produce a brown-colored, hard wood of remarkable durability. The white oak is the monarch of the forest, as it lives very long and is larger and stronger than the majority of its associates. The timber is used for railroad ties, furniture, and in general construction work where tough, durable lumber is needed. Many of our wooden ships have been built of oak. The white oaks often grow as high as 100 feet and attain massive dimensions. The seeds of the white oaks are light brown acorns, which are highly relished by birds and animals. Many southern farmers range their hogs in white oak forests so that the porkers can live on the acorn crop. Beech wood is strong and tough and is used in making boxes and barrels and casks for the shipment of butter, sugar and other foods. It makes axles and shafts for water-wheels that will last for many years. The shoes worn by Dutch children are generally made of beech. The wood is red in color. The beech tree is of medium size growing to a height of about 75 feet above the ground. There is only one common variety of beech tree in this country. Hickory trees are very popular because they produce sweet, edible nuts. The hickory wood is exceedingly strong and tough and is used wherever stout material is needed. For the spokes, wheels and bodies of buggies and wagons, for agricultural implements, for automobile wheels and for handles, hickory is unexcelled. The shafts of golf clubs as well as some types of base-ball bats are made of hickory. Most hickory trees are easy to identify on account of their shaggy bark. The nuts of the hickory, which ripen in the autumn, are sweet, delicious and much in demand. Our native elm tree is stately, reaching a height of 100 feet and a diameter of 5 to 6 feet or more. It is one of our best shade trees. Elm wood is light brown in color and very heavy and strong. It is the best available wood for making wagon wheel hubs and is also used largely for baskets and barrels. The rims of bicycle wheels generally are made of elm. The canoe birch is a tree which was treasured by the early Indians because it yielded bark for making canoes. Birch wood is used in making shoe lasts and pegs because of its strength and light weight, and the millions of spools on which cotton is wound are made of birch wood. School desks and church furniture, also, are made of birch. The orange-colored inner bark of the birch tree is so fine and delicate that the early settlers could use it as they would paper. No matter whether birch wood is green or dry, it will burn readily. The birch was the most useful tree of the forest to the Indians. Its bark was used not only for making their canoes, but also for building their wigwams. They even dried and ground the inner bark into a flour which they used as a food. The northern sugar maple is another tree which is a favorite in all sections where it is grown. This tree yields a hard wood that is the best and toughest timber grown in some localities. The trees grow to heights of 75 to 100 feet and attain girths of 5 to 9 feet. Maple lumber is stout and heavy. It makes fine flooring and is used in skating rinks and for bowling alleys. Many pianos are made of maple. Wooden dishes and rolling pins are usually made from maple wood. During the spring of the year when the sap is flowing, the average mature maple tree will yield from fifteen to twenty gallons of sap in a period of three to four weeks. This sap is afterwards boiled down to maple syrup and sugar. Hemlock trees, despite the fact that they rank among the most beautiful trees of the forest, produce lumber which is suitable only for rough building operations. The wood is brown and soft and will not last long when exposed to the weather. It cracks and splits easily because it is so brittle. Hemlock is now of considerable importance as pulpwood for making paper. For many years, a material important for tanning leather has been extracted in large amounts from the bark of hemlock trees. One of the most pleasing uses to which the balsam fir is put is as Christmas trees. Sometimes it is used in making paper pulp. The balsam fir seldom grows higher than 50 feet or thicker than 12 inches. The leaves of this tree have a very sweet odor and are in demand at Christmas time. Foresters and woodsmen often use balsam boughs to make their beds and pillows when camping in the woods. [Illustration: PINE WHICH YIELDS TURPENTINE AND TIMBER] Our native supplies of hardwoods and softwoods are used for general building purposes, for farm repairs, for railroad ties, in the furniture and veneer industry, in the handle industry, and in the vehicle and agricultural implement industries. On the average each American farmer uses about 2,000 board feet of lumber each year. New farm building decreased in the several years following the World War, due to the high price of lumber and labor. As a result of this lack of necessary building, millions of dollars worth of farm machinery stood out in the weather. Livestock lacked stables in some sections. Very little building was done in that period in two hundred and fifty prosperous agricultural counties in thirty-two different states. The railroads consume about 15 per cent. of our total lumber cut. They use between 100,000,000 and 125,000,000 railroad ties a year. It used to be that most of the cross-ties were of white oak cut close to the places where they were used. Now Douglas fir, southern pine and other woods are being used largely throughout the Middle Western and Eastern States. The supply of white oak ties is small and the prices are high. Some years ago, when white oak was abundant, the railroads that now are using other cross-ties would not have even considered such material for use in their roadbeds. The fact that other ties are now being used emphasizes the fact that we are short on oak timber in the sections where this hardwood formerly was common. The furniture industry uses hardwoods of superior grade and quality. The factories of this industry have moved from region to region as the supply of hardwoods became depleted. Originally, these factories were located in the Northeastern States. Then, as the supplies of hardwood timber in those sections gave out, they moved westward. They remained near the Corn Belt until the virgin hardwood forests of the Middle West were practically exhausted. The furniture industry is now largely dependent on what hardwoods are left in the remote sections of the Southern Appalachians and the lower Mississippi Valley. When these limited supplies are used up, there will be very little more old-growth timber in the country for them to use. The furniture, veneer, handle, vehicle, automobile and agricultural implement industries all are in competition for hardwood timber. The furniture industry uses 1,250,000,000 feet of high-grade hardwood lumber annually. Production of timber of this type for furniture has decreased as much as 50 per cent. during the past few years. It is now difficult for the furniture factories and veneer plants to secure enough raw materials. Facilities for drying the green lumber artificially are few. It used to be that the hardwood lumber was seasoned for six to nine months before being sold. Furniture dealers now have to buy the material green from the sawmills. Competition has become so keen that buyers pay high prices. They must have the material to keep their plants running and to supply their trade. The veneer industry provides furniture manufacturers, musical instrument factories, box makers and the automobile industry with high-grade material. The industry uses annually 780,000,000 board feet of first quality hardwood cut from virgin stands of timber. Red gum and white oak are the hardwoods most in demand. In the Lake States, a branch of the veneer industry which uses maple, birch and basswood is located. Oak formerly was the most important wood used. Now red gum has replaced the oak, as the supplies of the latter timber have dwindled. At present there is less than one-fourth of a normal supply of veneer timber in sight. Even the supplies in the farmers' woodlands are being depleted. The industry is now largely dependent on the timber of the southern Mississippi Valley. The veneer industry requires best-grade material. Clear logs are demanded that are at least 16 inches in diameter at the small end. It is getting harder every year to secure such logs. Like the furniture industry, the veneer mills lack adequate supplies of good timber. No satisfactory substitutes for the hickory and ash used in the handle industry have yet been found. About the only stocks of these timbers now left are in the Southern States. Even in those parts the supplies are getting short and it is necessary to cut timber in the more remote sections distant from the railroad. The ash shortage is even more serious than that of hickory timber. The supplies of ash in the Middle West States north of the Ohio River are practically exhausted. The demand for ash and hickory handles is larger even than before the World War. The entire world depends on the United States for handles made from these woods. Handle dealers are now willing to pay high prices for ash and hickory timber. Some of them prepared for the shortage by buying tracts of hardwood timber. When these reserves are cut over, these dealers will be in the same position as the rest of the trade. Ash and hickory are in demand also by the vehicle and agricultural implement industries. They also use considerable oak and compete with the furniture industry to secure what they need of this timber. Most of these plants are located in the Middle West but they draw their timber chiefly from the South. Hickory is a necessary wood to the vehicle industry for use in spokes and wheels. The factories exert every effort to secure adequate supplies of timber from the farm woodlands, sawmills and logging camps. The automobile industry now uses considerable hickory in the wheels and spokes of motor cars. Most of the stock used by the vehicle industry is purchased green. Neither the lumber nor vehicle industry is equipped with enough kilns for curing this green material. The losses in working and manufacturing are heavy, running as high as 40 per cent. Many substitutes for ash, oak and hickory have been tried but they have failed to prove satisfactory. On account of the shortage and the high prices of hickory, vehicle factories are using steel in place of hickory wherever possible. Steel is more expensive but it can always be secured in quantity when needed. Furthermore, it is durable and very strong. Thus we see that our resources of useful soft woods and hard woods have both been so diminished that prompt reforestation of these species is an urgent necessity. CHAPTER VI THE GREATEST ENEMY OF THE FOREST--FIRE Our forests are exposed to destruction by many enemies, the worst of which is fire. From 8,000,000 to 12,000,000 acres of forest lands annually are burned over by destructive fires. These fires are started in many different ways. They may be caused by sparks or hot ashes from a locomotive. Lightning strikes in many forests every summer, particularly those of the Western States, and ignites many trees. In the South people sometimes set fires in order to improve the grazing. Settlers and farmers who are clearing land often start big brush fires that get out of their control. Campers, tourists, hunters, and fishermen are responsible for many forest fires by neglecting to extinguish their campfires. Sparks from logging engines also cause fires. Cigar and cigarette stubs and burning matches carelessly thrown aside start many forest fires. Occasionally fires are also maliciously set by evil-minded people. The officers of the National Forests in the West have become very expert in running down the people who set incendiary fires. They collect evidence at the scene of the fire, such as pieces of letters and envelopes, matches, lost handkerchiefs and similar articles. They hunt for foot tracks and hoof marks. They study automobile tire tracks. They make plaster of Paris impressions of these tracks. They follow the tracks--sometimes Indian fashion. Often there are peculiarities about the tracks which lead to the detection and punishment of the culprits. A horse may be shod in an unusual manner; a man may have peculiar hob nails or rubber heels on his boots or else his footprints may show some deformity. The forest rangers play the parts of detectives very well. This novel police work has greatly reduced the number of incendiary fires. [Illustration: FOREST FIRES DESTROY MILLIONS OF DOLLARS WORTH OF TIMBER EVERY YEAR] A forest fire may destroy in a few hours trees that required hundreds of years to grow. A heavy stand of timber may be reduced to a desolate waste because some one forgot to put out a campfire. Occasionally large forest fires burn farm buildings and homes and kill hundreds of people. During the dry summer season when a strong wind is blowing, the fire will run for many miles. It always leaves woe and desolation in its wake. A mammoth forest fire in Wisconsin many years ago burned over an area of two thousand square miles. It killed about fourteen hundred people and destroyed many millions of dollars worth of timber and other property. A big forest fire in Michigan laid waste a tract forty miles wide and one hundred and eighty miles long. More than four billion feet of lumber, worth $10,000,000, was destroyed and several hundred people lost their lives. In recent years, a destructive forest fire in Minnesota caused a loss of $25,000,000 worth of timber and property. There are several different kinds of forest fires. Some burn unseen two to four feet beneath the surface of the ground. Where the soil contains much peat, these fires may persist for weeks or even months. Sometimes, they do not give off any noticeable smoke. Their fuel is the decaying wood, tree roots and similar material in the soil. These underground fires can be stopped only by flooding the area or by digging trenches down to the mineral soil. The most effectual way to fight light surface fires is to throw sand or earth on the flames. Where the fire has not made much headway, the flames can sometimes be beaten out with green branches, wet gunny sacks or blankets. The leaves and debris may be raked away in a path so as to impede their advance. Usually in the hardwood forests, there is not much cover, such as dry leaves, on the ground. Fires in these forests destroy the seedlings and saplings, but do not usually kill the mature trees. However, they damage the base of the trees and make it easy for fungi and insects to enter. They also burn the top soil and reduce the water-absorbing powers of the forest floor. In thick, dense evergreen forests where the carpet is heavy, fires are much more serious. They frequently kill the standing trees, burning trunks and branches and even following the roots deep into the ground. Dead standing trees and logs aid fires of this kind. The wind sweeps pieces of burning bark or rotten wood great distances to kindle new fires. When they fall, dead trees scatter sparks and embers over a wide belt. Fires also run along the tops of the coniferous trees high above the ground. These are called "crown-fires" and are very difficult to control. The wind plays a big part in the intensity of a forest fire. If the fire can be turned so that it will run into the wind, it can be put out more easily. Fires that have the wind back of them and plenty of dry fuel ahead, speed on their way of destruction at a velocity of 5 to 10 miles an hour, or more. They usually destroy everything in their course that will burn, and waste great amounts of valuable timber. Wild animals, in panic, run together before the flames. Settlers and farmers with their families flee. Many are overtaken in the mad flight and perish. The fierce fires of this type can be stopped only by heavy rain, a change of wind, or by barriers which provide no fuel and thus choke out the flames. Large fires are sometimes controlled by back-firing. A back-fire is a second fire built and so directed as to run against the wind and toward the main fire. When the two fires meet, both will go out on account of lack of fuel. When properly used by experienced persons, back-fires are very effectual. In inexperienced hands they are dangerous, as the wind may change suddenly or they may be lighted too soon. In such cases they often become as great a menace as the main fire. Another practical system of fighting fires is to make fire lines around the burning area. These fire lines or lanes as they are sometimes called, are stretches of land from which all trees and shrubs have been removed. In the centre of the lines a narrow trench is dug to mineral soil or the lines are plowed or burned over so that they are bare of fuel. Such lines also are of value around woods and grain fields to keep the fire out. They are commonly used along railroad tracks where locomotive sparks are a constant source of fire dangers. Our forests, on account of their great size and the relatively small man force which guards them, are more exposed to fire dangers than any other woodlands in the world. The scant rainfall of many of the western states where great unbroken areas of forest are located increases the fire damages. The fact that the western country in many sections is sparsely settled favors destruction by forest fires. The prevalence of lightning in the mountains during the summer adds farther to the danger. One of the most important tasks of the rangers in the Federal forests is to prevent forest fires. During the fire season, extra forest guards are kept busy hunting for signs of smoke throughout the forests. The lookouts in their high towers, which overlook large areas of forest, watch constantly for smoke, and as soon as they locate signs of fire they notify the supervisor of the forest. Lookouts use special scientific instruments which enable them to locate the position of the fires from the smoke. At the supervisor's headquarters and the ranger stations scattered through the forests, equipment, horses and automobiles are kept ready for instant use when a fire is reported. Telephone lines and radio sets are used to spread the news about fires that have broken out. From five thousand to six thousand forest fires occur each year in the National Forests of our country. To show how efficient the forest rangers are in fighting fires, it is worthy of note that by their prompt actions, 80 per cent. of these fires are confined to areas of less than ten acres each, while only 20 per cent. spread over areas larger than ten acres. Lightning causes from 25 to 30 per cent. of the fires. The remaining 70 or 75 per cent. are classed as "man-caused fires," which are set by campers, smokers, railroads, brush burners, sawmills and incendiaries. The total annual loss from forest fires in the Federal forests varies from a few hundred thousands of dollars in favorable years to several million in particularly bad fire seasons. During the last few years, due to efficient fire-fighting methods, the annual losses have been steadily reduced. The best way of fighting forest fires is to prevent them. The forest officers do their best to reduce the chances for fire outbreak in the Government woodlands. They give away much dead timber that either has fallen or still is standing. Lumbermen who hold contracts to cut timber in the National Forest are required to pile and burn all the slashings. Dry grass is a serious fire menace. That is why grazing is encouraged in the forests. Rangers patrol the principal automobile roads to see that careless campers and tourists have not left burning campfires. Railroads are required to equip their locomotives with spark-arresters. They also are obliged to keep their rights of way free of material which burns readily. Spark-arresters are required also on logging engines. The National and State Forests are posted with signs and notices asking the campers and tourists to be careful with campfires, tobacco and matches. Advertisements are run in newspapers, warning people to be careful so as not to set fire to the forests. Exhibits are made at fairs, shows, community meetings and similar gatherings, showing the dangers from forest fires and how these destructive conflagrations may be controlled. Every possible means is used to teach the public to respect and protect the forests. [Illustration: BLACKENED RUINS OF A FIRE-SWEPT FOREST] For many years, the United States Forest Service and State Forestry Departments have been keeping a record of forest fires and their causes. Studies have been made of the length and character of each fire season. Information has been gathered concerning the parts of the forest where lightning is most likely to strike or where campfires are likely to be left by tourists. The spots or zones of greatest fire danger are located in this way and more forest guards are placed in these areas during the dangerous fire season. Careful surveys of this kind are aiding greatly in reducing the number of forest fires. In trying to get all possible information about future weather conditions, the Forestry Departments coöperate with the United States Weather Bureau. When the experts predict that long periods of dry weather or dangerous storms are approaching, the forest rangers are especially watchful, as during such times, the menace to the woods is greatest. The rangers also have big fire maps which they hang in their cabins. These maps show the location of dangerous fire areas, roads, trails, lookout-posts, cities, towns and ranches, sawmills, logging camps, telephone lines, fire tool boxes and other data of value to fire fighters. All this information is so arranged as to be readily available in time of need. It shows where emergency fire fighters, tools and food supplies can be secured, and how best to attack a fire in any certain district. A detailed plan for fighting forest fires is also prepared and kept on file at every ranger station. The following are six rules which, if put in practice, will help prevent outbreaks of fires: 1. Matches.--Be sure your match is out. Break it in two before you throw it away. 2. Tobacco.--Throw pipe ashes and cigar or cigarette stubs in the dust of the road and stamp or pinch out the fire before leaving them. Don't throw them into the brush, leaves or needles. 3. Making camp.--Build a small campfire. Build it in the open, not against a tree or log, or near brush. Scrape away the trash from all around it. 4. Leaving camp.--Never leave a campfire, even for a short time, without quenching it with water or earth. Be sure it is OUT. 5. Bonfires.--Never build bonfires in windy weather or where there is the slightest danger of their escaping from control. Don't make them larger than you need. 6. Fighting fires.--If you find a fire, try to put it out. If you can't, get word of it to the nearest United States forest ranger or State fire warden at once. Remember "minutes count" in reporting forest fires. CHAPTER VII INSECTS AND DISEASES THAT DESTROY FORESTS Forest insects and tree diseases occasion heavy losses each year among the standing marketable trees. Insects cause a total loss of more than $100,000,000 annually to the forest products of the United States. A great number of destructive insects are constantly at work in the forests injuring or killing live trees or else attacking dead timber. Forest weevils kill tree seeds and destroy the young shoots on trees. Bark and timber beetles bore into and girdle trees and destroy the wood. Many borers and timber worms infest logs and lumber after they are cut and before they are removed from the forest. This scattered work of the insects here, there, and everywhere throughout the forests causes great damage. Different kinds of flies and moths deposit their eggs on the leaves of the trees. After the eggs hatch, the baby caterpillars feed on the tender, juicy leaves. Some of the bugs destroy all the leaves and thus remove an important means which the tree has of getting food and drink. Wire worms attack the roots of the tree. Leaf hoppers suck on the sap supply of the leaves. Leaf rollers cause the leaves to curl up and die. Trees injured by fire fall easy prey before the attacks of forest insects. It takes a healthy, sturdy tree to escape injury by these pirates of the forests. There are more than five hundred insects that attack oak trees and at least two hundred and fifty different species that carry on destruction among the pines. Insect pests have worked so actively that many forests have lost practically all their best trees of certain species. Quantities of the largest spruce trees in the Adirondacks have been killed off by bark beetles. The saw-fly worm has killed off most of the mature larches in these eastern forests. As they travel over the National and State Forests, the rangers are always on the watch for signs of tree infection. Whenever they notice red-brown masses of pitch and sawdust on the bark of the trees, they know that insects are busy there. Where the needles of a pine or spruce turn yellow or red, the presence of bark beetles is shown. Signs of pitch on the bark of coniferous trees are the first symptoms of infection. These beetles bore through the bark and into the wood. There they lay eggs. The parent beetles soon die but their children continue the work of burrowing in the wood. Finally, they kill the tree by making a complete cut around the trunk through the layers of wood that act as waiters to carry the food from the roots to the trunk, branches and leaves. The next spring these young develop into full-grown beetles, and come out from the diseased tree. They then attack new trees. When the forest rangers find evidences of serious infection, they cut down the diseased trees. They strip the bark from the trunk and branches and burn it in the fall or winter when the beetles are working in the bark and can be destroyed most easily. If the infection of trees extends over a large tract, and there is a nearby market for the lumber the timber is sold as soon as possible. Trap trees are also used in controlling certain species of injurious forest insects. Certain trees are girdled with an ax so that they will become weakened or die, and thus provide easy means of entrance for the insects. The beetles swarm to such trees in great numbers. When the tree is full of insects, it is cut down and burned. In this way, infections which are not too severe can often be remedied. The bark-boring beetles are the most destructive insects that attack our forests. They have wasted enormous tracts of pine timber throughout the southern states. The eastern spruce beetle has destroyed countless feet of spruce. The Engelmann spruce beetle has devastated many forests of the Rocky Mountains. The Black Hills beetle has killed billions of feet of marketable timber in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The hickory bark beetle, the Douglas fir beetle and the larch worm have been very destructive. Forest fungi cause most of the forest tree diseases. A tree disease is any condition that prevents the tree from growing and developing in a normal, healthy manner. Acid fumes from smelters, frost, sunscald, dry or extremely wet weather, all limit the growth of trees. Leaf diseases lessen the food supplies of the trees. Bark diseases prevent the movement of the food supplies. Sapwood ailments cut off the water supply that rises from the roots. Seed and flower diseases prevent the trees from producing more of their kind. Most of the tree parasites can gain entrance to the trees only through knots and wounds. Infection usually occurs through wounds in the tree trunk or branches caused by lightning, fire, or by men or animals. The cone-bearing trees give off pitch to cover such wounds. In this way they protect the injuries against disease infection. The hardwood trees are unable to protect their wounds as effectively as the evergreens. Where the wound is large, the exposed sapwood dies, dries out, and cracks. The fungi enter these cracks and work their way to the heartwood. Many of the fungi cannot live unless they reach the heartwood of the tree. Fires wound the base and trunks of forest trees severely so that they are exposed to serious destruction by heartrot. Foresters try to locate and dispose of all the diseased trees in the State and Government forests. They strive to remove all the sources of tree disease from the woods. They can grow healthy trees if all disease germs are kept away from the timberlands. Some tree diseases have become established so strongly in forest regions that it is almost impossible to drive them out. For example, chestnut blight is a fungous disease that is killing many of our most valuable chestnut trees. The fungi of this disease worm their way through the holes in the bark of the trees, and spread around the trunk. Diseased patches or cankers form on the limbs or trunk of the tree. After the canker forms on the trunk, the tree soon dies. Chestnut blight has killed most of the chestnut trees in New York and Pennsylvania. It is now active in Virginia and West Virginia and is working its way down into North and South Carolina. [Illustration: SECTION OF A VIRGIN FOREST] Diseased trees are a menace to the forest. They rob the healthy trees of space, light and food. That is why it is necessary to remove them as soon as they are discovered. In the smaller and older forests of Europe, tree surgery and doctoring are practised widely. Wounds are treated and cured and the trees are pruned and sprayed at regular intervals. In our extensive woods such practices are too expensive. All the foresters can do is to cut down the sick trees in order to save the ones that are sound. There is a big difference between tree damages caused by forest insects and those caused by forest fungi and mistletoe. The insects are always present in the forest. However, it is only occasionally that they concentrate and work great injury and damage in any one section. At rare intervals, some very destructive insects may centre their work in one district. They will kill a large number of trees in a short time. They continue their destruction until some natural agency puts them to flight. The fungi, on the other hand, develop slowly and work over long periods. Sudden outbreaks of fungous diseases are unusual. Heavy snows, lightning and wind storms also lay low many of the tree giants of the forest. Heavy falls of snow may weigh down the young, tall trees to such an extent that they break. Lightning--it is worst in the hills and mountains of the western states--may strike and damage a number of trees in the same vicinity. If these trees are not killed outright, they are usually damaged so badly that forest insects and fungi complete their destruction. Big trees are sometimes uprooted during forest storms so that they fall on younger trees and cripple and deform them. Winds benefit the forests in that they blow down old trees that are no longer of much use and provide space for younger and healthier trees to grow. Usually the trees that are blown down have shallow roots or else are situated in marshy, wet spots so that their root-hold in the soil is not secure. Trees that have been exposed to fire are often weakened and blown down easily. Where excessive livestock grazing is permitted in young forests considerable damage may result. Goats, cattle and sheep injure young seedlings by browsing. They eat the tender shoots of the trees. The trampling of sheep, especially on steep hills, damages the very young trees. On mountain sides the trampling of sheep frequently breaks up the forest floor of sponge-like grass and debris and thus aids freshets and floods. In the Alps of France sheep grazing destroyed the mountain forests and, later on, the grass which replaced the woods. Destructive floods resulted. It has cost the French people many millions of dollars to repair the damage done by the sheep. The Federal Government does its best to keep foreign tree diseases out of the United States. As soon as any serious disease is discovered in foreign countries the Secretary of Agriculture puts in force a quarantine against that country. No seed or tree stock can be imported. Furthermore, all the new species of trees, cuttings or plants introduced to this country are given thorough examination and inspection by government experts at the ports where the products are received from abroad. All diseased trees are fumigated, or if found diseased, destroyed. In this manner the Government protects our country against new diseases which might come to our shores on foreign plants and tree stock. CHAPTER VIII THE GROWTH OF THE FORESTRY IDEA Our forests of the New World were so abundant when the early settlers landed on the Atlantic Coast that it was almost impossible to find enough cleared land in one tract to make a 40-acre farm. These thick, dense timberlands extended westward to the prairie country. It was but natural, therefore, that the forest should be considered by these pioneers as an obstacle and viewed as an enemy. Farms and settlements had to be hewed out of the timberlands, and the forests seemed inexhaustible. Experts say that the original, virgin forests of the United States covered approximately 822,000,000 acres. They are now shrunk to one-sixth of that area. At one time they were the richest forests in the world. Today there are millions of acres which contain neither timber nor young growth. Considerable can be restored if the essential measures are started on a national scale. Such measures would insure an adequate lumber supply for all time to come. Rules and regulations concerning the cutting of lumber and the misuse of forests were suggested as early as the seventeenth century. Plymouth Colony in 1626 passed an ordinance prohibiting the cutting of timber from the Colony lands without official consent. This is said to be the first conservation law passed in America. William Penn was one of the early champions of the "Woodman, spare that tree" slogan. He ordered his colonists to leave one acre of forest for every five acres of land that were cleared. In 1799 Congress set aside $200,000 for the purchase of a small forest reserve to be used as a supply source of ship timbers for the Navy. About twenty-five years later, it gave the President the power to call upon the Army and Navy whenever necessary to protect the live oak and red cedar timber so selected in Florida. In 1827, the Government started its first work in forestry. It was an attempt to raise live oak in the Southern States to provide ship timbers for the Navy. Forty years later, the Wisconsin State Legislature began to investigate the destruction of the forests of that state in order to protect them and prolong their life. Michigan and Maine, in turn, followed suit. These were some of the first steps taken to study our forests and protect them against possible extinction. The purpose of the Timber Culture Act passed by Congress in 1873 was to increase national interest in reforestation. It provided that every settler who would plant and maintain 40 acres of timber in the treeless sections should be entitled to secure patent for 160 acres of the public domain--that vast territory consisting of all the states and territories west of the Mississippi, except Texas, as well as Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, Wisconsin, Florida, Alabama and Mississippi. This act, as well as several State laws, failed because the settlers did not know enough about tree planting. The laws also were not effective because they did not prevent dishonest practices. In 1876, the first special agent in forestry was appointed by the Commissioner of Agriculture to study the annual consumption, exportation and importation of timber and other forest products, the probable supply for future wants, and the means best adapted for forest preservation. Five years later, the Division of Forestry was organized as a branch of the Department of Agriculture. It was established in order to carry on investigations about forestry and how to preserve our trees. [Illustration: CUTTING MATURE TREES AND LEAVING SEED TREES TO INSURE A SECOND CROP] For some nine years the Division of Forestry was nothing more than a department of information. It distributed technical facts and figures about the management of private woodlands and collected data concerning our forest resources. It did not manage any of the Government timberlands because there were no forest reserves at that time. It was not until 1891 that the first forest reserve, the Yellowstone Park Timberland Reserve, was created by special proclamation of President Harrison. Later it became part of the National Park reserves. Although the Division of Forestry had no special powers to oversee and direct the management of the forest reserves, during the next six years a total of 40,000,000 acres of valuable timberland were so designated and set aside. At the request of the Secretary of the Interior, the National Academy of Sciences therefore worked out a basis for laws governing national forests. Congress enacted this law in 1897. Thereafter the Department of the Interior had active charge of the timberlands. At that time little was known scientifically about the American forests. There were no schools of forestry in this country. During the period 1898-1903, several such schools were established. President McKinley, during his term of office, increased the number of forest reserves from 28 to over 40, covering a total area of 30,000,000 acres. President Roosevelt added many millions of acres to the forest reserves, bringing the net total to more than 150,000,000 acres, including 159 different forests. In 1905, the administration of the forest reserves was transferred from the Department of the Interior to the Department of Agriculture, and their name changed to National Forests. No great additions to the government timberlands have been made since that time. Small, valuable areas have been added. Other undesirable tracts have been cut off from the original reserves. The growth of the Division of Forestry, now the United States Forest Service, has been very remarkable since 1898, when it consisted of only a few scientific workers and clerks. At present it employs more than 2,600 workers, which number is increased during the dangerous fire season to from 4,000 to 5,000 employees. The annual appropriations have been increased from $28,500 to approximately $6,500,000. The annual income from Uncle Sam's woodlands is also on the gain and now amounts to about $5,000,000 yearly. This income results largely from the sale of timber and the grazing of livestock on the National Forests. CHAPTER IX OUR NATIONAL FORESTS Our National Forests include 147 distinct and separate bodies of timber in twenty-seven different states and in Alaska and Porto Rico. They cover more than 156,000,000 acres. If they could be massed together in one huge area like the state of Texas, it would make easier the task of handling the forests and fighting fires. The United States Forest Service, which has charge of their management and protection, is one of the largest and most efficient organizations of its kind in the world. It employs expert foresters, scientists, rangers and clerks. The business of running the forest is centred in eight district offices located in different parts of the country with a general headquarters at Washington, D.C. These districts are in charge of district foresters and their assistants. The district headquarters and the States that they look after are: No. 1. Northern District, Missoula, Montana. (Montana, northeastern Washington, northern Idaho, and northwestern South Dakota.) No. 2. Rocky Mountain District, Denver, Colorado. (Colorado, Wyoming, the remainder of South Dakota, Nebraska, northern Michigan, and northern Minnesota.) No. 3. Southwestern District, Albuquerque, New Mexico. (Most of Arizona and New Mexico.) No. 4. Intermountain District, Ogden, Utah. (Utah, southern Idaho, western Wyoming, eastern and central Nevada, and northwestern Arizona.) No. 5. California District, San Francisco, California. (California and southwestern Nevada.) No. 6. North Pacific District, Portland, Oregon. (Washington and Oregon.) No. 7. Eastern District, Washington, D.C. (Arkansas, Alabama, Florida, Oklahoma, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, New Hampshire, Maine, and Porto Rico.) No. 8. Alaska District, Juneau, Alaska. (Alaska.) Each of the National Forests is under the direct supervision of a forest supervisor and is split up into from 5 to 10 or more ranger districts. Each ranger district is in charge of a forest ranger who has an area of from 100,000 to 200,000 acres in his charge. The National Forests are, for the most part, located in the mountainous region of the West, with small scattered areas in the Lake States, and the White Mountains, Southern Appalachians and Ozarks of the Eastern and Southern States. Many of them are a wilderness of dense timber. It is a huge task to protect these forests against the ravages of fire. Fire fighting takes precedence over all other work in the National Forests. Lookout stations are established on high points to watch for signs of fire. Airplanes are used on fire patrol over great areas of forest. Where railroads pass through the National Forests, rangers operate motor cars and hand-cars over the tracks in their patrol work. Launches are used in Alaska and on some of the forests where there are large lakes, to enable the fire fighters and forest guardians to cover their beats quickly. Every year the National Forests are being improved and made more accessible by the building of permanent roads, trails and telephone lines. Special trails are built to and in the fire protection areas of remote sections. A network of good roads is constructed in every forest to improve fire fighting activities as well as to afford better means of communication between towns, settlements and farms. The road and trail plan followed in the National Forests is mapped out years in advance. In the more remote sections, trails are first constructed. Later, these trails may be developed into wagon or motor roads. Congress annually appropriates large sums of money for the building of roads in the National Forests. Over 25,000 miles of roads and 35,000 miles of trails have already been constructed in these forests. Communication throughout the National Forests is had by the use of the telephone and the radio or wireless telephone. Signalling by means of the heliograph is practiced on bright days in regions that have no telephones. Arrangements made with private telephone companies permit the forest officers to use their lines. The efficient communication systems aid in the administration of the forests and speeds the work of gathering fire fighters quickly at the points where smoke is detected. Agricultural and forestry experts have surveyed the lands in the National Forests. Thus they have prevented the use of lands for forestry purposes which are better adapted for farming. Since 1910, more than 26,500,000 acres of lands have been excluded from the forests. These lands were more useful for farming or grazing than for forestry. Practically all lands within the National Forests have now been examined and classified. At intervals Congress has combined several areas of forest lands into single tracts. Government lands outside the National Forests have also been traded for state or private lands within their boundaries. Thus the forests have been lined-up in more compact bodies. Careful surveys are made before such trades are closed to make sure that the land given to Uncle Sam is valuable for timber production and the protection of stream flow, and that the Government receives full value for the land that is exchanged. The National Forests contain nearly five hundred billion board feet of merchantable timber. This is 23 per cent. of the remaining timber in the country. Whenever the trees in the forest reach maturity they are sold and put to use. All green trees to be cut are selected by qualified forest officers and blazed and marked with a "U.S." This marking is done carefully so as to protect the forest and insure a future crop of trees on the area. Timber is furnished at low rates to local farmers, settlers, and stockmen for use in making improvements. Much fire wood and dead and down timber also is given away. The removal of such material lessens the fire danger in the forest. Over a billion feet of timber, valued at more than $3,000,000, is sold annually from the National Forests. One generally does not think of meat, leather and wool as forest crops. Nevertheless, the National Forests play an important part in the western livestock industry. Experts report that over one-fifth of the cattle and one-half of the sheep of the western states are grazed in the National Forests. These livestock are estimated to be worth nearly one-quarter billion dollars. More than 9,500,000 head of livestock are pastured annually under permit in the Federal forests. In addition, some 4,000,000 to 6,000,000 calves and lambs are grazed free of charge. [Illustration: SEED BEDS IN A FOREST NURSERY] The ranges suitable for stock grazing are used to pasture sheep, cattle, horses, hogs and goats. The Secretary of Agriculture decides what number and what kind of animals shall graze on each forest. He regulates the grazing and prevents injury to the ranges from being overstocked with too many cattle and sheep. The forest ranges are divided into grazing units. Generally, the cattle and horses are grazed in the valleys and on the lower slopes of the mountain. The sheep and goats are pastured on the high mountain sides and in the grassy meadows at or above timberline. Preferences to graze live stock on the forest ranges are for the most part granted to stockmen who own improved ranch property and live in or near one of the National Forests. The fee for grazing on forest ranges is based on a yearlong rate of $1.20 a head of cattle, $1.50 for horses, $.90 for hogs and $.30 a head for sheep. At times it is necessary, for short periods, to prohibit grazing on the Government forest ranges. For example, when mature timber has been cut from certain areas, it is essential that sheep be kept off such tracts until the young growth has made a good start in natural reforestation. Camping grounds needed for recreation purposes by the public are excluded from the grazing range. If a shortage of the water supply of a neighboring town or city threatens, or if floods or erosion become serious due to fire or overgrazing of the land, the range is closed to live-stock and allowed to recuperate. Where artificial planting is practiced, grazing is often forbidden until the young trees get a good start. The total receipts which Uncle Sam collects from the 30,000 or more stockmen who graze their cattle and sheep on the National Forests amount to nearly $2,500,000 annually. As a result of the teachings of the Forest Service, the stockmen are now raising better livestock. Improved breeding animals are kept in the herds and flocks. Many of the fat stock now go directly from the range to the market. Formerly, most of the animals had to be fed on corn and grain in some of the Middle Western States to flesh them for market. Experiments have been carried on which have shown the advantages of new feeding and herding methods. The ranchers have banded together in livestock associations, which coöperate with the Forest Service in managing the forest ranges. It costs about $5 to sow one acre of ground to tree seed, and approximately $10 an acre to set out seedling trees. The seed is obtained from the same locality where it is to be planted. In many instances, cones are purchased from settlers who make a business of gathering them. The Federal foresters dry these cones in the sun and thresh out the seed, which they then fan and clean. If it is desired to store supplies of tree seed from year to year it is kept in sacks or jars, in a cool, dry place, protected from rats and mice. Where seed is sown directly on the ground, poison bait must be scattered over the area in order to destroy the gophers, mice and chipmunks which otherwise would eat the seed. Sowing seed broadcast on unprepared land has usually failed unless the soil and weather conditions were just right. For the most part, setting out nursery seedlings has given better results than direct seeding. Two men can set out between five hundred and one thousand trees a day. The National Forests contain about one million acres of denuded forest lands. Much of this was cut-over and so severely burned before the creation of the forests that it bears no tree growth. Some of these lands will reseed themselves naturally while other areas have to be seeded or planted by hand. In this way the lands that will produce profitable trees are fitted to support forest cover. Because the soils and climate of our National Forests are different, special experiments have been carried on in different places to decide the best practices to follow. Two method of reforestation are commonly practiced. In some places, the tree seed is sown directly upon the ground and, thereafter, may or may not be cultivated. This method is limited to the localities where the soil and moisture conditions are favorable for rapid growth. Under the other plan, the seedlings are grown in nurseries for several years under favorable conditions. They are then moved to the field and set out in permanent plantations. CHAPTER X THE NATIONAL FORESTS OF ALASKA There are two great National Forests in Alaska. They cover 20,579,740 acres or about 5-1/2 per cent. of the total area of Alaska. The larger of these woodlands, the Tongass National Forest, is estimated to contain 70,000,000,000 board feet of timber ripe for marketing. Stands of 100,000 board feet per acre are not infrequent. This is the Alaskan forest that will some day be shipping large amounts of timber to the States. It has over 12,000 miles of shore line and ninety per cent. of the usable timber is within two miles of tidewater. This makes it easy to log the timber and load the lumber directly from the forests to the steamers. This forest is 1500 miles closer to the mainland markets than is the other Alaskan National Forest. In most of the National Forests the rangers ride around their beats on horseback. The foresters in the Tongass use motor boats. They travel in couples; two men to a 35-foot boat, which is provided with comfortable eating and sleeping quarters. The rangers live on the boat all the time. During the summer they work sixteen to twenty hours daily. The days are long and the nights short, and they must travel long distances between points of work. On such runs one man steers the boat and watches the forested shoreline for three or four hours at a time, while his mate reads or sleeps; then they change off. In this way, they are able to make the most efficient use of the long periods of daylight. The other big timberland in Alaska is the Chugach National Forest. It is a smaller edition of the Tongass Forest. Its trees are not so large and the stand of timber only about one-half as heavy as in the Tongass. Experts estimate that it contains 7,000,000,000 board feet of lumber. Western hemlock predominates. There is also much spruce, poplar and birch. Stands of 40,000 to 50,000 feet of lumber an acre are not unusual. In the future, the lumber of the Chugach National Forest will play an important part in the industrial life of Alaska. Even now, it is used by the fishing, mining, railroad and agricultural interests. On account of its great distance from the markets of the Pacific Northwest it will be a long time before lumber from this forest will be exported. The timber in the Tongass National Forest runs 60 per cent. western hemlock and 20 per cent. Sitka spruce. The other 20 per cent. consists of western red cedar, yellow cypress, lodge-pole pine, cottonwood and white fir. The yellow cypress is very valuable for cabinet making. All these species except the cedar are suitable for pulp manufacture. Peculiarly enough, considerable of the lumber used in Alaska for box shooks in the canneries and in building work is imported from the United States. The local residents do not think their native timber is as good as that which they import. Alaska will probably develop into one of the principal paper sources of the United States. Our National Forests in Alaska contain approximately 100,000,000 cords of timber suitable for paper manufacture. Experts report that these forests could produce 2,000,000 cords of pulpwood annually for centuries without depletion. About 6,000,000 tons of pulpwood annually are now required to keep us supplied with enough paper. The Tongass National Forest could easily supply one-third of this amount indefinitely. This forest is also rich in water power. It would take more than 250,000 horses to produce as much power as that which the streams and rivers of southern Alaska supply. The western hemlock and Sitka spruce are the best for paper making. The spruce trees are generally sound and of good quality. The hemlock trees are not so good, being subject to decay at the butts. This often causes fluted trunks. The butt logs from such trees usually are inferior. This defect in the hemlock reduces its market value to about one-half that of the spruce for paper making. Some of the paper mills in British Columbia are now using these species of pulpwood and report that they make high-grade paper. The pulp logs are floated down to the paper mill. In the mill the bark is removed from the logs. Special knives remove all the knots and cut the logs into pieces twelve inches long and six inches thick. These sticks then pass into a powerful grinding machine which tears them into small chips. The chips are cooked in special steamers until they are soft. The softened chips are beaten to pieces in large vats until they form a pasty pulp. The pulp is spread over an endless belt of woven wire cloth of small mesh. The water runs off and leaves a sheet of wet pulp which then is run between a large number of heated and polished steel cylinders which press and dry the pulp into sheets of paper. Finally, it is wound into large rolls ready for commercial use. If a pulp and paper industry is built up in Alaska, it will be of great benefit to that northern country. It will increase the population by creating a demand for more labor. It will aid the farming operations by making a home market for their products. It will improve transportation and develop all kinds of business. Altogether 420,000,000 feet of lumber have been cut and sold from the national forests of Alaska in the past ten years. This material has been made into such products as piling, saw logs and shingle bolts. All this lumber has been used in Alaska and none of it has been exported. Much of the timber was cut so that it would fall almost into tide-water. Then the logs were fastened together in rafts and towed to the sawmills. One typical raft of logs contained more than 1,500,000 feet of lumber. It is not unusual for spruce trees in Alaska to attain a diameter of from six to nine feet and to contain 10,000 or 15,000 feet of lumber. Southeastern Alaska has many deep-water harbors which are open the year round. Practically all the timber in that section is controlled by the Government and is within the Tongass National Forest. This means that this important crop will be handled properly. No waste of material will occur. Cutting will be permitted only where the good of the forest justifies such work. CHAPTER XI PROGRESS IN STATE FORESTRY The rapid depletion and threatened exhaustion of the timber supply in the more thickly populated sections of the East has prompted several of the states to initiate action looking toward the conservation of their timber resources. As far back as 1880, a forestry commission was appointed in New Hampshire to formulate a forest policy for the State. Vermont took similar action two years later, followed within the next few years by many of the northeastern and lake states. These commissions were mainly boards of inquiry, for the purpose of gathering reliable information upon which to report, with recommendations, for the adoption of a state forest policy. As a result of the inquiries, forestry departments were established in a number of states. The report of the New York Commission of 1884 resulted in forest legislation, in 1885, creating a forestry department and providing for the acquisition of state forests. Liberal appropriations were made from time to time for this purpose, until now the state forests embrace nearly 2,000,000 acres, the largest of any single state. New York state forests were created, especially, for the protection of the Adirondack and Catskill regions as great camping and hunting grounds, and not for timber production. The people of the state were so fearful that through political manipulation this vast forest resource might fall into the hands of the timber exploiters, that a constitutional amendment was proposed and adopted, absolutely prohibiting the cutting of green timber from the state lands. Thus, while New York owns large areas of state forest land, it is unproductive so far as furnishing timber supplies to the state is concerned. It is held distinctly for the recreation it affords to campers and hunters, and contains many famous summer resorts. State forestry in Pennsylvania began in 1887, when a commission was appointed to study conditions, resulting in the establishment of a Commission of Forestry in 1895. Two years later, an act was passed providing for the purchase of state forests. At the present time, Pennsylvania has 1,250,000 acres of state forest land. Unlike those of New York, Pennsylvania forests were acquired and are managed primarily for timber production, although the recreational uses are not overlooked. The large areas of state-owned lands in the Lake States suitable, mainly, for timber growing, enabled this section to create extensive state forests without the necessity of purchase as was the case in New York and Pennsylvania. As a result, Wisconsin has nearly 400,000 acres of state forest land, Minnesota, about 330,000, and Michigan, about 200,000 acres. South Dakota, with a relatively small area of forest land, has set aside 80,000 acres for state forest. A number of other states have initiated a policy of acquiring state forest lands, notably, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey, Maryland, and Indiana, each with small areas, but likely to be greatly increased within the next few years under the development of present policies. Other states are falling in line with this forward movement. There are but 4,237,587 acres in state forests in the United States. This is only 1-1/2 per cent. of the cut-over and denuded land in the country which is useful only for tree production. The lack of funds prevents many states from embarking more extensively in this work. Many states set aside only a few thousand a year; others, that are more progressive and realize the need of forestry extension, spend annually from one hundred thousand to five hundred thousand dollars. Foresters are, generally, agreed that as much as 25 per cent. of the forest land of every state should be publicly owned for producing large sized timber, requiring seventy-five to one hundred years to grow, and which the private owner would not be interested in producing. National, state, or communal forests must supply it. All of these combined comprise a very small part of the forests of most of the states, so that much larger areas must be acquired by the states and the national government to safeguard our future timber supplies. Not less than thirty-two states are actually engaged in state forestry work. Many of them have well-organized forestry departments, which, in states like New York and Pennsylvania, having large areas of state forests, are devoted largely to the care and protection of these lands. In other states having no state forests, the work is largely educational in character. The most notable progress in forestry has been made in fire protection. All states having forestry departments lay especial emphasis upon forest protection, since it is recognized that only by protecting the forests from fire is it possible to succeed in growing timber crops. In fact, in most cases, the prevention of fire in itself is sufficient to insure re-growth and productive forests. Pennsylvania is spending $500,000 annually in protecting her forests from fire. The coöperation of the Federal Government, under a provision of the Weeks Law which appropriates small sums of money for forest protection, provided the state will appropriate an equal or greater amount, has done much to encourage the establishment of systems of forest protection in many of the states. [Illustration: SOWING FOREST SEED IN AN EFFORT TO GROW A NEW FOREST] The enormous areas of denuded, or waste land in the various states, comprising more than 80,000,000 acres, which can be made again productive only by forest planting, present another big problem in state forestry. Many of the states have established state forestry nurseries for the growing of tree seedlings to plant up these lands. The trees are either given away, or sold at cost, millions being distributed each year, indicating a live interest and growing sentiment in re-foresting waste lands. The appalling waste of timber resources through excessive and reckless cutting, amounting to forest devastation, is deplorable, but we are helpless to prevent it. Since the bulk of woodlands are privately owned, and there are no effective laws limiting the cutting of timber with a view to conserving the supply, the only means of bringing about regulated cutting on private lands is through coöperation with the owners. This is being done in some of the states in a limited way, through educational methods, involving investigations, reports, demonstrations, and other means of bringing improved forestry practices to the attention of existing owners and enlisting their coöperation and support in forest conservation. Forestry in the state, or in the nation, seems to progress no more rapidly than the timber disappears; in fact, the individual states do not take precaution to conserve their timber supplies until exhaustion is threatened. The damage has been largely done before the remedy is considered. We are today paying a tremendous toll for our lack of foresight in these matters. As a timber producing state becomes a timber importing state, (a condition existing in most of the eastern and middle states) we begin to pay a heavy toll in the loss of home industries dependent upon wood, and also in heavy freight charges on lumber that we must import from distant points to supply our needs. In many states, the expenditure of an amount for reforestation and fire protection equal to this freight bill on imported lumber would make the state self-supporting in a decade, instead of becoming worse off each year. Marked progress has been made along the lines indicated, but few of the states have begun to measure up to their full responsibility in protecting their future timber supply. CHAPTER XII THE PLAYGROUNDS OF THE NATION The public forests are steadily increasing in popularity as the playgrounds of the Nation. The woodlands offer splendid opportunities for camping, hunting, fishing and outdoor life. Millions of motorists now spend their vacations in the government and state forests. Railroads and automobiles make the forests accessible to all. Thousands of miles of improved motor highways lead into the very heart of the hills. More than 5,500,000 people annually visit the National Forests. Of this number, some 2,500,000 are campers, fishermen and hunters. [Illustration: A CAMPING GROUND IN A NATIONAL FOREST] The forests provide cheap health insurance to all who will enjoy what they offer in sport and recreation. For example, over 1,000,000 vacationists visit Colorado's forests each year. If each person spent but five days in the forests, this would mean a total of 5,000,000 days or 50,000,000 hours of rest and enjoyment. Recreation at the beaches and amusement parks costs at least fifty cents an hour. Applying that rate to the free fun which the people get out of the forests, in Colorado in one year the tourists, campers and fishermen gained $25,000,000 worth of pleasure from the forests. The National and State Forests furnish summer homes for thousands of people who live in the neighboring cities and towns. Regular summer home sites are laid off in many of the forests. Usually these individual sites cover about one-quarter acre or less. They rent for $5 to $25 a year, depending on the location. A man can rent one of these camp grounds for a term of years. He can build a summer cottage or bungalow on it. There are no special rules about the size or cost of the houses. Uncle Sam requires only that the cottages be sightly and the surroundings be kept clean and sanitary. Many of the cabins are built for $150 to $300. Some of them are more permanent and cost from $3,000 to $5,000 or $10,000. In the Angeles National Forest in southern California, over sixteen hundred of these cottages are now in use and many more are being built. Where there are dead or mature trees in the forest, near summer home sites, timber can be purchased at low prices for use in building cottages. Even the people of small means can build cabins in the forests and enjoy living in the mountains during the heat of the summer. These camps provide fine surroundings for the rompings and summer games of the children and young people. In California a number of cities have set up municipal camps in the National Forests. At very low costs, the city residents can spend their vacations at these camps. Tents and cottages are provided. Facilities for all kinds of games and sports furnish recreation. Each family may stay at the camp for two weeks. The expenses are so low for meals and tents that the municipal camps furnish the best and cheapest vacation which the family of limited means can enjoy. These camps are very popular. Wherever they have been tried, they have been successful. There are twelve municipal camps in California. They cost $150,000. Fine automobile camps are maintained along many of the important National and State Forest highways for the use of tourists. Concrete fireplaces, tables, benches and running water are provided at these wayside camping places. The tourists who carry their camp kits like to stop at these automobile camps. They meet many other tourists and exchange information about the best trails to follow and the condition of the roads. Sometimes, permanent cabins and shelters are provided for the use of the cross-country travelers. The only rules are that care be exercised in the use of fire and the camping sites be kept in clean and sanitary condition. All the forest roads are posted with many signs asking the tourists to be careful in the use of matches, tobacco and camp fires, so as not to start destructive forest fires. In the Federal and State forests hundreds of man-caused fires occur annually, due to the neglect and carelessness of campers and tourists to put out their camp fires. A single match or a cigarette stub tossed from a passing automobile may start a costly fire. During the season from May to October, the western forests usually are as dry as tinder. Rains are rare during that period. A fire once started runs riot unless efficient control measures are used at once. Those interested in fishing and hunting usually can find plenty of chance to pursue their favorite sports in the National and State Forests. There is good fishing in the forest streams and lakes, as the rangers, working in coöperation with Federal and State hatcheries yearly restock important waters. Fishing and hunting in the National Forests are regulated by the fish and game laws of that state in which the forests are located. The killing of wild game is permitted during certain open seasons in most of the forest regions. [Illustration: GOOD FORESTS MEAN GOOD HUNTING AND FISHING] The eastern forests in the White Mountains, the Adirondacks, and the Appalachians, are not, for the most part, as well developed as recreation grounds as are the western vacation lands. However, more interest is being taken each year in the outdoor life features of the eastern forests, and ultimately they will be used on a large scale as summer camp grounds. Many hikers and campers now spend their annual vacations in these forests. Throughout the White Mountain forest of New Hampshire, regular trails for walking parties have been made. At frequent intervals simple camps for the use of travelers have been built by mountaineering clubs. This forest, located as it is near centres of large population is visited by a half-million tourists each season. The Pisgah National Forest of North Carolina is becoming a centre for automobile travel as it contains a fine macadam road. The Superior National Forest of Minnesota, which covers 1,250,000 acres and contains 150,000 acres of lakes, is becoming very popular. It is called "the land of ten thousand lakes." One can travel in a canoe through this forest for a month at a time without passing over the same lake twice. Other popular national forests are the Angeles in southern California, the Pike and Colorado in Colorado, and the Oregon and Wenatchee--the Pacific Northwest. Visitors to these forests total more than 1,750,000 a year. The western forests are also being used for winter sports. They furnish excellent conditions for snow-shoe trips, skiing and sledding. The people who have camps on government land use their places for week-end excursions during the snow season when the roads are passable. The White Mountain National Forest is used more for winter sports than any other government woodland. At many of the towns of New Hampshire and Maine, huge carnivals are held each winter. Championship contests in skiing, snowshoeing, skating, ski jumping, tobogganing and ski-joring are held. Snow sport games are also annual events in the Routt, Leadville and Pike National Forests of Colorado. Cross country ski races and ski-joring contests are also held. In the Truckee National Forest of California, dog-team races over courses of 25 to 50 miles are held each winter. About eighty per cent. of the 5,500,000 people who visit the National Forests are automobile tourists. The other twenty per cent. consists of sportsmen interested in hunting, fishing, canoeing, boating, mountain climbing, bathing, riding and hiking. In the Pacific Coast States there are a number of mountain climbing clubs whose members compete with each other in making difficult ascents. The mountaineering clubs of Portland, Oregon, for example, stage an interesting contest each summer in climbing Mount Hood, one of the highest peaks in the country. CHAPTER XIII SOLVING OUR FORESTRY PROBLEMS A system of forestry which will provide sufficient lumber for the needs of our country and keep our forest land productive must be built on the extension of our public forests. Our National Forests are, at present, the one bright feature of future lumbering. Their tree crops will never be cut faster than they can be grown. A balance between production and consumption will always be maintained. Our needs for more timber, the necessity for protecting the headwaters of streams, the demands for saving wild life, and the playground possibilities of our forests justify their extension. Approximately eighty per cent of the American forests are now privately owned. The chances are that most of these wooded tracts will always remain in the hands of private owners. It is important that the production of these forests be kept up without injuring their future value. We must prepare for the lumber demands of many years from now. Some method must be worked out of harnessing our idle forest lands and putting them to work growing timber. Any regulations that are imposed on the private owners of woodlands must be reasonable. Changes in our present methods of taxing timberlands must be made to encourage reforestation. The public must aid the private individuals in fighting forest fires, the greatest menace that modern forestry has to face. A national policy is needed which will permit the private owner to grow trees which will give him fair and reasonable profit when sold. The farmers of this country use about one-half of all the lumber consumed annually. They own approximately 191,000,000 acres of timber in their farm woodlots. If farmers would devote a little time and labor to the permanent upkeep and improvement of their timber, they would aid in decreasing the danger of a future lumber famine. If they would but keep track of the acreage production of their woodlands as closely as they do of their corn and wheat crops, American forestry would benefit greatly. Between 1908 and 1913, the U.S. Forest Service established two forest experiment stations in California and one each in Washington, Idaho, Colorado, and Arizona. They devote the same degree of science and skill to the solution of tree growing and lumbering problems as the agricultural experiment stations give to questions of farm and crop management. Despite the fact that these forestry stations did fine work for the sections that they served, recently a number of them had to close, due to lack of funds. Congress does not yet realize the importance of this work. More forest experiment stations are needed throughout the country. Such problems as what kinds of trees are best to grow, must be solved. Of the 495 species of trees in this country, 125 are important commercially. They all differ in their histories, characteristics and requirements. Research and study should be made of these trees in the sections where they grow best. Our knowledge regarding tree planting and the peculiarities of the different species is, as yet, very meagre. We must discover the best methods of cutting trees and of disposing of the slash. We must investigate rates of growth, yields and other problems of forest management. We must study the effect of climate on forest fires. We must continue experiments in order to develop better systems of fire protection. We need more forest experiment stations to promote the production of more timber. Twenty of our leading industries utilize lumber as their most important raw material. Fifty-five different industries use specialized grades and quality of lumber in the manufacture of many products. This use of lumber includes general mill work and planing mill products, such as building crates and boxes, vehicles, railroad cars, furniture, agricultural implements and wooden ware. Our manufacturers make and use more than two hundred and seventy-five different kinds of paper, including newsprint, boxboard, building papers, book papers and many kinds of specialty papers. The forest experiment stations would help solve the practical problems of these many industries. They could work out methods by which to maintain our forests and still turn out the thirty-five to forty billion board feet of lumber used each year. They are needed to determine methods of increasing our annual cut for pulp and paper. They are necessary so that we can increase our annual output of poles, pilings, cooperage and veneer. A forest experiment station is needed in the southern pine belt. The large pine forests of Dixieland have been shaved down from 130,000,000 acres to 23,500,000 acres. In that region there are more than 30,000,000 acres of waste forest lands which should be reclaimed and devoted to the growing of trees. Eastern and middle western manufacturing and lumbering centres are interested in the restoring of the southern pine forests. During the last score of years, they have used two-thirds of the annual output of those forests. In another ten to fifteen years home demand will use most of the pine cut in the South. The East and Middle West will then have to rely mostly on the Pacific Coast forests for their pine lumber. The Lake States need a forest experiment station to work out methods by which the white pine, hemlock, spruce, beech, birch and maple forests of that section can be renewed. The Lake States are now producing only one-ninth as much white pine as they were thirty years ago. These states now cut only 3,500,000,000 feet of all kinds of lumber annually. Their output is growing smaller each year. Wisconsin led the United States in lumber production in 1900. Now she cuts less than the second-growth yield of Maine. Michigan, which led in lumber production before Wisconsin, now harvests a crop of white pine that is 50 per cent. smaller than that of Massachusetts. Experts believe that a forest experiment station in the Lake States would stimulate production so that enough lumber could be produced to satisfy the local demands. Not least in importance among the forest regions requiring an experiment station are the New England States and northern and eastern New York. In that section there are approximately 25,000,000 acres of forest lands. Five and one-half million acres consist of waste and idle land. Eight million acres grow nothing but fuel-wood. The rest of the timber tracts are not producing anywhere near their capacity. New England produces 30 per cent. and New York 50 per cent. of our newsprint. Maine is the leading state in pulp production. New England imports 50 per cent. of her lumber, while New York cuts less than one-half the timber she annually consumes. Another experiment station should be provided to study the forestry problems of Pennsylvania, southern and western New York, Ohio, Maryland, New Jersey and Delaware. At one time this region was the most important lumber centre of the United States. Pennsylvania spends $100,000,000 a year in importing lumber which should be grown at home. The denuded and waste lands at the headwaters of the Allegheny River now extend over one-half million acres. New Jersey is using more than twenty times as much lumber as is produced in the state. Ohio is a centre for wood manufacturing industries, yet her timber-producing possibilities are neglected, as are those of other states needing wood for similar purposes. European nations have spent large sums of money in investigating forestry problems to make timber producing economically feasible, and have found that it paid. In this country, our forest experiment stations will have to deal with a timbered area twice that of all Europe, exclusive of Russia. That is why we shall need many of these stations to help solve the many questions of national welfare which are so dependent upon our forests. CHAPTER XIV WHY THE UNITED STATES SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY Of late years the demand for lumber by the world trade has been very great. Most of the countries which have extensive forests are taking steps to protect their supplies. They limit cutting and restrict exports of timber. Both New Zealand and Switzerland have passed laws of this kind. Sweden exports much lumber, but by law forbids the cutting of timber in excess of the annual growth. Norway regulates private cutting. England is planning to plant 1,770,000 acres of new forest reserve. This body of timber when ready for cutting, would be sufficient to supply her home needs in time of emergency for at least three years. France is enlarging her forest nurseries and protecting her timber in every possible way. Even Russia, a country with huge forest tracts, is beginning to practice conservation. Russia now requires that all timber cut under concession shall be replaced by plantings of trees. For many years, the United States and China were the greatest wasters of forest resources under the sun. Now this country has begun to practice scientific forestry on a large scale so that China now has the worst-managed forests in the world. Japan, on the other hand, handles her forests efficiently and has established a national forestry school. Austria, Norway, Sweden and Italy have devoted much time, labor and money to the development of practical systems of forestry. Turkey, Greece, Spain and Portugal, all follow sane and sensible forestry practices. Even Russia takes care of her national timberlands and annually draws enormous incomes from their maintenance. France and Germany both have highly successful forestry systems. Switzerland, Australia, and New Zealand are using their forests in a practical manner and saving sufficient supplies of wood for posterity. History tells us that the forests first were protected as the homes of wild game. Little attention was paid to the trees in those days. The forests were places to hunt and abodes devoted to wild animals. Scientific forestry was first studied and practised widely in the nineteenth century. Its development and expansion have been rapid. Germany still leads as one of the most prominent countries that practices efficient forestry. German forests are now said to be worth more than $5,000,000,000. France has over 2,750,000 acres of fine publicly owned forests, in addition to private forests, which yield a net income of more than $2 an acre a year to the government. The French have led in extending reforestation on denuded mountain sides. British India has well-managed forests which cover over 200,000 square miles of area. These timberlands return a net income of from $3,000,000 to $4,000,000 a year. India now protects more than 35,000 square miles of forest against fire at an annual cost of less than half a cent an acre. Forest experts say that the United States, which produces more than one-half of all the sawed timber in the world, should pay more attention to the export lumber business. Such trade must be built up on the basis of a permanent supply of timber. This means the practice of careful conservation and the replacement of forests that have been destroyed. We can not export timber from such meagre reserves as the pine forests of the South, which will not supply even the domestic needs of the region for much more than ten or fifteen years longer. Many of our timber men desire to develop extensive export trade. Our sawmills are large enough and numerous enough to cut much more timber annually than we need in this country. However, the danger is that we shall only abuse our forests the more and further deplete the timber reserves of future generations as a result of extensive export trade. If such trade is developed on a large scale, a conservative, practical national forestry policy must be worked out, endorsed and lived up to by every producing exporter. The U.S. Forest Service reports that before the world war, we were exporting annually 3,000,000,000 board feet of lumber and sawlogs, not including ties, staves and similar material. This material consisted of Southern yellow pine, Douglas fir, white oak, redwood, white pine, yellow poplar, cypress, walnut, hickory, ash, basswood and similar kinds of wood. The exports were made up of 79 per cent. softwoods and 21 per cent. hardwoods. The export trade consumed about 8-1/2 per cent. of our annual lumber cut. Southern yellow pine was the most popular timber shipped abroad. One-half of the total export was of this material. During the four years before the war our imports of lumber from foreign countries amounted to about 1,200,000,000 board feet of lumber and logs. In 1918, imports exceeded exports by 100,000,000 board feet. In addition to this lumber, we also shipped in, largely from Canada, 1,370,000 cords of pulp wood, 596,000 tons of wood pulp, 516,000 tons of paper, and close to a billion shingles. Some of the material, such as wood pulp and paper, also came from Sweden, Norway, Germany, Spain, the Netherlands and the United Kingdom. As a result of the war, European countries for several years can use 7,000,000,000 feet of lumber a year above their normal requirements. For housing construction, England needs 2,000,000,000 feet a year more than normally; France, 1,500,000,000 feet; Italy, 1,750,000,000 feet; Belgium and Spain 750,000,000 feet apiece. Even before the war, there was a great deficiency of timber in parts of Europe. It amounted to 16,000,000,000 board feet a year and was supplied by Russia, the United States, Canada, Sweden, Austria-Hungary and a few other countries of western Europe. If we can regulate cutting and replenish our forests as they deserve, there is a remarkable opportunity for us to build up a large and permanent export trade. [Illustration: YOUNG WHITE PINE SEEDED FROM ADJOINING PINE TREES] The Central and South American countries now have to depend on Canada, the United States and Sweden for most of their softwoods. Unless they develop home forests by the practice of modern forestry, they will always be dependent on imported timber of this type. South Africa and Egypt are both heavy importers of lumber. Africa has large tropical forests but the timber is hard to get at and move. China produces but little lumber and needs much. She is developing into a heavy importing country. Japan grows only about enough timber to supply her home needs. Australia imports softwoods from the United States and Canada. New Zealand is in the market for Douglas fir and hardwoods. In the past, our export lumber business has been second only to that of Russia in total amount. The value of the timber that we exported was larger than that of Russia because much of our timber that was sent abroad consisted of the best grades of material grown in this country. In the future, we shall have to compete in the softwood export business with Russia, Finland, Sweden, Norway and the various states of southeastern Europe which sell lumber. In the hardwood business, we have only a limited number of rivals. With the exception of a small section of eastern Europe, our hardwood forests are the finest in the Temperate Zone. We export hickory, black walnut, yellow poplar, white and red oak even to Russia and Sweden, countries that are our keenest rivals in the softwood export business. Europe wants export lumber from our eastern states because the transportation costs on such material are low. She does not like to pay heavy costs of hauling timber from the Pacific Coast to the Atlantic seaboard and then have it reshipped by water. Our eastern forests are practically exhausted. Our supplies of export lumber except Douglas fir are declining. Most of the kinds of export timber that Europe wants we need right at home. We have only about 258,000,000,000 feet of southern yellow pine left, yet this material composes one-half of our annual shipments abroad. We are cutting this material at the rate of 16,000,000,000 board feet a year. Some authorities believe that our reserves will last only sixteen years unless measures to protect them are put into effect at once. At the present rate of cutting long-leaf pine trees, our outputs of naval stores including turpentine and rosin are dwindling. We cannot afford to increase our export of southern yellow pine unless reforestation is started on all land suitable for that purpose. Our pine lands of the southern states must be restocked and made permanently productive. Then they could maintain the turpentine industry, provide all the lumber of this kind we need for home use, and supply a larger surplus for export. Although our supplies of Douglas fir, western white pine, sugar pine and western yellow pine are still large, they will have to bear an extra burden when all the southern pine is gone. This indicates that the large supplies of these woods will not last as long as we would wish. To prevent overtaxing their production, it is essential that part of the load be passed to the southern pine cut-over lands. By proper protection and renewal of our forests, we can increase our production of lumber and still have a permanent supply. The Forest Service estimates that by protecting our cut-over and waste lands from fire and practicing care to secure reproduction after logging on our remaining virgin forest land, we can produce annually at least 27,750,000,000 cubic feet of wood, including 70,000,000,000 board feet of sawtimber. Such a production would meet indefinitely the needs of our growing population, and still leave an amount of timber available for export. Our hardwoods need protection as well as our softwoods. Ten per cent of our yearly cut of valuable white oak is shipped overseas. In addition we annually waste much of our best oak in the preparation of split staves for export. At the present rate of cutting, the supply, it is said, will not last more than twenty-five years. We ship abroad about seven per cent. of our poplar lumber. Our supplies of this material will be exhausted in about twenty years if the present rate of cutting continues. We sell to foreign countries at least one-half of our cut of black walnut which will be exhausted in ten to twelve years unless present methods are reformed. Our supplies of hickory, ash and basswood will be used up in twenty to thirty years. We need all this hardwood lumber for future domestic purposes. However, the furniture factories of France, Spain and Italy are behind on orders. They need hardwood and much of our valuable hardwood timber is being shipped to Europe. Experience has proved that correct systems of handling the private forests can not be secured by mere suggestions or education. No ordinary method of public coöperation has been worked out which produces the desired results. It is necessary that suitable measures be adopted to induce private owners to preserve and protect their woodlands. The timberlands must be protected against forest fires. Timber must be cut so as to aid natural reproduction of forest. Cut-over lands must be reforested. If such methods were practiced, and national, state and municipal forests were established and extended, our lumber problem would largely solve itself. We not only should produce a large permanent supply of timber for domestic use, but also should have great reserves available for export. Under such conditions, the United States would become the greatest supply source in the world for lumber. CHAPTER XV WHY THE LUMBERMAN SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY The lumber industry of this country can aid reforestation by practicing better methods. It can harvest its annual crop of timber without injuring the future production of the forests. It can limit forest fires by leaving the woods in a safe condition after it has removed the timber. Some private timber owners who make a living out of cutting lumber, have even reached the stage where they are planting trees. They are coming to appreciate the need for replacing trees that they cut down, in order that new growth may develop to furnish future timber crops. The trouble in this country has been that the lumbermen have harvested the crop of the forests in the shortest possible time instead of spreading out the work over a long period. Most of our privately owned forests have been temporarily ruined by practices of this sort. The aim of the ordinary lumberman is to fell the trees and reduce them to lumber with the least labor possible. He does not exercise special care as to how the tree is cut down. He pays little attention to the protection of young trees and new growth. He cuts the tree to fall in the direction that best serves his purpose, no matter whether this means that the forest giant will crush and seriously cripple many young trees. He wastes large parts of the trunk in cutting. He leaves the tops and chips and branches scattered over the ground to dry out. They develop into a fire trap. As generally followed, the ordinary method of lumbering is destructive of the forests. It ravages the future production of the timberlands. It pays no heed to the young growth of the forest. It does not provide for the proper growth and development of the future forest. Our vast stretches of desolate and deserted cut-over lands are silent witnesses to the ruin which has been worked by the practice of destructive lumbering. Fortunately, a change for the better is now developing. With the last of our timberland riches in sight on the Pacific Coast, the lumbering industry is coming to see that it must prepare for the future. Consequently, operators are handling the woods better than ever before. They now are trying to increase both the production and permanent value of the remaining forests. They aim to harvest the tree yield more thoroughly and to extend their cuttings over many years. They appreciate that it is necessary to protect and preserve the forest at the same time that profitable tree crops are being removed. They see the need for saving and increasing young growth and for protecting the woodlands against fire. If only these methods of forestry had been observed from the time the early settlers felled the first trees, not only would our forests be producing at present all the lumber we could use, but also the United States would be the greatest lumber-exporting country in the world. [Illustration: WHAT SOME KINDS OF TIMBER CUTTING DO TO A FOREST] It will never be possible to stop timber cutting entirely in this country, nor would it be desirable to do so. The demands for building material, fuel, wood pulp and the like are too great to permit of such a condition. The Nation would suffer if all forest cutting was suspended. There is a vital need, however, of perpetuating our remaining forests. Wasteful lumbering practices should be stopped. Only trees that are ready for harvest should be felled. They should be cut under conditions which will protect the best interests and production of the timberlands. As a class, our lumbermen are no more selfish or greedy than men in many other branches of business. They have worked under peculiar conditions in the United States. Our population was small as compared with our vast forest resources. Conditions imposed in France and Germany, where the population is so dense that more conservative systems of lumbering are generally practiced, were not always applicable in this country. Furthermore, our lumbermen have known little about scientific forestry. This science is comparatively new in America. All our forestry schools are still in the early stages of their development. As lumbermen learn more about the value of modern forestry they gradually are coming to practice its principles. The early lumbermen often made mistakes in estimating the timber yields of the forests. They also neglected to provide for the future production of the woodlands after the virgin timber was removed. Those who followed in their steps have learned by these errors what mistakes to avoid. Our lumbermen lead the world in skill and ingenuity. They have worked out most efficient methods of felling and logging the trees. Many foreign countries have long practiced forestry and lumbering, yet their lumbermen cannot compete with the Americans when it comes to a matter of ingenuity in the woods. American woods and methods of logging are peculiar. They would no more fit under European forest conditions than would foreign systems be suitable in this country. American lumbermen are slowly coming to devise and follow a combination method which includes all the good points of foreign forestry revised to apply to our conditions. We can keep our remaining forests alive and piece out their production over a long period if we practice conservation methods generally throughout the country. Our remaining forests can be lumbered according to the rules of practical forestry without great expense to the owners. In the long run, they will realize much larger returns from handling the woods in this way. This work of saving the forests should begin at once. It should be practiced in every state. Our cut-over and idle lands should be put to work. Our forest lands should be handled just like fertile farming lands that produce big crops. The farmer does not attempt to take all the fertility out of the land in the harvest of one bumper crop. He handles the field so that it will produce profitable crops every season. He fertilizes the soil and tills it so as to add to its productive power. Similarly, our forests should be worked so that they will yield successive crops of lumber year after year. Lumbermen who own forests from which they desire to harvest a timber crop should first of all survey the woods, or have some experienced forester do this work, to decide on what trees should be cut and the best methods of logging to follow. The trees to be cut should be selected carefully and marked. The owner should determine how best to protect the young and standing timber during lumbering. He should decide on what plantings he will make to replace the trees that are cut. He should survey and estimate the future yield of the forest. He should study the young trees and decide about when they will be ripe to cut and what they will yield. From this information, he can determine his future income from the forest and the best ways of handling the woodlands. Under present conditions in this country, only those trees should be cut from our forests which are mature and ready for the ax. This means that the harvest must be made under conditions where there are enough young trees to take the place of the full-grown trees that are removed. Cutting is best done during the winter when the trees are dormant. If the cutting is performed during the spring or summer, the bark, twigs and leaves of the surrounding young growth may be seriously damaged by the falling trees. The trees should be cut as low to the ground as is practicable, as high stumps waste valuable timber. Care should be taken so that they will not break or split in falling. Trees should be dropped so that they will not crush young seedlings and sapling growth as they fall. It is no more difficult or costly to throw a tree so that it will not injure young trees than it is to drop it anywhere without regard for the future of the forest. Directly after cutting, the fallen timber should be trimmed so as to remove branches that are crushing down any young growth or seedling. In some forests the young growth is so thick that it is impossible to throw trees without falling them on some of these baby trees which will spring back into place again if the heavy branches are removed at once. The top of the tree should be trimmed so that it will lie close to the ground. Under such conditions it will rot rapidly and be less of a fire menace. The dry tops of trees which lodge above the ground are most dangerous sources of fire as they burn easily and rapidly. The lumbermen can also aid the future development of the forests by using care in skidding and hauling the logs to the yard or mill. Care should be exercised in the logging operations not to tear or damage the bark of trunks of standing timber. If possible, only the trees of unimportant timber species should be cut for making corduroy roads in the forests. This will be a saving of valuable material. In lumbering operations as practiced in this country, the logs are usually moved to the sawmills on sleds or by means of logging railroads. If streams are near by, the logs are run into the water and floated to the mill. If the current is not swift enough, special dams are built. Then when enough logs are gathered for the drive, the dam is opened and the captive waters flood away rapidly and carry the logs to the mill. On larger streams and rivers, the logs are often fastened together in rafts. Expert log drivers who ride on the tipping, rolling logs in the raging river, guide the logs on these drives. On arrival at the sawmill, the logs are reduced to lumber. Many different kinds of saws are used in this work. One of the most efficient is the circular saw which performs rapid work. It is so wide in bite, however, that it wastes much wood in sawdust. For example, in cutting four boards of one-inch lumber, an ordinary circular saw wastes enough material to make a fifth board, because it cuts an opening that is one-quarter of an inch in width. Band saws, although they do not work at such high speed, are replacing circular saws in many mills because they are less wasteful of lumber. Although sawmills try to prevent waste of wood by converting slabs and short pieces into laths and shingles, large amounts of refuse, such as sawdust, slabs and edgings, are burned each season. As a rule, only about one-third of the tree is finally used for construction purposes, the balance being wasted in one way or another. CHAPTER XVI WHY THE FARMER SHOULD PRACTICE FORESTRY The tree crop is a profitable crop for the average farmer to grow. Notwithstanding the comparatively sure and easy incomes which result from the farm woodlands that are well managed, farmers as a class neglect their timber. Not infrequently they sell their timber on the stump at low rates through ignorance of the real market value of the wood. In other cases, they do not care for their woodlands properly. They cut without regard to future growth. They do not pile the slashings and hence expose the timber tracts to fire dangers. They convert young trees into hewed crossties which would yield twice as great a return if allowed to grow for four or five years longer and then be cut as lumber. Just to show how a small tract of trees will grow into money if allowed to mature, the case of a three-acre side-hill pasture in New England is interesting. Forty-four years ago the farmer who owned this waste land dug up fourteen hundred seedling pines which were growing in a clump and set them out on the sidehill. Twenty years later the farmer died. His widow sold the three acres of young pine for $300. Fifteen years later the woodlot again changed hands for a consideration of $1,000, a lumber company buying it. Today, this small body of pine woods contains 90,000 board feet of lumber worth at least $1,500 on the stump. The farmer who set out the trees devoted about $35 worth of land and labor to the miniature forest. Within a generation this expenditure has grown into a valuable asset which yielded a return of $34.09 a year on the investment. [Illustration: ON POOR SOIL TREES SUCH AS THESE ARE MORE PROFITABLE THAN FARM CROPS ] A New York farmer who plays square with his woodland realizes a continuous profit of $1 a day from a 115-acre timber tract. The annual growth of this well-managed farm forest is .65 cords of wood per acre, equivalent to 75 cords of wood--mostly tulip poplar--a year. The farmer's profit amounts to $4.68 a cord, or a total of $364.50 from the entire timber tract. Over in New Hampshire, an associate sold a two-acre stand of white pine--this was before the inflated war prices were in force--for $2,000 on the stump. The total cut of this farm forest amounted to 254 cords equivalent to 170,000 board feet of lumber. This was an average of about 85,000 feet an acre. The trees were between eighty and eighty-five years old when felled. This indicates an annual growth on each acre of about 1,000 feet of lumber. The gross returns from the sale of the woodland crops amounted to $12.20 an acre a year. These, of course, are not average instances. Farmers should prize their woodlands because they provide building material for fences and farm outbuildings as well as for general repairs. The farm woodland also supplies fuel for the farm house. Any surplus materials can be sold in the form of standing timber, sawlogs, posts, poles, crossties, pulpwood, blocks or bolts. The farm forest also serves as a good windbreak for the farm buildings. It supplies shelter for the livestock during stormy weather and protects the soil against erosion. During slack times, it provides profitable work for the farm hands. There are approximately one-fifth of a billion acres of farm woodlands in the United States. In the eastern United States there are about 169,000,000 acres of farmland forests. If these woodlands could be joined together in a solid strip one hundred miles wide, they would reach from New York to San Francisco. They would amount to an area almost eight times as large as the combined forests of France which furnished the bulk of the timber used by the Allies during the World War. In the North, the farm woodlands compose two-fifths of all the forests. Altogether there are approximately 53,000,000 acres of farm woodlots which yield a gross income of about $162,000,000 annually to their owners. Surveys show that in the New England States more than 65 per cent. of the forested land is on farms, while in Ohio, Indiana, Illinois and Iowa from 80 to 100 per cent. of the timber tracts are on corn belt farms. Conditions in the South also emphasize the importance of farm woods, as in this region there are more than 125,000,000 acres which yield an income of about $150,000,000 a year. In fact the woodlands on the farms compose about 50 per cent. of all the forest lands south of the Mason-Dixon line. In Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, Kentucky and Oklahoma, over 60 per cent. of all the forest land is on farms. The Government says timber raising is very profitable in the Eastern States because there is plenty of cheap land which is not suitable for farming, while the rainfall is abundant and favors rapid tree growth. Furthermore, there are many large cities which use enormous supplies of lumber. The transportation facilities, both rail and water, are excellent. This section is a long distance from the last of the virgin forests of the Pacific Coast country. The farms that reported at the last census sold an average of about $82 worth of tree crop products a year. New York, North Carolina, Virginia, Georgia, Tennessee, Alabama, Kentucky, Wisconsin and Pennsylvania each sold over $15,000,000 worth of lumber and other forest products from their farm woodlots during a single season. In 1918 the report showed that the farms of the country burn up about 78,000,000 cords of firewood annually, equal to approximately 11.5 cords of fuel a farm. The Southern States burn more wood than the colder Northern States. In North Carolina each farm consumes eighteen cords of fuel annually, while the farms of South Carolina and Arkansas used seventeen cords apiece, and those of Mississippi, Georgia, Tennessee, Louisiana, and Kentucky from fifteen to sixteen cords. Even under these conditions of extensive cordwood use, our farm woodlots are producing only about one-third to one-half of the wood supplies which they could grow if they were properly managed. The farmer who appreciates the importance of caring for his home forests is always interested in knowing how much timber will grow on an acre during a period of twelve months. The Government reports that where the farm woodlots are fully stocked with trees and well-cared for, an acre of hardwoods will produce from one-half to one cord of wood--a cord of wood is equal to about 500 board feet of lumber. A pine forest will produce from one to two cords of wood an acre. The growth is greater in the warmer southern climate than it is in the North where the growing season is much shorter. Expert foresters say that posts and crossties can be grown in from ten to thirty years and that most of the rapid growing trees will make saw timber in between twenty and forty years. After the farm woodland is logged, a new stand of young trees will develop from seeds or sprouts from the stumps. Farmers find that it is profitable to harrow the ground in the cut-over woodlands to aid natural reproduction, or to turn hogs into the timber tract to rustle a living as these animals aid in scattering the seed under favorable circumstances. It is also noteworthy that the most vigorous sprouts come from the clean, well-cut stumps from which the trees were cut during the late fall, winter or early spring before the sap begins to flow. The top of each stump should be cut slanting so that it will readily shed water. The trees that reproduce by sprouts include the oak, hickory, basswood, chestnut, gum, cottonwood, willows and young short-leaf and pitch pines. In order that the farm woodland may be kept in the best of productive condition, the farmer should remove for firewood the trees adapted only for that purpose. Usually, removing these trees improves the growth of the remaining trees by giving them better chances to develop. Trees should be cut whose growth has been stunted because trees of more rapid growth crowded them out. Diseased trees or those that have been seriously injured by insects should be felled. In sections exposed to chestnut blight or gypsy moth infection, it is advisable to remove the chestnut and birch trees before they are damaged seriously. It is wise management to cut the fire-scarred trees as well as those that are crooked, large-crowned and short-boled, as they will not make good lumber. The removal of these undesirable trees improves the forest by providing more growing space for the sturdy, healthy trees. Sound dead trees as well as the slow-growing trees that crowd the fast growing varieties should be cut. In addition, where such less valuable trees as the beech, birch, black oak, jack oak or black gum are crowding valuable trees like the sugar maples, white or short-leaf pines, yellow poplar or white oak, the former species should be chopped down. These cutting operations should be done with the least possible damage to the living and young trees. The "weed trees" should be cut down, just as the weeds are hoed out of a field of corn, in order that the surviving trees may make better growth. Often the farmer errs in marketing his tree crops. There have been numerous instances where farmers have been deluded by timber cruisers and others who purchased their valuable forest tracts for a mere fraction of what the woodlands were really worth. The United States Forest Service and State Forestry Departments have investigated many of these cases and its experts advise farmers who are planning to sell tree crops to get prices for the various wood products from as many sawmills and wood-using plants as possible. The foresters recommend that the farmers consult with their neighbors who have sold timber. Sometimes it may pay to sell the timber locally if the prices are right, as then the heavy transportation costs are eliminated. Most states have state foresters who examine woodlands and advise the owner just what to do. It pays to advertise in the newspapers and secure as many competitive bids as possible for the timber on the stump. Generally, unless the prices offered for such timber are unusually high, the farmer will get greater returns by logging and sawing the timber and selling it in the form of lumber and other wood products. The farmer who owns a large forest tract should have some reliable and experienced timberman carefully inspect his timber and estimate the amount and value. The owner should deal with only responsible buyers. He should use a written agreement in selling timber, particularly where the purchaser is to do the cutting. The farm woodland owner must always bear in mind that standing timber can always be held over a period of low prices without rapid deterioration. In selling lumber, the best plan is to use the inferior timber at home for building and repair work and to market the best of the material. CHAPTER XVII PUTTING WOOD WASTE TO WORK For many years technical studies of wood were neglected. Detailed investigations of steel, concrete, oil, rubber and other materials were made but wood apparently was forgotten. It has been only during the last decade since the establishment of the Forest Products Laboratory of the United States Forest Service, at Madison, Wisconsin, that tests and experiments to determine the real value of different woods have been begun. One of the big problems of the government scientists at that station, which is conducted in coöperation with the University of Wisconsin, is to check the needless waste of wood. By actual test they find out all about the wasteful practices of lumbering in the woods and mills. Then they try to educate and convert the lumbermen and manufacturers away from such practices. The laboratory experts have already performed more than 500,000 tests with 149 different kinds of native woods. As a result of these experiments, these woods are now being used to better advantage with less waste in the building and manufacturing industries. A potential saving of at least 20 per cent. of the timbers used for building purposes is promised, which means a salvage of about $40,000,000 annually as a result of strength tests of southern yellow pine and Douglas fir. Additional tests have shown that the red heartwood of hickory is just as strong and serviceable as the white sap wood. Formerly, the custom has been to throw away the heartwood as useless. This discovery greatly extends the use of our hickory supply. Heretofore, the custom has been to season woods by drying them in the sun. This method of curing not only took a long time but also was wasteful and expensive. The forestry scientists and lumbermen have now improved the use of dry kilns and artificial systems of curing green lumber. Now more than thirty-five of the leading woods such as Douglas fir, southern yellow pine, spruce, gum and oak can be seasoned in the kilns in short time. It used to take about two years of air drying to season fir and spruce. At present the artificial kiln performs this job in from twenty to forty days. The kiln-dried lumber is just as strong and useful for construction as the air-cured stock. Tests have proved that kiln drying of walnut for use in gun stocks or airplane propellers, in some cases reduced the waste of material from 60 to 2 per cent. The kiln-dried material was ready for use in one-third the time it would have taken to season the material in the air. Heavy green oak timbers for wagons and wheels were dried in the kiln in ninety to one hundred days. It would have taken two years to cure this material outdoors. By their valuable test work, scientists are devising efficient means of protecting wood against decay. They treat the woods with such chemicals as creosote, zinc chloride and other preservatives. The life of the average railroad tie is at least doubled by such treatment. We could save about one and one-half billion board feet of valuable hardwood lumber annually if all the 85,000,000 untreated railroad ties now in use could be protected in this manner. If all wood exposed to decay were similarly treated, we could save about six billion board feet of timber each year. About one-sixth of all the lumber that is cut in the United States is used in making crates and packing boxes. The majority of these boxes are not satisfactory. Either they are not strong enough or else they are not the right size or shape. During a recent year, the railroads paid out more than $100,000,000 to shippers who lost goods in transit due to boxes and crates that were damaged in shipment. In order to find out what woods are best to use in crates and boxes and what sizes and shapes will withstand rough handling, the Laboratory experts developed a novel drum that tosses the boxes to and fro and gives them the same kind of rough handling they get on the railroad. This testing machine has demonstrated that the proper method of nailing the box is of great importance. Tests have shown that the weakest wood properly nailed into a container is more serviceable than the strongest wood poorly nailed. Better designs of boxes have been worked out which save lumber and space and produce stronger containers. Educating the lumbering industry away from extravagant practices is one of the important activities of the modern forestry experts. Operators who manufacture handles, spokes, chairs, furniture, toys and agricultural implements could, by scientific methods of wood using, produce just as good products by using 10 to 50 per cent. of the tree as they do by using all of it. The furniture industry not infrequently wastes from 40 to 60 per cent. of the raw lumber which it buys. Much of this waste could be saved by cutting the small sizes of material directly from the log instead of from lumber. It is also essential that sizes of material used in these industries be standardized. The Forest Products Laboratory has perfected practical methods of building up material from small pieces which otherwise would be thrown away. For example, shoe lasts, hat blocks, bowling pins, base-ball bats, wagon bolsters and wheel hubs are now made of short pieces of material which are fastened together with waterproof glue. If this method of built-up construction can be made popular in all sections of the country, very great savings in our annual consumption of wood can be brought about. As matters now stand, approximately 25 per cent. of the tree in the forest is lost or wasted in the woods, 40 per cent. at the mills, 5 per cent. in seasoning the lumber and from 5 to 10 per cent. in working the lumber over into the manufactured articles. This new method of construction which makes full use of odds and ends and slabs and edgings offers a profitable way to make use of the 75 per cent. of material which now is wasted. The vast importance of preserving our forests is emphasized when one stops to consider the great number of uses to which wood is put. In addition to being used as a building material, wood is also manufactured into newspaper and writing paper. Furthermore, it is a most important product in the making of linoleum, artificial silk, gunpowder, paints, soaps, inks, celluloid, varnishes, sausage casings, chloroform and iodoform. Wood alcohol, which is made by the destructive distillation of wood, is another important by-product. Acetate of lime, which is used extensively in chemical plants, and charcoal, are other products which result from wood distillation. The charcoal makes a good fuel and is valuable for smelting iron, tin and copper, in the manufacture of gunpowder, as an insulating material, and as a clarifier in sugar refineries. It is predicted that the future fuel for use in automobile engines will be obtained from wood waste. Ethyl or "grain" alcohol can now be made from sawdust and other mill refuse. One ton of dry Douglas fir or southern yellow pine will yield from twenty to twenty-five gallons of 95 per cent. alcohol. It is estimated that more than 300,000,000 gallons of alcohol could be made annually from wood now wasted at the mills. This supply could be increased by the use of second-growth, inferior trees and other low-grade material. CHAPTER XVIII WOOD FOR THE NATION Westward the course of forest discovery and depletion has taken its way in the United States. The pine and hardwood forests of the Atlantic and New England States first fell before the bite of the woodman's ax and the sweep of his saw. Wasteful lumbering finally sapped the resources of these productive timberlands. Shift was then made farther westward to the Lake States. Their vast stretches of white pine and native hardwoods were cut to a skeleton of their original size. The lumbering operations then spread to the southern pine belt. In a few years the supplies of marketable lumber in that region were considerably reduced. Then the westward trail was resumed. The strip of country between the Mississippi River and the Cascade, Sierra Nevada and Coast Ranges was combed and cut. Today, the last big drive against our timber assets is being waged in the forests of the Pacific Coast. Our virgin forests originally covered 822,000,000 acres. Today, only one-sixth of them are left. All the forest land now in the United States including culled, burned and cut-over tracts, totals 463,000,000 acres. We now have more waste and cut-over lands in this country than the combined forest area of Germany, Belgium, Denmark, Holland, France, Switzerland, Spain and Portugal. The merchantable timber left in the United States is estimated at 2,215,000,000,000 board feet. The rest is second-growth trees of poor quality. One-half of this timber is in California, Washington and Oregon. It is a long and costly haul from these Pacific Coast forests to the eastern markets. Less than one-fifth of our remaining timber is hardwood. 56,000,000,000 board feet of material of saw timber size are used or destroyed in the United States each year. Altogether, we use more than 26,000,000,000 cubic feet of timber of all classes annually. Our forests are making annual growth at the rate of less than one-fourth of this total consumption. We are rapidly cutting away the last of our virgin forests. We also are cutting small-sized and thrifty trees much more rapidly than we can replace them. [Illustration: A FOREST CROP ON ITS WAY TO THE MARKET] The United States is short on timber today because our fathers and forefathers abused our forests. If they had planted trees on the lands after the virgin timber was removed, we should now be one of the richest countries in the world in forest resources. Instead, they left barren stretches and desolate wastes where dense woods once stood. It is time that the present owners of the land begin the reclamation of our 326,000,000 acres of cut-over timberlands. Some of these lands still are yielding fair crops of timber due to natural restocking and proper care. Most of them are indifferent producers. One-quarter of all this land is bare of forest growth. It is our duty as citizens of the United States to aid as we may in the reforestation of this area. Fires are cutting down the size of our forests each year. During a recent five-year period, 160,000 forest fires burned over 56,488,000 acres, an area as large as the state of Utah, and destroyed or damaged timber and property valued at $85,715,000. Year by year, fires and bad timber practices have been increasing our total areas of waste and cut-over land. We are facing a future lumber famine, not alone because we have used up our timber, but also because we have failed to make use of our vast acreage of idle land adapted for growing forests. We must call a halt and begin all over again. Our new start must be along the lines of timber planting and tree increase. The landowners, the States and the Federal Government must all get together in this big drive for reforestation. It is impossible to make National Forests out of all the idle forest land. On the other hand, the matter of reforestation cannot be left to private owners. Some of them would set out trees and restore the forests as desired. Others would not. The public has large interests at stake. It must bear part of the burden. Proper protection of the forests against fire can come only through united public action. Everyone must do his part to reduce the fire danger. The public must also bring about needed changes in many of our tax methods so that private owners will be encouraged to go into the business of raising timber. The Government must do its share, the private landowner must help to the utmost and the public must aid in every possible way, including payment of higher prices for lumber as the cost of growing timber increases. France and Scandinavia have solved their forest problems along about the same lines the United States will have to follow. These countries keep up well-protected public forests. All the landowners are taught how to set out and raise trees. Everyone has learned to respect the timberlands. The woods are thought of as treasures which must be carefully handled. The average man would no more think of abusing the trees in the forest than he would of setting fire to his home. The foreign countries are now busy working out their forestry problems of the years to come. We in America are letting the future take care of itself. Our States should aid generally in the work of preventing forest fires. They should pass laws which will require more careful handling of private forest lands. They should pass more favorable timber tax laws so that tree growing will be encouraged. Uncle Sam should be the director in charge of all this work. He should instruct the states how to protect their forests against fire. He should teach them how to renew their depleted woodlands. He should work for a gradual and regular expansion of the National Forests. The United States Forest Service should have the power to help the various states in matters of fire protection, ways of cutting forests, methods of renewing forests and of deciding whether idle lands were better adapted for farming or forestry purposes. Experts believe that the Government should spend at least $2,000,000 a year in the purchase of new National Forests. About one-fifth of all our forests are now publicly owned. One of the best ways of preventing the concentration of timber in private ownership is to increase the area of publicly owned forests. Such actions would prevent the waste of valuable timber and would aid planting work. For best results, it is thought that the Federal Government should own about one-half of all the forests in the country. To protect the watersheds of navigable streams the Government should buy 1,000,000 acres of woodlands in New England and 5,000,000 acres in the southern Appalachian Mountains. The National Forests should also be extended and consolidated. Federal funds should be increased so that the Forest Service can undertake on a large scale the replanting of burned-over lands in the National Forests. As soon as this work is well under way, Congress should supply about $1,000,000 annually for such work. Many watersheds in the National Forests are bare of cover due to forest fires. As a result, the water of these streams is not sufficient for the needs of irrigation, water power and city water supply of the surrounding regions. Right now, even our leading foresters do not know exactly what the forest resources of the country amount to. It will take several years to make such a survey even after the necessary funds are provided. We need to know just how much wood of each class and type is available. We want to know, in each case, the present and possible output. We want to find out the timber requirements of each state and of every important wood-using industry. Exact figures are needed on the timber stands and their growth. The experimental work of the Forest Service should be extended. Practically every forest is different from every other forest. It is necessary to work out locally the problems of each timber reservation. Most urgent of all is the demand for a law to allow Federal officers to render greater assistance to the state forestry departments in fighting forest fires. Many state laws designed to perpetuate our forests must be passed if our remaining timber resources are to be saved. During times when fires threaten, all the forest lands in each state should be guarded by organized agencies. This protection should include cut-over and unimproved land as well as timber tracts. Such a plan would require that the State and Federal governments bear about one-half the expenses while the private forest owners should stand the balance. There would be special rules regulating the disposal of slashings, methods of cutting timber, and of extracting forest products such as pulpwood or naval stores. If our forests are to be saved for the future we must begin conservation at once. To a small degree, luck plays a part in maintaining the size of the forest. Some woodlands in the South Atlantic States are now producing their third cut of saw logs. Despite forest fires and other destructive agencies, these forests have continued to produce. Some of the northern timberlands have grown crops of saw timber and wood pulp for from one hundred fifty to two hundred fifty years. Expert foresters report that private owners are each year increasing their plantings on denuded woodlands. New England landowners are planting between 12,000,000 and 15,000,000 young forest trees a year. The Middle Atlantic and Central States are doing about as well. To save our forests, planting of this sort must be universal. It takes from fifty to one hundred years to grow a crop of merchantable timber. What the United States needs is a national forestry policy which will induce every landowner to plant and grow more trees on land that is not useful for farm crops. Our forestry problem is to put to work millions of acres of idle land. As one eminent forester recently remarked, "If we are to remain a nation of timber users, we must become a nation of wood growers." 
31367	----	file was produced from images produced by Core Historical Literature in Agriculture (CHLA), Cornell University) THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER [Illustration: A FOREST RANGER LOOKING FOR FIRE FROM A NATIONAL FOREST LOOKOUT STATION _Page 32_] THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER BY GIFFORD PINCHOT WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS [Illustration] PHILADELPHIA & LONDON J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 1914 COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1914 PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A. To OVERTON W. PRICE FRIEND AND FELLOW WORKER TO WHOM IS DUE, MORE THAN TO ANY OTHER MAN, THE HIGH EFFICIENCY OF THE UNITED STATES FOREST SERVICE PREFACE At one time or another, the largest question before every young man is, "What shall I do with my life?" Among the possible openings, which best suits his ambition, his tastes, and his capacities? Along what line shall he undertake to make a successful career? The search for a life work and the choice of one is surely as important business as can occupy a boy verging into manhood. It is to help in the decision of those who are considering forestry as a profession that this little book has been written. To the young man who is attracted to forestry and begins to consider it as a possible profession, certain questions present themselves. What is forestry? If he takes it up, what will his work be, and where? Does it in fact offer the satisfying type of outdoor life which it appears to offer? What chance does it present for a successful career, for a career of genuine usefulness, and what is the chance to make a living? Is he fitted for it in character, mind, and body? If so, what training does he need? These questions deserve an answer. To the men whom it really suits, forestry offers a career more attractive, it may be said in all fairness, than any other career whatsoever. I doubt if any other profession can show a membership so uniformly and enthusiastically in love with the work. The men who have taken it up, practised it, and left it for other work are few. But to the man not fully adapted for it, forestry must be punishment, pure and simple. Those who have begun the study of forestry, and then have learned that it was not for them, have doubtless been more in number than those who have followed it through. I urge no man to make forestry his profession, but rather to keep away from it if he can. In forestry a man is either altogether at home or very much out of place. Unless he has a compelling love for the Forester's life and the Forester's work, let him keep out of it. G. P. CONTENTS PAGE WHAT IS A FOREST? 13 THE FORESTER'S KNOWLEDGE 18 THE FOREST AND THE NATION 19 THE FORESTER'S POINT OF VIEW 23 THE ESTABLISHMENT OF FORESTRY 27 THE WORK OF A FORESTER 30 THE FOREST SERVICE 30 THE FOREST SUPERVISOR 46 THE TRAINED FORESTER 50 PERSONAL EQUIPMENT 63 STATE FOREST WORK 84 THE FOREST SERVICE IN WASHINGTON 89 PRIVATE FORESTRY 106 FOREST SCHOOLS 114 THE OPPORTUNITY 116 TRAINING 123 ILLUSTRATIONS PAGE A FOREST RANGER LOOKING FOR FIRE FROM A NATIONAL FOREST LOOKOUT STATION _Frontispiece_ STRINGING A FOREST TELEPHONE LINE 32 FOREST RANGERS SCALING TIMBER 43 WESTERN YELLOW PINE SEED COLLECTED BY THE FOREST SERVICE FOR PLANTING UP DENUDED LANDS 47 A FOREST EXAMINER RUNNING A COMPASS LINE 59 BRUSH PILING IN A NATIONAL FOREST TIMBER SALE 95 FOREST RANGERS GETTING INSTRUCTION IN METHODS OF WORK FROM A DISTRICT FOREST OFFICER 105 FOREST SERVICE MEN MAKING FRESH MEASUREMENTS IN THE MISSOURI SWAMPS 136 THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER WHAT IS A FOREST? First, What is forestry? Forestry is the knowledge of the forest. In particular, it is the art of handling the forest so that it will render whatever service is required of it without being impoverished or destroyed. For example, a forest may be handled so as to produce saw logs, telegraph poles, barrel hoops, firewood, tan bark, or turpentine. The main purpose of its treatment may be to prevent the washing of soil, to regulate the flow of streams, to support cattle or sheep, or it may be handled so as to supply a wide range and combination of uses. Forestry is the art of producing from the forest whatever it can yield for the service of man. Before we can understand forestry, certain facts about the forest itself must be kept in mind. A forest is not a mere collection of individual trees, just as a city is not a mere collection of unrelated men and women, or a Nation like ours merely a certain number of independent racial groups. A forest, like a city, is a complex community with a life of its own. It has a soil and an atmosphere of its own, chemically and physically different from any other, with plants and shrubs as well as trees which are peculiar to it. It has a resident population of insects and higher animals entirely distinct from that outside. Most important of all, from the Forester's point of view, the members of the forest live in an exact and intricate system of competition and mutual assistance, of help or harm, which extends to all the inhabitants of this complicated city of trees. The trees in a forest are all helped by mutually protecting each other against high winds, and by producing a richer and moister soil than would be possible if the trees stood singly and apart. They compete among themselves by their roots for moisture in the soil, and for light and space by the growth of their crowns in height and breadth. Perhaps the strongest weapon which trees have against each other is growth in height. In certain species intolerant of shade, the tree which is overtopped has lost the race for good. The number of young trees which destroy each other in this fierce struggle for existence is prodigious, so that often a few score per acre are all that survive to middle or old age out of many tens of thousands of seedlings which entered the race of life on approximately even terms. Not only has a forest a character of its own, which arises from the fact that it is a community of trees, but each species of tree has peculiar characteristics and habits also. Just as in New York City, for example, the French, the Germans, the Italians, the Hungarians, and the Chinese each have quarters of their own, and in those quarters live in accordance with habits which distinguish each race from all the others, so the different species of pines and hemlocks, oaks and maples prefer and are found in certain definite types of locality, and live in accordance with definite racial habits which are as general and unfailing as the racial characteristics which distinguish, for example, the Italians from the Germans, or the Swedes from the Chinese. The most important of these characteristics of race or species are those which are concerned with the relation of each to light, heat, and moisture. Thus, a river birch will die if it has only as much water as will suffice to keep a post oak in the best condition, and the warm climate in which the balsam fir would perish is just suited to the requirements of a long leaf pine or a magnolia. The tolerance of a tree for shade may vary greatly at different times of its life, but a white pine always requires more light than a hemlock, and a beech throughout its life will flourish with less sunshine or reflected light than, for example, an oak or a tulip tree. Trees are limited in their distribution also by their adaptability, in which they vary greatly. Thus a bald cypress will grow both in wetter and in dryer land than an oak; a red cedar will flourish from Florida to the Canadian line, while other species, like the Eastern larch, the Western mountain hemlock, or the big trees of California, are confined in their native localities within extremely narrow limits. THE FORESTER'S KNOWLEDGE The trained Forester must know the forest as a doctor knows the human machine. First of all, he must be able to distinguish the different trees of which the forest is composed, for that is like learning to read. He must know the way they are made and the way they grow; but far more important than all else, he must base his knowledge upon that part of forestry which is called Silvics, the knowledge of the relation of trees to light, heat, and moisture, to the soil, and to each other. The well-trained Forester must also know the forest shrubs and at least the more important smaller forest plants, something of the insect and animal life of his domain, and the birds and fish. He must have a good working knowledge of rocks, soils, and streams, and of the methods of making roads, trails, and bridges. He should be an expert in woodcraft, able to travel the forest safely and surely by day or by night. It is essential that he should have a knowledge of the theory and the practice of lumbering, and he should know something about lumber markets and the value of lumber, about surveying and map making, and many other matters which are considered more at length in the Chapter on Training. There are as yet in America comparatively few men who have acquired even fairly well the more important knowledge which should be included in the training of a Forester. THE FOREST AND THE NATION The position of the forest in the housekeeping of any nation is unlike that of any other great natural resource, for the forest not only furnishes wood, without which civilization as we know it would be impossible, but serves also to protect or make valuable many of the other things without which we could not get on. Thus the forest cover protects the soil from the effects of wind, and holds it in place. For lack of it hundreds of thousands of square miles have been converted by the winds from moderately fertile, productive land to arid drifting sands. Narrow strips of forest planted as windbreaks make agriculture possible in certain regions by preventing destruction of crops by moisture-stealing dry winds which so afflict the central portions of our country. Without the forests the great bulk of our mining for coal, metals, and the precious minerals would be either impossible or vastly more expensive than it is at present, because the galleries of mines are propped with wood, and so protected against caving in. So far, no satisfactory substitute for the wooden railroad tie has been devised; and our whole system of land transportation is directly dependent for its existence upon the forest, which supplies more than one hundred and twenty million new railroad ties every year in the United States alone. The forest regulates and protects the flow of streams. Its effect is to reduce the height of floods and to moderate extremes of low water. The official measurements of the United States Geological Survey have finally settled this long-disputed question. By protecting mountain slopes against excessive soil wash, it protects also the lowlands upon which this wash would otherwise be deposited and the rivers whose channels it would clog. It is well within the truth to say that the utility of any system of rivers for transportation, for irrigation, for waterpower, and for domestic supply depends in great part upon the protection which forests offer to the headwaters of the streams, and that without such protection none of these uses can be expected long to endure. Of the two basic materials of our civilization, iron and wood, the forest supplies one. The dominant place of the forest in our national economy is well illustrated by the fact that no article whatsoever, whether of use or ornament, whether it be for food, shelter, clothing, convenience, protection, or decoration, can be produced and delivered to the user, as industry is now organized, without the help of the forest in supplying wood. An examination of the history of any article, including the production of the raw material, and its manufacture, transportation, and distribution, will at once make this point clear. The forest is a national necessity. Without the material, the protection, and the assistance it supplies, no nation can long succeed. Many regions of the old world, such as Palestine, Greece, Northern Africa, and Central India, offer in themselves the most impressive object lessons of the effect upon national prosperity and national character of the neglect of the forest and its consequent destruction. THE FORESTER'S POINT OF VIEW The central idea of the Forester, in handling the forest, is to promote and perpetuate its greatest use to men. His purpose is to make it serve the greatest good of the greatest number for the longest time. Before the members of any other profession dealing with natural resources, the Foresters acquired the long look ahead. This was only natural, because in forestry it is seldom that a man lives to harvest the crop which he helped to sow. The Forester must look forward, because the natural resource with which he deals matures so slowly, and because, if steps are to be taken to insure for succeeding generations a supply of the things the forest yields, they must be taken long in advance. The idea of using the forest first for the greatest good of the present generation, and then for the greatest good of succeeding generations through the long future of the nation and the race--that is the Forester's point of view. The use of foresight to insure the existence of the forest in the future, and, so far as practicable, the continued or increasing abundance of its service to men, naturally suggested the use of foresight in the same way as to other natural resources as well. Thus it was the Forester's point of view, applied not only to the forest but to the lands, the minerals, and the streams, which produced the Conservation policy. The idea of applying foresight and common-sense to the other natural resources as well as to the forest was natural and inevitable. It works out, equally as a matter of course, into the conception of a planned and orderly development of all that the earth contains for the uses of men. This leads in turn to the application of the same principle to other questions and resources. It was foreseen from the beginning by those who were responsible for inaugurating the Conservation movement that its natural development would in time work out into a planned and orderly scheme for national efficiency, based on the elimination of waste, and directed toward the best use of all we have for the greatest good of the greatest number for the longest time. It is easy to see that this principle (the Forester's principle, first brought to public attention by Foresters) is the key to national success. Forestry, then, is seen to be peculiarly essential to the national prosperity, both now and hereafter. National degradation and decay have uniformly followed the excessive destruction of forests by other nations, and will inevitably become our portion if we continue to destroy our forests three times faster than they are produced, as we are doing now. The principles of forestry, therefore, must occupy a commanding place in determining the future prosperity or failure of our nation, and this commanding position in the field of ideas is naturally and properly reflected in the dignity and high standing which the profession of forestry, young as it is, has already acquired in the United States. This position it must be the first care of every member of the profession to maintain and increase. In the long run, no profession rises higher than the degree of public consideration which marks its members. The profession of forestry is in many ways a peculiarly responsible profession, but in nothing more so than in its vital connection with the whole future welfare of our country and in the obligation which lies upon its members to see that its reputation and standing, which are the measures of its capacity for usefulness, are kept strong and clear. THE ESTABLISHMENT OF FORESTRY In the United States, forestry is passing out of the pioneer phase of agitation and the education of public opinion, and into the permanent phase of the practice of the profession. The first steps in forestry in this country, as in any other where the development and destruction of natural resources has been rapid, were necessarily directed mainly to informing the public mind upon the importance of forestry, and to building up national and State laws and organizations for the protection of timberlands set aside for the public benefit. The right to be heard with respect by the men who were already in control of the larger part of our total forest wealth had to be won, and has been won. What is more, in the teeth of the bitterest opposition of private special interests, the right of the public to first consideration in the protection and development of the forest and of all the resources it contains had to be asserted and established. That has now been done. In the United States these steps in the movement for the wise use of the forest have been taken mainly in the last dozen or fifteen years, during which the Federal forest organization has grown from an insignificant division of less than a dozen men to the present United States Forest Service, of more than three thousand members. During this period, also, forestry, both as a profession and as a public necessity, has won enduring public recognition, and at the same time more public timberland has been set aside for the public use and to remain in the public hands than during all the rest of our history put together. To-day the National Forests are reasonably safe in the protection of public opinion, not against all attack, it is true, but against any successful attempt to dismember and turn them over to the special interests who already control the bulk and the best of our forests. The public has accepted forestry as necessary to the public welfare, both in the present and in the future; State forest organizations are springing up; forestry has won the right to be heard in the business offices as well as in the conventions of the private owners of forest land; and the time for the practice of the profession has fully come. THE WORK OF A FORESTER What does a Forester do? I will try to answer this question, first, with reference to the United States Forest Service, and later as to the numerous other fields of activity which are opening or have already opened to the trained Forester in the United States. THE FOREST SERVICE The United States Forest Service is responsible both for the general progress of forestry, so far as the United States Government is concerned, and for the protection and use of the National Forests. These National Forests now cover an area of one hundred and eighty-seven million acres, or as much land as is included in all the New England States, with New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia and West Virginia. The head of the Service, whose official title is "Forester," is charged with the great task of protecting this vast area against fire, theft, and other depredations, and of making all its resources, the wood, water, and grass, the minerals, and the soil, available and useful to the people of the United States under regulations which will secure development and prevent destruction or waste. The United States Forest Service consists, first, of a protective force of Forest Guards and Forest Rangers, who spend practically the whole of their time in the forest; second, of an executive staff of Forest Supervisors and their assistants, who have immediate charge of the handling of the National Forests; and third, of an administrative staff divided between headquarters in Washington and the six local administrative offices in the West, where the National Forests mainly lie. The work of a Forest Ranger is, first of all, to protect the District committed to his charge against fire. That comes before all else. For that purpose, the Ranger patrols his District during the seasons when fires are dangerous, or watches for signs of fire from certain high points, called fire-lookouts, or both. He keeps the trails and fire lines clear and the telephone in working order, and sees to it that the fire fighting tools, such as spades, axes, and rakes, are in good condition and ready for service. If he is wise, he establishes such relations with the people who live in his neighborhood that they become his volunteer assistants in watching for forest fires, in taking precautions against them, and in notifying him of them when they do take place. [Illustration: STRINGING A FOREST TELEPHONE LINE] Fighting a forest fire in some respects is like fighting a fire in a city. In both, the first and most necessary thing is to get men and apparatus to the site of the fire at the first practicable moment. For this purpose, fire-engines and men are always ready in the city, while in the forest the telephones, trails, and bridges must be kept in condition, and the forest officers must be ready to move instantly day or night. It is far better to prevent a forest fire from starting than to have to put it out after it has started; but in spite of all the care that can be exercised with the means at hand, many fires start. Each year the Forest Service men extinguish not less than three thousand fires, nearly all of them while they are still small. At times, however, when the woods are very dry and the wind blows hard, in spite of all that can be done, a fire will grow large enough to be dangerous not only to the forest but to human life. Thus in the summer of 1910, the driest ever known in certain parts of the West, high winds drove the forest fires clear beyond the control of the fire fighters, many of whom were compelled to fight for their own lives. The worst of these fires were in Montana and Idaho, where the whole power of the Forest Service was used against them. The Forest Rangers, under the orders of their Supervisors, immediately organized or took charge of small companies of fire fighters, and began the work of getting them under control. But so fierce was the wind and so terrible the heat of the fires and the speed with which they moved, that in many places it became a question of saving the lives of the fire fighters rather than of putting out the fires. As a matter of fact, nearly a hundred of the men temporarily employed to help the Government fire fighters lost their lives, and many more would have died but for the courage, resource, and knowledge of the woods of the Forest Rangers. Take, for example, the case of Ranger Edward C. Pulaski, of the Coeur d'Alene National Forest, stationed at Wallace, Idaho. Pulaski had charge of forty Italians and Poles. He had been at work with them for many hours, when the flames grew to be so threatening that it became a question of whether he could save his men. The fire was travelling faster than the men could make their way through the dense forest, and the only hope was to find some place into which the fire could not come. Accordingly Pulaski guided his party at a run through the blinding smoke to an abandoned mine he knew of in the neighborhood. When they reached it, he sent the men into the workings ahead of him, hung a wet blanket across the mouth of the tunnel, and himself stood there on guard. The fierce heat, the stifling air, and their deadly fear drove some of the foreigners temporarily insane, and a number of them tried to break out. With drawn revolver Pulaski held them back. One man did get by him and was burned to death. Many fainted in the tunnel. The Ranger himself, more exposed than any of his men, was terribly burned. He stood at his post, however, for five hours, until the fire had passed, and brought his party through without losing a single man except that one who got out of the tunnel, although his own injuries were so severe that he was in the hospital for two months as a result of them. The record of the Forest Service in these terrible fires is one of which every Forester may well be proud. The Ranger must protect his District, not only against fire but against the theft of timber and the incessant efforts of land grabbers to steal Government lands. To prevent the theft of timber is usually not difficult, but it is far harder to prevent fake homesteaders, fraudulent mining men, and other dishonest claimants from seizing upon land to which they have no right, and so preventing honest men from using these claims to make a living. In the past, this problem has presented the most serious difficulties, and still occasionally does so. There is no louder shouter for "justice" than a balked habitual land thief with political influence behind him. To illustrate the kind of attack upon the Forest Service to which fraudulent land claims have constantly given rise, I may cite the statements made during one of the annual attempts in the Senate to break down the Service. One of the Senators asserted that in his State the Forest Service was overbearing and tyrannical, and that in a particular case it had driven out of his home a citizen known to the Senator, and had left him and his family to wander houseless upon the hillside, and that for no good reason whatsoever. This statement, if it had been true, would at once have destroyed the standing of the Service in the minds of many of its friends, and would have led to immediate defeat in the fight then going on. Fortunately, the records of the Service were so complete, and the knowledge of field conditions on the part of the men in Washington was so thorough, that the mere mention of the general locality of the supposed outrage by the Senator made it easy to identify the individual case. The man in question, instead of being an honest settler with a wife and family, was the keeper of a disreputable saloon and dance hall, a well-known law-breaker whom the local authorities had tried time and again to dispossess and drive away. But by means of his fraudulent claim the man had always defeated the local officers. When, however, the officers of the Forest Service took the case in hand, the situation changed and things moved quickly. The disreputable saloon was promptly removed from the fraudulent land claim by means of which the keeper of it had held on, and this thoroughly undesirable citizen either went out of business or removed his abominable trade to some locality outside the National Forest. The actual facts were fully brought out in the debate next day, remained uncontradicted, and saved the fight for the Forest Service. The whole incident may be found at length in the Congressional Record. The Forest Ranger is charged with overseeing and regulating the free use of timber by settlers and others who live in or near the National Forests. Last year (1912) the Forest Service gave away without charge more than $196,000 worth of saw timber, house logs, fencing, fuel, and other material to men and women who needed it for their own use. Usually it is the Ranger's work to issue the permits for this free use, and to designate the timber that may be cut. For this purpose, he must be well acquainted with the kinds and the uses of the trees in his District, and it is most important that he should know something of how their reproduction can best be secured, in order that the free use may be permitted without injury to the future welfare of the forest. A Ranger oversees the use of his District for the grazing of cattle, sheep, and other domestic animals. He must acquaint himself with the brands and marks of the various owners, and should be well posted in the essentials of the business of raising cattle, sheep, and horses. The allotment of grazing areas is one of the most difficult problems to adjust, because the demand is almost always for much more range than is available and the division of what range there is among the local owners of stock often presents serious difficulties, in which the Ranger's local knowledge and advice is constantly sought by his superior officer. There is a wise law, passed at the request of the Forest Service, under which land in the National Forests which is shown to be agricultural may be entered under the homestead law, and used for the making of homes. This law is peculiarly hard to carry out because the ceaseless efforts of land grabbers to misuse it demand great vigilance on the part of the Forest Officers. In many cases it is the Ranger who makes the report upon which the decision as to the agricultural or non-agricultural character of the land is based, although in other cases the examinations to determine whether the land is really agricultural in character are made by Examiners especially trained for this duty. Serious controversies into which politics enter are often caused by the efforts of speculators and others, under pretext of this law, to get possession of lands chiefly valuable for their timber. The building and maintenance of trails, telephone lines, roads, bridges, and fences in his District is under the charge of the Ranger, and in many cases Rangers and Forest Guards are appointed by the State as Wardens to see to it that the game and fish laws are properly enforced. Next to the protection of his District from fire, the most important duty of the Ranger has to do with the sale of timber and the marking of the individual trees which are to be cut. The reproduction of the forest depends directly on what trees are kept for seed, or on how the existing young growth is protected and preserved in felling and swamping the trees which have been marked for cutting, and in skidding the logs. The disposal of the slash must be looked after, for it has much to do with forest reproduction, and with promoting safety from fire. Then, the scaling of the logs determines the amount of the payment the Government receives for its timber, and there are often regulations governing the transportation of the scaled logs whose enforcement is of great consequence to the future forest. [Illustration: FOREST RANGERS SCALING TIMBER] Nearly all of these duties the Ranger may perform in certain cases without supervision, if his judgment and training are sufficient, but the marking especially is often done under the eye or in accordance with the directions of the technical Forester, whose duty it is to see that the future of the forest is protected by enforcing the conditions of sale. These are but a part of the duties of the Ranger, for he is concerned with all the uses which his District may serve. The streams, for example, may be important for city water supply, irrigation, or for waterpower, and their use for these purposes must be under his eye. Hotels and saw-mills on sites leased from the Government may dot his District here and there. The land within National Forests may be put to a thousand other uses, from a bee ranch on the Cleveland Forest in southern California to a whaling station on the Tongass Forest in Alaska, all of which means work for him. The result of all this is that the Ranger comes in contact with city dwellers, irrigators, cattlemen, sheepmen, and horsemen, ranchers, storekeepers, hotel men, hunters, miners, and lumbermen, and above all with the settlers who live in or near his District. With all these it is his duty to keep on good terms, for well he knows that one man at certain times can set more fires than a regiment can extinguish, and that the best protection for his District comes from the friendly interest of the men who live in it or near it. A Forest Guard is in effect an assistant to the Ranger, and may be called upon to carry out most of the duties which fall upon a Ranger. The foregoing short statement will make it clear that preliminary experience as a Ranger may be of the utmost value to the man who proposes later on to perform in the Government Service the duties of a trained Forester. It is becoming more and more common, and fortunately so, for graduates of forest schools to begin their work in the United States Forest Service as Rangers or Forest Guards. The man who has done well a Ranger's work, like the graduate of an engineering school who, after graduation, has entered a machine shop as a hand, has acquired a body of practical information and experience which will be invaluable to him in the later practice of his profession, and which is far beyond the reach of any man who has not been trained in the actual execution of this work on the ground and in actual daily contact with the multifarious uses and users of the forest. THE FOREST SUPERVISOR [Illustration: WESTERN YELLOW PINE SEED COLLECTED BY THE FOREST SERVICE FOR PLANTING UP DENUDED LANDS] The Supervisor is the general manager of a National Forest. The responsibility for the protection, care, and use of it falls upon him, under the direction of the District Forester. The Supervisor is responsible for making the use of his forest as valuable and as convenient as possible for the people in and around the area of which he has charge. He deals with the organizations of forest users, such as local stock associations, and issues permits for grazing live stock in the forest. Permits for cutting small amounts of timber are granted by him, and he advertises in the papers the sale of larger amounts and receives bids from prospective purchasers; keeps the accounts of his forest; and makes regular reports on a variety of important subjects, such as the personnel of his forest force, the permanent improvements made or to be made, the permits issued for regular and special uses of the forest and for free use of timber and forage, the number and kinds of predatory animals killed, the amount of forest planting accomplished, and the expense and losses from forest fires. He has general oversight of the roads, trails, and other improvements on his forest; and prepares plans for the extension of them. In particular, he directs, controls, and inspects the work of the Ranger and Guards, and in general, he attends to the thousand and one matters which go to adjusting the use of the forest to the needs of the men who use it, and on which depends whether the forest is well or badly thought of among the people whose coöperation or opposition have so much to do with making its management successful or otherwise. The Supervisor spends about half his time in the office and half in the field, inspecting the work of his men and consulting with them, meeting local residents or associations of local residents who have propositions to submit for improving the service of the forest to them, or for correcting mistakes, or who wish to lay before the Supervisor some one of the numberless matters in which the forest affects their welfare. The usefulness of the Supervisor depends as much upon his good judgment, his ability to meet men and do business with them, and his knowledge of local needs and local affairs, as it does upon his knowledge of the forest itself. As in the case of every superior officer, his attitude toward his work, his energy, his good sense, and his good will are or should be reflected in the men under him, so that his position is one of the greatest importance in determining the success or failure of each National Forest, and hence of the Forest Service as a whole. More and more of the trained Foresters in the Service are seeking and securing appointments as Forest Supervisors because of the interest and satisfaction they find in the work. Such men handle both the professional and business sides of forest management. Many of their duties, therefore, are described in the succeeding chapter. The position of Supervisor is in many respects the most desirable a trained Forester can occupy in the Forest Service, and the most responsible of the field positions. THE TRAINED FORESTER To each forest where timber cutting has become important there are assigned one or more Forest Assistants or Forest Examiners. These are professionally trained Foresters. They are subordinate upon each forest to the Supervisor as manager, but it is their work which has most to do with deciding whether the Forest Service in general is to be successful or is to fail in the great task of preserving the forest by wise use. The Forest Assistant secures his position with the Service by passing an examination devised to test his technical knowledge and his ability. After he has served two years as Forest Assistant the quality and quantity of his work will have determined his fitness to continue in the employ of the Government. If he is unfit he may be dropped, for there are many young and ambitious men ready to step into his place. If he makes good he is promoted to the grade of Forest Examiner and is put definitely in charge of certain lines of professional work; always, of course, under the direction of the Supervisor, of whom he becomes the adviser on all problems involving technical forestry. The most important tasks of the trained Forester on a National Forest are the preparation of working plans for the use of the forest by methods which will protect and perpetuate it as well, and the carrying out of the plans when made. This is forestry in the technical sense of the word. It involves a thorough study of the kinds of timber, their amount and location, their rate of growth, their value, the ease or difficulty of their reproduction, and the methods by which the timber can be cut at a profit and at the same time the reproduction of the forest can be safely secured. A working plan usually includes a considerable number of maps, which often have to be drawn in the first place from actual surveys on the ground by the Forest Examiner. These maps contain the information secured by working-plan studies, and are of the first necessity for the wise and skilful handling of the forest. They often constitute, also, most important documents in the history of its condition and use. On many of the National Forests the need for immediate use of the timber is so urgent and so just that there is no time to prepare elaborate working plans. Timber sales must be made, and made at once; but they must be made, nevertheless, in a way that will fully protect the future welfare of the forest. Whether working plans can be prepared or not, a most important duty of the technical Forester is to work out the conditions under which a given body of timber can be cut with safety to the forest, especially with safety to its reproduction and future growth. The principal study for a timber sale will usually include an examination of the general features and condition of the forest, and the determination of the diameter down to which it is advisable to cut the standing trees, a diameter which must be fixed at such a size as will protect the forest and make the lumbering pay. It will include also an investigation, more or less thorough and complete, as the conditions warrant, of the silvical habits of one or more of the species of trees in that forest. The areas which form natural units for the logging and transportation of the timber must be worked out and laid off, and careful estimates, or measurements, of the amount of standing timber and of its value on the stump must be made, as well as of the cost of moving it to the mill or to the railroad. The Forest Examiner must also consider, in many cases, the building of logging roads or railroads, timber slides, etc., and must make a careful study of the material into which the trees to be cut can best be worked up, and of the value of such material in the market. Most of all, however, he must study, think over, and decide what he will recommend as to the conditions which are to govern the logging conditions by which the protection of the forest is to be insured. These conditions, fixed by his superiors upon the report of the Forest Examiner, determine whether an individual timber sale is forestry or forest destruction. This is the central question in the administration of the National Forests from the national point of view. The principal objects of the conditions laid down for a timber sale are always the reproduction of the forest and its safety against fire. Natural reproduction from self-sown seed is almost invariably the result desired; and so the question of the seed trees to be left, and how they are to be located or spaced, is fundamental, unless there is ample young growth already on the ground. In the latter case this young growth must not be smashed or bent by throwing the older trees on top of it, or against it, and the young saplings bent down by the felled tops must be promptly released. In order to avoid danger to the young growth already present or to be secured, as well as to protect the older trees from fires, the slash produced in lumbering, the tops lopped from the trees up to and beyond the highest point to which the lumbermen are required to take the logs, must be satisfactorily disposed of--either by scattering it thinly over the ground, by piling and burning, or often by piling alone. These and many other conditions of sale must be studied out in a form adapted to each particular case, and must be discussed with the men who propose to buy, who often have wise and practical suggestions to make. Similar questions on a less important scale present themselves and must be answered in the matter of small timber sales, and of timber given without charge under free-use permits to settlers and others. When the terms of a contract of sale have been worked out and accepted and the timber has been sold, then the Forest Assistant has charge of the extremely interesting task of marking the trees that are to be cut, in accordance with these terms. Usually this is done by marking all the trees which are to be felled, but sometimes by marking only the trees which are to remain. The marking is usually done by blazing each tree and stamping the letters "U. S." upon the blaze with a Government marking axe or hatchet. It must be done in such a way that the loggers will have no excuse either for cutting an unmarked tree or leaving a marked tree uncut, or _vice versa_, as the case may be. The marking may be carried out by the Rangers and Forest Guards under supervision of the Forest Assistant, or in difficult situations he may mark or direct the marking of each tree himself. Marking is fascinating work. Later, while the logging is under way, the Forest Examiner will often inspect it to see that the terms of the sale are complied with, that the trees cut are thrown in places where they will not unduly damage either young growth or the larger trees which are to remain, and that the other conditions laid down for the logging in the contract of sale are observed. The scaling of the logs to determine the amount of payment to the Government will many times be under his supervision, although in the larger sales this work, as well as the routine inspection of the logging, is usually carried out by a special body of expert lumbermen, who often bring to it a much wider knowledge of the woods than the men in actual charge of the lumbering. In nearly every National Forest there are areas upon which the trees have been destroyed by fire. Many of these are so large or so remote from seed-bearing trees that natural reproduction will not suffice to replace the forest. In such localities planting is needed, and for that purpose the Forest Examiner must establish and conduct a forest nursery. The decision on the kind of trees to plant and on the methods of raising and planting them, the collection of the seed, the care and transplanting of the young trees until they are set out on the site of the future forest, forms a task of absorbing interest. Such work often requires a high degree of technical skill. It is likely to occupy a larger and larger share of the time and attention of the trained men of the Forest Service. [Illustration: A FOREST EXAMINER RUNNING A COMPASS LINE] The Forest Assistant's or Examiner's knowledge of surveying makes it natural for him to take an important part in the laying out of new roads and trails in the forest, or in correcting the lines of old ones, and there is little work more immediately useful. The forest can be safeguarded effectively just in proportion to the ease with which all parts of it can be reached. Forest protection may be less technically interesting than other parts of the Forester's work, but nothing that he does is more important or pays larger dividends in future results. In addition to his studies of the habits and reproduction of the different trees for working plans or timber sales, or simply to increase his knowledge of the forest, the Forest Examiner is often called upon to lay out sample plots for ascertaining the exact relation of each species to light, heat, and moisture, or for studying its rate of growth. He may find it necessary to determine the effect of the grazing of cattle or sheep on young growth of various species and of various ages, or to ascertain their relative resistance to fire. In general, what time he can spare from more pressing duties is very fully occupied with adding to his silvical knowledge by observation, with studies of injurious insects or fungi, of the reasons for the increase or decrease of valuable or worthless species of trees in the forest, the innumerable secondary effects of forest fires, the causes of the local distribution of trees, or with some other of the thousand questions which give a never-failing interest to work in the woods. The protection of a valuable kind of tree often depends upon the ability to find a use for, and therefore to remove, a less-valuable species which is crowding it out, for as yet the American Forester can do very little cutting or thinning that does not pay. Just so, the protection of a given tract against fire may depend upon the ability to use, and therefore to remove, a part or the whole of the dead and down timber which now makes it a fire trap. For such reasons as these, the uses of wood and the markets for its disposal form exceedingly important branches of study for the Forest Examiner, who will usually find that his duties require him to be thoroughly familiar with them. It is more and more common to find each Forest Officer--Ranger, Forest Examiner, or Supervisor--combining in himself the qualities and the knowledge required to fill any or all of the other positions. The professionally trained man who develops marked executive ability is likely to become a Supervisor, just as a Ranger, with the necessary training and experience, who may wish to devote himself to silvical investigations may be transferred to that work. The point is that each man has individual opportunity to establish and occupy the place for which he is best fitted. The success of the technical Forester, like that of the Ranger, and indeed of nearly every Government Forest Officer, in whatever position or line of work, will very frequently depend on his good judgment and practical sense, the chief ingredient of which will always be his knowledge of local needs and conditions, and his sympathetic understanding of the local point of view. This does not mean that the local point of view is always to control. On the contrary, the Forest Officer must often decide against it in the interest of the welfare of the larger public. But the desires and demands of the users of the forest should always be given the fullest hearing and the most careful consideration. To this rule there is no exception whatsoever. PERSONAL EQUIPMENT Forestry differs from most professions in this, that it requires as much vigor of body as it does vigor of mind. The sort of man to which it appeals, and which it seeks, is the man with high powers of observation, who does not shrink from responsibility, and whose mental vigor is balanced by physical strength and hardiness. The man who takes up forestry should be little interested in his own personal comfort, and should have and conserve endurance enough to stand severe physical work accompanied by mental labor equally exhausting. Foresters are still few in numbers, and the point of view which they represent, while it is making immense strides in public acceptance, is still far from general application. Therefore, Foresters are still missionaries in a very real sense, and since they are so few, it is of the utmost importance that they should stand closely together. Differences of opinion there must always be in all professions, but there is no other profession in which it is more important to keep these differences from working out into animosities or separations of any kind. We are fortunate above all in this, that American Foresters are united as probably the members of no other profession. This _esprit de corps_ has given them their greatest power of achievement, and any man who proposes to enter the profession should do so with this fact clearly in mind. The high standard which the profession of forestry, new in the United States, has already reached, its great power for usefulness to the Nation, now and hereafter, and the large responsibilities which fall so quickly on the men who are trained to accept it--all these things give to the profession a position and dignity which it should be the first care of every man who enters it to maintain or increase. To stand well at graduation is or ought to be far less the object of a Forester's training than to stand well ten or twenty years after graduation. It is of the first importance that the training should be thorough and complete. A friend of mine, John Muir, says that the best advice he can give young men is: "Take time to get rich." His idea of getting rich is to fill his mind and spirit full with observations of the nature he so deeply loves and so well understands; so that in his mind it is not money which makes riches, but life in the open and the seeing eye. Next to those basic traits of personal character, without which no man is worth his salt, the Forester's most important quality is the power of observation, the power to note and understand, or seek to understand, what he sees in the forest. It is just as essential a part of the Forester's equipment to be able to see what is wrong with a piece of forest, and what is required for its improvement, as it is necessary for a physician to be able to diagnose a disease and to prescribe the remedy. Silvics, which may be said to be the knowledge of how trees behave in health and disease toward each other, and toward light, heat, moisture, and the soil, is the foundation of forestry and the Forester's first task is to bring himself to a high point of efficiency in observing and interpreting these facts of the forest, and to keep himself there. It should be as hard work to walk through the forest, and see what is there to be seen, as to wrestle with the most difficult problem of mathematics. No man can be a good Forester without that quality of observation and understanding which the French call "the forester's eye." It is not the only quality required for success in forestry, but it is unquestionably the first. Perhaps the second among the qualities necessary for the Forester is common sense, which most often simply means a sympathetic understanding of the circumstances among which a man finds himself. The American Forester must know the United States and understand its people. Nothing which affects the welfare of his country should be indifferent to him. Forestry is a form of practical statesmanship which touches the national life at so many points that no Forester can safely allow himself to remain ignorant of the needs and purposes of his fellow citizens, or to be out of touch with the current questions of the day. The best citizen makes the best Forester, and no man can make a good Forester unless he is a good citizen also. The Forester can not succeed unless he understands the problems and point of view of his country, and that is the reason why Foresters from other lands were not brought into the United States in the early stages of the forest movement. At that time practically no American Foresters had yet been trained, and the great need of the situation was for men to do the immediately pressing work. Foresters from Germany, France, Switzerland, and other countries could have been obtained in abundant numbers and at reasonable salaries. They were not invited to come because, however well trained in technical forestry, they could not have understood the habits of thought of our people. Therefore, in too many cases, they would have failed to establish the kind of practical understanding which a Forester must have with the men who use, or work in, his forest, if he is to succeed. It was wiser to wait until Americans could be trained, for the practising Forester must handle men as well as trees. One of the most difficult things to do in any profession which involves drudgery (and I take it that no profession which does not involve drudgery is worth the attention of a man) is to look beyond the daily routine to the things which that routine is intended to assist in accomplishing. This is peculiarly true of forestry, in which, perhaps more than in any other profession, the long-distance, far-sighted attitude of mind is essential to success. The trees a Forester plants he himself will seldom live to harvest. Much of his thought about his forest must be in terms of centuries. The great object for which he is striving of necessity can not be fully accomplished during his lifetime. He must, therefore, accustom himself to look ahead, and to reap his personal satisfaction from the planned and orderly development of a scheme the perfect fruit of which he can never hope to see. This is one of the strongest reasons why the Forester, whether in public or private employment, must always look upon himself as a public servant. It is of the first importance that he should accustom himself to think of the results of his work as affecting, not primarily himself, but others, always including the general public. It is essential for a Forester to form the habit of looking far ahead, out of which grows a sound perspective and persistence in body and mind. One of the greatest football players of our time makes the distinction between a player who is "quick" and a player who is "soon." In his description, the "quick" player is the man who waits until the last moment and then moves with nervous and desperate haste in the little time he has left. The man who is "soon," however, almost invariably arrives ahead of the man who is "quick," because he has thought out in advance exactly where he is going and how to get there, and when the moment comes he does not delay his start, makes no false motions, and thereby makes and keeps himself efficient. Forestry is preëminently a profession for the "soon" man, for it is the steady preparation long in advance, the well-thoughtout plan well stuck to, which in forestry brings success. In my experience, men differ comparatively little in mere ability, in the quality of the mental machine, through which the spirit works. Nine times out of ten, it is not ability which brings success, but persistence and enthusiasm, which are usually, but not always, the same as vision and will. We all have ability enough to do the things which lie before us, but the man with the will to keep everlastingly at it, and the vision to realize the meaning and value of the results for which he is striving, is the man who wins in nearly every case. This is true in all human affairs, but it is peculiarly true of the Forester and his task, the end of which lies so far ahead. In a class below me at Phillips-Exeter Academy was a boy who had just entered the school. His great ambition was to play football, and he came to the practise day after day. His abilities, however, were apparently not on the same plane with his ambitions, and his work was so ridiculously poor that he became the laughing stock of the whole school. That, however, troubled him not at all. What held his mind was football. Undiscouraged and undismayed, he kept on playing football until in his last year he became captain of the Exeter football team. Every man of experience has known many similar cases. It is clear, I think, that the master qualities in achievement are neither luck nor mere ability, but rather enthusiasm and persistence, or vision and will. In a peculiar sense the Forester depends upon public opinion and public support for the means of carrying on his work, and for its final success. But the attention which the public gives or can give to any particular subject varies, and of necessity must vary, from time to time. Under these circumstances, it is inevitable that the Forester must meet discouragements, checks, and delays, as well as periods of smooth sailing. He should expect them, and should be prepared to discount them when they come. When they do come, I know of no better way of reducing their bad effects than for a man to make allowance for his own state of mind. He who can stand off and look at himself impartially, realizing that he will not feel to-morrow as he feels to-day, has a powerful weapon against the temporary discouragements which are necessarily met in any work that is really worth while. Progress is always in spirals, and there is always a good time coming. There is nothing so fatal to good work as that flabby spirit under which some weak men try to hide their inefficiency--the spirit of "What's the use?" It has been the experience of every Forester, as he goes about the country, to be told that a certain mountain is impassable, that a certain trail can not be travelled, that a certain stream can not be crossed, and to find that mountain, trail, and stream can all be passed with little serious difficulty by a man who is willing to try. Most things said to be impossible are so only in the mind of the man whose timidity or inertness keeps him from making the attempt. The whole story of the establishment and growth of the United States Forest Service is a story of the doing of things which the men who did them were warned in advance would be impossible. Usually the thing which "can't be done" is well worth trying. Perhaps I ought to add that I am not urging the young Forester to disregard local public opinion without the best of reasons, or to rush his horse blindly into the ford of a swollen stream. Good sense is the first condition of success. I am merely saying that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, when a thing ought to be done it can be done, if the effort is made with that idea in mind. All this is but one way of saying that the Forester should be his own severest taskmaster. The Forester must keep himself up to his own work. In no other profession, to my knowledge, is a man thrown so completely on his own responsibility. The Forester often leads an isolated life for weeks or months at a time, seeing the men under whom he works only at distant intervals. Because he is so much his own master, the responsibility which rests upon him is peculiarly his own, and must be met out of the resources within himself. The training of a Forester should lead him to be practical in the right sense of that word, which emphatically is not the sense of abandoning standards of work or conduct in order to get immediate results. The "practical" men with whom the Forester must do his work--lumbermen, cattlemen, sheepmen, settlers, forest users of all kinds--are often by very much his superiors in usable knowledge of the details of their work. Their opinions are entitled to the most complete hearing and respect. There is no other class of men from whose advice the Forester can so greatly profit if he chooses to do so. He is superior to them, if at all, only in his technical knowledge, and in the broader point of view he has derived from his professional training. It is of the first importance that the young Forester should know these men, should learn to like and respect them, and that he should get all the help he can from their knowledge and practical experience. The willingness to use the information and assistance which such men were ready to give has more than once meant the difference between failure and success. The young Forester, like other young men, is likely to be impatient. I do not blame him for it. Rightly directed, his impatience may become one of his best assets. But it will do no harm to remember, also, that the human race has reached its present degree of civilization and advancement only step by step, and that it seems likely to proceed in very much the same way hereafter. As a general rule, results slowly and painfully accomplished are lasting. The results to be achieved in forestry must be lasting if they are to be valuable. In general, the men with whom the Forester deals can adopt, and in many cases, ought to adopt, a new point of view but slowly. To fall in love at first sight with theories or policies is as rare as the same experience is between persons. As a rule, an intellectual conviction, however well founded, must be followed by a period of incubation and growth before it can blossom into a definite principle of action, before the man who holds it is ready to work or fight in order to carry it out. There is a rate in the adoption of new ideas beyond which only the most unusual circumstances will induce men's minds to move. Forestry has gone ahead in the United States faster than it ever did in any other land. If it proceeds a little less rapidly, now that so much of the field has been won, there will be no reason for discouragement in that. AS A SUBORDINATE OFFICER Necessarily the young Forester will begin as a subordinate. How soon he will come to give orders of his own will depend on how well he executes the orders of his superior. In particular, it will depend on whether he requires to be coddled in doing his work, or whether he is willing and able to stand on his own feet. The man for whom every employer of men is searching, everywhere and always, is the man who will accept the responsibility for the work he has to do--who will not lean at every point upon his superior for additional instructions, advice, or encouragement. There is no more valuable subordinate than the man to whom you can give a piece of work and then forget about it, in the confident expectation that the next time it is brought to your attention it will come in the form of a report that the thing has been done. When this master quality is joined to executive power, loyalty, and common sense, the result is a man whom you can trust. On the other hand, there is no greater nuisance to a man heavily burdened with the direction of affairs than the weak-backed assistant who is continually trying to get his chief to do his work for him, on the feeble plea that he thought the chief would like to decide this or that himself. The man to whom an executive is most grateful, the man whom he will work hardest and value most, is the man who accepts responsibility willingly, and is not continually under his feet. AS A SUPERIOR OFFICER The principles of effective administrative work have never, so far as I know, been adequately classified and defined. When they come to be stated one of the most important will be found to be the exact assignment of responsibility, so that whatever goes wrong the administrative head will know clearly and at once upon whom the responsibility falls. This is one of the reasons why, as a rule, boards and commissions are far less effective in getting things done than single men with clear-cut authority and equally clear-cut responsibility. Another principle, so well known that it has almost become a proverb, is to delegate everything you can, to do nothing that you can get someone else to do for you. But the wisdom of letting a good man alone is less commonly understood. It is sometimes as important for the superior officer not to worry his subordinate with useless orders as it is for the subordinate not to harass his superior with useless questions. Let a good man alone. Give him his head. Nothing will hold him so rigidly to his work as the feeling that he is trusted. Lead your men in their work, and above all make of your organization not a monarchy, limited or unlimited, but a democracy, in which the responsibility of each man for a particular piece of work shall not only be defined but recognized, in which the credit for each man's work, so far as possible, shall be attached to his own name, in which the opinions and advice of your subordinates are often sought before decisions are made; in a word, a democracy in which each man feels a personal responsibility for the success of the whole enterprise. The young Forester may be years removed from the chance to apply these principles in practice, but since no superior officer can put them into fruitful effect without the coöperation of his subordinates, it is well that they should be known at both ends of the line. A PUBLIC SERVANT I repeat that whether a Forester is engaged in private work or in public work, whether he is employed by a lumberman, an association of lumbermen, a fishing and shooting club, the owner of a great estate, or whether he is an officer of a State or of the Nation, by virtue of his profession he is a public servant. Because he deals with the forest, he has his hand upon the future welfare of his country. His point of view is that which must control its future welfare. He represents the planned and orderly development of its resources. He is the representative also of the forest school from which he graduates, and of his profession. Upon the standards which he helps to establish and maintain, the welfare of these, too, directly depends. STATE FOREST WORK The work of the States in forestry is still in the pioneer stage, and the work of a State Forester must still bear largely on the creation of a right public sentiment in forest matters. In State forestry the need for agitation has by no means passed. It is often the duty of the State Forester to prepare or endeavor to secure the passage of good State forest laws, or to interpose against the enactment of bad laws. In particular, much of his time is likely to be given to legislation upon the subjects of forest fires and forest taxation. Upon the latter there is as yet no sound and effective public opinion in many parts of the United States, and legislatures and people still do not understand how powerful bad methods of forest taxation have been and still are in forcing the destructive cutting of timber by making it impossible to wait for the better methods of lumbering which accompany a better market. I have known the taxes on standing timber to equal six per cent. a year on the reasonable value of the stumpage. Thirteen States have State Forests with a total area altogether of 3,400,000 acres. Of these New York has the largest area. Its State Forests cover 1,645,000 acres, partly in the Adirondacks and partly in the Catskills; Pennsylvania comes next with nine hundred and eighty-four thousand acres; and Wisconsin third, with about four hundred thousand acres. Twenty-nine States make appropriations for forest work. Excluding special appropriations for courses in forestry at universities, colleges, and schools, the total amount spent for this purpose is about $1,340,000. Pennsylvania has the largest appropriation,--three hundred and twenty-eight thousand dollars, in addition to which a special appropriation of two hundred and seventy-five thousand dollars has been devoted to checking the chestnut blight. Minnesota comes second with two hundred and thirty-three thousand dollars; New York third with about one hundred and sixty-five thousand dollars, and Wisconsin next with ninety-five thousand dollars. Thirty-three States have State forest officers, of whom fifteen are State Foresters by title, while the majority of the remainder perform duties of a very similar nature. Eleven States are receiving assistance from the Federal Government under the Weeks law, which authorizes coöperation for fire protection, provided the State will furnish a sum equal to that allotted to it from the National fund, with a limit of ten thousand dollars to a single State. For purposes of reforestation, ten States maintain forest nurseries. During the year 1912 they produced in round numbers twenty million young trees, of which fourteen million were distributed to the citizens of these ten States. In some States the waterpower question falls within the sphere of the State Forester, as well as other similar Conservation matters, while it has usually been made his duty to assist private timberland owners in the handling of their holdings, whether these be the larger holdings of lumber companies or the farmers' woodlots. In many States the State Forester is made responsible for the enforcement of the State forest fire laws, and for the control and management of a body of State fire wardens, who may or may not be permanently employed in that work. The enforcement of laws which exempt timberlands or lands planted to timber from taxation, or limit the taxation upon them, are also usually under his supervision. The work of forestry in the various States being on the whole much less advanced than it is in the Nation, the State Forester must still occupy himself largely with those preliminary phases of the work of forestry through which the National Forest Service has already passed. Much progress, however, is being made, and we may fairly count not only that State forest organizations will ultimately exist in every State, but that the State Foresters will exert a steadily increasing influence on forest perpetuation in the United States. THE FOREST SERVICE IN WASHINGTON A description of what a Forester has to do which did not include the work of the Government Foresters at the National Capital would necessarily be incomplete. The following outline may, therefore, help to round out the picture. The Washington headquarters of the Forest Service are directly in charge of the Forester and his immediate assistants. The Forester has general supervision of the whole Service. It is he who, with the approval of the Secretary of Agriculture, determines the general policy which is to govern the Service in the very various and numerous matters with which it has to deal. He keeps his hand upon the whole machinery of the Service, holds it up to its work, and in general is responsible for supplying it with the right spirit and point of view, without which any kind of efficiency is impossible. The Forester prepares the estimates, or annual budget, for the expenditures of the Service, and appears before Committees of Congress to explain the need for money, and otherwise to set forth or defend the work upon which the Service is engaged. His immediate subordinates spend a large part of their time in the field inspecting the work of the Service and keeping its tone high. Their reports to the Forester keep him thoroughly advised as to the situation on all the National Forests, so that he may wisely meet each question as it comes up, and adjust the regulations and routine business methods of the Service to the constantly changing needs of the people with whom it deals. Being responsible for the personnel of the Forest Service, the Forester recommends to the Secretary of Agriculture, by whom the actual papers are issued, all appointments to it, as well as promotions, reductions, and dismissals. Under his immediate eye also is the very important and necessary work of making public the information collected by the Service for the use of the people. Since 1900, 370 publications of the Service have been issued, with a total circulation of 11,198,000 copies. The publications of the United States Forest Service include by far the most and the best information upon the forests of this country which has until now been assembled and printed. Hence, the prospective student of forestry can do nothing better than to write to The Forester, Washington, D. C. (which is the correct address), for the annotated catalogue of these publications which is sent free to all applicants, and then to secure and study such of the bulletins and circulars as best meet his individual needs. If he looks forward to entering the United States Forest Service, he should not fail to get also the Use Book, the volume of directions and regulations in accordance with which the National Forests are protected, developed, and made available and useful to the people of the regions in which they lie. The dendrological work of the Service, which has to do with forest distribution, the identification of tree species and other forest botanical work, is also under the immediate supervision of the Forester, and the Chief Lumberman reports directly to him. In addition to the work which falls immediately under the eye of the Forester, and which used to, but does not now, include the legal work necessary to support and promote the operations of the Service, there are seven principal parts, or branches, in the work of the Washington headquarters. The first of these is the Branch of Accounts, whose work I need not describe further than to say that the Service has always owed a very large part of its safety against the bitter attacks of its enemies to the accuracy, completeness, and general high quality of its accounting system. The second branch, that of Operation, has charge of the business administration both of the National Forests and of the other work of the Forest Service. Here the business methods which are necessary to keep the organization at a high state of efficiency are formulated, put in practice, and constantly revised, for it is only by such revision that they can be kept, as they are kept, at a level with the very best practice of the best modern business. There are very few Government bureaus of which this can be said. The Branch of Operation is responsible for the adoption and enforcement of labor-saving devices in correspondence, in handling requisitions, and in the filing and care of papers generally, and for the supply of stationery, tools, and instruments, and the renting of quarters,--in a word, for the whole of the more or less routine transaction of business which is essential to keep so large an organization at the highest point of efficiency. [Illustration: BRUSH PILING IN A NATIONAL FOREST TIMBER SALE] The office work needed in the mapping of the National Forests, with all their resources, boundaries, and interior holdings, is in charge of the Branch of Operation. So is the immense amount of drafting which is necessary in the other work of the Service, and the photographic laboratory in which maps are reproduced and where permanent photographic records of the condition of the forest are made. The third branch, that of Silviculture, is the most important of all. It has oversight of the practice of forestry on all the National Forests, and of all scientific forest studies in the National Forests and outside. It is here that the conditions in the contracts under which the larger timber sales are made are finally examined and approved, and here are found the inspectors whose duty it is not only to see that the work is well done, but to labor constantly for improvements in methods as well as in results. Here centres the preparation of forest working plans, and the knowledge of lumber and the lumber markets. The Branch of Silviculture has charge also of National coöperation for the advancement of forestry with the several States, and in particular for fire protection under the Weeks law. This form of coöperation has made the knowledge and equipment of the Forest Service available for the study of State forest resources and forest problems, and much of the progress in forestry made by the States is directly due to it. Under the Branch of Silviculture, the Office of Forest Investigations brings together all that is known of the nature and growth of trees in this country, and to some extent in other countries also, conducts independent studies of the greatest value in developing better methods of securing the reproduction of important forest trees, and computes the enormous number of forest measurements dealing with the stand and the rate of growth of trees and forests that are turned in by the parties engaged in forest investigation in the field. Under the Office of Forest Investigations, studies in forest distribution and in the structure of wood are carried on, and it includes the Library of the Forest Service, by far the most complete and effective forest library in the United States. The fourth branch, that of Grazing, supervises the use of the National Forests for pasture. Over the greater part of the West, this was the first use to which the forests were put, and an idea of its magnitude may be gathered from the fact that every year the National Forests supply feed for about a million and a half cattle and horses, and more than fourteen million sheep. It is no easy task to permit all this live stock to utilize the forage which the National Forests produce, and yet do little or no harm to the young growth on which the future of the forest depends. To exclude the grazing animals altogether is impossible and undesirable, for to do so would ruin the leading industry in many portions of the West. Consequently, many of the most difficult and perplexing questions in the practical administration of the National Forests have occurred in the work of the Branch of Grazing, and have there been solved, and many of the most bitter attacks upon it have there been met. The fifth branch, that of Lands, has to do with the questions which arise from the use of the land in the National Forests for farming or ranching, mining, and a very wide variety of other purposes, and with the exceedingly numerous and intricate questions which arise because there are about 21,100,000 acres of land within the boundaries of the National Forests whose title has already passed from the Government. The boundaries of the National Forests also are constantly being examined to determine whether they include all the land, and only the land, to be contained within them, and whether they should be extended or reduced. The first permits for the use of waterpower sites on Government land were issued by the Forest Service, and the policy which is just being adopted by the Interior Department and other Government organizations in their handling of waterpower questions was there first developed. These permits are prepared in the Branch of Lands. The first steps toward deterring men who attempt in defiance of the law to get possession of lands claimed to be agricultural or mineral within the National Forests are taken here, but the final decision on these points rests with the Department of the Interior. The examination of lands to determine whether they are agricultural in character, and therefore should be opened to settlement, is directed from this Branch. The uses to which National Forest lands are put are almost unbelievably various. Barns, borrow pits, botanical gardens, cemeteries and churches, dairies and dipping vats, fox ranches and fish hatcheries, hotels, pastures, pipe lines, power sites, residences, sanitaria and school-houses, stores and tunnels, these and many others make up, with grazing and timber sales, the uses of the National Forests, for which already more than half a million permits have been issued. This work also falls to the Branch of Lands. The sixth branch, that of Forest Products, is concerned with the whole question of the uses of wood and other materials produced by the forest. Its principal work is conducted through the Forest Products Laboratory, in coöperation with the University of Wisconsin at Madison. Here timber is tested to ascertain its strength, the products of wood distillation are investigated, wood pulp and paper studies of large reach are carried on, the methods of wood preservation and the results of applying them are in constant course of being examined, and the diseases of trees and of wood are studied in coöperation with the Bureau of Plant Industry of the United States Department of Agriculture. The consumption of wood, and the production of lumber and forest products, are also the subject of continuous investigation, and various necessary special studies are undertaken from time to time. At the moment, an effort is under way to find new uses and new markets for wood killed by the chestnut blight in the northeastern United States. The seventh branch has to do with the study, selection, and acquisition of lands under the Weeks law, in accordance with which eight million dollars was appropriated for the purchase of forest lands valuable for stream protection, with particular reference to the Southern Appalachians and the White Mountains of New England. The examination of the amount of merchantable timber on lands under consideration for purchase, the study of the character of the land and the forest, and the survey of the land keep a numerous body of young men very fully occupied. Their task is to see that none but the right land is recommended for acquisition by the Government, that the nature and value of the lands selected shall be most thoroughly known, and that the constant effort to make the Government pay unreasonable prices or purchase under unfavorable conditions shall as constantly be defeated. The same branch takes charge of the lands as soon as they have been acquired. The foregoing description of the work which is done in Washington by the Forest Service may help to make clear the great variety of tasks to which a Forester may be required to set his hand, and emphasizes the need of a broad training not strictly confined to purely technical lines. It would be defective as a description, however, and would fail to show the spirit in which the work is done, if no mention were made of the Service Meeting, at which the responsible heads of each branch and of the work of the Forester's office meet once a week to discuss every problem which confronts the Service and every phase of its work. This meeting is the centre where all parts of the work of the Service come together and arrange their mutual coöperation, and it is also the spring from which the essential democracy of the organization takes its rise. The Service Meeting is the best thing in the Forest Service, and that is saying a great deal. It must not be imagined that the maintenance of Forest Service headquarters in Washington indicates that the actual business of handling the National Forests is carried on at long range. In order to avoid any such possibility the six District offices were organized in 1908. These are situated at Missoula, Denver, Albuquerque, Portland, Ogden, and San Francisco. Each of the District offices is in charge of a District Forester, who directs the practical carrying out of the policies finally determined upon in Washington, after consultation with the men in the field. The execution of all the work, the larger features of which the Washington office decides and directs (and the details of which it inspects), is the task of the District Forester. The District Forester's office is necessarily organized much on the same general lines as the Washington headquarters. Thus, the subjects of accounts, operation, silviculture, grazing, lands, and forest products are all represented in the District offices. In addition, a legal officer is necessarily attached to each District office, and each District Forester has in his District one or more forest experiment stations, employed mainly in studying questions of growth and reproduction; and three forest insect field stations, maintained in coöperation with the Bureau of Entomology, are divided among the six Districts. [Illustration: FOREST RANGERS GETTING INSTRUCTION IN METHODS OF WORK FROM A DISTRICT FOREST OFFICER] While the work of the Washington office is mainly that of guiding the work of the National Forests along broad general lines, through instructions to the District Foresters, the office of each District Forester deals directly with the Forest Supervisors, and so with the handling of the National Forests. A multitude of questions which the Supervisors can not answer are decided in the District office instead, as was formerly the case, of being forwarded to Washington for disposal there, with the consequent aggravating and needless delay. The establishment of the District offices has made the handling of the National Forests far less complicated and far more prompt, and has brought it far closer than ever before to the actual users,--that is, has made it far more quickly and accurately responsive to their needs. PRIVATE FORESTRY As yet, the practice of forestry by private owners, except for fire protection, has made but little progress in the United States, although without doubt it will be widely extended during the next ten or fifteen years. The concentration of timberland ownership in the United States has put a few men in control of vast areas of forest. Many of them are anxious to prevent forest destruction, so far as that may be practicable without interfering with their profits, and for that purpose Foresters are beginning to be employed. Until now the principal tasks of Foresters employed by lumbermen have been the measurement of the amount of lumber in the standing crop of trees, and the protection of forest lands from fire. Here and there the practice of a certain amount of forestry has been added, but this part of the work of the private Forester employed by lumbermen has not been important. It is likely, however, to increase with some rapidity before long. In the meantime, the private Forester must usually be willing to accept a good many limitations on the technical side of his work. It is essential for the Forester thus employed to have or promptly to acquire a knowledge of practical lumbering, that is, of logging, milling, and markets, and for the forest student who expects to enter this work to give special attention to these subjects. Already about 170 graduates of forest schools are in private employ, a considerable proportion of which number are employed by large lumbermen. The time is undoubtedly coming, and I hope it may come soon, when forest destruction will be legally recognized as hostile to the public welfare, and when lumbermen will be compelled by law to handle their forests so as to insure the reproduction of them under reasonable conditions and within a reasonable time. The idea is neither tyrannical nor new. In democratic Switzerland, private owners of timberland are restrained by law from destroying the forests upon which the welfare of that mountain region so largely depends, and if they disobey, their forest lands are replanted by the Government at the owners' expense. Another opening for Foresters in the employ of lumbermen is through the forest fire protective associations. Of these, two stand out most conspicuously at the present time, one the Northwestern Conservation and Forestry Association, the other the Oregon Forest Fire Association. Each has as its executive officer a trained Forester whose knowledge of the woods not only makes him exceedingly useful to his employers, but also, when combined with the Forester's point of view, enables him to be of great value in protecting the general interest in the forest. The object and methods of one of the associations is described by its Secretary as follows: "A field hitherto narrow but continually broadening, and offering much opportunity for those with peculiar qualifications, is the management of the coöperative forest work carried on by timber owners in many localities, often jointly with State and Government. This movement originated in the Pacific Northwest, where it still has the highest development, but is extending to the Lake States, New England, and Canada. "As a rule the primary object of these coöperative associations is fire prevention and their local managers must have demonstrated ability to organize effective patrol systems, build telephone lines, apply every ingenuity to supplying and equipping their forces, and, above all, to handle men in emergencies. But in most cases the association of forest owners to this end has led also to progress in many other matters inseparable from improvement, such as study of reforestation possibilities, forest legislation, educating lumberman and public in forest preservation, and the extension of coöperation in all these as well as in fire prevention from private to State and federal agencies. "The development of such activities is already employing several highly paid men who can command the confidence, not only of forest owners, but also of the public and of public officials. Advisers in legislative as well as technical forestry matters and particularly proficient in all that pertains to forest protection, their usefulness lies as much outside their own association as within them, and to be successful they must be skilful organizers and campaigners. It is these men who have developed to its highest extent the adaptation to forestry propaganda of modern publicity and advertising methods. "As a rule, however, these may be described as graduate positions, filled by men of experience and acquaintance with the several agencies involved, rather than by newly fledged Foresters. A practical knowledge of protection problems is essential." Forestry associations offer a different, but often a most fascinating field, of work for the trained Forester. There are at present 39 such associations. The work which they offer has much in common with the duties of a State Forester. Fish and game associations are beginning to employ Foresters, realizing that the wise handling of the forests may well go hand in hand with the care of the game and fish which the forest shelters and protects. Eventually nearly all such associations which control any considerable body of land in timbered regions may be expected to utilize the services of trained Foresters of their own. In addition to the work for lumbermen and for associations of various kinds, land owners in considerable variety have begun to employ Foresters. Among these are coal and coke companies, iron companies, wood pulp and paper companies which are beginning to look after their supply of timber; powder, arms, and ammunition companies, hydraulic and water companies; a great corporation engaged in the manufacture of matches; and a number of railroads, including the Delaware and Hudson, the Illinois Central, and the Pennsylvania. In addition to the need for cross ties, railroads are among the largest consumers of lumber. The Foresters who work for them are largely occupied with growing the wood supplies which the railroads need, and nursery practice often occupies a very large share of their attention. FOREST SCHOOLS Since the first one was founded in 1898, the number of forest schools in the United States has increased so rapidly as to create a demand for forest instructors which it has been exceedingly difficult to fill. Indeed, the increase in secondary forest schools, or schools not of the first grade, has doubtless been more rapid than the welfare of the profession or the sound practice of forestry required, and the brisk demand for teachers has led some men to take up the task of instruction who were not well fitted for it. There are in this country to-day 23 forest schools which prepare men for the practice of forestry as a profession, and 51 schools which devote themselves to general instruction in forestry or to courses for Forest Rangers and Forest Guards. The approximate number of teachers in all forest schools is at present 110, and this number will doubtless be still further increased by the addition of new forest schools or the expansion of old ones, while a certain number of places will be made vacant by the retirement of men who find themselves better fitted for other lines of work. The teaching staff at three of the principal forest schools of the country is as follows: At School A, 5 men give their whole time to forest instruction, and 14 give courses in the forest school. Schools B and C have each 4 men who give their whole time to the work; and 4 and 20 respectively who give lectures or individual courses. In addition to the work for lumbermen, associations, railroads, and others just mentioned, an increasing number of Foresters are required to care for the forests on large landed estates in different parts of the country. Work of this kind is at present restricted almost entirely to the East, and especially to New England, where several firms of consulting Foresters give to it the larger portion of their time. Some of the men thus employed are as fully occupied with the tasks of the professional Forester as any of the men in the Government service, while others give a part of their attention to the general management of the property, or to the protection and propagation of game and fish. THE OPPORTUNITY GOVERNMENT SERVICE There is no more useful profession than forestry. The opportunity to make himself count in affairs of public importance comes earlier and more certainly to the Forester than to the member of any other profession. The first and most valuable, therefore, of the incentives which lead the Forester to his choice is the chance to make himself of use to his country and to his generation. But if this is the first matter to be considered in deciding upon a profession, it is by no means the last, and the practical considerations of a fair return for good work, bread and butter for a man and his family, the certainty or uncertainty of employment,--such questions as these must have their full share of attention. There are in the United States Forest Service 1059 Forest Guards, 1247 Forest Rangers, 233 Supervisors, and Deputy Supervisors, and 115 Forest Assistants and 177 Forest Examiners who, as already explained, are the technical men in charge of practical forestry on the National Forests. The six District offices together include in their membership about 50 professional Foresters, and about 65 more are attached to the headquarters at Washington, so that allowing for duplications there are about 335 trained Foresters in the United States Forest Service. The number of new appointments to the Forest Service in the different permanent grades varies from year to year but may be said to be approximately as follows: Rangers, 240 new appointments; Forest Assistants, 35; other technical positions, 10. All appointments as Supervisor are by promotion from the lists of Forest Rangers or Forest Examiners. The yearly pay of the Forest Guard, who, like the Ranger, must be a citizen of the State in which his work lies, is from $420 to $900. Forest Rangers, who enter the Service through Civil Service examination, receive from $1100 to $1500 per annum. Forest Supervisors, practically all of whom are men of long experience in forest work, receive from $1600 to $2700 per annum. Forest Assistants enter the Forest Service through Civil Service examination at a salary of $1200 per annum, and are promoted to a maximum salary of $2500 per annum, as Forest Examiners. Professional Foresters at work in the District offices are recruited mainly from among the Forest Assistants and Examiners. They receive from $1100 to $3200 yearly. The technical men in charge at Washington get from $1100 to $5000 per annum, which last is the pay of the Forester, at the head of the Service. STATE SERVICE The pay of the State Foresters, or other trained Foresters in charge of State work, ranges from $1800 to $4000, and that of their technical assistants from $1000 to $2500. Out of the total number, only 2 are directly in charge of their own work, responsible only to the Governor and the Legislature, while 19 act as subordinates for State forest commissions or commissioners, who in the majority of cases are political appointees. In striking contrast with the United States Forest Service, politics has so far been a dangerous, if not a dominating, influence in the forest work of most of the States which have undertaken it. Like the National Forests, the State Forests already in existence will create an increasing demand for the service of technical Foresters. Indeed, as similar forests are acquired by most of the States which are now without them, as undoubtedly they will be, the extent of the opportunity for professionally trained Foresters in State work is certain to grow. PRIVATE WORK At present, the demand for Foresters in private work is far less pressing and the opening is far less attractive than it will be in the not distant future. The number of men that will be required for this work will depend on the development of legislation as well as upon the desire of the private owners, lumbermen and others, to protect and improve their property. The time is coming, and coming before long, when all private owners of forests in the mountains, or on steep slopes elsewhere, will be required by law to provide for their protection and reproduction. When that time arrives, the demand for Foresters in private work will increase to very large dimensions, and will probably do so far more rapidly than Foresters can be trained to supply it. The pay of Foresters in private work, whether in the employ of lumbermen, railroads, shooting and fishing clubs, the proprietors of large private estates, or other forest owners, has so far been somewhat better than that for similar services in Government employ. This money difference in favor of private employment is, in my judgment, likely to continue, and eventually the pay of consulting Foresters of established reputation employed in passing upon the value of forests offered as security for investments, or in estimating the standing timber for purchasers or sellers, or in other professional work of large business importance, will certainly reach very satisfactory figures. TEACHING Approximately 110 Foresters are engaged in teaching in the United States to-day. Their pay varies from about $1000 to about $3000, and is likely to increase rather more rapidly than that of other professional teachers, since less of them are available. It is not likely, however, that the number of openings in teaching forestry will be large within the next ten years. TRAINING The length of time which his training is to take and the particular courses of instruction which he shall pursue are to the young man contemplating the study of forestry matters of the first importance. The first thing to insist on in that connection is that the training must be thorough. It is natural that a young man should be eager to begin his life work and therefore somewhat impatient of the long grind of a thorough schooling. But however natural, it is not the part of wisdom to cut short the time of preparation. When the serious work of the trained Forester begins later on, there will be little or no time to fill the gaps left at school, and the earnest desire of the young Forester will be that he had spent more time in his preparation rather than less. In this matter I speak as one who has gathered a conviction from personal experience, and believes he knows. It would be useless to attempt to strike an average of the work prescribed and the courses given at the various forest schools. I shall describe, therefore, not an average system of instruction but one which, in the judgment of men entitled to an opinion, and in my own judgment, is sound, practical, and effective. Forest schools may roughly be divided between those which do not prepare men for professional work in forestry, and those which do. The latter may be divided again into undergraduate schools and graduate schools. Most of the former offer a four-year undergraduate course, and their students receive their degrees at the same time as other members of the University who entered at the same time with them. The graduate schools require a college degree, or its equivalent in certain subjects, before they will receive a student. The men who have completed their courses have usually, therefore, pursued more extensive and more advanced studies in forestry, are better trained, and are themselves older and more ready to accept the responsibilities which forestry brings upon them. For these reasons, the graduate school training is by far the more desirable, in my opinion. The subjects required for entrance to a graduate forest school should include at least one full year in college botany, covering the general morphology, histology, and physiology of plants, one course each in geology, physics, inorganic chemistry, zoölogy, and economics, with mathematics through trigonometry, and a reading knowledge of French or German. Some acquaintance with mechanical drawing is also desirable but not absolutely necessary. Other courses which are extremely desirable, if not altogether essential, are mineralogy, meteorology, mechanics, physical geography, organic chemistry, and possibly calculus, which may be of use in timber physics. One or two forest schools begin their course of training for the first year in July instead of in October, in order to give their students some acquaintance with the woods from the Forester's standpoint before the more formal courses begin. The result of this plan is to give increased vividness and reality to all the courses which follow the work in the woods, to make clear the application of what is taught, and so to add greatly to the efficiency of the teaching. In addition to this preliminary touch with the woods, any wise plan of teaching will include many forest excursions and much practical field work as vitally important parts of the instruction. This outdoor work should occur throughout the whole course, winter and summer, and in addition, the last term of the senior year may well be spent wholly in the woods, where the students can be trained in the management of logging operations and milling, and can get their final practice work in surveying and map-making, in preparing forest working plans, estimating timber, laying out roads and trails, making plans for lumber operations, and other similar practical work. Several of the best forest schools have adopted this plan. The regular courses of a graduate forest school usually cover a period of two years. They should fit a student for nearly every phase of professional work in forestry, and should give him a sound preparation not merely for practical work in the woods, but also for the broader work of forest organization in the Government Service in the United States and in the Philippines, and in the service of the States; for handling large tracts of private forest lands; for expert work in the employ of lumbermen and other forest owners; for public speaking and writing; for teaching; and for scientific research. Every well equipped forest school will have a working library of books, pamphlets, and lumber journals published here and abroad, an herbarium at least of native trees and shrubs and of the more important forest herbs, together with a collection of forest tree fruits and seeds, and specimens of domestic and foreign timbers. Exhibits showing the uses of woods and the various forms of tools used in lumbering, as well as the apparatus for laboratory work and surveying, and forest instruments for work in the field, are often of great value to the student. What should a young man learn at a forest school? Doubtless there will be some variation of opinion as to the exact course of study which will best fit him for the work of a Forester in the United States. The following list expresses the best judgment on the subject I have been able to form: DENDROLOGY: The first step in forestry is to become acquainted with the various kinds of trees. The coming Forester must learn to identify the woody plants of the United States, both in summer and in winter. He must understand their shapes and outward structures, and where they are found, and he must begin his knowledge of the individual habits of growth and life which distinguish the trees which are important in forestry. FOREST PHYSIOGRAPHY: Trees grow in the soil. It is important to know something of the origin of soils and their properties and values, and of the principal soil types, with special reference to their effect upon plant distribution and welfare. The origin, nature, value, and conservation of humus, that most essential ingredient of the forest floor; the field methods of mapping soil types; the rock types most important in their relation to soils, how they are made up, how they make soil, and where they occur--something should be learned of all this. Finally, under this head, the student ought to get a usable knowledge of the physiographic regions of the United States, their boundaries, geologic structure, topography, drainage, and soils,--all this naturally with special reference to the relation between these basic facts and the forest. SILVICULTURE: Silviculture is the art of caring for forests, and therefore the backbone of forestry. It is based upon Silvics, which is the knowledge of the habits or behavior of trees in their relations to light, heat, and moisture, to the air and soil, and to each other. It is the facts embraced in Silvics which explain the composition, character, and form of the forest; the success or failure of tree species in competition with each other; the distribution of trees and of forests; the development of each tree in height, diameter, and volume; its form and length of life; the methods of its reproduction; and the effect of all these upon the nature and the evolution of the city of trees, and upon forest types and their life histories. This is knowledge the Forester can not do without. Silvics is the foundation of his professional capacity, and as a student he can better afford to scamp any part of his training rather than this. A man may be a poor Forester who knows Silvics, but no man can be a good Forester who does not. The practice of Silviculture has to do with the treatment of woodlands. The forest student must learn the different methods of reproducing forests by different methods of cutting them down, and the application of these methods in different American forest regions. There are also many methods of cutting for the improvement of the character and growth of forests, as well as for utilizing material that otherwise would go to waste, before the final reproduction cuttings can be made. The ways in which forests need protection are equally numerous, and of these by far the most important in our country have to do with methods of preventing or extinguishing forest fires. Well managed forests are handled under working plans based on the silvical character and silvicultural needs of the forest, as well as upon the purpose set by the owner as the object of management, which is often closely related to questions of forest finance. The student should ground himself thoroughly in the making of silvicultural working plans, and the more practice in making them he can get, the better. So, too, with the marking of trees in reproduction and improvement cuttings under as many different kinds of forest conditions as may be possible. The artificial reproduction of forests is likely to occupy far more of the Forester's attention in the future than it has in the past. Hence the collection of tree seeds, their fertility and vitality as affecting their handling, the best methods of seeding and planting, and the lessons of past failures and successes, with the whole subject of nursery work and the care of young plantations, must by no means be overlooked. Much incidental information on the subject of forest protection will come to the student in the course of his studies, but special attention should be given to learning which of the species of forest insects are most injurious to forest vegetation, how their attacks are made, how they may be discovered, and the best ways by which such attacks can be mitigated or controlled. So also the diseases of timber trees will repay hard study. The principal fungi which causes such diseases should be known, how they attack the trees, and what are the remedies, as well as (although this is far less important) the way to treat tree wounds and the correct methods of pruning. FOREST ECONOMICS: Forest Economics is a large subject. It deals with the productive value of forests to their owners, and with the larger question of their place in the economy of the Nation. It considers their use as conservers of the soil and the streams; their effect on climate, locally, as in the case of windbreakers, and on a larger scale; and their contribution to the public welfare as recreation grounds and game refuges. It includes a knowledge of wastes from which the forests suffer, and the consequent loss to industry and to the public, and in this it does not omit the effects of forest fires. Statistics of forest consumption; the relation of the forest to railroads, mines, and other wood-using industries; its effect upon agriculture, stock raising, and manufacturing industries; and its effect upon the use of the streams for navigation, power, irrigation, and domestic water supply; all these are important. The student should consider also the forest resources of the United States, their present condition, and the needs they must be fitted to supply. FOREST ENGINEERING: Forest engineering is steadily becoming more and more necessary to the Forester. He must have a working knowledge of the use of surveying instruments; the making of topographic surveys; the office work required of an engineer; the making of topographic maps; the location of trails, roads, and railroads; and the construction of bridges, telephone lines, cabins, and fences, together with logging railroads, slides, dams, and flumes. FOREST MENSURATION: [Illustration: FOREST SERVICE MEN MAKING FRESH MEASUREMENTS IN THE MISSOURI SWAMPS] Forest mensuration, the art of measuring the contents and growth of trees and forest stands, is of fundamental importance. The principles and methods of timber estimating, the actual measurement of standing timber, log rules, the making of stem analyses to show the increase of a tree in diameter, height, and volume, the construction of tables of current and mean annual growth per acre and per tree, and the methods of using the information thus formulated,--all these are necessarily of keen interest to the man who later on will have to apply his knowledge in the practical management of woods. FOREST MANAGEMENT: Forest management is concerned with the principles involved in planning the handling of forests. Questions of the valuation of forests form a most essential part of it,--such questions as the cost of growing timber crops, the value of land for that purpose, the value of young timber, the valuation of damage to the forest, and the legal status of the damage and the remedy. Business principles are as necessary in the management of forests as in the management of mills or farms. These business principles work out in different forms of forest policy adapted to the needs of different kinds of owners, such as lumbermen and the Government. What the young Forester has learned about growth and yield, about timber estimates and forest statistics, and many other matters, all finds its application in forest management. He must also consider the methods and principles for regulating the cut of timber, or for securing sustained annual yields. All this forms the basis for the preparation of working plans for the utilization of forests under American economic and silvicultural conditions, not only without injury, but with benefit, to their continued productiveness. The subjects of forest surveying and working plans are intimately related. Maps are indispensable in the practical work of making a forest working plan. Topographic mapping, timber estimating, forest description, and the location of logging roads, trails, and fire lines, together with Silvics and a knowledge of growth and yield--these and many other subjects enter into the making of a practical working plan to harvest a forest crop and secure a second growth of timber. The student should get all the practice he can in marking timber for cutting under such a plan. The young Forester must make himself familiar with the administration of the National Forests. He must know how the business of the forest is handled, how it is protected against fire, how the timber is sold, how claims and entries are dealt with under the public land laws, how land in the National Forests is used to make homes, how trespass is controlled, how the livestock industry on the National Forests is fostered and regulated, and how the extremely valuable watersheds they contain are safeguarded and improved. THE PRACTICE OF FORESTRY: The practice of forestry is necessarily different in different kinds of forests and under different economic conditions. All that the Forester knows must here be applied, and applied in workable fashion, not only to the forest, but to the men who use the forest. This is peculiarly true of the practice of forestry in National and State Forests everywhere. FOREST PRODUCTS: Under this general subject, the forest student must acquaint himself, through the microscope, with the minute anatomy of the woody stem of coniferous and broadleaf trees, and the occurrence, form, structure, and variability of the elements which make it up. He should become familiar with the methods of classifying the economic woods of the United States, both under the microscope and with the unassisted eye, and for this purpose should know something of their color, gloss, grain, density, odor, and resonance both as aids to identification and as to their importance in giving value to the wood; the defects of timber; its moisture content, density, shrinking, checking, warping; and the effect of all these upon its uses. The chemical composition of wood and of minor forest products, such as tannins and dye stuffs, is important; the properties governing the fuel value and the other values of wood must be studied, as well as the methods of using these properties in the making of charcoal and wood pulp, in wood distillation, the turpentine industry, in tanning and dyeing, and in other industries. A field of great importance is the relation between the physical structure and the mechanical properties of wood. A student should inform himself concerning the standard methods of testing the properties of structural timber, by bending, compression, shearing, torsion, impact, and the hardness and tension tests, with their relation to heat and moisture, and the methods of seasoning, the use of preservatives, and the effect of the rate of application of the load. Woods vary as to their durability. It is important, therefore, to know about the causes of decay, the decay-resisting power of various woods, the relation of moisture content to durability, why the seasoning of wood is effective, the theory and the commercial methods of wood preservation, and its relation to the timber supply. LUMBERING: Lumbering the Forester should know more than a little about, as how to organize lumber operations, the equipment and management of logging and milling in various forest regions, the manufacture, seasoning, and grading of the rough and finished lumber, cost keeping in a lumber business, methods of sale, market requirements at home and abroad, prices, the relation of the lumber tariff to forestry, lumber associations, timber bonds, and insurance. The practical construction of logging equipment, such as aerial tramways, log slides, dams, and flumes, is of peculiar importance, and so are the conditions and changes of the lumber market. Experience on the land of some operating lumber company is of great value. It should include a study of logging methods, log scaling, waste in logging, the equipment and handling of the mill, the sawing and care of rough and finished lumber, its grading, and so far as possible an acquaintance with wood working plants of various kinds, and with the operations of turpentine orcharding. Studies along these lines may with advantage be almost indefinitely extended to include, for example the utilization of steam machinery for logging, the improvement of streams for driving logs, and other similar questions. FOREST LAW: The Forester must have at least a slight acquaintance with forest law, both State and National. It is important to know something of the general principles of classifying the public lands, of State laws for fire protection, the development of forest policies in the various States as legally expressed, and the important laws which govern the creation and management of State forest reserves. Forest taxation, State and local, which has, when excessive, so much to do with hastening forest destruction, is one of the most important questions which can engage the attention of the Forester. Under the subject of Federal Forest Law, it is not sufficient for the student to acquaint himself with those laws alone which govern the forests. He must also have some knowledge of the creation of a forest policy out of the public land policy of the United States, some acquaintance with the public land laws. A good working knowledge of the laws and regulations governing the National Forests is indispensable, and the student should at least know where to find the more important court decisions by which they are interpreted. FOREST HISTORY: The history of forestry in Europe has a certain importance in throwing light on our own forest history and its probable development, and this is especially true of the history of the administration of Government forest lands and of education in forestry. The history of forestry in the United States, however, is far more important. The Forester must know the story of the growth and change of National Forest organizations, the Forest Officers and their duties, the cost, size, and effectiveness of the Government Forest Service at different times, the Civil Service regulations under which it is recruited, and other similar matters. It is important likewise for him to become thoroughly saturated with an intimate knowledge of the development of forestry in public opinion in the United States, its extension to the other natural resources through the conservation policy, and the relation of the Forester's point of view thus expressed to the present welfare and future success of the Nation. It is not always possible for the forest student to become a woodsman before entering his profession, but it is most desirable. A Forester must be able to travel the forest alone by day and by night, he should be a good fisherman and a good hunter (which is far more important than to be a good shot), and deeply interested in both fish and game. The better horseman he is the better Forester he will be, and especially if he can pack and handle pack horses in the woods. So that whether the young Forester begins with a practical knowledge of woodcraft or not, he must not fail to acquire or improve it, for without it he will endanger the whole success of his career. Some knowledge of first aid to the injured is likely to be of great and sudden value to a man so much of whose life must be spent in the woods, at a distance from medical aid. The time spent in getting information on this subject will be anything but wasted. ENGLISH: The ability to write and to speak good, plain, understandable English is a prime requisite in the Forester's training. It is a part of education frequently neglected, especially by those in engineering or scientific pursuits; yet its importance for the Forester is very large. As already pointed out, the Forester is on the firing line of the conservation movement; he is pioneering in a new profession. For this reason he will often need to explain his stand and convert others to his beliefs. In addition, he must make available to others the results he secures from the study of new facts. A usable command of his own language will stand him in good stead, whether he needs to talk face to face with another man, or from a platform to a concourse of people, or to put into readable printed form the results of his observations or his thinking. When the young Forester has completed the courses of his school training in America, the question may be raised whether he should supplement his training by study abroad. I am strongly of opinion that he should do so if he can. Study abroad is not indispensable for the American Forester, but it can do him nothing but good to see in practical operation the methods of forestry which have resulted from the long experience of other lands, and especially to become familiar with the effect of sound forestry on the forest. +-----------------------------------------------+ | Transcriber's Note: | | | | Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the | | original document have been preserved. | | | | Typographical errors corrected in the text: | | | | Page 135 windbrakes changed to windbreaks | +-----------------------------------------------+ 
26935	----	[Illustration: _Nat'l Ass'n Audubon Societies_ The passenger pigeon, an extinct species.] CONSERVATION SERIES CONSERVATION READER BY HAROLD W. FAIRBANKS AUTHOR OF "HOME GEOGRAPHY, STORIES OF OUR MOTHER EARTH," "ROCKS AND MINERALS," "THE WESTERN UNITED STATES," "PRACTICAL PHYSIOGRAPHY," "GEOGRAPHY OF CALIFORNIA," ETC. ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS AND WITH REPRODUCTIONS OF PAINTINGS IN COLOR YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK WORLD BOOK COMPANY 1920 WORLD BOOK COMPANY THE HOUSE OF APPLIED KNOWLEDGE Established, 1905, by Caspar W. Hodgson YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO The need for education in the principles of conservation is imperative. As Henry Fairfield Osborn states the matter, "We are yet far from the point where the momentum of conservation is strong enough to arrest and roll back the tide of destruction." The movement for the preservation of natural resources can succeed only with the establishment of an enlightened public sentiment on the subject. To create and maintain such a sentiment is the proper work of the schools. In making this _Conservation Reader_ available for school use, author and publishers have had in mind the great and lasting service that such a text might render. The publishers believe that this little volume and others forthcoming in the Conservation Series will rank high among "Books That Apply the World's Knowledge to the World's Needs" Copyright, 1920, by World Book Company Copyright in Great Britain _All rights reserved_ INTRODUCTION The wave of enthusiasm for the conservation of our national resources must reach the children or it will expend much of its force uselessly. It is from the education of the children in right ways of looking at Nature that everything is to be expected in the years to come. If they learn to understand the value of the things about them, as well as to appreciate their beauties, the carrying on and enlarging of the conservation program which is now so well under way can be safely left to their care. The West, although it has already been ruthlessly exploited, has lost less of its natural wealth than have the longer-settled Eastern states. In the newer parts of our country we can reasonably hope to save most of the forests and most of the wild life, and pass them on down to our children and grandchildren in something of their primeval beauty and richness. In the East we can hope to arouse a stronger sentiment for preserving what remains of the forests as well as for extending their areas, for proper forestation will lessen the danger of erosion of the soil and of floods, and will encourage the return of the wild creatures that are of so much economic importance and add so much to the joy of life. A book bringing out in a simple and interesting manner the principles of conservation has long been needed, for there has been little that could be placed in the hands of pupils. It is with the earnest hope of furnishing something which will answer in part the present need that this _Conservation Reader_ has been prepared. Acknowledgments are due the publishers of _American Forestry_ and the _Century Magazine_ for courteous permission to reprint poems taken from those publications. For their help in supplying photographic subjects to illustrate the book, thanks are extended to the persons to whom the various illustrations are accredited in immediate connection with their use in the text. The reproductions in color of two bird subjects have been secured through the friendly coöperation of Mr. T. Gilbert Pearson, Secretary of the National Association of Audubon Societies. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE 1. HOW OUR FIRST ANCESTORS LIVED 1 2. HOW OUR NEEDS DIFFER FROM THOSE OF THE FIRST MEN 9 3. THE EARTH AS IT WAS BEFORE THE COMING OF CIVILIZED MEN 18 4. NATURE'S UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF HER GIFTS 25 5. THE LAND OF THE POOR PEOPLE 32 6. WHAT THE MUDDY RIVULET HAS TO SAY 39 7. HOW FAR WILL NATURE RESTORE HER WASTED GIFTS? 44 8. THE SOIL--THE MOST IMPORTANT GIFT OF NATURE 51 9. THINGS OF WHICH SOIL IS MADE 57 10. HOW THE SOIL IS MADE 61 11. HOW VEGETATION HOLDS THE SOIL 67 12. WHAT HAPPENS WHERE THERE IS NO PROTECTING CARPET OF VEGETATION 73 13. THE USE AND CARE OF WATER 81 14. COULD WE GET ALONG WITHOUT THE TREES? 89 15. WHERE HAS NATURE SPREAD THE FOREST? 96 16. WHAT ARE THE ENEMIES OF THE TREES? 104 17. HOW THE FORESTS ARE WASTED 112 18. HOW THE FORESTS SUFFER FROM FIRES 119 19. EVILS THAT FOLLOW THE DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS 125 20. HOW OUR GOVERNMENT IS HELPING TO SAVE THE FORESTS 130 21. OUR FOREST PLAYGROUNDS 139 22. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WILD FLOWERS 144 23. NATURE'S PENALTY FOR INTERFERING WITH HER ARRANGEMENTS 150 24. WHAT SHALL WE DO WHEN THE COAL, OIL, AND GAS ARE GONE? 155 25. NEED FOR PROTECTION OF CREATURES THAT LIVE IN THE WATER 162 26. MAN MORE DESTRUCTIVE THAN THE OTHER ANIMALS 171 27. WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE ANIMALS AND BIRDS 176 28. THE TRAGEDIES OF MILADY'S HAT AND CAPE 183 29. THE COURT OF THE ANIMALS AND BIRDS 188 30. THE BIRDS OUR GOOD FRIENDS AND PLEASANT COMPANIONS 195 31. HOW TO BRING THE WILD CREATURES BACK AGAIN 203 INDEX 213 CONSERVATION READER CHAPTER ONE HOW OUR FIRST ANCESTORS LIVED Before these fields were shorn and tilled Full to the brim our rivers flowed; The melody of waters filled The fresh and boundless woods; And torrents dashed, and rivulets play'd, The fountains spouted in the shade. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, quoted in _American Forestry_, XIV. 520 The earth is our home. It is a great treasure house filled with the most wonderful things. Although people have lived on the earth for many thousands of years, they have been very slow in learning the secrets of their treasure house. This is because early men were much like the lower animals. During all these years their minds have been slowly growing. Now we can learn and understand many things which our ancestors of long ago could not. In habits and appearance the first men that roamed the earth were little different from the other animals except that they walked upright. When they had enough to eat and a home safe from enemies, they seemed perfectly happy and contented. These early men lived in the same wonderful treasure house as we do, but they did not know how to make use of its riches. In truth, their wants were so few that they would have had no use for the things that now seem so necessary to us. The rich fields about them lay untilled. The gold, silver, copper, and iron in the earth remained undiscovered; and the animals and birds that we now use in so many ways then served them mainly for food. Since they had no furry coats to keep them warm as do the animals of the cold regions, and had not learned to make clothing, their homes must have been in the warm parts of the earth. While they were without weapons to defend themselves against the lion and tiger, yet they were sharp witted and very quick in their movements and thus were usually able to escape their more powerful enemies. Although these early ancestors of ours seemed so much like the other animals, they were in reality very different. They had the same keen senses of sight, hearing, and smell, but they were more intelligent. When the dog and cat have had enough to eat, they lie down perfectly happy and contented. But when early men had had enough to eat, they were often not satisfied. They had other longings which finally led them to make discoveries about the uses of things around them and how to make their lives more comfortable. The little bear cub, for example, as it grows up learns from its mother just what it should do on all occasions. It learns what its mother knows and that is all. But among the early people of whom we are speaking the children not only learned all that their parents knew, but a little more. In this way each generation of children came to know more about the world. Thus after many years had passed people came to understand something of the wonderful world in which they lived. They were no longer at the mercy of wild animals, storms, heat, cold, hunger, and disease. The first people, like the other animals, used only their hands and teeth in hunting and in fighting their enemies. Finally some of the brighter ones discovered that a stick or club served better than the bare hands. The use of flint knives may have been brought about through some one cutting himself accidentally upon a piece of flint sticking out of the ground. If he happened to be very bright, he would at once see the value of such a piece of stone tied on the end of an arrow or club. By such means, perhaps, implements of wood, bone, and stone came into use. We have discovered the sites of many of the villages as well as the caves in which the ancient inhabitants of the earth lived. The implements of bone and stone which we have dug up in such places enable us to learn a great deal about their lives. There was a time when people did not know the use of fire. What a fearful thing fire must have seemed to them, at first. Their knowledge of it probably came from lightning or from hot lava flowing from a volcano. After they had learned to control fire, and to make it by rubbing two sticks together, they must have felt rich indeed. The discovery of fire was one of their greatest triumphs. It kept the cold, damp cave warm and dry, even though it filled their eyes with smoke. It was a means of keeping them safe from the dangerous wild beasts when they had to sleep out in the open. It was useful in cooking their food, and by and by it was to prove valuable in still other ways, when they began to _make_ things as well as to _find_ things. They began, by and by, to build rude shelters,--huts and wigwams, low houses of dried mud, and dugouts in the hillside. They learned to weave simple coverings out of the fibers of certain plants, or hair or wool, to protect their bodies against the cold and the wet. They learned, somehow, to tan the skins of animals, so that they would not first stretch and grow slippery. They learned to hold things together by sewing, using sharp bones for needles and the sinews of animals or fibers of plants for thread. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ The Laplander of the far North uses the reindeer to pull his sled, its flesh for food, its skin for clothing, and its horns for various purposes.] How did men discover that they could travel on the water? Some one may at first have made use of a log to cross a river and, afterwards, have tied several logs together, making a raft. When they had learned how to make a canoe out of a log, by burning or hewing it out with rude axes, they could then take long journeys on the water to new lands. Since paddling was very tiresome, some one, brighter than the rest, probably thought of making a sail of bark or skins and so letting the wind push the canoe along. We do not know how the metals were discovered. Perhaps fire melted some of the copper in a vein of ore. Perhaps pure copper was found, for Nature sometimes leaves it in this form. Copper could be easily hammered into various useful articles, but it was too soft for many needs. After tin was discovered, it was learned that by melting it and copper together a new and very hard metal, known as _bronze_, was formed. Next, we think, came the discovery of iron, which has become so important that we could not get along without it. Think what this must have meant for them! To get firewood, to make rude boats and simple houses, to fight wild animals, now became easier. After iron they discovered gold and silver, and began to take an interest in making beautiful as well as useful things. It is easy to see how, once these new ways of using the earth were found, men could move into other regions than the belt where it was always warm. They could store up food for the winter, they could build warm shelters and get warm clothing, and they could sit by a fire. Sometimes when the first people were out hunting, instead of killing the young animals that they caught, they took them home and cared for them. So the little creatures became quite tame and grew up about the camps. The wild jungle fowls were the ancestors of the domestic hens which we find so useful. The wild cow was tamed in like manner, and made to supply milk in addition to food and clothing. The colts of wild horses and donkeys were captured and used for carrying loads. Sheep and goats were tamed in the same manner, and became the most valued possessions of some of the ancient peoples as they are of some peoples today. When they had learned to weave the wool of these animals into clothing and blankets, they had taken another step upon the long road which leads from ancient times down to us. Did these early people live entirely upon meat? If they had done so, we should never have had the wonderful variety of fruits and vegetables that we now enjoy so much. We must not suppose that Nature grew these things wild just as they are found in our gardens today. Our ancestors grew them for many generations, gradually improving their size and flavor. By selecting the best and carefully cultivating them, we are still continuing to make them better. The horse, donkey, cow, and camel proved valuable in another way to the people who were learning to cultivate the ground. When harnessed to a crooked and sharpened stick they aided in breaking up the ground in which the young plants were growing. And so the long years passed while the early people were discovering and making use of the things around them. They came to building better and more permanent homes, because they did not have to move from place to place in search of food. Where there were forests, wood served for their buildings. Where there were few trees, stone or mud bricks were used. The brighter people learned to understand Nature more quickly than those who were dull. Each discovery of some new way of doing things aided them in making others, and in this way people finally came to have all the comforts of today. Those people less quick to learn the secrets of Nature, or those who lived in countries to which Nature had given little, gained few comforts and even now remain savage. After our ancestors had learned to cultivate the soil, to use the minerals and the forests, and had tamed the animals and birds, they were still unsatisfied. They attempted to make the forces of Nature work for them. For a long time people made flour by crushing grain in a mortar. Next, two flat stones were used, one being made to turn upon the other by a handle. After that some animal, such as an ox or a horse, was harnessed to larger stones which, as they slowly turned, ground the grain. This was a great deal of work, and so some one thought of making the water tumbling over a ledge of rock grind the grain for them. The water was made to go over a water wheel. This wheel then made the millstones go around. It was a great deal easier. [Illustration: The wild home of early men. _H. W. Fairbanks_] Where there was no water power, wind was made to do the same work. A crude windmill gathered the power of the rapidly moving air. After wind and water had been forced to serve them, some one who had seen the lid of a tea kettle dancing up and down, thought of using steam. Then electricity, which in the form of jagged lightning had seemed so fearful a thing to the early people, was harnessed and made the greatest servant of all the forces of Nature. The discovery of powder led to the making of guns so destructive that dozens of birds could be killed at one shot. Some people became greedy and used all these wonderful discoveries to rob Nature. It seemed as if in some places all the wild life would be destroyed. Fires were allowed to burn the forest unhindered. The soil was made to produce crops until it grew poor. If we become selfish and indifferent and neglect to care for the treasures which Nature has placed in our hands, very serious things will happen to us, as they have happened to other people. How to use the storehouse of Nature without wasting or destroying these treasures is what we mean by _conservation_. CHAPTER TWO HOW OUR NEEDS DIFFER FROM THOSE OF THE FIRST MEN We have seen that the first men, like the other animals, depended upon the food that Nature supplied them, and when this was lacking they went hungry. When men had learned the use of fire they took the first step in making Nature serve them better than she did the lower animals. Today she works for us in so many ways that we can hardly name them all. After the use of fire the next thing that men learned was to make better homes, to tame some of the wild animals, and to raise a part of their food supplies, instead of depending entirely upon what they could pick up here and there. As the number of people increased, the question of securing food became more and more important. Would it not seem pretty hard to have to go out and hunt for your breakfast in the woods, or fields, or along the water? If you were alone you might find enough to eat, but if there were thousands of other people doing the same thing, you would probably go hungry. For this reason people began to cultivate berries, fruits, roots, and grains, and to take better care of their herds. Living as they did, in those parts of the world where the climate was warm, they usually found an abundance of food. But when these places became too crowded, and some of them had to move to new regions, they often found less food and a climate not always comfortable. In this way people spread into the colder and drier parts of the earth. The need for things which they did not have there sharpened the wits of these people. It led to one discovery after another. New needs were felt and new ways of satisfying them were sought. They kept finding out more about Nature and how she works. After many years they knew much more and were also far more comfortable than those people who continued to live where Nature supplied everything. There are now so many more people on the earth than there were long ago that to furnish them all with food is a very great task. Besides, there are now many people engaged in work other than farming, hunting, and fishing. All such people have to be provided for by those whose business it is to get food. People of the great cities are dependent upon those in the country for all that they eat! We can picture to ourselves the suffering that would follow if for only one week every one had to get his own food. We need many things that the first people thought nothing about, because their manner of life was so much simpler than ours. Let us see now what they are. We live in tightly closed houses, and so have less trouble in keeping warm and dry. But we do not always get the supply of fresh air that we need. Many of us are sickly and weak because of this. Our ancestors lived in the open air, which is always pure and fresh. A supply of pure air, then, is one of the things that we must now provide for. People once gave no thought to the purity of the water that they drank. When there were few people, water did not easily become impure. One could drink water wherever one found it and there was small risk of harm. Now in many places there are so many thousands of people gathered together that they have to take the greatest care about drinking water, in order to keep in good health. To get pure water it is often necessary to bring it many miles from mountainous regions where no one lives. Clothing is another thing that concerns us very much. Our ancestors were not troubled about their clothing. In the warm countries they went almost naked. Where it was cold the skins of animals served very well. Changes of fashion did not disturb them and cause them to throw away warm covering. To supply ourselves now with clothing we call upon Nature for many things. As she cannot, without our help, furnish what we need, we have to keep a great number of flocks, for their wool and skins, and cultivate vast fields of cotton and flax. When Nature raised in her own way the berries, grains, and roots that the first men ate, no thought was given to the soil in which these things grew. In truth, it was not necessary to pay any attention to the soil. Nature is very careful in her way and never makes the soil poor by growing more plants than it can support. In her own gardens she always renews the foods in the soil which the plants require as fast as they take them away. The needs of men have increased so fast that the soil has often been forced to grow more than it ought. Men have been a long time in learning that they cannot keep on growing the same crops on the same soil year after year without supplying to the soil extra foods, or _fertilizers_, as we call them. The care of the soil is another thing to which we have to give attention, but which did not worry our ancestors. Nature clothes the earth with a carpet of grasses, bushes, or trees. When the rain falls on the ground, their roots hold the soil so firmly that it usually washes away only very slowly. When men first began to cultivate the soil, they paid no attention to the fact that water washes away the loose earth very easily. In this loose earth at the top of the ground is stored most of the food which the plants require. Care of the surface of the ground is, then, another thing which we have to keep in mind. Men at first made shelters for themselves from anything that was at hand, such as bark, skins, rock, or earth. When they learned to make sharp-edged tools, they began to use trees. Where it is cold, much wood is required to build warm houses. As the numbers of men increased, they used greater and greater quantities of wood. Wood also proved to be most useful for many other purposes than house building. In order to plant larger fields the trees were cut down or burned off, without thought of doing any harm. In time trees became scarce in many parts of the world and men began to realize that care must be used or the supply of wood might fail them. Coal was finally discovered and men said, "Now we have something that will last always, for there must be an inexhaustible amount in the earth beneath our feet. All that we shall have to do is to dig it out." When men grew wiser they learned that coal must not be used carelessly any more than the other gifts of Nature; otherwise the supply may give out and leave them with nothing to take its place. Hunting and fishing continued to be the business of many. They invented destructive weapons with which they were able to kill such large numbers of wild creatures that some kinds disappeared entirely. Fish, also, of which people thought the sea and the rivers contained a never failing supply, became scarcer. They did not know that fish live mostly in the shallow waters along shores, and that the great ocean depths contain very few. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ Sierra junipers above Tuolumne Meadows, near the Yosemite Valley, showing how roots will force their way in apparently most unfavorable places.] Thus, as the earth became thickly settled with men and their wants increased, they discovered that they had to treat Nature in a very different way from that of their early ancestors. Because of our great numbers we have to be careful not to use the earth in such a way as to lessen its fertility and productiveness. Where people have been careless, famine has often resulted. Poverty and suffering have come to many parts of the earth, as we shall learn farther along in this little book. THE CITY ON THE PLAIN Strange indeed were the sounds I heard One day, on the side of the mountain: Hushed was the stream and silent the bird, The restless wind seemed to hold its breath, And all things there were as still as death, Save the hoarse-voiced god of the mountain. Through the tangled growth, with a hurried stride, I saw him pass on the mountain, Thrusting the briers and bushes aside, Crackling the sticks and spurning the stones, And talking in loud and angry tones On the side of the ancient mountain. The tips of his goatlike ears were red, Though the day was cool on the mountain, And they lay close-drawn to his horned head; His bushy brows o'er his small eyes curled, And he stamped his hoofs,--for all the world Like Pan in a rage on the mountain. "Where are my beautiful trees," he cried, "That grew on the side of the mountain? The stately pines that were once my pride, My shadowy, droop-limbed junipers: And my dewy, softly whispering firs, 'Mid their emerald glooms on the mountain? "They are all ravished away," he said, "And torn from the arms of the mountain, Away from the haunts of cooling shade, From the cloisters green which flourished here-- My lodging for many a joyous year On the side of the pleasant mountain. "The songbird is bereft of its nest, And voiceless now is the mountain. My murmurous bees once took their rest, At shut of day, and knew no fear, In the trees whose trunks lie rotting here On the side of the ruined mountain. "Man has let in the passionate sun To suck the life-blood of the mountain, And drink up its fountains one by one: And out of the immortal freshness made A thing of barter, and sold in trade The sons of the mother mountain. "Down in the valley I see a town, Built of his spoils from my mountain-- A jewel torn from a monarch's crown, A grave for the lordly groves of Pan: And for this, on the head of vandal man, I hurl a curse from the mountain. "His palpitant streams shall all go dry Henceforth on the side of the mountain, And his verdant plains as a desert lie Until he plants again the forest fold And restores to me my kingdom old, As in former days on the mountain. "Long shall the spirit of silence brood On the side of the wasted mountain, E'er out of the sylvan solitude To lift the curse from off the plain, The crystal streams pour forth again From the gladdened heart of the mountain." MILLARD F. HUDSON, in _American Forestry_, XIV. 42 [Illustration: _Pillsbury's Pictures, Inc._ "'Where are my beautiful trees,' he cried, 'That grew on the side of the mountain?'"] CHAPTER THREE THE EARTH AS IT WAS BEFORE THE COMING OF CIVILIZED MEN For ages, on the silent forest here, Thy beams did fall before the red man came To dwell beneath them; in their shade the deer Fed, and feared not the arrow's deadly aim. Nor tree was felled, in all that world of woods, Save by the beaver's tooth, or winds, or rush of floods. WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT, _A Walk at Sunset_ The earth has not always been as it is now. Those parts now possessed by the more civilized peoples have been very greatly changed. If we could look back and see some of the countries as they were long ago, we should hardly know them. In certain lands the forests have been cut down, the wild creatures driven away, and the soil so carelessly cultivated that it has become poor. In other lands Nature's gifts have been carefully used; even the barren deserts have been turned into green fields and blooming gardens for hundreds of miles. Let us try to picture to ourselves how our own country looked when white men first found and explored it. A few hundred years ago it was the home of wild animals and Indians only. We have been given our freedom in one of the richest of Nature's gardens, and, like so many children, have tried to see who could gather the most treasures from it. We have given little attention to keeping up the garden. If you have been in some part of the country that is still wild and unsettled, it will help you to form a picture of how the entire land once looked. If you have been in one of our great natural parks, this will be a better help. In these parks everything remains just as Nature made it. There the animals, birds, and plants are free to live their lives unmolested. Is it not a good thing that our government has been wise enough to have large tracts of land left in just the condition in which the whole country was when our ancestors first came? We will think of our whole land, then, as a great wild park, rich in all kinds of animal and plant life. It was not an altogether happy family that lived in this park, for all were struggling for food, drink, and sunshine. But as none were possessed of such deadly weapons as those of civilized man, no one kind of animal was able to kill off all of any other kind. Neither the Indians in their wigwams, nor the wild animals in their lairs, nor the birds singing in the trees, nor the ducks quacking in the marshes dreamed of the change that was coming to their homes. They did not dream of civilized man with his terrible weapons and his many needs, who was to change the whole appearance of the country and nearly or quite exterminate many of them. The life of the Indians was almost as simple as that of the lower animals. Their clothing required little care. Their homes were easily made. Some of them had learned to cultivate the soil, but they depended mainly upon food obtained by hunting, and such roots, berries, and nuts as the women could collect. If we could have looked down on our land as the bird does, we should have seen little sign of human inhabitants. There were no roads or bridges, and only indistinct trails led from one village to another. In the far Southwest there were people quite different from those of whom we have been speaking. They were called the Pueblo Indians. In Mexico there were similar people called the Aztecs. All these Indians still live in permanent stone villages, as they did a thousand years ago. They learned more about Nature than the wandering Indians, but we do not believe they would ever become civilized if left to themselves. The only animal that the Indians had tamed was the wolf. They made little use of the wolf-dog except in the far North, where it drew their sleds over the snow. Some of the Indians of our country once knew of the use of copper, but it had been forgotten when white men first came. All about the Indians was the same world that surrounds us. In truth, it was a richer world in some ways, for since then many of its treasures have been lost through greed and waste. The rich soil of the valleys was almost undisturbed. The forests were uncut save for an occasional tree used in making a canoe or a rude cabin. The forests suffered only at the hands of the insects, storms, and fires. The flowers that covered the ground in spring went ungathered. The vast grassy prairies were disturbed only by the feeding of such animals as the buffalo, elk, deer, and antelope. A single great forest spread over all the mountains and valleys of the eastern part of our country. Now you can travel for many miles in the more thickly settled portions of this region and see not a single tree of the original forest. To the west of the forest came the prairies and plains. Still farther west came lofty mountains and desert valleys. On these Western mountains were other forests with trees of wonderful size. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ The elk once roamed the valleys.] This great natural park, with its long seacoasts, rivers, lakes, marshes, dense woods, and open plains, was a paradise for wild creatures of every description, and the Indian was contented to leave it so. Grizzly and black bears roamed the thickets. Elk wandered through the mountains and valleys. Deer were abundant everywhere. The antelope raced over the plains, mountain goats and sheep lived among the rocks, and moose filled the Northern woods. Great herds of buffalo darkened the surface of the plains. When the first railroad was built across the plains, less than fifty years ago, the trains were sometimes stopped by herds of buffalo crossing the track. Most of the songbirds that filled the country then are still with us, for they were of little commercial value to the hunter. No other land has richer bird music than ours. Many of the birds that are valuable for food are, however, nearly extinct. Now we have laws for their protection, but these laws went into effect too late to save some species. The passenger pigeon is one of our greatest losses. The cutting down of the vast forests that once covered the Eastern states, and the cultivation of fields, has helped to drive many of the wild creatures away. We are just beginning to learn how poor our country would be if we lost them all. Refuges are being established in many places, where those birds and animals most in danger of extinction may live safe from the hunter. The coast waters, lakes, and streams of our country were once alive with fish. The Indians made use of them, but their rude traps did not catch enough to affect the number seriously. We have fished with every kind of trap that the brightest fisherman could think of. Many important food fishes are now very much reduced in numbers. The fur seal and sea otter are so nearly gone that only the most watchful protection will save them from extinction. The land, as the Indian knew it, was beautiful, and was filled with everything that one could wish. But the Indian did not know how to use it. He lived a poor life, suffering from cold and hunger. We came into the possession of a land unspoiled by its primitive inhabitants. It was just as Nature made it. In a few short years we have almost exterminated the Indian. We have swept away a large part of the forests. We have almost destroyed many of the species of animals and birds. We have robbed the soil and injured the flow of the rivers. Some of this loss we could not help, for when many millions of people occupy a land there must be many changes. But for the losses that we have needlessly and carelessly caused we shall sometime be sorry. [Illustration: _Pillsbury's Pictures, Inc._ "Such beautiful things in the heart of the woods! Flowers and ferns and the soft green moss."] Do you not think we are wise in seeking how to take better care of this land of ours? IN THE HEART OF THE WOODS Such beautiful things in the heart of the woods! Flowers and ferns and the soft green moss; Such love of the birds in the solitudes, Where the swift winds glance and the treetops toss; Spaces of silence swept with song, Which nobody hears but the God above; Spaces where myriad creatures throng, Sunning themselves in his guarding love. Such safety and peace in the heart of the woods! Far from the city's dust and din, Where passion nor hate nor man intrudes, Nor fashion nor folly has entered in. Deeper than hunter's trail hath gone Glimmers the tarn where the wild deer drink; And fearless and free comes the gentle fawn, To peep at herself o'er the grassy brink. Such pledges of love in the heart of the woods! For the Maker of all things keeps the feast, And over the tiny flowers broods With care that for ages has never ceased. If he cares for this, will he not for thee-- Thee, wherever thou art today? Child of an infinite Father, see; And safe in such gentlest keeping stay. MARGARET E. SANGSTER, in _American Forestry_, XIV CHAPTER FOUR NATURE'S UNEQUAL DISTRIBUTION OF HER GIFTS Pure, fresh air is free to all of us, for, like an ocean, it surrounds the whole earth. We need pure water just as much as we do pure air, but it is not always easy to get. A large part of the earth is buried beneath water so salt that we cannot use it. Other parts of the earth are so dry that if we venture into them we may die of thirst. The solid land on which we make our homes is not all of the same value. Thousands of square miles are so rocky or so cold or so dry that they support no living thing. Other thousands of miles of the earth have been so favored by Nature that they are fairly alive with every sort of creature. We say that a country is rich in natural resources when it has an abundance of those things that men need or can make use of for their pleasure and comfort. A country is poor when it has few of these things. The first men were poor, although they lived in a rich part of the earth. They did not know how to make use of what lay around them. If civilized men are poor now, it is because they have wasted Nature's gifts or because they live in a country upon which she has bestowed little. When we say that the far North where the Eskimos live is a dreary, desolate region, we mean that it lacks most of those things necessary to make men comfortable and happy. When we read of the life of the wandering Arabs in the desert of Arabia, we think of a country to which Nature has not given its share. When we speak of Spain as poor, we have in mind a country once favored by Nature, but no longer prosperous because its resources have been wasted. Our own land is now rich and prosperous because of the abundance of its natural resources. We should guard these well lest we meet a fate similar to that of the people of Spain. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ Where Nature has supplied little rain; desert sand dunes.] If we journey over our own land, we shall discover that Nature has been very partial to certain parts, giving them more than they need. Other parts have been left with little. We shall also discover what wonderful things men are doing to make up for the failures of Nature, and to make habitable many of those places which she left uninhabitable. The forests of the eastern half of the country have been thinned out. West of the Mississippi River there are thousands of square miles of prairies where there are almost no trees. In such places the first settlers had difficulty in getting firewood, and had to build their houses of earth or stone. Upon the northwest coast there is fog and rain and little sunshine. There the forests grow so dense that it is difficult to travel through them. In the deserts of the Southwest the sun shines out of a cloudless sky almost every day in the year. The ground becomes very dry and the living things found there have strange and curious habits. In the Central and Eastern states there is much coal; and because of this, millions of people have gathered there to engage in manufacturing. In California coal is scarce and has to be brought from other parts of the earth. The vast prairies of the Mississippi Valley are covered with fields of waving grain, much of which is shipped to distant regions. In New England much of the soil is rocky and not enough grain is raised there to supply the needs of the population. [Illustration: _U. S. Office of Farm Management (J. S. Cotton)_ A farming scene in the fertile valley of the Missouri River.] The work that people do in different places is determined by the way in which Nature has distributed her resources. The farmers are mostly found in the valleys where the soil is best. Cattle are pastured on those lands not suited to farming. The miners go to the mountains, where they can more easily find the minerals they are after. The lumberman finds his work where the climate favors the growth of forest trees. The manufacturer seeks the waterfalls, where there is power to turn his mills. Now let us try to discover in how far we can change Nature's plan and make habitable those places which she left uninhabitable. There are some things which we cannot do. We cannot make the air warmer or colder. We cannot cause rain to fall even though the fields are parched with drought. We cannot stop the rain falling, and we cannot stop the winds blowing. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The prickly pear in its desert home.] While we cannot stop the water falling from the clouds, we can drain the lowlands and marshes and so make them fit for the farmer. We can raise great dikes or embankments along the rivers and so shut out the flood waters. The people of Holland have saved thousands of acres from the sea by building dikes and pumping out the water from the inclosed fields. While we cannot make it rain where not enough rain falls, we can do that which is just as good or better: we can carry water by ditches and pipes to the land that needs it. Much of the soil of the great deserts in the southwestern part of our country is rich in plant food. All that it lacks is water. The Indian roamed over the rich lands of the great delta of the Colorado River. He often went hungry and thirsty. He did not think of taking the water out of the river in a ditch and allowing it to flow over and wet the rich soil. The white man came and turned the river out of its channel and spread the water over hundreds of square miles of the richest land on the earth. Now, where once you would have died of thirst and hunger, there are green fields and growing crops as far as you can see. [Illustration: The Owens River aqueduct, through which water is carried to Los Angeles from a source more than two hundred miles distant.] The city of Los Angeles is situated in a dry region where there is not water enough for the needs of a great city. There has now been completed a great aqueduct which brings a river of water through deserts and mountains from the Sierra Nevada Mountains, over two hundred miles away. There is now sufficient water for hundreds of thousands of people. When it rains too much, many rivers rise and overflow their banks. The farmer's crops are destroyed, his cattle drowned, and his buildings washed away. We can lessen the danger from these floods, which are very bad in such river basins as those of the Ohio and Mississippi, by building reservoirs in the highlands where the rivers take their start. If when summer comes these rivers are too shallow for safe navigation, the reservoirs can be opened and the streams supplied with this stored water. The lack of trees upon the prairies was once a serious matter for the settler. We must not think, however, that because Nature placed no trees on the prairies that trees will not grow there. She may not have had handy the seed of the kind suitable for such dry lands. Our government has found in the dry regions of other countries trees that will grow upon our prairies. In their own home these trees had become used to a dry climate like that of our prairies. Steep cañons and cliffs of rock once kept people, living on the opposite sides of mountain ranges, from becoming acquainted with one another. Our ancestors were afraid to venture out on the boundless oceans with their small, frail boats. Because of this the continent that we live on long remained unknown. Those who first found it, the ancestors of the present Indians, came here by accident. Storms probably blew their boats across the North Pacific Ocean, and thus they found a new home. Now railroads enable us to cross the deserts in perfect comfort. Tunnels have been made through the mountains, so that we can go easily from one valley to another. Boats of giant size carry us safely and quickly across the stormy oceans. Nature did not intend us to fly through the air or swim beneath the water, but we are learning so much about her laws that we shall soon be almost as much at home in the air and the sea as the birds and fish are. CHAPTER FIVE THE LAND OF THE POOR PEOPLE My squandered forests, hacked and hewed, Are gone; my rivers fail; My stricken hillsides, stark and nude, Stand shivering in the gale. Down to the sea my teeming soil In yellow torrents goes; The guerdon of the farmer's toil With each year lesser grows. ROBERT M. REESE, _The Spendthrift_; quoted in _American Forestry_, XIV. 269 This is the story of a land of plenty that became almost a desert. Long ago there dwelt in this land a people wise in all the things that concerned their home. Through many hard years of toil and struggle they had learned to take the very best care of what Nature had given them. Although Nature seemed to them to be wasteful, she punished waste in her children. As long as they obeyed, they had comfortable homes, fertile fields, and sleek herds. The country of which we are speaking was very beautiful. There were lofty mountains and broad, fertile valleys. Many streams, fed by clear, cool springs, flowed through the land. There were also green meadows and deep, dark forests. The forests contained many wild animals, for in the forests the animals found both food and protection. Birds of every sort abounded, and their music filled the air. Trees overhung the streams, shading them from the hot sun, so that they did not dry up in the summer. The springs never failed, for the carpet of leaves and decaying vegetation underneath the trees of the forests held much of the rainwater from running away, so that it sank into the ground. Instead of making floods in the rivers, it fed the springs gradually and steadily through the long, dry summers. The people of this land had learned the secrets of the growing plants and how these plants could be made better by cultivation. They had also learned to tame the wild animals and make them useful. The farms were managed with great care so that they never grew poor. The soil never refused to grow their crops. The people had learned during their earlier years of struggle that they must not clear the forests from the hillsides, for, if they did, the soil would begin to wash away. They had learned that they must leave the forests on the mountains in order to save the springs. Rain did not always come when it was needed for the crops, and at other times it rained too much. Reservoirs were built to hold the surplus water for use in time of drought. Canals were dug to carry it to the fields. The wild animals and birds bothered the crops, and the first thought of the people was to kill them. But it was soon discovered that this was not wise. Those who destroyed the wild creatures about their farms began to suffer from rats, mice, rabbits, and a multitude of little insects that all but devoured the crops. It did not take these people long to learn that Nature was not to be trifled with. If they took too much from the earth one year, she made them pay for it the next. They not only became wise enough to take care of every good thing that Nature had given them, but improved upon many things that she had left unsuited to their use. Thus the land was kept beautiful and fertile. The inhabitants became rich, and, instead of fearing Nature as they once did, they came to love the rocks, the woods, the streams, and the wild creatures. Let us now leave this rich and fertile land and come back to it after hundreds of years have passed. We find a new people living there and the country so changed that we can hardly believe it is the same land. Yet it must be the same, for there are the very mountains that were there long ago. To be sure, they do not look just as they did. When we last saw them they were covered with forests, but now they are barren and scarred with many gulches. Here is the same river, but it also looks different. While it was once overhung with trees and its waters were so clear that we could see the fish in the bottom, it now has a broad, sandy bed; the trees are gone, and the water is shallow and muddy. The new inhabitants of this land have a tired and discouraged appearance. They have a hard struggle to get enough to eat. The soil is rocky, and it takes much labor to raise the scanty crops. They never seem able to gather all the rocks from the fields, for the soil washes away and new ones are constantly uncovered. Where are the forests that once grew here? We find in their stead only a few stunted trees and bushes. There is little grass and almost no flowers, even in spring. Sheep and cattle wander far for their forage and do not have the sleek appearance they once did. There are few wild creatures of any sort, for since there are no woods there are few hiding places. Neither do we see any birds, and we listen in vain for a song or note of any kind. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The women carry home the fuel.] The houses are made of mud or stone and look cold and cheerless. The people must suffer from cold in winter. The only wood they have is small brush which the women and children gather upon the far hills and bring home in huge bundles upon their backs. In the towns of this country the only fuel now to be had is charcoal. This is brought upon the backs of burros from the distant mountains, where the few remaining trees give work to charcoal burners. The charcoal is peddled through the streets and sold in tiny quantities at each door. The people are too poor to buy much at a time and are very careful in its use. It is burned in a metal or earthen dish called a brazier, and a double handful may last a family a whole day. Rains still fall in this country of the Poor People, as they did long ago. But the waters gather quickly upon the unprotected slopes and run off in muddy torrents, taking along some of the soil. Thus each succeeding year there is less plant food for the crops. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The rocky land of the poor people.] How did this country, once rich and fruitful, become so barren? We are sure from what we know of Nature's ways that she is not the cause of the trouble. Through greed and ignorance of how to take care of their land the present inhabitants have wasted and squandered its wealth until it has become almost a desert. We can do things with Nature, and direct many of her forces so that they will work for our good. We cannot, however, as we have learned, change the amount of rain that falls, nor can we make it warmer or colder. How, then, are these poor people to blame for the condition of their country? The troubles which overtook them came from two things. In the first place they did not know how to take care of their rich land, and in the second place they were greedy and wanted to become wealthy faster than they ought. Why does the rain, which once made this country fruitful, now wash away the soil and make it barren? It is because in those earlier times much of the land was covered with cool forests. The rain then fell more gently because of the forests. More of it soaked into the ground and the springs were larger. Now the rains are delayed by the hot air of the thirsty land until, when they finally do come, the water falls in torrents. Such rains or cloudbursts, as we often call them, carry away the unprotected soil faster than Nature can renew it. [Illustration: _Bailey Willis_ The shallow, rock-filled river along whose banks the trees have been destroyed.] The strangers in the land, under whose rule it became poor, thought they knew better than Nature. They did not look upon her as the great wise mother of them all. Soon after these people came into possession of the land, they found that in other places there was a demand for their grain, cattle, and wool. They began to increase their fields and herds. To do this it was necessary to cut down the forests which had stood so long. It seemed to them too bad to leave valuable land covered only with trees. The people began to look askance at the birds, for they thought they were eating too much grain. Because they did not know what good the little creatures were doing, they killed them. Since most of the birds nested in trees, they got rid of them faster by cutting down the trees. The steep hillsides were finally cleared of trees and the soil began to wash, and the rocks soon appeared. No plant food was given to the soil to replace that taken by the growing plants, and the crops soon began to show the effect of starvation. The cattle began to suffer for lack of food. They ate the grass down so closely that much of it was killed. The rainwater, instead of feeding the springs, now ran swiftly away. The clear, steady rivers turned to muddy floods during the rainy season. They swept through the valleys, washing away houses and crops. In the summer they dried up so that the fish died. When these people at last discovered their mistake, they strove by hard labor to repair the damage which they had done through years of ignorance and greed. This was such slow, difficult work that the land still remains a dreary place in which to live. It is known as the Land of the Poor People. CHAPTER SIX WHAT THE MUDDY RIVULET HAS TO SAY Would you like to know something about what I am doing? Would you like to know why my waters are yellow with mud? I am accused of being a noisy, roistering fellow, of robbing people of their wealth and of doing all sorts of wicked deeds. But, worst of all, I am accused of carrying away the tiny particles of soil in which the plants find their food and of dropping them in the depths of the sea. Perhaps, when you really understand my work, you will say that I have no evil intentions at all. I am only one of Nature's servants. Each one of us has a work to do. Sometimes we have to do things that seem to be bad, but that is because some one on the earth has broken Nature's laws. Nature has many servants. To each one of us is given a different kind of work. I am the great leveler of the land. No mountain is too great or too high for me to tear down. I can carry it all away grain by grain and leave it in the lowlands or in the sea. Many mountains I have destroyed so completely that you would hardly believe they ever existed. Long before there were any animals and men on the earth I was busy, and I shall be busy when they are all gone. The farmer believes me his enemy, but if I do injure his fields it is because I cannot help it. The work that has been given me to do is the carrying away of the loose earth wherever I can find it. If the farmer does not want his hillsides made poor, he should take care of them. The farmer does not know that he has me to thank for the richest of his lands, those lands where the soil is deep and dark, and filled with plant food. I and my brother rivulets have been thousands of years in collecting the soil which forms the fertile lowlands in the valleys through which we flow. We all unite to form the mighty river which finally ends in the sea. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ Because some farmer was careless, a rivulet has nearly destroyed this rich valley.] Upon all the slopes which drain toward the river we rivulets are at work. Other servants of Nature are working here. Some of them are making the rocks soften and fall apart. Others are bringing seeds of the grasses and trees that they may take root in the crumbling rock. It is their business to make a carpet of plants over the earth and thus stop my work. But wherever the slopes are steep we rivulets have our way. We pick up and carry away the particles of sand and clay so that only the bare, hard rocks remain. When the steep slopes become gentle, and we can no longer carry away all the particles of crumbled rock, then the carpet of plants spreads over the surface. Now our waters become clear. We seem like different beings. Once in a while, when the rains fall very heavily, some of us break through the protecting carpet and dig great hollows and gullies into the earth. Would you like to know how we rivulets get rid of the load we carry from the mountain slopes? When we are muddy and swollen with the heavy rains, we turn the river into a flood. The river then breaks its banks and spreads out over all the lowlands along its course. Now the river flows more slowly and drops a part of the sand and mud which we rivulets brought to it. Finally, when the storm is over and the river goes back into its channel, there is left on the surface of the valleys a layer of earth rich in plant food. We brought the river the finest of the rock particles, together with the leaves and stems of plants that lay in our way. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The rivulets have united to form the broad, shallow river loaded with the soil from the farms along its upper course.] As year after year we made the river overflow, the soil of the lowlands grew deeper and deeper until it became as you see it today. Now the slopes about the head of the river are not so steep as they were once. Our waters do not run away so rapidly and the river seldom overflows. Thus the farmer can use the land for his crops, which grow so luxuriantly that he is envied by his less fortunate neighbors who live upon the hills. [Illustration: _U. S. Office of Farm Management_ The soil of this valley has been washed to its present location by flood waters.] Upon the slopes about the valleys we rivulets did not leave so much soil. The farther one goes up the slopes the thinner one finds the soil, until at the top the bare rock may appear. But our work, says the muddy rivulet, was not finished with the making of the fertile valley lands. We carried a part of our load of sand and mud on to the mouth of the river. Here in the bay into which the river empties we began another great task. It seemed hopeless at first to try to turn the bay into dry land, but year after year we kept at work, through a time so long that I have forgotten when we began. At last we succeeded in bringing so much material to the bay that the waters became shallow. Then the soft mud began to show itself when the water was low. At last the water was replaced by dry land, which appeared much like the lowlands which we had made along the river. Now you who think we muddy rivulets do only harm see what we have accomplished. We have built a great delta of the richest land that extends away on every hand as level as a floor and almost as far as you can see. The soil of the delta is hundreds of feet deep and the richest to be found on the whole earth. It is on such river deltas that the first civilized men made their homes, and became rich and powerful. Now I have told you what Nature has appointed the muddy rivulets to do. Is not the good that we do far greater than the harm? When we do harm it is because people have not learned how, or have not tried, to obey Nature's laws. If we make people poor, it is their own fault. We still find much to do upon the earth. Nature is still making mountains which we have to tear down. We are still building deltas which will sometime be inhabited by rich and prosperous people. We do not willingly spoil the lands of the farmers on the hills and make them labor hard for a living. In those happy lands where people understand Nature we rivulets have a different kind of work to do. We become pure and clear. We furnish a home for the fish, drink for the thirsty flocks, and a never-failing power to turn the mill wheels. Our waters are of service to every living thing. CHAPTER SEVEN HOW FAR WILL NATURE RESTORE HER WASTED GIFTS? The natural wealth of our country is its soil, water, forests, minerals, animal and bird life, and, finally, its climate and scenery. Of all these, _climate_ and _scenery_ are the only ones which we can use and enjoy as much as we like without any danger of their ever failing us. The sun will shine through the blue sky, the winds will blow, and the storms will come just the same, no matter what we may do. Did you ever think how long a time it has taken to make the wonderful world in which we live, and place upon it the mountains and valleys, lakes and oceans? Did you ever think how long a time it has taken to make the rocks and store away in them gold, silver, copper, and iron? Did you ever think how long a time it has taken to cover the rocks with soil, and spread over the surface the flowers and trees and to stock it with uncounted numbers of animals and birds? Nature usually works very slowly, but she never rests. The earth and all things on its surface, have always been changing, but changing so slowly that we do not ordinarily notice what is going on. When there is an earthquake, or a slide of rock on a mountain side, or an eruption of a volcano, we are astonished and often terrified. Stories that have come down to us from the distant past tell us that the earth looked then much the same as it does now. If we could look away back to a time long before the first men lived, when even the animals and plants were different from those around us, we should discover that the surface of the earth was quite different from that of today. We should then see mountains and hills where now we find valleys, and dry land where now lies the blue ocean. Nature has been such a long time making the beautiful world in which we live, that we ought to treat it with great consideration. It is also a wise thing for us to be heedful of her requests, for, if we will work with her, the earth with all its treasures will be at our command. Shall we not now seek to learn which of the natural resources of our land will never be replaced if we squander them? Let us also learn which may be made good again by Nature, if we are willing to wait long enough, as well as to assist her in her slow work. Each year the growing plants take certain substances from the soil. It is necessary for us to put back like substances if we would keep up the fertility of the soil. If we are neglectful of this law, or allow water to wash the soil away until only the bare rocks remain, poverty will be our lot for many years. Nature will, however, if we give her a chance, renew the soil. The rocks will crumble and, by and by, seeds will sprout and tiny plants obtain a foothold. But it may take a whole lifetime, or hundreds of years, even, for a new and fertile soil to come again. During the early years of placer mining in California thousands of acres of rich lands in the foothills were destroyed. Only boulders were left. Now fifty years have passed and a new soil is being formed, but it will be a long time yet before it will be as good as it was in the first place. Upon the Western prairies only grain has been raised for so many years that in many places the soil will scarcely grow a crop worth gathering. Many farmers have never thought of this, but the wise ones understand that they must frequently add plant food to the soil to replace that taken by crops. They understand also that it is a good thing to change the crops grown upon any particular field from year to year, since different plants take different substances from the soil. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The miner in his search for gold ruins the beautiful valley, leaving it a mass of boulders.] Water goes through a ceaseless round. It rises from the sea and lakes to form the clouds, falls as rain or snow, and then flows back down the slopes to the sea. Although we have learned that we cannot change the quantity of rain that falls in any place, we can influence the way in which it runs back to the sea. This in turn affects the lives of people. We can store water in reservoirs, and by building canals have it to use on the land during the summer. We can also keep it from flowing back to the sea as rapidly as it otherwise would, by leaving uninjured the covering of vegetation which has been spread over the mountain slopes. The water will run from bare rocks and bare soil much more quickly than it will from soil that is covered with leaf mold and held by plant roots. Do you not see, then, that we have almost as much control over water and its distribution as though we could increase or decrease the rainfall? What about the forests? If we cut them down, will they ever come back? All through the eastern part of our country and in the mountains of the West are lands once forested which have been cleared and turned into farms. Many of these farms, when abandoned, have in a few years been covered with a growth of young trees. The scattering trees that had been left in the vicinity of the clearings furnished the seed. The winds and the birds carried the seed to the open fields and so the forests began again. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ But Nature, after a lapse of fifty years, has spread a new carpet of soil over the valley.] It will be hundreds of years before the trees are as large and valuable as those of the first forest. The "big trees" of the Sierra Nevada Mountains are found nowhere else in the world, for they are the last of their race. Some of these trees are more than 4000 years old. They stood here when our forefathers were still savages and lived in trees or caves. Much of the region where these trees are found has now been reserved as a park. If the lumberman had been allowed to get at them, they would have soon been gone forever. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ Uncle Sam has preserved both forests and water power.] It is far more difficult to destroy completely most of the species of forest trees than it is to destroy the species of animals and birds. We can cut down the trees and in some cases they will grow again from sprouts. Many will hide away in remote places and furnish seed for new forests. The animals as well as the plants have had a long history. They have had a harder struggle than the plants, because many of them prey upon one another. We often dig up the skeletons of strange animals unlike any now living. These must have all been killed long ago. Each species or kind of animal now living must have come off victorious in the struggle with its enemies. Does it not seem a heartless thing for us, who call ourselves civilized, to destroy so completely any species of animal or plant that not one of its kind remains alive? No species which we destroy will ever come back again, and its place will always remain empty. There are a few predatory animals and birds that destroy vast numbers of useful ones. We should keep these in check by every means in our power, but for our thoughtless destruction of the valuable ones the world will always be poorer. What of the mineral treasures hidden away in the earth? Will these be replaced when once they have all been used up? It took Nature a very long time to make coal out of the vegetation which had gathered in some ancient swamp. It took her fully as long to make the oil and gas from the bodies of the little organisms that once lived in the sea. The bodies of the little creatures from which oil is made are still gathering upon the bottom of the sea, and there are many swamps where we find vegetation and peat accumulating. But it is a long story from these substances to oil and coal. I am afraid we should get tired of waiting for Nature to make a new supply. Gold, silver, copper, and other minerals, so useful to us, are found in very small quantities scattered throughout most of the solid rocks of the earth. It would be impossible for us to obtain these from rocks, because there is so little in any one place. But Nature has collected a part of them in veins in the rocks. We sink shafts upon these veins and mine the ores. It will be a long time before we shall have mined all there is of these minerals. Because they are so hard to get we are not likely to waste them. But it is quite certain that there is a limit to the supply of mineral treasures, and equally certain that they can be renewed either very, very slowly, or not at all. Shall we cause our remote descendants to suffer for our carelessness? CHAPTER EIGHT THE SOIL--THE MOST IMPORTANT GIFT OF NATURE An ancient story tells us that men were made from the dust of the earth. This dust under our feet, which soils our shoes, this dust which the wind sometimes sweeps along in blinding clouds, is indeed precious. The delicate tissues of our bodies are made from the food we eat. If it be plant food, it comes directly from the soil. If it be meat or eggs or milk, it comes from animals which live upon the plants, that in turn got their nourishment from the soil. This soft, dark substance which covers the rocky skeleton of the earth we call the _soil_. How common and cheap it looks when it is placed by the side of a piece of gold! But how much more wonderful it would seem if we could know all about it. The soil is far more necessary to our comfort and prosperity than gold. Gold, silver, or precious stones cannot keep us alive. They are of little worth to us compared with food and clothing. The soil, then, is the real wealth of the world. The farmer, who tills the soil, is the one worker we could not possibly do without. All the wealth of the world, all the comforts which we have, all the luxuries brought from far corners of the earth, come in the first place from the soil. We do not have to journey far over the earth to learn that there are many lands where the fields are not fruitful, and yet such lands are often rich and prosperous. How can this be if the soil is so necessary? Let us go to New England and ask the people living there if they can tell us why rich people sometimes inhabit lands which do not raise enough for them to eat. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ These jagged rocks are formed of once molten lava. By and by they will crumble and be covered with a layer of soil.] Much of New England is hilly and has a poor, rocky soil. The farmers who first settled there toiled hard, working early and late, and yet got few of the comforts of life. Most of the farmers did not know how to improve the soil or even to keep it in as good condition as it was when they first cleared away the forests and began cultivating it; so many left their farms to seek a living elsewhere. There are now many abandoned farms that are growing up to forests again. In spite of this poor land, the New England states form one of the most wealthy and prosperous parts of our country. There are many great cities containing hundreds of thousands of people in this territory. The inhabitants enjoy luxuries of every kind sent from all parts of the world. The farmers of New England certainly do not produce this wealth from their rocky soil. Where, then, does it come from? Industries of almost every sort except farming are carried on in the cities of New England. All these people have to be fed and the farms of this region would hardly support them even if the soil were very productive. So much food is needed every day that if the supply were cut off for only a short time, there would be great suffering. Somewhere there must be farmers at work raising food supplies for the people of the great cities. The many beautiful and wonderful things made by the workers in the cities must be exchanged with the farmers for the real necessities of life. Somewhere there must be vast fertile fields which produce much more than their owners require. We will journey westward to the prairies of the Mississippi Valley. Here for hundreds of miles we can see hardly anything but fields of waving wheat and corn. Here are hundreds of granaries and flour mills. Upon the rivers and lakes there are many boats, and upon the land railroads, all carrying flour and other farm products to feed the people of New England. Here are great stock ranches with thousands of cattle and hogs, which, when fattened upon the grain, are also shipped to New England to help feed the people there. [Illustration: A field of wheat on one of the Western prairies.] We must conclude, then, that if it were not for the vast fields with their deep, rich soil, where the farmers are able to grow much more than they need for themselves, it would not be possible for the people of New England to become wealthy by working at other things than farming. The articles which they are making add to their own comfort and pleasure as well as to that of the farmers, but they have to have the products of the soil to keep alive. If the farmers of the Mississippi Valley and of all the other valleys that help support the city people are careful of their soil and keep up its fertility, our country will remain prosperous. But we are sorry to say that the farmers have not always been careful. Many have wanted to make more than they should from their lands. The plant food with which Nature has filled the soil has been taken away year after year faster than she has been able to renew it. Many fields do not produce the crops they once did. The smaller the yield becomes, the higher the prices the produce brings. This makes it more difficult for the workers in the cities to live comfortably. The less abundant the supply of food becomes, the less prosperous is the country. There are countries, such as England, that have neglected agriculture but have, in spite of this, become rich and powerful through devoting their time to manufacturing articles to sell to other people. But those who work in the factories of England have to be fed, and so they must depend upon other countries to supply much of their food. If, for any reason, they were cut off from trade with these countries, not only would their manufacturing be ruined, but they would be in danger of starvation. To the first men, who lived entirely upon hunting and fishing, the soil was of little consequence. Now things are different. The wild game has mostly gone and we have to depend upon the products of the soil. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ At the top of the bank we see a layer of dark, rich soil.] The people of those lands where the climate is unfavorable and the soil poor and rocky lack most of the comforts of life, unless they are able to obtain them through trade. It does not follow, however, that people living in lands favored by Nature are always happy and prosperous. You must remember that when the first men increased in numbers over the earth, the soil was fresh from the hand of Nature. Although they had everything about them that could be asked for, yet they were poor. There are men living today on the rich deltas that we have learned about who have few of the comforts that we have. This is because they are lazy and ignorant, and do not make proper use of this valuable gift, the rich soil. We conclude, then, that the soil forms the real wealth of the world. All our comforts and luxuries come in the first place, as we have seen, from the soil. The more crowded people become upon the earth, and the greater the number that engage in manufacturing and trade, the more important becomes the care and cultivation of the soil. If we do not take the best of care of the soil, there may come a time when there will not be food enough for us all. CHAPTER NINE THINGS OF WHICH SOIL IS MADE Let us take a spadeful of soft, dark earth from the garden and see if we can find of what it is made. We will first put the earth in a dish of water and stir it thoroughly. We notice that the water at once becomes muddy and that little particles of a dark substance rise to the surface. These particles appear to be pieces of stems and leaves. This crumbling vegetation is _peat_, a substance which fills many swamps and, when cut into blocks and dried, is used for fuel. When scattered through the earth peat has a very different use. As the leaves and stems of plants die and slowly mingle with the earth, they give it the dark color, which usually extends down for two or three feet. As this vegetation changes, or decays, as we usually say, it furnishes a number of substances which supply food to the roots of growing plants. One of the most important of these is _nitrogen_, an invisible gas. The decaying vegetation which we find mixed with the soil has other uses. It holds water and so helps to keep the soil moist. It makes the soil loose and more easy to cultivate. It absorbs heat from the sun and so helps to warm the soil. This vegetable matter, when it is completely decayed, we call _humus_. Soils that are rich in humus are usually very fertile. We will now turn the muddy water into another dish, pour more clear water upon the material that remains in the bottom of the dish, and wash it again, repeating the work until the water is no longer muddied. We will set aside the dish containing the muddy water and examine what remains in the bottom of the dish that once contained the earth or soil. This is mostly sand, but with it are rough fragments of rock which can be crumbled in the hand. The greater number of the little sand grains are _quartz_. Some of them are clear like glass, others are reddish. In this quartz sand are a few grains of _iron_ which the magnet picks out, and a number of scales of yellow _mica_. After standing a few hours the muddy water has become clear, and a deposit of a yellowish substance has collected in the bottom of the dish. We will carefully pour off the water and examine what remains. This fine soft mud we call _clay_. As it dries and becomes hard it shrinks and cracks, and thus breaks up into little pieces. Clay forms a greater or lesser part of all soil. Clay soil is very sticky when it is wet, as you will be sure to remember if you have tried to walk over it. When soil is formed largely of clay we speak of it as a _heavy soil_. In the West it is called _adobe_ and is sometimes used in making houses. When adobe soil dries, great cracks form in it. These cracks are sometimes large enough for small animals to fall into. When there is a large amount of sand, we speak of the soil as _light_ or _sandy_. A soil composed of sand and clay is sometimes called _loam_. If it is nearly all clay it is a _clay loam_; if there is much sand it is a _sandy loam_. Soils found in low, swampy places are sometimes formed almost wholly of decaying vegetable matter. Such soils are known as _peat soils_. They are usually very fertile. We have now learned about three things that the soil contains that are bulky and easy to discover: decaying vegetation, sand, and clay. These are, however, far from being all that compose the soil. There are still many other things, some of which are invisible to the unaided eye and difficult to find. We will next take the clear water that remained after the mud settled. We will pour it into a dish, place the dish over a fire, and let the water boil slowly until it has all evaporated. There will remain in the bottom of the dish a thin white coating. Moisten this with a drop of vinegar or other weak acid and it will disappear in a mass of little bubbles. Such behavior teaches us that the white substance is probably a mixture of _lime_ and _soda_. Besides these there are tiny particles of _potash_ and _phosphorus_, which we cannot distinguish by the means we have used. Some soils contain a great deal of lime, and because they have been formed from limestone, are called _limestone soils_. Plants need a little soda, but when there is much in the soil it will kill them. Soils rich in soda are known as _alkali soils_. They were formed in the bottom of lakes the waters of which contained soda. Salt is another harmful thing found in the soil. You can sometimes see faint whitish deposits of soda and other salts on the soil in flower pots. There is one more thing that the soil contains that we must not forget, for it is one of the most important of them all. This is a living organism so small that we cannot see it with the unaided eye. Many thousands of these organisms are contained in a bit of earth such as you could take up on the point of a small knife blade. We have named them _bacteria_. Plants cannot make use of most of the substances in the soil without the aid of these organisms. The bacteria live upon the materials of the soil and change them into such form that plants can digest them. Soil may be supplied with all kinds of plant food in just the right amount and yet, if it is packed hard and is not watered, no living thing can take root in it and grow. Plants drink their food and so we must supply water. They also require oxygen, as do other living things. For this reason we must leave the soil loose, so that the air can enter it and the roots get the oxygen which it contains. Thus we learn how wonderfully the soil is made. We learn that it contains many things required by plants. In order that the plants may be thrifty, there must be enough but not too much of these different things. CHAPTER TEN HOW THE SOIL IS MADE The substances which we found in the soil teach us that it was formed from the rocks. If we could take the sand, clay, potash, soda, lime, and iron that we found in the soil and put them together as Nature knows how to do, we should have rock again. But if we should take a piece of rock and crush it to a fine sand, that would not be soil, because soil cannot be made in that way. It takes Nature many, many years, as the rocks slowly crumble and decay, to change the materials of which they are composed into true soil with its swarms of bacteria and its plant food. If we should dig down through the soft earth under our feet, we would at last come to solid rock. This is the rough and jagged crust of the earth on which rests the carpet of soil. In the mountains where the slopes are steep the rocks stick up through the soil. The outer parts of this solid rock are, however, always crumbling. Little particles, as soon as they become loosened, either fall by their own weight or are washed away. Some of the rock fragments collect upon the gentler slopes and finally turn to soil. This soil is not rich and it dries out quickly, because it is shallow. The soil in the valleys, as we have already learned from the muddy rivulet, is deep and rich. Nature is slowly spreading her mantle of soil over the earth. In some parts of the earth one can travel for hundreds of miles and see no rocks. One might think that in time Nature's work would be finished. But before the mountains in one place have crumbled and been washed away, she raises up new ones somewhere else so that the tearing-down work begins again. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ Little by little the great rocks break in pieces and crumble finally to form soil.] Let us, in imagination, sit down by the side of a rock, prepared to stay there many years, that we may learn just how Nature makes the soil. It will be a long, long time before we can see any change in the rock. Each bright day the sun warms the cold rock and makes it expand a very little. At night the rock grows cold and shrinks. In this way minute crevices are finally formed between the grains of the different minerals that make up the rock. When it rains, water creeps into the tiny crevices. The water carries with it a little carbonic acid which the raindrops took from the air. This substance aids in dissolving some of the rock materials. If the nights are very cold, the water in the crevices freezes and opens them a little wider, for ice, as you know, takes up a little more room than it did when it was water. Plants also aid in breaking the rock. Often seeds are dropped by the wind, and the rootlets of some of these seeds, when they sprout, may find a crevice large enough and deep enough for them to push their way into the rock. In these crevices they find a little food and slowly grow larger and stronger. By and by some of the roots are strong enough to push apart large pieces of rock. If the rock which we are studying is granite, we shall after a time be able to pick out the different minerals of which it is composed. We can tell the grains of quartz, because they look glassy and remain very hard. Other grains, which we call _feldspar_, soften and change into clay, which makes the water muddy as it runs over the rocks. We see also little scales of yellow mica, sometimes called "fool's gold," and a few grains of iron. There are tiny quantities of other things which we shall not be able to see, for the rainwater dissolves them and carries them away. As the rock slowly crumbles to sand and clay, the bacteria begin to make their home in it. Hardy plants, that are not particular about what they grow in, get a foothold, and when they die their stems and leaves decay and mix with the rock particles until at last this material begins to look like soil. It has become dark in color and rich in plant food. Then, many other plants that require a good soil take root there. The rock has at last completely disappeared under the layer of soil and its carpet of vegetation. Suppose, now, that we dig down and find how deep the soil is and what lies below it. When we have gone down two feet the soil is harder and of a lighter color, for there are fewer plant remains in it. This poorer, lighter-colored soil we call _subsoil_. If we dig a little deeper, we shall find pieces of rock in the subsoil. Below these we come to soft, crumbling rock and last of all the solid rock. The soil that is found resting on the rocks from which it was formed is known as _residual soil_. This name is given to such soil, because it is what remains after long years of rock decay during which the rains have washed away a part of the finer material. What has become of the soft earth that the water washed away? The muddy rivulet has already told us its interesting story. We have learned that a part of this earth (or soil) is borne to the distant ocean. There it is forever lost unless the sea bottom should some day become dry land. Stranger things than that have happened on this ancient earth of ours. The part of the soil which the water carried away to form the rich valley lands and deltas is known as _alluvial soil_. [Illustration: _U. S. Department of Agriculture_ A flood plain, where alluvial soil has been deposited by the river.] Long ago the northern part of our country was covered with a sheet of ice. This ice crept slowly southward, and as it moved along it tore off all the soil and loose rocks on the surface of the earth over which it passed. When it melted it left them spread roughly over the country. Such material forms _glacial soil_. It is often deep but not very rich. [Illustration: _U. S. Geological Survey_ Soil brought by a glacier and deposited as the ice melted.] There is another kind of soil, formed by the wind. If you have ever been in a dust storm you have seen the fine, powdery substance that settles over everything and creeps into the smallest cracks. In some countries where there are strong winds and not much rain there is little vegetation on the surface to hold the soil. Year after year the winds pick up particles of the dusty soil, whirl them high in the air, and do not let them down again until they have been carried many miles. In some far-off land where the winds go down the dust particles settle again to the earth. After a long, long time, enough dust collects to form a thick layer of the richest soil. This is called æolian soil, from the word _Æolus_, meaning the "wind." There is one more kind of soil which we ought to know about; that is _peat soil_. It is found in marshy or swampy lowlands and is formed largely of plant remains. When lands with such soil are drained, they prove very rich. CHAPTER ELEVEN HOW VEGETATION HOLDS THE SOIL [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ What the rivulets did to the hillside pastures where the grass was destroyed.] A walk up the mountains on a rainy day is not a pleasant one. There are mud and water under our feet, and overhead are the dripping branches which, if touched, send down a shower of drops. But if we keep our eyes open we shall learn something which will be of great value to us. We shall learn how it is that Nature holds the soil on the slopes--the wonderful soil which it takes her so long a time to make and which is the source of all our wealth. Our way up the mountains is by a winding road. We first pass the foothills upon which there are scattered oaks. The rain is steadily pouring down and rivulets loaded with mud are eating little gullies all over the slopes. Along the roadside, where they have united, the rivulets form a torrent which is making a deep ditch that threatens to render the road impassable. These slopes were once covered with grass and the rivulets ran down them without doing any harm. But so many sheep were pastured here that the grass was killed. The roots, which once formed a thick protecting sod, are now decaying. How quickly the rivulets have taken advantage of the unprotected slopes! The road leads still upward until it brings us to where there were once pine forests. The lumbermen cut off all the trees, and then fire came and burned the decaying vegetation which once lay spread over the ground. Now all that remains is bare earth and blackened stumps. What are the raindrops doing here? They gather in rivulets just as they do on the once grassy hillside; but because there are so many roots still remaining in the ground they have not done much work. They are not loitering, however, and by and by, when the roots have rotted, they will seize their chance and begin tearing away the soil from the mountain side. But this is not the end of the road. Farther up we come to the primeval forests, where the giant trees stand just as they did before men came. Here we can see how the slopes are protected, for in making the road the workmen cut deep into the hillside. They first removed a layer of pine needles and decaying branches. Then they cut through a layer of soil about two feet thick which was completely filled with little roots of trees and bushes. Below this they came to the soft subsoil, which contained only a few roots, and at the bottom they reached the solid rock. The layer of roots and soil at the top of the bank, you can see from the picture, now overhangs the road, because the raindrops which beat against the bank have washed away all that they could reach of the unprotected earth at the bottom. How plainly we can see the network of roots. What a hard task it must be for the water to get at the soil in which these roots are growing. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The layer of roots holds the soil on the mountain side.] We will now leave the road and, although it is still raining hard, we will walk a distance through the forest and see if there is anything more that we can learn. We are soon in the deep woods where, perhaps, no one has ever been before. Around us are trees of all ages and sizes, from little seedlings to great giants six feet through. Among them are the crumbling stumps of trees long dead. Their trunks lie on the ground, and many are so soft and rotten that we can kick them to pieces with our feet. As we walk our feet never touch the real earth. It is always on the soft, yielding leaves and crumbling branches that we step. These leaves and branches form a thick layer completely hiding the soil. But the strangest thing is that, although the rain is still falling, we can discover no rivulets. What, then, becomes of the water? The soft, decaying vegetation on which we are walking and the rotting stumps and logs act like a great sponge. As long as this sponge can take up the falling drops, none have a chance to run away. If it rains a very long time and the sponge becomes saturated, the drops that creep away and finally unite in rivulets in the hollows do no harm to the soil, for they cannot get at it. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The roots of the tree grip the soil like the fingers of a great hand.] Long after the storm has passed, the earth underneath the trees remains wet, while the ground out in the open has become dry. A part of the water held by the decaying vegetation evaporates. Another part creeps down through the earth to the crevices in the rocks and feeds the springs. Let us now put aside our storm clothes and journey, in imagination, far away to where it seldom rains--to that land which we call the desert. Here the bare rocks of the mountain slopes are burned brown by the hot sun. Here there is little soil and only a few little bushes that somehow manage to live. Why does not the soil gather over the rocks as it does in other places? The rocks are surely crumbling, for we can crush some of the pieces in our hands. Once in a long time it rains in this desert. Then the drops descend furiously. The water gathers in rivulets and these turn to torrents which sweep down the slopes. They carry away the particles of sand and clay which would in time, if there were plant roots to hold them, turn to soil. The winds also help keep the desert rocks bare and free of soil. Have you ever been in a dust storm or have you read of caravans caught in such storms in the Sahara Desert? The fierce wind picks up the particles of sand and clay from the bare earth and sweeps them along as it does the snow in winter, or it whirls them in clouds high in the air. The dust clouds are often so dense that they hide the sun and all landmarks by which the traveler can guide his way. But have any of us ever seen the winds pick up much dust from the green fields where the vegetation protects the surface? [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The vegetation prevents the wind from blowing the sand away, so that wherever the roots obtain a hold there a little mound is formed.] If we turn now to a very wet country, such as that upon our northwest coast, where often nearly eight feet of rain falls in a year, we shall find the vegetation so dense that it hides both soil and rocks. Here water can do little in wearing away the soil, even upon the steepest slopes, while the wind cannot get a peep at the earth. Does it not seem strange that where little rain falls the earth washes a great deal faster than where it rains very heavily? The reason is that the more it rains the more dense becomes the carpet of vegetation. If we wish to preserve the soil, we must preserve the natural growth on the hillsides. CHAPTER TWELVE WHAT HAPPENS WHERE THERE IS NO PROTECTING CARPET OF VEGETATION Not all of the muddy streams are due to the carelessness of men. It is the business of some of the servants of Nature, as we have already learned, to tear down the mountains and fill up the hollows in the earth. It is the business of others to spread a carpet of vegetation over the surface, and wherever they have already succeeded in their work the waters run clear most of the time. Where it is dry so much of the time that few plants can live, the destructive servants have their own way when the occasional rains come. Where there is a warm sun and frequent rains, a green carpet is spread over all the slopes. But when men destroy the carpet and take no care of the soil underneath, the raindrops are able to do as much damage as they do during the cloudbursts in the deserts. The Colorado is one of those rivers in the basin of which few people live. Much of its journey is through a land in which there is little vegetation. Here, the waters from the melting snows upon the lofty mountains about the basin and those of the occasional heavy rains have things their own way. They are always yellow with mud. The amount of mud which this river carries has been measured. You will hardly believe me when I tell you that it amounts to sixty-one million tons every year. This is enough to cover 164 square miles one foot deep. We might call this the cream of the soil from all the slopes of the great basin of the Colorado River. In other parts of our land, where abundant rains fall, the streams tell a different story. Before men came the water of these streams was clear throughout the greater part of the year. It was only when the rains were very heavy that the soil washed away, for the vegetation held it well. Now the gullies on the hillsides and along the roads tell us as plainly as though they could speak that our country is losing wealth here. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The roots of the tree form a wonderful network underground from which the water cannot tear the soil.] The soil is our most valuable possession. The people of many lands are suffering from poverty today because their forefathers did not take care of the soil as they should. In such lands the people who live on the mountain sides are poor, because the best of their soil has been washed away. Those who live in the valleys are often poor because of the sands and gravels which floods have spread over their fertile fields. While it is raining, let us fill a bottle from some muddy stream and allow it to stand until the water settles. In the bottom will then appear a layer of fine mud, or _silt_ as it is usually called. How much soil do you suppose the rivulets washed from my garden and from yours during the last severe storm? How much do you suppose all the rivulets which make up the rivers of your state washed from all the gardens and fields during the same storm? Make a guess and then multiply your answer by the number of storms in one year and that by fifty years, and you will get a quantity greater than you would believe possible. This is the way Nature takes her toll for our carelessness. So quietly does she do it that often the farmer does not have any idea of what is happening. She is like a thief that comes and steals his goods while he is sleeping. [Illustration: _Bailey Willis_ The soil on the hillsides of China is being washed away because of the thoughtlessness of the people.] When the farmer finally awakes and begins to wonder why his crops grow smaller each year, he has already lost the cream of his soil. He must at once stop plowing the steep hillsides and leaving the ground bare for the winter rains to wash it away. To save the slopes he can either terrace them or he can sow grass or clover, which will form a sod and hold the soil. If the farmer can get peas, beans, alfalfa, or clover to grow upon his wasted lands, they will make it fertile again, for these plants have the wonderful power of taking nitrogen from the air and storing it in the soil. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ The farmer who owns this land will soon be made poor because of his carelessness in destroying the covering of the soil.] More earth has been washed from the hillsides of our country during the last fifty years than during thousands of years before white people came. The farm lands have been injured, the bays have been made shallower, and many river channels have been so filled up that it is more difficult to navigate them now than it was in the early days. The farmer, the stockman, the lumberman, and the miner has each been selfishly doing his share in the destruction of the soil. Each one has thought only of how he could make the most money in the shortest time. It has not occurred to them that they are making it difficult for their children and grandchildren to live. In the Southern states thousands of acres are being gullied by the rains, and the soil destroyed. The floods of spring have become worse in late years, because of the destruction of the forest cover in the Appalachian Mountains. Buildings and bridges are frequently carried away, and gravel and boulders are washed over the rich bottom lands. In the mountains of far-away Italy the soil is poor, and so are the people. They have cut down nearly all the trees and for hundreds of years the brush and grass have been eaten so closely by the sheep and goats that few roots remain to hold the soil. It does not need to rain heavily there to cause the rivers to become muddy and swollen. The soil which once covered the slopes has been carried to the bays, and now there is land where ships floated two thousand years ago. [Illustration: _U. S. Forest Service_ Terraces of rock built by natives of China to aid in holding the soil.] In Spain so much of the best soil has been lost that the people now do not raise enough food to support themselves, and much has to be imported from other lands. France is a rich country still, in spite of the cutting of so much of the forest and the careless pasturing of the mountain slopes. The people are industrious and hard working and thus make a living in spite of the loss which they are suffering. The Montenegrins are among the bravest people of Europe, but their land is barren and they enjoy few luxuries. Their country consists largely of limestone mountains, from which they have been cutting the trees for hundreds of years. There is but little soil and that is to be found in the hollows of the rocks. This soil is so precious that every bit, be it ever so small, is carefully cultivated. In the mountains of Palestine and Syria the people have so completely destroyed the trees and grasses which Nature once planted there that it is difficult for them to raise enough to live upon. The rivers are muddy after every rain, and even the water from the melting snows picks up some of the soil and flows away with a dirty, yellow color. When we reach China and Korea, we find that there the people have been most severely punished for their carelessness. The mountain sides have been torn by the rains and deeply gullied. The once smooth slopes upon which grew trees and grasses are now a mass of sharp ridges and deep hollows of bare earth. The water falling upon these mountains runs off in torrents, carrying even large boulders as it does in our Western deserts. Here and there the natives have built terraces of rock to aid in holding the soil, but many parts of the country are almost wholly deserted. The waters run off the mountains so quickly that they often form vast floods which spread over the lower valleys and plains. The floods destroy the crops and drown the people. Eastward of China there is an arm of the Pacific Ocean known as the Yellow Sea. Why do you suppose this name was given to the sea? One of the great rivers of China, the Yangste-kiang, empties into it. The river rises in the barren mountains of which we have just been speaking, and it is continually bringing so much mud and sand that a whole sea is being filled. Long before a ship comes within sight of the land the waters are seen to be of a muddy, yellow color. In the smaller valleys of Korea the natives build dikes along the rivers to keep the mountain floods from spreading sand and gravel over their rice fields. Every year they have to make the dikes higher as the river beds fill up. Thus we see that all over the world people are suffering because they have not obeyed the laws which Nature has made for the protection of the soil. CHAPTER THIRTEEN THE USE AND CARE OF WATER The ocean is the home of the water. The water would always remain in the ocean if it could, but the sun and air are continually at work stealing little particles away and sending them on long journeys. The water particles are so small as they rise from the ocean that we cannot see them. By and by they crowd together and make the clouds that float across the sky. As soon as the clouds meet colder air, the little water particles rush together and thus become larger and larger until they grow so heavy that they can no longer float in the air, but must fall. Some of them fall into the ocean again, but others drop upon the land. The raindrops that reach the land have many sorts of stories to tell before they again get back to the ocean. Some of them are at once snatched up again and are started upon another journey. The thirsty air, whether over the ocean or over the land, is ever in search of water particles. If the air is very cold, the clouds turn to snow instead of rain. The feathery flakes fall slowly through the air and form a soft white mantle over the earth. Those that fall on lofty mountains form great banks which may not entirely melt and turn to water until late in the summer. The raindrops that fall where the slopes are steep, where Nature has grown little vegetation, or where men have destroyed the earth cover, have little to detain them and are soon on their way back to their home. In their hasty journey they do much damage to the unprotected soil. If the drops fall upon gentle slopes, or where there are marshes and lakes, or upon the forest with its decaying vegetation, or upon deep beds of gravel and sand, they are a long time getting back to the ocean. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ The cool and shady stream before men came and cut the trees away so that the hot sun could get at it.] We can in no way change the amount of rain that falls upon any part of the earth. We cannot call up a storm when we wish it, nor can we send it away when there has been rain enough. But there are many ways in which we can hasten or delay the return of the water to the ocean. Nature shows us some of these. The spongelike carpet underneath the forest holds the water until it has had time to soak into the earth from which it later emerges as springs. Nature forms basins on the heads of the rivers where a part of the water, instead of immediately flowing away, collects in the form of lakes. From these lakes the water runs away slowly instead of in torrential floods. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The rotting tree trunks take up the rainwater like a sponge.] Only a few places in our country have more rain than is really needed. One of these is the region about the mouth of the Mississippi River upon the Gulf of Mexico. Another is upon the Northwest coast. Throughout the central part of the country the summer rains are sometimes too light to afford a full harvest. The rainfall upon the plains and valleys of the Southwest is so small that the only plants that can live there are those strange and curious forms that have become used to desert conditions. The only way in which these lands can be made useful to the farmer is by means of irrigation. To obtain water for irrigation we have either to go to the distant mountains and build reservoirs to collect the rains which fall there and then dig canals to carry the water to the desert valleys, or to make use of some river flowing through them, if they are fortunate enough to have such a river. Can you think of any rivers that are used in this way? [Illustration: _Brown Brothers_ The great Roosevelt Dam, in the Salt River irrigation project, Arizona.] Although water sometimes seems the greatest blessing that we have, yet it may prove a curse if it is not looked after. If you give the water a chance to make gullies in your fields, you lose not only the water but the best of the soil also. If you cultivate your fields with care, most of the water will soak into the ground. If you are a wise farmer you know also that cultivation of the soil helps to hold the water, for it cannot escape through loose soil as it can through compact soil. Thus if you know how to handle both the water and the soil, you can, with only a little rain, accomplish a great deal. [Illustration: Scene below an irrigation reservoir near Richfield, Idaho, showing a field irrigated by means of canals and ditches.] We can, then, hold or _conserve_ the water, first, by leaving the steeper slopes covered with vegetation; second, by keeping the soil loose; and, third, by building reservoirs to hold the floods. We can make use of the conserved water by carrying it in pipes or ditches to those regions where it is needed. We can get rid of too much water by draining the swamps, and building dikes to protect lowlands from river floods. Let us now learn something of the different uses of water. Every one of our homes has its water supply. In the city the water comes through pipes from some distant reservoir. In the country the homes are so far apart that it is difficult to supply them in this way. The water in the streams is often not suitable for drinking, and if there are no springs near by it has to be obtained by some other means. Nearly everywhere in the earth under our feet water can be found by digging or boring a well. Sometimes we have to go only a few feet, at other times many hundreds of feet. This water in the earth, or _ground water_, is of very great importance. It enables us to build our homes where we wish. Spring water is that which finds its way to the surface through some tiny crack or fissure in the rocks. How delicious is the pure, cold water that comes out of the shady hollow in the hills! You can form in your minds a picture of the rain falling on some distant mountain, of its soaking into the ground and finally reaching the little crevices in the rocks. Along these crevices it may have crept for days and perhaps years until at last it found an outlet in some spring. The great river flows by so quietly that we often forget in how many ways it is serving us. It serves not only those upon its banks but those who live hundreds of miles away and who, perhaps, have never seen it. It was the first and easiest means of travel used by our forefathers before there were any roads or railroads through the wilderness. It now aids in carrying on trade between different regions. If large and deep enough, it permits boats from all parts of the world to reach the very heart of our country. Canals might be called artificial rivers. They serve an important purpose in nearly level countries where Nature has placed no navigable river. Although canal boats usually move slowly, yet they can carry goods cheaper than railroads can. The Erie Canal, in connection with the Great Lakes and the Hudson River, makes it possible for us to go all the way by water from the heart of the continent to New York City. The Erie Canal has helped make New York City the greatest city in our country. The canal across the Isthmus of Panama saves ships a journey of many thousand miles around South America. Rivers serve us in yet another way by affording water for irrigation. A great river like the Colorado flows through regions of many different climates. Some rivers become so small in the summer that it is necessary to build great reservoirs at their headwaters in order to insure a supply when the crops need it. But in the case of the Colorado this is not necessary. The headwaters of this river are among lofty mountains, where the melting snows and summer showers make the waters of the river higher in the early summer than at any other season of the year. Thus its great delta, the Colorado Desert, has become the home of many thousands of people. Another use which we make of rivers is by putting the water to turning mill wheels. If you will turn to your geographies, you will find that nearly all the great manufacturing cities of our country have grown up around rapids or waterfalls, where some river tumbles over a ledge of rocks. Once we had to build our mills close to the rivers to use the water power, but this is no longer necessary. Now we build electric-power plants by the rivers and carry electric energy more than a hundred miles to any place where we wish to use it. Electricity made from the distant mountain waterfall will do any kind of work for us wherever we carry it. Thus we see that the river works for us in more than one way. After it has created power for our factories, it can be turned on to the thirsty fields, where it will serve us equally well. [Illustration: _Great Western Power Company of California_ Electric-power plant on north fork of the Feather River, California, for generating electricity which is carried to distant places.] CHAPTER FOURTEEN COULD WE GET ALONG WITHOUT THE TREES? We have come to depend upon trees to supply so many of our wants that we could not possibly do without them. We can no more spare the trees than Nature can. She needs them in her work of protecting the soil on the steep slopes and of holding back the raindrops that they may keep the springs alive. She needs them to form nesting places for the birds, and she needs the dark forest so that the wild creatures may find shelter and a home. It would be strange if we did not love the trees; for they are not only useful, but add so much to the beauty of our homes. Our early ancestors may at times have made their homes in the trees, as some of the wild people do now. They certainly lived among the trees, for the myth stories that they have given us speak of the deep, dark forests and of the mysterious people supposed to inhabit them. We feel pity for the people who live in treeless deserts. The few articles of wood which they possess have to be brought a long distance at great cost. The Eskimos of the frozen North are more helpless than the desert people, for before the coming of explorers they had no communication with forested regions. They were not wholly without wood, however, for the ocean waves occasionally washed pieces upon their shores. From the time when the earliest man found a club a better weapon than his bare fists, wood has been used for an ever-increasing number of purposes. Wood fires kept the early people warm. Wood was used in making their bows and spears; bark and pieces of branches served to make their rude homes. The inner bark of the cedar and birch was used by the Indians in weaving baskets and mats. From the inner bark of the birch tree they made canoes that were so light that they could be carried from one stream to another. Where there were no birch trees, great cedars were cut or burned down and made into canoes, for traveling by water was much easier than over rocky ground or through dense forests. Some tribes of Indians learned to split the cedar logs into rude boards which they used in making their houses. The Indians also learned to boil down the sweet sap of the maple until it turned to sugar. The eating of nuts and fruits furnished by certain kinds of trees came as natural to early men as it does to the other animals. They shared with the birds the wild fruits, and divided with the squirrels the many kinds of nuts. So highly do the Italians still value the wild chestnut that this tree, almost alone of all the forest trees that once covered their country, has been saved. The most important uses of trees in our country are for lumber, for fuel, and for the edible fruits and nuts which they bear. There are several purposes to which logs are put without being sawed into lumber, such as for telegraph poles and for piling for the support of great buildings and for wharves. Long ago nearly all our houses were made of logs. There was then an abundance of clear, straight trees but very few sawmills. It was easy to cut the logs, peel and notch them at the ends, and then lay them up in a house of just the size that was wanted. From the logs that split easily rough boards and shingles were made, as well as chairs and tables. Blocks of wood were set in the openings cut for windows, because of the scarcity of glass. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ A giant sugar pine in a National Forest in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.] Our forefathers had all the wood they wanted just for the cutting, and so they warmed their houses by means of fireplaces large enough to hold great logs. They made of wood every tool and household convenience for which this substance could be used. Indeed, they had more wood than they wanted. Trees covered so much of the land that the ground could not be cultivated until they had been cut away. Now we wish that we had the oak, hickory, black walnut, and other kinds of trees, that the pioneers of our country burned in order to get them out of the way, for they have become very valuable. Now, partly because wood is becoming scarce, and partly because our large buildings must be made very strong and safe from fire, we are using other materials for them. Stone, brick, and concrete, when tied together with iron beams, are more suitable material for great buildings. Our land now contains so many people, and so many new homes are needed every year, that the lumber required for houses alone is almost more than we can believe. The forests are now disappearing so fast that unless we use wood more carefully we may have to give up our attractive wooden homes and cheery fireplaces and live in houses of stone or concrete. In many parts of the world people have so completely destroyed the forests that they have not only to make their homes of mud bricks or stone, but have little wood left for fuel and other purposes. We cannot mention all the purposes to which wood is put in our homes and in our industries. It would take a whole page in this book merely to make a list of them. What we ought to remember, however, is that it is not so much the amount of wood that we actually _use_ as it is the wood that is _wasted_ that is likely to bring us to want. Two thirds of the wood of the trees cut throughout our country is wasted in its manufacture into lumber and other objects. Besides this, as much wood is burned every year in needless forest fires as is cut by the lumberman. The waste of trees that are cut merely for their bark which is used in tanning leather is a wrong for which Nature will sometime call us to account. In Switzerland, where the forests are given the care that we bestow upon a garden, not a particle of wood is allowed to go to waste. The branches are all picked up and saved. Even the sawdust is made use of in the manufacture of wood alcohol, which has an important use as fuel. There are many kinds of trees the sap of which has great value. If care is used in tapping the trees, they are not greatly injured and will live for years. Sap of the maple affords delicious maple sugar. The sticky sap of the coniferous trees is obtained by making a cut in the bark. Canada balsam, thus obtained, is a clear liquid from a fir tree of the same name. It is the finest of all the turpentines and is used for many purposes in the arts. Enormous quantities of turpentine are obtained from the yellow pines. The pine forests of the Southern states supply nearly all our turpentine. From this by a process of distillation is obtained resin and spirits of turpentine. The rubber tree found in the tropical forests has become one of the most necessary of trees. Rubber made from the sap of this tree is now used for many purposes for which we have been able to find no other material. We sometimes forget how valuable trees are for various substances used in medicine. Our lives may depend on having such medicines within reach. Quinine made from the bark of the cinchona tree is perhaps the most important. Camphor gum is furnished by another tropical tree. The acacia supplies gum arabic. The poison, strychna, comes from a nut tree. The eucalyptus, birch, and other trees too numerous to name, supply various other medicinal products. [Illustration: _Arthur D. Little, Inc., "The Little Journal"_ When this beautiful long-leaf pine tree is cut we manage to save only about one third of it. From the wasted two thirds of this and other pine trees we could obtain many thousand tons of paper, great quantities of resin, and other products.] While we are trying to find other substances to replace wood as far as is possible, so as to keep the forests from being used up, we are requiring more and more for the manufacture of paper. The spruce forests are fast disappearing in pulp mills, from which the blocks of wood emerge as sheets of paper. Perhaps after a time we shall find something to take the place of wood in the manufacture of paper. The one use to which we put the trees, which does not destroy or injure them in the slightest, is growing them for their fruit and nuts. We take great care of such trees, selecting the best varieties and cultivating, trimming, and spraying them in order to keep them healthy and strong. The better the care that we give them, the finer and larger become their fruits. Trees are valuable to us in so many ways and appeal so deeply to our love of the beautiful things in Nature that we should all be interested in them. If we give the trees a chance, they will do their share toward making our lives comfortable and happy. CHAPTER FIFTEEN WHERE HAS NATURE SPREAD THE FOREST? Our forefathers who came across the water to America found forests stretching away from the water's edge into an unknown wilderness. The settlements spread very slowly into the pathless woods, for there lurked danger from the Indians and wild animals. The Allegheny Mountains also held the settlers back for a long time. The pioneers found the country, as far as the Ohio River and beyond, still forest covered; but by and by openings or _prairies_ began to appear. By the time they had crossed the Great River the forests had been left behind, except for fringes of trees upon the lowlands along the streams. From this point westward the open prairies stretched away to the horizon. Antelope, deer, and buffalo were often seen feeding on the rich grasses. The adventurous pioneers pushed on across the fertile prairies, coming at last to a drier and higher region which we have called the _Great Plains_. On these plains the Rocky Mountains came in sight. These mountains gradually became higher as the travelers approached, until they rose before them like a mighty wall. Here they again met vast forests, which covered all the higher slopes. Beyond the Rocky Mountains they crossed a broad land of deserts where little rain fell. The vegetation was so scanty and springs so far apart that many of their horses and cattle died. The dreary and barren deserts were followed by another lofty range of mountains. Entering these mountains, the pioneers came upon the most magnificent forest that had yet been seen upon our continent. After traveling for some days over rugged mountains, they at last emerged from the forests upon the Great Valley of California. [Illustration: A forest of great trees in the Sierras, near the Yosemite Valley.] Scattered over portions of the valley were oak trees, giving it the appearance of a park. When the valley had been passed the pioneers climbed the last mountain range, and from this range looked down upon the waters of the Pacific Ocean. Here they found forests again, some of the trees being of enormous size. Thus we see that the eastern part of the continent was nearly all forested, but that in the West the forests grew chiefly on the mountains, because there is not enough rainfall upon the plains and in the valleys. The trees that make up most of the forests of our country are of two very different kinds. There is one kind that has narrow or needle-like leaves which they keep through the winter. These we commonly call _narrow-leaved_ trees or _conifers_. The most important of the narrow-leaved trees are the pines, firs, spruces, and hemlock. Such trees form the forests of the greater part of the highlands of the northern and northeastern parts of our country. The pines also find a congenial home upon the lowlands of the Southern states. Trees of the second kind have broad leaves, and usually their wood is rather hard. Hence we call them _broad-leaved_ or _hardwood_ trees. Since most of these trees drop their leaves in winter, we often speak of them as _deciduous_ trees. By far the larger part of the lands of the Eastern states that are now cultivated were found by the first settlers to be covered with hardwood trees. We are familiar with many of the hardwoods through their use in furniture and various household utensils and farm implements. The most important varieties are the walnut, hickory, chestnut, beech, maple, ash, oak, elm, locust, and linden. There are not many broad-leaved trees in the forests of the West. The children of the West miss all the nut trees that the boys and girls of the East enjoy. But to make up for this lack there are some in the West that are not found in the East. The sugar pine, the piñon pine, and the digger pine afford delicious nuts which once formed an important article of food for the Indians. In the West the broad-leaved trees do not form dense forests. They are scattered among the pines on the lower mountain slopes, in the valleys, and along the streams. The most important of these trees are oaks of many kinds, soft maple, alder, cottonwood, sycamore, and laurel. The dense forests of the Western mountains consist almost wholly of narrow-leaved trees. Among them are the pines and firs of different kinds, spruce, cedar, redwood, and "big trees." The redwoods and "big trees" are both known as sequoias; they grow to an immense size upon the mountains of California. The coniferous forests of which these trees form a part are among the most wonderful and interesting ones on the earth. If you will take a forest map of our country and place it beside a rainfall map, you will quickly discover why the forests are found where they are. You will see that the forests are found where there is more than thirty inches of rain each year, except in the far North, where it is very cold. You can say, then, that the climate is the chief thing that determines where the forests shall grow. If the climate is warm and the rainfall heavy, the forest vegetation is so dense and rank that you can hardly travel through it. Such forests are found in the tropical parts of the country. Where little rain falls there is scanty vegetation, as upon the deserts of the Southwest. But where it is very cold, even if there is much snow or rain, you will find no trees. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ Mountain hemlocks, which John Muir considered the most beautiful of all conifers.] We must not forget that there is another thing that affects the growth of trees, and that is the soil. Pines like a sandy soil, while most other trees do not. Certain cedars and cypresses like swampy places where no other trees will grow. Many beautiful meadows and prairies have no trees, because the soil is not well drained. It is very easy to understand why trees cannot grow where it is dry, but how shall we learn of the effect of cold upon them? Shall we have to take a journey of thousands of miles into the far North, until we finally come to the land called the _Barren Lands_ or _tundras_, where the trees become stunted and at last disappear--a land where they cannot longer fight against the cold and live? Fortunately such a long journey is not necessary. All we have to do is to climb a great mountain range, like the Sierra Nevadas, to pass through all the different climates which we would experience on a long journey to the arctic regions. It is only a few miles from the hot San Joaquin Valley, at the base of the Sierras, where it is so dry that irrigation is necessary, to the summit of the range, where the winter climate is as cold as it is in the arctic regions. In going up the mountains we first come to the foothills, where there is a little more rain than in the valley. Here we find oak trees growing. Farther up there is still more rain and we come to the pines. Soon we reach the most wonderful coniferous forest in all the world. Here not only is there a great variety of trees, but because of the favorable climate they grow to a great size. As we approach the summit of the mountains the trees become smaller, and at an elevation of about two miles they shrink to the size of little bushes and finally disappear. They can no longer stand the fierce winds and cold storms of this arctic region. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ East Vidette, King's River Country, California, showing how, as we approach the summit of the mountains, the trees become smaller.] We have learned now that the trees do not grow haphazard over our country, but that the rain, the temperature, and the soil determine where they can live. Within the heart of the forest the trees will come again if we cut them down, but upon its borders, where the air is drier, it is more difficult for them to spring up anew. If we cut them down carelessly and allow fires to burn over the surface, and the water to wash away the soil, they may never come back. It is important, then, that we understand why trees grow in some places and not in others, in order that we may know how to take care of them. CHAPTER SIXTEEN WHAT ARE THE ENEMIES OF THE TREES? Every living thing is engaged in a struggle for air to breathe and for something to eat. Those that make their homes on the land also have to struggle for water. The stronger rob the weaker; for, among all of them except man, might always makes right. Men are learning that unselfishness is the better way, although they do not always practice it. In this struggle the animals have an advantage over the plants, for if food fails in one place they can move to another. Among the animals also the mother tries to protect her children; and, in the case of some,--the wolf, for example,--a number will hunt together for the common good. It is quite different with the plants. They must grow where the seeds take root. If there is little sunlight or water or the soil is poor, they must make the best of what they have. The plants have to struggle not only with such enemies as insects, winds, fire, and browsing animals, but with each other, for every tree is the real or possible enemy of every other tree. Brother seeds sprouting under the same parent maple struggle with each other for the food and moisture in the soil and for the best place in the sunlight. The one that gets the most of these will grow the faster and choke some of its weaker brothers. [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ Trees that struggle with cold and storm.] In yonder grove of pines there are trees of all ages and sizes. The older ones have much the advantage and take a part of the food and sunlight that the smaller ones require. How the little ones stretch up and grow tall and slender in their attempt to get the sunlight! But in spite of all their efforts some of them must die. Some kinds of trees grow faster than others. Where a number are springing up together, the slow-growing ones will stand less chance of ever becoming great trees. In this way the yellow pine sometimes chokes out the cedar, and the fir gets the advantage of the sugar pine. The bright, warm sun is the enemy of the tree that loves the shady hillsides. The swamp is the enemy of the tree that must have loose, dry soil. The cold is the enemy of the tree that is used to a hot climate. Is it not strange that what is good for one tree is an enemy of another? Many kinds of trees have their own particular insect enemies which attack them and no others. Some of these insects live upon the leaves, others eat the sapwood under the bark, while a few attack the roots. Certain insects burrow in and eat the heartwood. Although this does not always kill the tree, it weakens it and makes the wood unfit for use. The cedar and the hickory are among the trees injured in this manner. The foliage of the broad-leaved trees is the delight of many insects. They sometimes eat the leaves so closely that the tree is killed; for the trees breathe through their leaves and can no more do without them than they can without their roots. The gypsy moth, which did no great harm in its European home, was brought to this country and accidentally set free. It at once began to attack the leaves of the elm, that beautiful tree of the old New England villages. Now it is destroying other trees and, notwithstanding the fight which we have made against it, we have not yet been able to exterminate it. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ Insects are destroying the trees of this forest.] The chestnut tree, which every Eastern child loves for its nuts, is now being destroyed by a fungus which may kill every one of these trees in the country. The white-pine blister, also brought over from Europe, is now threatening all the white pines and the related trees of our country. This disease has already such a start in the East that we may not be able to stop it. The dainty mistletoe, about which there are so many pretty Christmas legends, is a deadly enemy of many trees. The seed of this fungus is carried, by the birds or by the wind, from one tree to another. When it sprouts, tiny roots go down through the bark to the sap, on which it feeds until the tree is killed. All our fruit trees have their deadly enemies which cause a loss of many millions of dollars every year. Among the worst of these is the San José scale, which was carelessly brought into the country from China. [Illustration: _Pillsbury's Pictures, Inc._ A dwarf white pine which has found a foothold in the rocks on a mountain top.] The pear blight has destroyed whole orchards of pear trees in the Western states. The citrus canker is now threatening the orange orchards of the Southern states. For years we have been searching over the world for new and better varieties of fruit trees. With the shipments of such trees we have brought some of the worst of the diseases that we have just mentioned. We should have all foreign trees most carefully inspected before admitting them to the country. We should also be very careful about shipping fruit or other trees from one part of our country to another. Diseases are often carried in this way into places which otherwise they could not reach. Field mice, gophers, and rabbits eat the bark of young fruit trees and kill those which are not carefully protected. In some parts of our country the apple and peach tree borers are a serious menace to young orchards. Grasshoppers occasionally come in dense swarms and eat the leaves from every tree or plant in their path. The valuable sugar pine of the Western mountains is not seeding itself as rapidly as it should, and we fear it will become extinct. The beautiful silver-gray squirrel loves the nuts of this pine, and it is said that he eats so many that few are left to sprout and make new trees. For this reason some people would like to make it lawful to kill all the gray squirrels that one wished. This would be too bad, for we do not believe the gray squirrel is the cause of the trouble. It is more likely that the lack of young sugar pines is due partly to its struggle in the forest with more rapidly growing trees and partly to the less frequent occurrence of forest fires to burn off the humus on the ground. We know that the seeds of certain trees find difficulty in sending their roots down through the humus to the soil beneath. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ An avalanche has passed through this forest.] The narrow-leaved or cone-bearing trees, which are the main source of our lumber, also have other enemies. The most destructive of these are the little pine beetles which lay their eggs in the bark of the yellow pine, sugar pine, and tamarack pine. From these eggs there hatch worms which burrow under the bark until they cut off the flow of the sap. This kills the trees. The trees that are young and strong are sometimes able to pour out enough sap into the wounds to drown the insects, but many thousands of trees in the Western mountains are destroyed every year by these insects. Wind and lightning are both enemies of the forests. Hundreds of forest fires are set every summer by thunder storms, but the rangers usually discover such fires soon enough to put them out before they have done much harm. The pasturing of forests by stock does great injury, because of the browsing and trampling underfoot of the young trees. Sheep and goats are the worst of all the animals and should be kept out of those forests where the surface particularly needs protection and where the young trees require all the encouragement that Nature can give them in order to make a successful start in life. We have learned something about the many enemies of the trees, but the worst one has not yet been mentioned. Can you guess what it is? This terrible enemy is man,--not savage man or Indian, but civilized man. Although man has more need for forest trees than has any other animal, he is at the same time more ruthless in his treatment of them. Man destroys more trees every year, as a result of fires which he sets and of his wasteful methods of lumbering, than all the other enemies of the trees put together. The forest area of the world is constantly growing smaller, and we must soon learn to treat the trees with more care or they may, like many of the wild creatures, nearly disappear from parts of the earth where they are most needed. CHAPTER SEVENTEEN HOW THE FORESTS ARE WASTED O forest home in which the songbirds dwell! The squirrel and the stag shall miss the spell Of thy cool depths when summer's sun assails, Nor more find shelter in thy shadowed vales. * * * * * All will be silent; echo will be dead; A field will lie where shifting shadows fled Across the ground. The mattock and the plow Will take the place of Pan and Satyr now. The timid deer, the spotted fawns at play, From thy retreats will all be driven away. Farewell, old forest; sacred crowns, farewell! Revered in letters and in art as well; Thy place becomes the scorn of every one, Doomed now to burn beneath the summer sun. All cry out insults as they pass thee by, Upon the men who caused thee thus to die! Farewell, old oaks that once were wont to crown Our deeds of valor and of great renown! O trees of Jupiter, Dordona's grove, How ingrate man repays thy treasure trove That first gave food that humankind might eat, And furnished shelter from the storm and heat. PIERRE DE RONSARD, translated by BRISTOW ADAMS; _American Forestry_, XVI. 244 When our grandfathers came to America they found the country so covered with forests that they had to cut and burn the trees in order to obtain the ground on which to raise their crops. The Eastern states could not have been settled without clearing the land, and we cannot blame the pioneers for doing under those circumstances that which today would be very wrong. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The farmer wastes the trees by girdling them and then allowing them to rot.] There is now enough land so that it is no longer necessary to destroy the trees in order to raise our food supplies. The forests constitute one of the great natural resources of our country and men should not be allowed to waste them for private gain. Although the need for more land has long passed, the habit of reckless tree cutting still continues. There are now parts of the East where none of the primeval forest remains and very little of the second growth. Firewood is expensive and many a farmer has to buy coal, who, if he and his ancestors had been careful, might have a woodlot to supply not only fuel, but lumber for his buildings. Many of the lands once cleared were found not suited to farming and have been left to grow up to brush. If the farmer were wise he would replant some of these lands with such trees as spruce, hickory, walnut, or maple. Although his ancestors toiled early and late to get these trees out of the way, a few acres of them now would be a fortune. There are parts of our country, particularly in the South and West, where the settlers are still cutting the trees to get them out of their way. In distant mountain valleys where there is no market for lumber, men are chopping down the great pines. They would make fine lumber, for they are tall and straight, but instead of being put to some useful end their fate is the bonfire. It makes no difference to these men that they are wasting what it has taken Nature hundreds of years to produce nor that in other parts of the country timber is scarce and expensive. In Germany and Switzerland the forest resources are carefully looked after. As fast as the grown trees are cut from a field, young trees are planted in their places. The keeping of a certain part of the land in forest is held to be of advantage to all the people. For this reason men are not allowed to cut trees upon their own land without permission from the forest officer. Many years ago, when lumbering became an important industry and the mills began to turn out immense quantities of boards and beams of every sort needed by the growing population of our new country, it was believed that the supply would never be used up. Only the best and clearest logs were sawed into lumber, and a large part of each tree was left on the ground to rot or to feed the first fire that occurred. Now lumber is scarce and expensive; and the poorer grades also are in much demand. Have you ever seen the giant sugar pines on the slopes of the Western mountains? Next to the sequoias they are the largest of our American trees. A single tree has furnished lumber enough for a house. Sugar pine has now become so valuable that it is used only for such purposes as window sash, doors, and similar articles. We have taken no care of these wonderful trees until recently, but have allowed them to be cut and wasted in the most reckless fashion. If you could go through the sugar-pine forests, you would find hundreds and even thousands of these mighty trees lying on the ground rotting. This is the work of the shake or shingle maker. He has been as thoughtless in his cutting of these giants which have been hundreds of years growing as is the farmer of the stalks of grain that springs up and ripens its seed in one season. The shingle maker must have material which splits well. He hunts for the straightest and cleanest trees. At most he does not use over fifty feet of the trunk, and if the tree does not split to suit him, then all, or nearly all, of the tree is left to rot. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ In turning this giant sequoia into lumber more than half the tree is wasted.] The waste of the lumberman is not so great, but it is enough to open our eyes to one of the reasons for the rapid disappearance of our forests. On the average only about one third of the wood of every tree cut is actually used. The rest is lost in the logging operations and during the various processes through which it passes before it reaches our hands. In addition to the waste of the trees actually cut, there is the loss of the young trees due to careless logging. Too often the lumbermen do not care in what condition the logs leave the forest. They want only the trees now fit for lumber, and they want to get them in the easiest way possible. Instead of going through the forest and picking out only the ripe or mature trees and leaving the rest for a later cutting, the lumbermen usually take everything that has any present worth. Trees that are less valuable for lumber, such as the firs, are used for skidways and bridges, and when no longer needed for these purposes are left on the ground. No care is taken to see that the great trees fall with the least possible damage to the young growth. Upon the preservation of the young trees, which almost everywhere occupy the open spaces between the large ones, rests our hope of a future forest. When the work of lumbering in any particular region is finished, the sight is such as must make Nature weep, for it almost brings tears to our eyes. The young trees are broken and crushed to the ground, branches and fragments of the trunks lie scattered about, while above the ruin rise those trees not considered worth cutting. The once beautiful and majestic forest is now ready for fire. Some passer-by may drop a lighted match or cigarette, and you can easily form a picture in your mind of what happens. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The shake maker wastes the larger part of a great sugar pine that has been a thousand years in growing.] In the countries of Europe lumbermen are very careful; not a particle of the cut tree goes to waste. The logs are sawed without removing what we call "slabs." The sawdust is saved and used in the manufacture of wood alcohol. If we saved all the present waste in the logging and milling of our pines, we could make all the turpentine needed in our country. If we saved what is now wasted of the poplar and spruce, we should have material enough to make all the paper we use. There are still large and valuable forests in the Southern Appalachian Mountains, in the Rocky Mountains, the Sierra Nevada-Cascade Range, and the Coast Ranges. These regions were settled later than the Eastern states, and parts of them are yet remote from markets. Our wise lumbermen are beginning to understand that it is better to cut over the forest carefully, so that by and by there will be another crop. Nature is doing all she can to keep up the supply of trees, and, if we give her half a chance, there will be timber enough both for us and for those that come after us. The forest crop is like any other crop, except that it cannot be cut every year. Every one should understand that he has an interest in the forest. Although he may not own a foot of land, yet his prosperity depends in part on how the forests are managed. If the forests are not taken care of, there will sometime be a wood famine. If the mountain slopes are stripped of their trees, the streams will no longer run clear and the low streams in summer will lead to a water famine, which in turn might easily cause a bread famine. CHAPTER EIGHTEEN HOW THE FORESTS SUFFER FROM FIRES He who wantonly kills a tree, All in a night of God-sent dream, He shall travel a desert waste Of pitiless glare, and never a stream, Nor a blade of grass, nor an inch of shade-- All in a wilderness he has made. O, forlorn without trees! He who tenderly saves a tree, All in a night of God-sent dream, He shall list to a hermit thrush Deep in the forest by mountain stream, With friendly branches that lead and shade, All in a woodland that he has made. O, the peace of the trees! He who passionately loves a tree, Growth and power shall understand; Everywhere he shall find a friend. Listen! They greet him from every land, English Oak and the Ash and Thorn, Silvery Olive, and Cypress tall, Spreading Willow, and gnarled old Pine, Flowering branches by orchard wall-- Sunshine, shadow, and sweetness of glade-- All in a Paradise he has made. O, the joy of the trees! _The Dryad's Message_ Have you ever seen a forest fire? It is a terrible sight to see the flames sweep up a mountain side. They run along the ground licking up the leaves and dead branches. They leap from tree to tree, and then with a roar the sheet of flame goes to the top of a tall pine. The air is like the breath from an oven and is filled with sparks and with suffocating smoke. The birds and animals flee away in every direction. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ The forest fire sweeps everything in its path.] It is no wonder that those whose homes are in the forest gather quickly to fight the fire, for if they cannot control it, they may lose everything that they possess. If there is a wind blowing, the fire will probably sweep over many miles of country. At night, though, when the air becomes cooler and more quiet, the men can get the advantage of it. You can understand, of course, that it is impossible to use water against such a fire, for water is not to be had throughout most parts of the forests. Instead of using water, the men fight fire with fire. Taking shovels, hoes, and rakes to a suitable place some distance ahead of the fire, they rake away the dead litter on the ground, making a broad, clean path through the forest. Then they set "back-fires" along that side of this clean path which lies toward the coming fire. These back-fires burn slowly toward the main fire, and when they meet both must die out for lack of fuel. For many years forest fires have caused as much damage as the lumbermen; but now most of the forests are patrolled by rangers during the summer, and there are fewer serious fires. How do the fires start in the forest? It is supposed that long ago the Indians set many fires to keep the woods open for their hunting. Lightning has always been a frequent cause of forest fires. As many as a dozen fires are known to have started during a single thunderstorm. But such fires are not as serious as they once were, because the rangers are on the watch for them and put them out before they get well started. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ Fires destroyed the forest that once covered this region and its place is now mostly occupied by small bushes.] Aside from those due to lightning, most forest fires are now either set purposely or come from engine sparks or from somebody's carelessness. Many fires are set purposely by stockmen who think by this means to clear away the brush and thus obtain better feed for their cattle and sheep. These men often care nothing for the forests or for the preservation of the summer water flow. They would, indeed, be pleased to see all the forests burned away if by that means they could increase their feed. If you could travel through some of the mountainous portions of the Southwest, you would see how much harm has been done in this way to the trees, the streams, and the soil. It is a hot summer day and two men are riding along a mountain road. One of them thoughtlessly throws away a lighted cigarette, which falls upon some dry pine needles. In a few moments the pine needles are ablaze. The fire spreads with incredible rapidity and a great column of smoke rises above the treetops. Before any one can reach it, the fire is sweeping up the mountain side, and it may not be stopped before it has destroyed thousands of acres of valuable timber. All this terrible loss is due to one careless man who, in the first place, should not have been smoking cigarettes, and in the second place should have known better than to throw a spark into the forest powder magazine. Some campers, enjoying the summer in the mountains, go away leaving their fire burning. By and by a stick burns outward until the fire reaches the leaves, or a gust of wind comes along and carries a spark to them. In the hot sun the leaves and needles are almost as easy to ignite as powder, and in a few moments another fire is making headway into the surrounding forest. A farmer clearing land thinks he can get rid of the brush and young trees more easily by burning. But the undergrowth is drier than he thought, and, the wind coming up unexpectedly, the fire is soon beyond his control. It may destroy his own fences and buildings and, sweeping on, ruin those of his neighbors also. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The dead stubs of a once beautiful forest.] Few people have perished from fires in the West, for there the forest regions are generally thinly inhabited, but in some of the Eastern and Northern states there have been terrible fires that have destroyed whole villages together with their inhabitants. In many mountain regions of our country there are large areas now covered with useless brush where there were once valuable forests. In regions where the lumbermen have not utterly destroyed the forests, but have left some seed trees, the forests will come back again, but in these large burned areas conditions are not favorable. The destruction of the humus as well as the trees has been so complete that the seeding of a new forest is slow work. It may be hundreds of years before the trees will spread over and again take possession of the waste land. A single fire often destroys more timber than would be destroyed by a whole camp of loggers working for years. In the Northwest there are many sad and desolate pictures of the destruction caused by forest fires. We may travel for miles through forests of tall, dead stubs, the remains of once noble trees. Where they have fallen the trunks lie piled many feet high and trails had to be cut through an almost solid mass of timber. Here is wood enough to supply thousands of people with pleasant winter fires. But there are, alas, no people living near these vast woodpiles and often no road to them. The logs must lie there and rot. Now let us see if we can state the chief reasons why we should be exceedingly careful about setting fires in the woods: 1. Fires destroy an enormous amount of valuable timber every year. 2. Between fires and lumbermen our forests are disappearing faster than they are growing. 3. Fires destroy the young trees, and if they happen often enough will keep them from growing up to replace the mature trees. 4. Fires do not permanently help the cattle ranges, but injure them by burning the humus and grass seeds. 5. Fires leave the ground bare, so that it will dry out quickly. 6. Fires leave the soil unprotected, so that it will wash away quickly. 7. Fires destroy property and endanger lives. CHAPTER NINETEEN EVILS THAT FOLLOW THE DESTRUCTION OF THE FORESTS We have already learned something about the poverty of the people in those lands where the forests have been destroyed. This poverty is due not so much to lack of wood for fuel and other purposes, but to a whole series of troubles which the removal of the forests has brought upon them. The burning of the humus, when a fire sweeps the forest, is the next greatest loss to that of the timber itself. Where there has been no fire, the ground under the trees is covered with decaying leaves and stems which are slowly mixing with the soil and becoming a part of it. The more there is of this humus in the soil, the more thriftily plants will grow. Many people purposely burn over their pasture lands in the fall, believing that this will make the grass better the following year. They should know that every time this is done the soil is made poorer, and that it kills the seeds lying on the ground ready to sprout when the warm spring days come. Instead of a better pasture there is more likely to be a crop of almost worthless weeds. The ground is full of worthless seeds which are always ready to take the place of the grasses when they have a chance. Before the fire came, the roots of trees, bushes, and grasses kept the earth from washing; and the humus helped to hold the rainwater from running away rapidly, so that more of it had time to soak into the ground. How well this is shown on yonder hills which were once covered with brush. A fire swept over these hills and burned every living thing. What a barren appearance they presented after the heavy winter storms! The slopes were completely covered with little furrows and gullies where the rainwater had done its work. It will be a long time before vegetation will again gain a foothold there and stop the washing of the earth. When a fire occurs in the dense forests of the Cascade Range, all the trees are killed and the thick layer of decaying vegetation underneath is burned. The spruce, which is one of the most important lumber trees of this region, does not at once spring up again. Its seeds may be scattered there, but the soil is not now in a condition to nourish them. In its place springs up the tamarack pine, which, because it can grow in poor soil, has the whole burned area to itself. If we should return to the same place perhaps one hundred years after the fire, we should find that the tamarack pines had formed a thick forest. The lumbermen have little use for the tamarack and so have passed it by. In looking carefully through the tamarack forest, we find that other trees are now springing up. They are already struggling for the food, the moisture, and the sunlight which the tamaracks are making use of. During the many years that have passed since the fire swept this region, decaying vegetation has been slowly accumulating and forming humus again. Now at last the seeds of the spruce find the soil rich enough again to sprout and grow. Here and there are thrifty young trees which will in a few years grow up and choke out the tamarack. Thus the tamarack, though of so little value itself, has done a great work in preparing the soil for a new growth of the valuable spruce. Upon the drier slopes of the Western mountains shrubs, such as the manzanita and chaparral, spring up and cover the surface after a forest fire. Nature does not seem to want the surface left bare and usually has something at hand, even though it be nothing better than brush, with which to clothe it again. As the years pass humus begins to collect upon the ground and finally restores it to much the same condition it had before the fire. Now, if by any means seeds can reach such places, scattering trees will first spring up in favored spots and, after a time, the trees will become thick enough and large enough to shade the ground and the brush will be killed out. [Illustration: _American Forestry_ The work of the water where the forest has been cut away.] The cutting of the forests, especially from the steeper mountain slopes, has in many parts of the world changed water, one of Nature's most valuable gifts, into an agent of destruction. Throughout the Eastern and Southern states the floods are higher in spring and lower in summer than they used to be, because of the removal of so large a part of the forests that once covered this whole region. In the West it is even more necessary that the forest cover be disturbed as little as possible. One reason is that the greater part of the forests are found upon the lofty mountains in which the streams rise. If we deforest these steep slopes, water is going to injure them much more than it would the gentler slopes of the lower lands, if they had been deforested. Another reason is that since little rain falls in the summer in this region, we must do nothing to lessen the summer flow of the streams, which is so much needed for irrigation. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ This beautiful valley in the Southern Appalachian Mountains has been ruined by the floods due to cutting off of the forests upon the headwaters of the river.] The more water that can be held back in the mountains of the West for summer use, the more prosperous the farmers are. There is nothing that helps to hold the water better than the forests. They help to equalize the flow of the streams so that the floods are not so high in the spring nor the water so low in the summer as they would be if there were no forests. One of the first questions asked by a man who is thinking of buying a farm is about the water supply. He wants to know whether there are wells, springs, or living streams on the place. Almost everything depends upon the water supply. If there is an abundance, the farmer is likely to be prosperous. When he is prosperous all the rest of us are prosperous, no matter what our business is. Are you not ready now to say that the Swiss are right in not permitting tree cutting upon any land except under the supervision of a forester? The careless removal of the forests from the mountain slopes may affect the farmer in the valley fifty miles away. Do you not think that this farmer is very much interested in the management of the forest, although he does not own a foot of it? Trouble always follows the destruction of the forests on the headwaters of the streams. CHAPTER TWENTY HOW OUR GOVERNMENT IS HELPING TO SAVE THE FORESTS As long as the forest shall live, The streams shall flow onward, still singing Sweet songs of the woodland, and bringing The bright, living waters that give New life to all mortals who thirst. But the races of men shall be cursed. Yea, the hour of destruction shall come To the children of men in that day When the forest shall pass away; When the low woodland voices are dumb; And death's devastation and dearth Shall be spread o'er the face of the earth. Avenging the death of the wood, The turbulent streams shall outpour Their vials of wrath, and no more Shall their banks hold back the high flood, Which shall rush o'er the harvests of men; As swiftly receding again. Lo! after the flood shall be dearth, And the rain no longer shall fall On the parching fields; and a pall, As of ashes, shall cover the earth; And dust-clouds shall darken the sky; And the deep water wells shall be dry. And the rivers shall sink in the ground, And every man cover his mouth From the thickening dust, in that drouth; Fierce famine shall come; and no sound Shall be borne on the desolate air. But a murmur of death and despair. ALEXANDER BLAIR THAW, _The Passing of the Forest_; in _Century Magazine_, June, 1907 For many years it was thought the forests were inexhaustible and needed no special care. The national government encouraged people to acquire forest land and practically gave away 160 acres to every one who would build a cabin upon the land and live there for a short time. Suddenly some of the wise people among us awoke to a realization of what was going on. They discovered that the forests were going very fast and that soon we should have none if something were not done. Between the fires that swept them every year and the wasteful lumbering, the forests were in a fair way to leave us as they had the wasteful and careless peoples of other parts of the world. How fortunate it is that some of us did look ahead before it was too late; for, although the Eastern forests have largely disappeared, there still remain millions of acres of government-owned forests in the West. These forests have now been withdrawn from sale and are to be held for the use and benefit of all. They are not to be permitted to pass into the hands of a few, to be cut and sold for private gain. Our government is acting like a wise father who is interested in the welfare of his children, and who understands the need of taking care of their treasures until they are wise enough to manage them for themselves. We are all concerned in many ways in the welfare of the forests. Whether we own any forest land or not, we are affected by the way in which the trees are managed. Because we are all dependent more or less upon the forests, they should be regarded as the property of us all, just as the air and water are. But because some of us do not yet know how, or do not care, to protect them, it is best that the government should do so for us. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ These men are replanting a mountain slope from which fire once swept the forest.] It may be that you live in a brick, or stone house and burn coal in your stoves. You think that it makes no difference to you whether or not there are any forests. But stop and think a moment. Are you sure that you are really independent of them? How many things do you use every day that are made of wood? The list is surely a long one. If wood is rare and expensive, the articles which are made of it add to your cost of living and allow you less money for other things. Let us suppose for a moment that you have no use for wood in any form. Will this take away all interest that you may have in the forests? In any event you are dependent upon the fertility of your fields for the food that you require. Now, if there is a lumber company stripping the mountains at the head of the river upon which your home is situated, and as a result of clearing the timber from the slopes the floods become worse, your garden is buried beneath gravel and sand, and your orchard washed away, will you not think it _does_ make a difference to you in what way the forests are treated? The timbered lands which the government is holding and caring for are known as National Forests. About two thirds of the forests yet remaining in the West are included in them. These lands are mostly mountainous and not suited to agriculture. In the East the government has no lands except those which it buys. Because of the great damage which is being done to the streams and valleys of the Appalachian Mountains by careless lumbering, a great tract of land is being acquired by purchase. This is called the Appalachian Forest. The timber in this region will be carefully cut and those areas from which it has been stripped will be replanted. In the White Mountains of New Hampshire, with Mt. Washington as the center, is a remnant of a once beautiful forest, which has been acquired by the government. This is known as the White Mountain Forest. It will be enlarged as the years pass and carefully guarded. It will serve for all time as a beautiful pleasure and camping ground. It is not the government's plan that the National Forests shall remain unused, but they are to be used wisely, so as to be of the greatest permanent good to the greatest number of people. The men who have been placed in charge of these lands are called "forest rangers," and their duties are of many kinds. The rangers supervise the sale and cutting of the mature or ripe trees as they are needed for lumber, mining timbers, or posts. They see that the waste parts of the cut trees are piled so as to lessen the danger from chance fires. During the long summers the forests become as dry as tinder and the loss from fire amounts to millions of dollars every year. It is the chief duty of the rangers at this time to patrol the roads and trails leading through the forests and keep a sharp lookout for fires. Stations have been established upon high points from which there is a view over a wide extent of country. In each of these stations there is a man constantly on watch for columns of smoke which indicate the beginning of a forest fire. When smoke is seen a message is telephoned to the ranger station nearest the fire, and from this station men are sent as quickly as possible with the object of putting out the fire before it spreads beyond the power of control. The forests are now watched so carefully that hundreds of fires are thus stopped before there has been any serious loss of timber. +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ | STOP | | Forest Fires | | | | They are a Curse to the People | | of Pennsylvania | | | | FOREST Existing Forests | | FIRES Possibility of Future Forests | | DESTROY Possibility of Labor | | Beauty of a Region | | Comfort | | Homes | | Lives | | Prosperity | | | | Protected Forests Increase in Value | | | | They Furnish Labor, Promote Industry, Afford Recreation and | | Sport, Make a Region Beautiful, Make Home Safe and Comfortable, | | Make Life Worth Living, and a Prosperous State | | Inhabited by a Contented and Industrious People. | | | | Which Would You Rather Have | | | | FOREST FIRES } { GREEN FORESTS | | FLOODS } { PURE WATER | | DISEASE } OR { HEALTH | | DESTRUCTION } { THRIVING INDUSTRIES | | DEVASTATION } { PROSPERITY | | | | For Information Respecting Pennsylvania Forests and | | Tree Planting, write to | | | | COMMISSIONER OF FORESTRY, | | | | Harrisburg, Pennsylvania | +-------------------------------------------------------------------+ [Illustration: This large poster, printed on sheets 14 by 22 inches, has been of excellent service in Pennsylvania.] [Illustration: _American Forestry_ The seed trees left by the lumberman are giving rise to a new forest.] In convenient places the rangers store boxes of tools, which include axes, picks, shovels, and rakes to be used in fighting any near-by fire. They also have at hand provisions and camp outfits, so as to be able to live anywhere in the woods. In some parts where there is a great deal of small timber and brush, "fire lines" are cut along the ridges where it is easiest to stop a fire, should one occur. Our forests are so vast that it is not possible to remove the dead wood as is done in Europe and thus lessen the danger of fire. The forest rangers also wage a warfare against insect pests. In regions where the bark beetles carry on their destructive work among the pines, the rangers sometimes cut down and burn thousands of trees. Another duty of the rangers is that of replanting burned or logged-off areas. In this way many thousands of acres which would otherwise remain waste land for years, not being suitable for agriculture, are made in a short time to produce a new forest. A limited number of cattle and sheep are allowed in those forests which can be pastured without doing injury to the young trees or affecting the flow of the streams. The rangers have charge of this work and collect the rent. A part of the money derived from the sale of timber and for pasturage rights is expended in the improvement of the roads and trails in the forests and in making the forests more safe from fire. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ A beautiful grassy meadow in the Sierra Nevada Mountains.] The National Forests are open to all for pleasure and recreation, but under strict regulations about the cutting of trees and the care of camp fires. Violators of these rules are severely punished. Visitors to the forests are expected to take care in the selection of places for their camp fires so that there will be no danger of the fire spreading. When the camp is left, the fire must be put out with water or covered with earth. Many states have forest services of their own, and some have conservation commissions. It is the business of these organizations to look after various natural resources, including the forests, water, soil, minerals, and wild game. All forest rangers as well as state fire wardens are authorized to aid in the enforcement of the game laws. We should assist the foresters and wardens in every way possible. Most of these men love the woods, the birds, and the animals. They are doing their best to protect the forest and its wild life for the good and happiness of us all. CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE OUR FOREST PLAYGROUNDS What does he plant who plants a tree? He plants the friend of sun and sky; He plants the flag of breezes free; The shaft of beauty, towering high; He plants a home to heaven anigh For song and mother-croon of bird In hushed and happy twilight heard-- The treble of heaven's harmony-- These things he plants who plants a tree. What does he plant who plants a tree? He plants cool shade and tender rain, And seed and bud of days to be, And years that fade and flush again; He plants the glory of the plain; He plants the forest's heritage; The harvest of a coming age; The joy that unborn eyes shall see-- These things he plants who plants a tree. What does he plant who plants a tree? He plants, in sap and leaf and wood, In love of home and loyalty And far-cast thought of civic good-- His blessing on the neighborhood Who in the hollow of His hand Holds all the growth of all our land-- A nation's growth from sea to sea Stirs in his heart who plants a tree. H. C. BUNNER, _The Heart of the Tree_; in _Century Magazine_, April, 1893 Our National Parks and Forests form the grandest summer playgrounds that any people have ever had. The National Forests, we have learned, were set aside for the direct purpose of preserving the timber supply and regulating the flow of the mountain streams. The National Parks were created for the purpose of preserving for all time the most beautiful and attractive scenic features of our country. Among the most important of these are the Yellowstone, Grand Cañon, Yosemite, Rainier, and Crater Lake parks. They include many thousands of square miles of forested mountains, cliffs, lakes, waterfalls, and rivers, which are open to all of us with no restrictions except that we do not injure them. How delightful it is to have these wild and picturesque parts of our country left unspoiled and just as Nature made them, and to be able to wander through them at will! In the parks we can become acquainted with the flowers, trees, birds, and animals as they were before the country was discovered and settled by white men. Here the wild creatures are protected from the hunters. The deer no longer fear the sight of men, and the mother grouse can raise her brood in safety from them. When summer comes we feel a strange and mysterious longing to get out of doors and live in the forests with the wild creatures. The parks offer just the opportunity to satisfy this longing, for in them we can get away from the worries and perplexities of our everyday life. We feel the "call of the wild," perhaps, because long ago our savage ancestors dwelt in the forests among the hills. They were a part of Nature and lived much as the animals do in caves in the hillsides, or in homes of the rudest sort made of the bark of trees or the skins of animals. Our ancestors spent nearly all of their time out of doors in the pure, fresh air. Their eyes and ears were trained to every sign of the forest, for upon the sharpness of their senses their very lives depended. [Illustration: _George J. Young_ A forest playground on Virginia Creek in the Yosemite country, California, in one of Uncle Sam's forest reserves.] We have lived in houses so long, where the air is often close and impure and where we have no need of sharp senses for protection, that we have lost some of the strength and sturdy self-reliance of our wild ancestors. We have become partly dulled to the beauty out of doors, because we have been so constantly employed by the business of making a living. But the forest playgrounds are calling us to return for a little time each year to the wilds that were once our home, and to renew our acquaintance with the trees, the streams and the rocks, and with the wild creatures that live among them. To be able to make our beds on the leaves under the trees, and to build a fire of sticks and cook our own food, seems quite natural and like old and familiar times. The stories and legends that have come down to us about the forests and the imaginary people who lived in them were believed to be true by the people of long ago. The deep, dark woods once covered nearly all Europe where our ancestors lived. To be lost in the woods was to be in danger of meeting the strange and mysterious people who were thought to live in their depths. Among these beings, some of whom were good and others bad, were fairies, nymphs, gnomes, and ogres. When people ceased to believe so much in these stories, they began to lose their fear of the woods. Among some of these people there grew up a love and fascination for the trees which they believed were the dwelling places of spirits or divinities. If in our great forest playgrounds we can lead this out-of-door life for a few weeks each year, it will make us healthier, stronger, and happier. We no longer fear any mysterious creatures in the woods or the forces of Nature as shown in the lightning, the winds, and the waterfalls; but year by year we are finding more to love and admire in the wild scenery of the woods and mountains and in their animal and plant inhabitants. The wild woods call many of us on jaunts and picnics when, if it were not for them, we should stay at home shut up in stuffy rooms. In time may not the love of the forest wilds come back to us all? May not the time come when each one of us shall be able to look at a beautiful tree and not think only of how much lumber it would make? May not the time come when we may hear the grouse drumming its call and not feel the desire to kill and eat it? If the time does come in which we think as much of our beautiful mountains as the people of Europe do of the Alps, we shall then guard them with far more jealous care than we do today. In spite of the fact that the Alps are wet and cold and that no one thinks of sleeping out of doors there, yet the people of Europe love their mountains almost passionately. Our mountains are much more attractive summer playgrounds than the Alps. We can wander at will over a far greater number of untrodden ways than Europeans can in the Alps. We can make our beds under the trees with rarely a thought of the weather. The air is always balmy and the skies are almost always blue. CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE WILD FLOWERS How eagerly we have looked forward to the coming of spring, and now it is here! The sun is shining brighter and warmer each day. The birds are returning from their winter home in the South. The buds on the trees are swelling and, in the warm nooks, some of the wild flowers have already opened their delicate petals. Who will find the first _spring beauty_ in the Eastern woods? Who will find the first of the _purple trilliums_ that open their dark flowers in the shady groves, or the _golden poppies_ on the warm hillsides of the West? The spring air affects us as it does the plants and wild creatures. We long to get away from school, and taking our lunches, to spend the delightful days wandering through the fields and woods. There is no place like the open country when all Nature is waking. We feel like running and frisking as the young lambs do. Can it be wrong to gather all that we wish of the beautiful flowers with which the earth is carpeted? Has not Nature grown them in her great garden in such abundance that all we pick will make no difference to her? Let us go with the children on their rambles after flowers and learn if Nature does take any account of their innocent raids on her treasures. Here is a party of children chasing across the fields. Each one is searching for the flowers that have bloomed since last they were out, and each is trying to get more than his companions. The children have learned that some kinds of flowers grow in the woods, others in the marshy places, and still others on the dry hillsides. They know where to go for each kind, and not a spot escapes their sharp search. Here they find a patch of violets, and all are quickly picked. There are some baby-blue-eyes, and yonder dry field is brilliant with the colors of many others. In the gathering of the flowers some of them are pulled up by the roots, but the children do not think of the harm this does. They wander on and on until many have more in their hands than they can carry. Some of those picked first are already wilted, and, to make their burdens lighter, the children throw these away. At last a tired but happy band turns toward home. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ The wild oxalis loves the moist, shady places.] What will be done with all the flowers that have been picked? In each home the vases are filled and the tables decorated. There is no room for all of them and some are thrown out. These flowers, once so fresh and bright as they nodded in the breeze, now lie crushed and wilted on the ground. Another spring returns and the children are out again looking in the familiar places for the flowers they know so well. But there seems to be something wrong, for there are not so many as there used to be. The children have to go farther and search more carefully to get their arms full. Still a third spring comes and the children are just as ready for the happy excursions and just as anxious to get the flowers. They hunt the fields over, but in the places where the flowers used to be so thick there are only a few scattering ones. They cannot understand what is wrong, but Nature could tell them if they would ask her. The year before she was short of seed, but this year it is much worse, for she had hardly any to plant in her garden. She is short of bulbs also, and of many other plants that grow from year to year, for the children carelessly pulled these up. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ Wild asters cover the mountain meadows.] The children do not want to go home with only a few flowers, and so they wander farther into the country than they have ever been before. Here they find them as abundant as they used to be near home. The children do not stop to think that at the base of the bright, fragrant blossoms grow the seed that will make the flowers of the next year. Nature can spare the seed of a part of the blossoms, for she grows many more than she needs; but if we pick them all, what can she do for the coming year? The wild flowers are living things struggling for a place in the world, just as are the animals and birds. We cannot abuse and destroy too many of them if we would have them stay and add to the beauty of our homes. Should we not take just as much pleasure in gathering the flowers if we did not bring home more than we needed? Would it not be better to be satisfied with smaller bouquets and leave enough in the fields to go to seed and gladden us next year? The reckless gathering of wild flowers has gone on so long and they have been picked so closely about many of our towns and cities, that they are disappearing. When there are no longer wild flowers within reach of the children who live in the cities, they will have lost a great joy out of their lives. There are besides the flowers of which we have been speaking other low plants of beautiful foliage with which we love to decorate our homes. We must take care that these are not gathered too closely or they also will become scarce. We cannot go out into the woods and pull up ferns by the roots year after year and expect Nature to keep up the supply. The huckleberry is one of the many beautiful shrubs which we admire for its delicate leaves and colors. It is cut and brought in from the country in huge bundles to supply the florists. The time will come when these decorations can no longer be had if the men are allowed to cut all they can find. Just as in the case of the flowers, seekers for them will be obliged to go farther each year and by and by the shrubs will be so scarce and high priced that we shall be obliged to do without them. [Illustration: _Pillsbury's Pictures, Inc._ Nature has grown flowers in abundance, but we should not pick or destroy too many of them.] We hunt far and wide for the beautiful "holly berries" with which to decorate our homes at Christmas. When we have found a berry-laden bush, we eagerly break off the branches and bear them home in triumph. The bush, once so gay with berries, is a sad-looking thing when we are through with it. The branches are broken so far back that next year it will bear few berries and we shall have to seek another. We treat the beautiful earth on which we have been placed in a most thoughtless manner. We think only of what we want _now_, and forget that another year is coming in which also we shall want some of the earth's treasures. If we take only the surplus which each year produces, there will always be enough for us and for the people who live after us. CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE NATURE'S PENALTY FOR INTERFERING WITH HER ARRANGEMENTS Nature seems very prodigal in her ways. She is continually creating on the earth a great multitude of living things, far more than there is room for. Each one of these, if it would live, must have a certain amount of air, sunshine, and food. As there is not enough of these things to supply every one, there arises a struggle. Those that are weakest die, because they are not able to get what they need. To us this seems hard, but it is Nature's way. And further, since many of the animals feed on the flesh of other animals, the latter have, in addition to the struggle for their food, to watch constantly for their lives. Every organism is in one sense the enemy of every other one. We do not mean that they often try to kill each other because of hate, as men do, but that they are after food to satisfy their hunger. Some of the higher animals as well as men fight for mastery, in addition to struggling for food. We hope that among men the unnecessary fighting will sometime cease, and that kindness and unselfishness will rule. The struggle for life is ceaselessly going on around us, but so quiet is it that we are not often aware of the countless tragedies that take place. This struggle extends from the plants and animals in the pond, so small that we cannot see them with the unaided eye, upward through all the larger animals. The struggle among all living things helps us to understand the necessity for Nature's prodigality. If the plants and animals that serve as food for others were not produced in great numbers, they would soon become extinct. It is seldom that any one kind of plant or animal, because of its many enemies, has an opportunity to spread and obtain more than its share of food and sunshine. According to Nature's arrangements, each organism does its share in keeping down the numbers of the others. This we call the "balance of Nature." Sometimes the balance of Nature is disturbed and one particular kind of animal gets the start of its enemies and increases until it becomes a _plague_. This may be caused by a favorable season or by the decrease of its enemies on account of disease among them. We have read of the plagues of grasshoppers which have sometimes visited the Western states and eaten up every green thing. Plagues of rats and field mice have been known to do a great deal of damage. In such cases their natural enemies, the hawks, owls, and coyotes, may be attracted to the region from far around, because of the extra food supply. After a time they may succeed in reducing the numbers of these pests. This balance among the animals, which comes from one living upon another, is a strange and wonderful thing. No one kind can long overrun its fellows. If one does get a start and increases until it becomes a pest or plague, some enemy is sure sooner or later to spring up to destroy it. We use this method in fighting some of the insect pests which are injuring our trees. Men have searched in various parts of the world from which such pests as the gypsy moth and the San José scale have come to find some of their enemies and bring them to this country to feed on these insects. When men came upon the earth, they soon began to upset Nature's arrangements, and from that time until now matters of this kind have been growing worse. We have killed large numbers of the beneficial animals and birds that kept the harmful ones in check. We have carried others from the homes given them by Nature, where they were doing little harm, to new homes where they have become terrible plagues. The killing of large numbers of hawks and owls, all the species of which many people have wrongfully thought to be harmful, has been followed by a great increase in the numbers of rats and mice. We have killed off most of the coyotes, the chief food of which was rabbits and ground squirrels. The two latter animals have now become a serious pest. They do enormous damage to the crops, and we spend thousands of dollars fighting them. The common rabbit has in most parts of its native country so many enemies which are always on the lookout for a good meal, that it cannot increase enough to do much harm. Years ago a number of rabbits were taken to Australia, where there were none. Here they found a favorable climate and few enemies. They have now increased so that they overrun much of the continent and are a terrible pest which the farmers are unable to control. Some years ago the gypsy moth and the browntail moth were introduced by accident into the New England states. Finding there a congenial climate and few enemies, they increased rapidly. They soon began to strip the leaves from the beautiful elms which make the streets and parks of this region so attractive. Now these moths have turned their attention to the white pine and are doing an ever-increasing amount of damage; and although they are being fought by every means in our power, we are not certain that we can ever control them. The codling moth, whose larva is the little apple worm, causes an immense loss in our fruit orchards. The cotton-boll weevil, which destroys so much of the cotton, is, like the codling moth, an insect imported from another country. The San José scale reached California from China and has now spread throughout our country. It has a special fondness for the sap of fruit trees, and, being so small, was not noticed until it had got beyond control. This scale causes more loss than any other of the tree insects. The Hessian fly, introduced from Europe more than one hundred years ago, causes during certain seasons a very great loss to the wheat crop. The Argentine ant has been brought to us from South America and is proving a most destructive pest. The Norway rat was brought to our country on sailing vessels and causes more loss than most of us realize. The English sparrow has spread over much of the country and is driving many of the native birds from their homes, because of its quarrelsome disposition. It makes itself a nuisance on all our city streets. The mongoose, in its home in India, is a great rat killer, but does not there increase so as to do much harm. Wherever it has been carried for the purpose of using it as a rat killer, this little four-footed animal has become a terrible scourge. After it destroys the rats it goes after the snakes. Then it attacks the other small animals and birds. Finally it begins upon the chickens, and even the vegetables in the garden are not safe from its voracious appetite. Men are now watching at every port to see that no more dangerous insects and animals are brought into the country. They are particularly on the watch for the Mediterranean fruit fly and for the mongoose. When we upset the balance of Nature, we start a whole chain of troubles. What can we do to escape the consequences of our ignorance and carelessness? In the first place we can protect the birds, for they eat enormous quantities of the harmful insects. In the second place we can see that no more of these dangerous pests are allowed to land on our shores. In the third place we shall have to fight, by every means that we can discover, those that are already here. CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR WHAT SHALL WE DO WHEN THE COAL, OIL, AND GAS ARE GONE? If coal, oil, and gas were suddenly taken away, all the nations would become poor and many of their industries would cease. Just think for a moment of the amount of work these things do for us and what an effort there would be made to find something to take their place! Wood once formed the chief fuel. It was used only to cook our food or to keep us warm. Now fuel is required for so many different purposes that with the decrease of the forests wood has been found insufficient. Peat is one of those substances that has been used in parts of Europe to take the place of wood, but it is used so little in our own country that many have never seen it. Peat is dug from bogs or marshes. We might say that a peat marsh is the beginning of a coal bed. Peat is the partly decayed vegetation which has slowly accumulated in wet places. In the colder countries it is formed largely of moss and similar water-loving plants, but where the climate is warm other kinds of marsh vegetation, and even trees, aid in forming peat. Sometimes floods bring earth and deposit it in the marshes, in which case the peat is less suitable for fuel, but forms a rich and productive soil instead. In many of the vast swamps of long ago, when there were no men nor even the higher animals upon the earth, vegetation grew very rank. It is believed that at that remote time the air contained more carbonic acid, a substance which promotes the growth of plants. Thus the plants in the warm, moist parts of the earth grew more densely and luxuriantly than they usually do today. In the decay of this vegetation deposits similar to the peat marshes were formed, but they differed in being much thicker and more extensive. If the story of these ancient peat marshes had stopped here, we should never have had any coal. Fortunately it did not, for some of the swamps sank beneath the water of a lake or ocean and thick beds of gravel, sand, or clay were deposited over them. While buried deep in the earth, the decaying vegetation was heated and pressed together by the great weight of the earth above, and was finally changed to shining, black coal. After the coal was made, but before men came to the earth, parts of the sea bottom with its buried treasures were raised to form hills and mountains. Then the rainwater began its work upon the slopes, and after a time washed away so much of the overlying material that the coal was exposed at the surface. At last through some accident, such as lightning perhaps, men learned that this black substance would burn. Coal was little used, however, as long as there was an abundance of wood and the needs of people were few. As manufacturing and the use of the steam engine increased, coal grew in value. The business of mining coal finally became one of the great industries. The mining operations were carried on as carelessly as though the supply in the interior of the earth were inexhaustible. In the underground working it is customary to leave about one quarter of the coal in the form of pillars for the purpose of supporting the roof. At a little more expense other materials could be substituted for these pillars and all the coal could be taken out. In using the coal we waste about another quarter. Stoves and furnaces are usually built so poorly that a large part of the value of the coal escapes as gas and smoke. In large cities and manufacturing districts the smoke becomes a great nuisance. In the making of coke from coal, enormous quantities of coal tar and gas have been lost. Most engines consume a far greater amount of coal than they should in doing a given amount of work. Most of us do not know how to use coal economically in our homes, and thus aid not only in wasting the coal supplies but in making the cost of living higher than it should be. All together, in the handling of coal we lose fully half of it. The coal supply of the earth is disappearing very fast, and at the rate at which its use is now increasing it may not last more than one hundred years. If we cannot use coal without wasting so much, would it not be wiser for us to turn our attention more fully to the sources of power in the streams which are flowing down all our mountain sides? The use of this power when turned into electricity would enable us to save a large part of the coal, oil, and gas that are now used, and so make them last longer. It is far easier to waste oil and gas than coal, for, when we have drilled holes in the earth, unless we are very careful the gas will escape into the air and the oil will become mixed with water, so that it will be difficult for us to get it. Oil and gas are confined under great pressure hundreds and often thousands of feet below the surface. To make clear how easy it is to waste them, we might compare them to the compressed air in an automobile tire. If the tire is punctured by a nail, the air issues suddenly with a sharp, whistling sound until the pressure inside is gone and no more will come out. For many years we have been puncturing the crust of the earth, where oil has been discovered, and letting the oil and gas escape. We have saved most of the oil, but nearly all the gas has been wasted. The gas will finally stop coming out when the pressure is gone, just as the air did in the automobile tire. On the opposite page is a picture of a "gusher" in the Sunset oil field, California, which tells the story of how we are permitting the valuable substances within the earth to be wasted. In drilling this well the oil men suddenly struck a deposit of oil and gas under great pressure. The drilling tools were blown out of the well and a column of oil and gas shot up 150 feet. For a time the well flowed forty thousand barrels of oil each day, and an unknown quantity of gas. Much of the oil was scattered around the surrounding country, and all the gas was lost. Men worked for weeks making reservoirs of earth in an attempt to save the river of oil. Another well a few miles distant struck an enormous quantity of gas. It blew off for days with a roar like that of the steam from a giant engine. Then it took fire, and the column of flame at night was a fearful sight. There was gas enough lost from this one well to light a city for months. Gas has been escaping during many years from hundreds of wells in the Pennsylvania, Ohio Valley, Oklahoma, Texas, and California oil fields. The gas from all these wells together has been estimated to be equal in value to a river of oil flowing several hundred thousand barrels each day. In many districts the gas was nearly gone before people discovered its great value. It is impossible for us to realize the waste which this represents. [Illustration: _Myrl's Studio, Bakersfield, California_ A "gusher" in a California oil field wasting great quantities of oil and gas.] It has taken Nature a long time to make the oil and gas which we are losing. When she began this work, the oil regions which have been mentioned were beneath the sea. In its waters lived countless numbers of minute organisms, as well as fish of many kinds. As they died, their bodies accumulated in beds which finally became thousands of feet thick. Then the currents of the water changed and sand and mud were washed over these beds, burying them deeply. Finally the bottom of the sea was lifted and became dry land. The movement squeezed and folded the rocky layers made of the skeletons of the animals and plants. The soft parts of their bodies held in these rocky layers produced a greenish or brownish oil and gas. The gas tried to escape from the rocks, for they were hot and it wanted more room. In some places it found openings through the rocks and escaped to the surface, usually bringing some of the oil with it. The gas was lost, but a part of the oil remained, forming deposits of tar. In other places the oil and gas could not reach the surface, but found porous, sandy rocks into which they went and remained until the oil driller found them. The tar springs, or "seepages," indicate to the oil prospector where deposits of oil may possibly be found. He examines the country about and, selecting a favorable place, drills a well. If he is successful, he will strike oil-bearing rocks. The oil may be a few hundred feet below the surface, or it may be a mile below. In the latter case it takes months to drill the well. If a robber came and attempted to take by force the coal, oil, and gas which we are daily losing through our carelessness and indifference, even though he might put it to better use than we put it, there would at once go up a great cry. We would raise an army and fight for our property, and perhaps suffer great loss in defending it. But, day by day, without making any serious objection, we are letting these natural resources go to waste. Perhaps in some far distant future, after we have used up the stores of fuel in the earth, we may discover something to take its place; but wise and thoughtful people should make the most of what they have. CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE NEED FOR PROTECTION OF CREATURES THAT LIVE IN THE WATER Perhaps you think it is absurd to talk about caring for the creatures that live in the water, since they can so easily hide away in its depths where we cannot follow. Perhaps you think that because the ocean is so great it would be impossible ever to catch all the fish that live in it. It is easy to understand how all the fish might be caught out of the creeks, rivers, and shallow lakes, since fish are hungry and we put before them such attractive bait; but with the ocean it seems different. It stretches so many thousands of miles and is so very deep that there does not appear to be any danger of exterminating the animals of the ocean as we have some of those of the land. Is it true, however, that all the vast waters of the ocean are full of fish, or are they found only in certain parts? The fishermen can tell us about this matter. They know where to set the hooks and nets, and where they are most likely to get a good catch. They do not go far out where the water is deep but seek, instead, the shallow waters near the shore or about the reefs and islands. They know that the deep water of the ocean contains very few fish and none that are of any value as food. Each kind of fish has become adapted to certain parts of the ocean, for both the food supply and the pressure of the water differ with different depths. Fish caught in deep water are often dead before reaching the surface, because of the decrease in the water pressure. One reason why fish are not numerous far out in the ocean is because there is little food to be had there. The reason no fish are found in the very deep parts of the ocean is because the water there contains no air particles. Strange as it may seem, although fish breathe water, they cannot live unless it contains oxygen from the air. The fish, then, that interest us because of their value for food, are found only in the shallow waters usually near the shore and in the lakes and rivers. Because of this fact it is possible, as we have learned from experience, to set so many traps and use so many nets and hooks as entirely to destroy certain species. The fish have their natural enemies, and there is warfare among them just as there is among the land animals. The larger and more powerful live upon the smaller ones, but, seemingly to make up for this, Nature has given the small fish quickness of movement--which the large fish do not possess--to aid them in escaping. They have also the power of increasing very rapidly. The little herring, which is the chief food of many of the large fish, maintains its countless numbers against all its enemies except the fishermen. The Indians, with their crude traps, hooks, and spears, could obtain but few fish at a time and did not reduce their numbers. But civilized man, with his cunningly contrived hooks and nets, has the same advantage over the fish that the hunter, with his repeating gun, has over the land animals. Nature, not foreseeing how destructive man would be, has armed neither the creatures of the land nor the creatures of the water against him. The fisherman does his work just as thoughtlessly as the hunter whose business it is to supply the market. He seems to think no more about the effect upon next season's supply, of his stretching a net across a river and catching all the fish going up to spawn, than does the market hunter who would, if he could, shoot the last duck. Is it not strange that many fishermen will do anything in their power to evade the laws governing the catching of fish when by doing so they injure their own business? [Illustration: _Edward S. Curtis_ A rocky island in the Pacific Ocean, used by seals as a sunning place.] We have already nearly destroyed the mammals that live in the ocean. Among them are the whales, which were once numerous in the arctic regions. Few whaling ships now arrive with profitable cargoes of oil or whalebone. The sea otter, the fur of which is more highly prized than that of any other animal, and the walrus, valuable for its oil, are also nearly extinct. No more cruel hunting was ever carried on than was that of the seal mothers in the open ocean where they go in search of food. When the mothers are killed the young ones, left in the rookeries upon the Pribilof Islands, soon die of starvation. The fur seal has thus been so reduced in numbers that it was threatened with extinction. Now Russia, Japan, England, and the United States have agreed to stop all killing of the fur seal for a number of years. As a result of the great demand for fish, and the careless methods used by the thousands of men engaged in catching them, Nature unaided cannot keep up the supply. For the purpose of assisting her, strict laws have been passed in many states. These laws prohibit fishermen from stretching their nets or weirs across the streams so as to block the passage of the fish when going to their spawning grounds. They also prohibit the taking of undersized fish and in some cases allow none at all of some kinds to be taken for a given time. Our government is now doing a great deal to save the food fishes of the country, but some varieties are still decreasing. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ An Indian fish trap.] The little herring is the most valuable of all the sea fish. Enormous numbers are captured in nets, and still greater numbers form the food of other fish. The herring has so many enemies that it must increase rapidly in order to hold its place in the sea. Nature has arranged that this fish should produce twenty thousand or more eggs at each spawning season. It is thought that if only two eggs out of this great number hatch and grow up, the supply of herring will be maintained. This estimate does not, however, take into account the present terrible waste of herring in the Chesapeake and other bays on the Atlantic coast, where it is taken in nets and used for making land fertilizer. Is it any wonder that the herring is now decreasing in numbers? The oyster was once hunted so closely that it would have disappeared from our coast waters if the young had not been taken and raised artificially. Is it not interesting to know that we plant young oysters on oyster farms, and raise oyster crops, all below the level of high tide? The greatest oyster farms in the world are upon Chesapeake Bay. There are also oyster farms in other bays upon the Atlantic seaboard, and lately the oyster has been transplanted to the bays upon the Pacific Coast. The lobster was trapped so industriously that it also began to grow scarce. Finally the government took up the matter of protecting it. The eggs and the young were guarded, and now it is increasing in numbers. Once the sturgeon was very plentiful in the lakes and rivers of our country. For a long time it was thought to be of no value and was thrown away when caught in nets set for other fish. Then it was discovered that its flesh was delicious, and its eggs, known as _caviar_, became a very fashionable dish. After this there followed a period of most destructive fishing, and now sturgeon are quite scarce and high priced. Herring, shad, and salmon are migratory fish. By this we mean that they spend a part of their lives in the ocean but enter the bays and streams at the spawning season. You can readily understand that if the bays are blocked with nets the fish cannot reach the spawning grounds and their numbers must decrease. Chesapeake Bay contains such a maze of nets, many of them extending out ten miles from the shore, that it is a wonder that any fish get past them. [Illustration: _H. W. Fairbanks_ A fish wheel on the Columbia River, in which salmon are caught on their way to the spawning grounds.] The waters of New England were once filled with striped bass, smelt, salmon, and shad, but now these fish are almost gone. The shad are rapidly decreasing all along the Atlantic Coast. The nets in Lake Erie extend out sometimes ten miles from shore, and the whitefish as well as the sturgeon have been greatly reduced in numbers there. When the Pacific Coast was first settled, the "salmon run" in the Sacramento, Columbia, and other rivers was a wonderful sight. The waters were fairly alive with these huge fish. Hydraulic mining so muddied the waters of the Sacramento that their numbers greatly decreased. Then came the fishermen and stretched their nets across the rivers, so nearly blocking the channels that the salmon were rarely seen on their old spawning grounds. Now salmon fishing is carefully regulated and salmon are increasing. The shallow waters of San Francisco Bay, the ocean for some miles out from shore, and the waters about the islands of Southern California form very valuable fishing grounds, which, if they are taken care of, will furnish much larger supplies of fish than are now obtained. The interesting discovery has been made that the waters around the islands of Santa Catalina and San Clemente form important spawning grounds for many food fish, including the great tuna. These waters were fished so destructively that many of the fish were found to be decreasing. This has led to the establishment of a fish preserve for three miles about Santa Catalina Island. Within this area no fish are allowed to be taken except with a hook and line. Some of the most valuable fish, which were almost gone, are now becoming more numerous. The fact that the fish stay close about the island where the water is shallow makes the establishment of the preserve possible. The salmon and halibut fisheries of the Alaskan waters have long been the source of much profit. This region, owing to the many bays and islands, fairly swarms with fish of many kinds. Protection will soon be needed here if this great storehouse of fish is to be kept filled. The cod fisheries of the Newfoundland banks are among the most valuable in the world, and are almost the only ones where fishing has long been carried on and where the supply is not decreasing. The "banks" are formed by a great flat reef four hundred miles long, over which the water is shallow enough to offer a fine home for cod. Hatcheries have been established in many parts of our country for the purpose of collecting and hatching fish eggs. These are used for restocking those waters that have been fished out. After the eggs have hatched and the young fish have reached a certain stage, they are shipped to the streams where they are needed. The United States fishery on the McCloud River, California, has distributed rainbow trout all over the United States. Shad and striped bass have been brought from Eastern fisheries and planted in Pacific Coast waters, where they are now rapidly increasing. Thus we learn that valuable food fish live within certain narrow bounds instead of being distributed all through the waters of the globe. It is as easy, with our many ingenious devices of net and weir, to destroy the inhabitants of the water as it is to destroy those of the land with guns. CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX MAN MORE DESTRUCTIVE THAN THE OTHER ANIMALS We have learned something about the struggle among the plants and animals for food and for room on the earth. We must not think, however, that this struggle is at all like the war that is carried on between different nations. Wars are usually unnecessary and do more harm than good, for they result in the loss of the strongest and best men. But the struggle among the animals and plants has resulted in good, for it has crowded out the weakest and those less fitted to live. The struggle among all living things for food and a share of the sunshine has covered the earth with a far greater variety than there would otherwise be. Because so many more are born than there is room for, they crowd and elbow each other. Many are forced to make their homes in regions which they would not have chosen if they had been free to do as they pleased. It is partly because of this crowding that some of the animals which once lived on the ground became changed into birds and made their homes in the trees. A number of the mammals found more freedom in the water and finally became whales, seals, and walruses. Many moved into deserts and, in learning to live with very little water, developed curious bodies and habits. Some have found a home in the cold North, where they have become suited to a climate which would quickly kill those which had held their ground in the warm and moist tropical regions. Nature has thus filled the earth with an infinite variety of living things, each of which is doing its part in making the world beautiful and attractive. Man is Nature's last and most wonderful creation. He has learned to fly like the birds, to swim under the sea like the fish, and to harness Nature's forces and make them work for him. But man, with all his wisdom, has too often forgotten that he is really a brother to the lower creatures. The inhabitants of the air, the land, and the water could, if they were able to talk, tell the most pitiful tales of man's cruel treatment of them. Of course we have to eat, as do all other living creatures, but for thousands of years people have supplied their wants largely from agriculture and from the domestic herds. Although very few of us now have to hunt for our food, and these few are those who live far out on the borders of newly settled regions, yet we have not forgotten the hunting instincts of our ancestors. Our ancestors of long ago, like the savages on the earth today, seldom killed game unless they needed it for food. We, who think ourselves far better than they, now kill wild life for the pleasure of the chase. The professional hunter who seeks the glossy coats of the fur-bearing animals or the beautiful plumage of certain birds gives no thought to the wasted bodies that he leaves behind. Since men have become civilized and their needs have become so many, Nature's arrangements have been seriously disturbed. She has not armed the wild creatures against men, who, with all kinds of marvelous weapons, are able to take advantage of them. The wild creatures discover very quickly that they can find little protection against this new enemy, no matter how quick and sharp their senses are. The blue jay has only his sharp eyes to help him when he seeks the cunningly hidden nest of another bird with the hope of being able to dine upon eggs. The breakfast of the wolf depends alone upon his quickness in catching a rabbit. The mountain lion depends upon his stealthiness when stalking a deer. The Indian relies upon his skill in imitating the call or the appearance of an animal when he tries to approach near enough to use his bow and arrow. Civilized men have lost much of the keenness of sight and hearing they once had, but they have far more than made up for this through their ingenuity in making deadly weapons. We depend no longer upon the hunt for each day's supply of food. But the instinct to hunt which still remains we use to amuse ourselves while upon our camping trips. Some people even made a living by hunting for the market, although, fortunately for the wild creatures, little of this kind of hunting is now permitted. The desire to get out of doors and live for a time each year among the wild mountains is another instinct which comes to us from our savage forefathers. This is a beneficial instinct, for life in the fresh air gives us new strength. The hunting instinct is not wrong in itself. It is the manner in which we hunt that is wrong. But how much finer it would be if, instead of using an outing as an excuse to destroy the wild creatures, we should use it to learn about them and their curious ways. How much more real pleasure there is in studying the habits of the denizens of the woods and fields than there is in killing them! Many a boy wants to carry a gun, because he has read lurid stories of Indians and robbers, or of hunting in the jungles where lions and tigers abound. This often leads to the killing of harmless birds for the lack of bigger game. Boys should be taught either at home or in school the sacredness of life, and a feeling of pity and love for the wild creatures that are surrounded by enemies on every side. They should be taught that animals have feelings and that they want to live. They should be taught how wrong it is to destroy life uselessly. The nest of eggs or helpless young left to their fate through the thoughtless killing of a mother bird is a sight which must arouse the sympathy of every boy who has been taught what it means. [Illustration: _Eastman Kodak Company_ The only right way to hunt birds' nests--with a camera.] The killing of the mothers is the surest way to destroy a species. The laws in most of our states now regulate hunting during the breeding season and limit the number of wild animals or birds that may be taken in a given time. Whenever the numbers of any species become so reduced that it is in danger of extinction, all hunting of that species should be prohibited for a number of years. We should feel sorry for those men who live in a civilized land and get the benefit of its advantages and yet are worse than savages at heart. If these men who are so wasteful of wild life could be stripped of their destructive weapons and sent into the wilds to make their living as savages do, they would soon learn to be more careful. The animals prey upon each other because it is their nature to do so and because their lives depend upon it. Savages hunt because they must have food. We do not need to hunt, but, because of our higher intelligence, our hunting methods are far more destructive than are those of either animals or savages. CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN WHAT IS HAPPENING TO THE ANIMALS AND BIRDS Nature has done more for our land than for almost any other. She has given it vast forests, fertile soil, favorable climate, enormous water power, many minerals, and a wonderful variety of animal life. During all the centuries that the Indians lived here before the coming of white men, wild game furnished them their chief food, but in spite of this, the amount of game was not decreased. When our forefathers landed upon this continent, it fairly swarmed with animals and birds. With the clearing away of the forests and the settling of the prairies men could not help depriving many wild creatures of both their shelter and their food, but this was not the chief cause for their rapid decrease in numbers. Hunters followed them persistently into the wilder hills and mountains, and many, not needed for food, were killed for their furs. [Illustration: "There is no recovery of an extinct species. Conservation or devastation--which shall it be? Common sense demands the regulation of hunting in such a way that our wild life will persist as a permanent asset." _Western Wild Life Call_, published by the California Associated Charities for the Conservation of Wild Life.] Now we may travel for days through the remote and still unsettled parts of our country and see very little life of any kind except birds and the smaller animals, such as squirrels. Occasionally we may start up a deer that flees away from us like the wind. Still more rarely we come upon a bear and are fortunate if we get even the merest sight of him before he is gone. The fear of man has spread among all the wild creatures. There is good reason for this fear, because man has completely exterminated some species and so reduced the numbers of others that careful protection will be needed to save them. Travelers tell us that in those lands where man rarely goes the wild creatures have little fear of him. [Illustration: _L. A. Huffman, Miles City, Mont._ Why the buffalo have nearly disappeared from the land.] The story of the slaughter of the buffalo is known to us all. Once this noble animal roamed from the Alleghenies to the Rocky Mountains. Countless thousands were killed merely for their hides, and other thousands were killed for sport. Finally, when they were almost gone, people awoke to the importance of saving them. Several small herds, not more than a few hundred in number, that had escaped the hunters were placed under protection and now they are slowly increasing. [Illustration: _American Museum of Natural History_ A group of Roosevelt elk.] The grizzly, king of bears, was once abundant in parts of the Rocky Mountains and upon the Pacific slope, but now he is found only in the Yellowstone Park region. The man who killed the last specimen in California is proud of his great achievement. Of all the elk which once spread over the western part of our country, only a few remain outside of the Yellowstone region. A protected herd exists in the San Joaquin Valley, California, and another small herd roams through the wilder parts of the northern Coast Ranges. The antelope, so common on the plains only a few years ago, are all gone except for small, scattered herds in the more remote parts of the West. Of the many fur-bearing animals which once inhabited the Northwest, beavers were the most widespread and abundant. Their pelts were so valuable that they were used as money. For many years the trapping of these little animals was an important industry, until at last they were practically exterminated in every stream throughout the western half of the country. A few beaver are known to remain in the Yellowstone Park, where they are of course carefully protected. In Oregon a few escaped and have been carefully protected for some years. In certain places they are now quite abundant. In parts of New England and Canada they are now increasing under the protection of the game laws. The sea otter, now extremely rare, is so highly valued for its fur that it soon may become extinct, although completely protected by law. [Illustration: _New York Zoölogical Society_ A beaver and its lodge.] The passenger pigeon, whose flights almost covered the sky at times not more than forty years ago, and whose numbers seemed so great that no one believed it possible of extermination, is now gone forever. The extinction of these birds was due chiefly to their being slaughtered at their roosting places. The California condor, one of the largest of birds, is almost extinct. The prairie chicken has disappeared from the prairies and plains. Certain species of grouse, and especially the sage grouse, mountain quail, and others, which inhabit sparsely settled regions, are thought to be still holding their ground, but should be more carefully protected. The valley quail is, however, much reduced in numbers; while ducks, geese, and smaller shore birds are decreasing with each succeeding year. Even in the jungles of far-away Africa, where we would think the animals are exposed to little danger of extinction, some of them, such as the elephant, are in urgent need of protection. In the far North the great polar bear will not long survive unless rigidly protected. What terrible scourge has so suddenly come upon the birds and animals that once adorned our country? How is it that in the short space of fifty years many of them have almost disappeared from their ancient haunts? We feel like hiding our faces in shame, for it is the same man scourge that for many hundreds of years has been destroying the forests, the animals, and the birds of many other countries. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A California condor.] The helplessness of all the wild creatures before man's destructive weapons should arouse our sympathy, if nothing else does. Leaving out of account a few predatory animals that destroy large numbers of other animals, we should most earnestly try to protect those that remain. The beauty of the birds, their sweet music, the companionship which they afford, and, last but not least, their great value to the farmer and fruit grower, should arouse our earnest efforts in their behalf. In our country alone an army of five million men and boys go out to hunt wild creatures every year. The animals are so defenseless against man's weapons that it is not a fair fight, in which the quicker or sharper escape, but a slaughter. If these hunters were savages armed only with bows and arrows, then the wild creatures would have a chance for their lives. Besides, savages do not kill for sport, nor do they purposely destroy Nature's most valuable gifts to them. The forest that has been cut down will grow again. The soil that has been made poor will, if let alone, sometime become fertile again. But those species of birds, animals, and fish which we have completely destroyed will never be restored to us. [Illustration: _Nat'l Ass'n Audubon Societies_ The sage grouse, which is in danger of extinction.] CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT THE TRAGEDIES OF MILADY'S HAT AND CAPE Our savage ancestors depended largely for food upon animals, birds, and fish which they obtained. They used the skins and furs for clothing and the plumes for decorating themselves. They allowed no part of the bodies of the animals they killed to go to waste. We do not now have to depend upon the wild creatures for food, because our flocks and herds supply all that we require. But Dame Fashion has decreed that furs and feathers are still the proper thing to wear. Thus it has come about that those animals that have soft, furry coats and those birds that have bright plumage are hunted more eagerly now than they were long ago when food was the most important thing. The demand for furs has always been great and the trapping industry has employed thousands of men ever since our land was discovered, but in recent years feathers have become almost as important. No region where fur-bearing animals have their lairs, or birds of beautiful plumage have their nests, is too far away or too difficult for the hunters and trappers to go and hunt. The business of killing wild creatures for money makes beasts out of men and has led to most heartless cruelties. The savage, hunting for food, kills his prey at once; but the fur trapper with a circuit which takes sometimes a week to cover often has to leave his prey, tortured in the traps, until it starves to death. If the wearer of that handsome warm fur coat could know what was, perhaps, the story of the wild creature to which it once belonged, would she enjoy it so much? Could the wearer of that gay hat, for the making of which not only a mother bird, but perhaps a whole family of little ones, gave up their lives, take so much pleasure in it if she knew the history of its plumes? It is not the desire for warm furs about our necks or for beautiful feathers in our hats that is wrong. It is the needless suffering that those who hunt and trap cause the wild creatures that we should be ashamed of and insist upon having stopped. The work of the trapper and hunter is nearly done. These men have despoiled for money the life of a whole continent in a few short years. The fur-bearing animals, if hunted in moderation, would have continued to people the wilds for all time to come. But neither the wearer of furs nor the hunter has given one thought to their preservation. In the getting of bird plumage for millinery purposes we find cruelties practiced which are almost beyond our belief. The lowest savage that ever lived on the earth could be no worse than many of our bird hunters. Birds have habits which make them easier to kill than fur-bearing animals. Although the modern fashion for feathers began less than fifty years ago, the birds that afford bright and graceful plumage have already been nearly exterminated. Now most of them are protected in our country, and the sale of feathers from other countries is prohibited in our markets. But there are some places where the law is not enforced, as well as many other countries where there are no laws, and thoughtless women still wear plumes. To supply the demands of fashion all the remote lands as well as islands of the sea are being searched. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ Young great blue herons in their nest.] The slaughter began with the bright-colored songbirds, terns, gulls, herons, egrets, and flamingos. Then it extended to other sea birds, including the albatross, to bright-colored tropical birds, and to the wonderful birds of paradise. How true is the following statement made in a millinery store: "You had better take the feather for twelve dollars," said the clerk, "for it is very cheap at that price. These feathers are becoming scarce and very soon we shall not be able to secure them." Here is milady's beautiful cape glistening with all the colors of the rainbow. Of what is this gorgeous thing made? Would you believe it possible that it is formed entirely of humming birds' skins, with the heads and long, slender bills? Perhaps a thousand of the tiny birds were sacrificed that some woman might have a beautiful cape. Does it seem possible that any gentlewoman could wear this cape, who had any realization of the tragedies that had to take place in humming-bird life in order that it might be made? Could she wear this cape if she knew of the forsaken nests and the hundreds of dying young ones waiting for the mothers that never returned? [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ Forster's tern or sea swallow on its nest. The wings and tail of this bird are used for millinery purposes.] But more terrible, if anything, than the story of the humming-bird cape is the story of the delicate egret plumes on yonder hat. They once adorned the mother bird at nesting time in some far marsh. The feathers are almost perfect at this time, and to get them the bird must be killed. Each bunch of egret feathers represents a family tragedy,--a nest of little birds left to die, because the mother has been sacrificed to satisfy the demands of fashion. The plume hunters invade the nesting places of the egrets, herons, and flamingos, often leaving not a single bird in what were once happy colonies, except the starving little ones. Millions of these plumes have been obtained along our seacoasts and about the interior lakes and marshes. Is it any wonder that the egrets are nearly extinct as a result of this merciless slaughter? Now, when it is almost too late, protection has been given these beautiful birds. Bird refuges have been established at different favorable points along the South Atlantic and Gulf coasts and in the Klamath and Malheur Lake regions of Oregon. These refuges are watched over by wardens, and we hope that the birds inhabiting them will thus be enabled to increase and again fill the almost forsaken marshes. In our plea for the protection of the birds of attractive plumage, we must not forget those of the tropical jungles. Remote as many of these jungles are, the plumage hunter is devastating them already. The bird of paradise, found in the East India islands, will soon be extinct unless protected. CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE THE COURT OF THE ANIMALS AND BIRDS Once upon a time, not very long ago, the birds and animals were brought into court to be tried on the charge of committing all sorts of misdeeds. Some of their accusers wanted to shoot them for food. Others said they did much harm and should be destroyed, while still others envied their beautiful coats of fur or feathers. To settle the matter fairly, the judge decided that each prisoner should be tried by itself. The first case called was that of the English sparrow, who made such a noisy disturbance that the bailiff had to call for silence. All witnesses asserted that the bird was a foreigner and did not belong in this country. They further testified that the sparrow was a meddlesome, gossiping neighbor, always fighting the other birds and driving them away. The sparrow looked around, but not a single friend could he find. The court decided that he should be driven out and made the lawful prey of every one. He cautioned all present, however, always to be very careful to distinguish between the English sparrow and the other sparrows. The latter birds must on no account be molested, for they were without any exceptions most useful citizens. In regard to the linnet the judge hardly knew what to say. The bird was shown to be a sweet singer, but very destructive of fruit. It was finally decided that a census of the linnets must be taken occasionally. Whenever their number was found to be so great as to endanger the fruit crop in any particular place, the farmers were to be allowed to dispose of a certain number. The bobolink had many friends as well as enemies present. Every one that knew the bobolink in its summer home in the North insisted that this beautiful singer must be protected. But the people from the South, where it spends the winter, wished the privilege of shooting it. They said that its flesh formed a delicious morsel and also that in the rice fields, where it was known as the "rice bird," it did a great deal of harm. The judge refused to listen to the plea of the hunters and said that this attractive bird must be protected in both its winter and summer homes. The turn of the blue jay came next. Every one wondered what the charge against this bird with the beautiful blue plumage could be. Some thought that he was on trial for his discordant screeching, which alarmed all the inhabitants of the woods. The charge against the jay was, however, far more serious. He had been caught while making his breakfast of some baby birds which a mother robin had just hatched. The quail and every other small bird present called for vengeance on this ruthless destroyer of their homes. The gardener also added that the bird ate his cherries and apples. The jay now presented a strong defense, saying that most of his food was made up of harmful insects and worms. He proved that he did almost as much good as harm. The judge, knowing what a wise bird the jay was, told him to go but that he must thereafter look out for himself. The family of hawks was next examined. There were many witnesses who declared that they were the most destructive of neighbors and lived entirely upon small birds and chickens. The songbirds all raised their voices against hawks, saying that when they left their nests to hunt for food for their children, they were never sure of finding them alive upon their return. The judge inquired carefully as to the truth of these complaints, but found that only a few of the hawks were guilty as claimed. These included the peregrine falcon, sharp-shinned hawk, and Cooper's hawk. The other hawks proved that they were the farmers' best friends, for they waged endless war upon mice, rats, ground squirrels, gophers, and rabbits, and only occasionally caught other birds. They had evidence also that in those places where their numbers had been much reduced by the hunters, the small rodents increased enormously. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ Full-grown young red-tailed hawks.] The court had to be held at night to accommodate the owls and give them justice. The judge decided from the evidence that, in this family as in the last, there were good members as well as bad and he could not condemn them all to death. The owls proved that they were of even more benefit to the farmers than were the hawks, because of the large number of rats which they ate. The great horned owl and the barred owl only were singled out for punishment. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ The screech owl at home. This is a well-known bird, of great economic value because it catches so many mice.] The case of the meadow lark was called next. An old farmer complained that this bird had destroyed his young grain. Then the hunters made the plea that the meadow lark was really a game bird and that they ought to be allowed to shoot it. In defense of these birds the stomachs of many of them that had been killed were shown in court. It was proved that two thirds of all their food was made up of harmful insects and that the farmers ought to be glad to have them about. It was further shown that if the insects killed by the meadow larks in one day in the San Joaquin Valley, California, were loaded on the cars and hauled away, it would take a train of twenty cars of ten tons each. The meadow lark, upon this showing, was allowed to go unmolested and at once began a happy carol. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A coyote, one of the keenest-witted animals of the Western plains.] The grizzly bear had been summoned, but could not be found, for all of his species had been killed except a few in the Yellowstone Park. But the black bear was brought in and accused of eating young calves and colts. The stockmen asked that all the black bears be killed. The judge decided, however, that as there are so few left, and they are so timid and rarely do any harm, and are, besides, among the most interesting of the citizens of the woods, they should go free and be protected from the hunter. The coyote was next dragged in and accused of all manner of evil deeds. He pleaded in defense that he helped to keep down the numbers of the rabbits and ground squirrels, and that if it were not for his tribe, these little animals would eat up everything. The judge decided that the coyote was on the whole a rather unpleasant neighbor and refused to afford him any protection. Every one knew, however, that the coyote was so sharp and keen that he was a match for most of the enemies about him and would get along very well. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A weasel in its summer coat.] Those sly little animals, the skunk, weasel, coon, and mink, destroyed a great many birds, especially those that nested on or near the ground, according to the report of most of those present in court. But the skunk had some good friends who showed that his chief food was insects and worms, and that he did more good than harm. It was further proved that the fur of all these animals was so valuable that, while trapping them would be permitted, they must not be exterminated. In regard to the weasel, the testimony showed that he was a badly slandered animal. Most of his food appeared to be rats and mice, and only rarely did he kill chickens. The judge added that these poor animals had too often been condemned offhand. Although they occasionally ate chickens, no one had tried to find out the good which they did. To hear the complaints against the great California sea lion, the court adjourned to the seashore. The fishermen declared that the sea lion ate the fish upon which their livelihood depended, and also broke their nets. They demanded that all the sea lions be killed. Careful search in the stomachs of some of them that had been taken for that purpose made it very clear that the fishermen were wrong. The sea lions ate almost no fish, but lived upon squid and other sea animals not valuable to the fishermen. As a result, these interesting animals were given full protection. The oyster farmers complained most indignantly to the court about the conduct of the wild ducks. They said that the ducks ate a large part of the young oysters on their oyster farms. They wanted the ducks shot without delay, for their business was almost ruined. This matter was carefully looked into, and it was proved that the ducks really ate very few oysters. The judge remarked as he adjourned court that if all the accusations were true, hardly a wild creature would be left. He said further that each one was entitled to fair treatment at the hands of men unless it was wholly bad. CHAPTER THIRTY THE BIRDS OUR GOOD FRIENDS AND PLEASANT COMPANIONS As we lie partly awake on some bright spring morning, we hear through the open window such a chorus of music that it seems almost as though we must be in some enchanted land. This music, however, is the songs of the birds that nest about our homes. We can distinguish in the chorus the notes of many different birds. From the treetop come the sweet songs of the oriole and robin. Upon a low bush sits a black-headed grosbeak that never seems to weary of his refrain. From various hidden places in the dense foliage come the notes of the song sparrow and the lazuli bunting. From its perch upon some fence post the meadow lark adds to the cheerfulness of the morning. If your home is far enough south, you may hear the mocking bird pouring forth its melody in endless variation. Rising above all other sounds, as the morning advances, are the cheery calls of the quail who seems to say: "Where are you? Where are you? Stay right there; stay right there." Both in the morning and in the evening the almost heavenly music of the thrush echoes through the deep woods. In the quiet night the hoot of the owls is most entertaining. Would you for anything have the birds leave us? Would you for anything lose these airy creatures whose music, bright plumage, and graceful movements not only add so much to the pleasure of our daily lives but also serve us in so many ways? The woods, fields, and waters would be lonely without them. Did you ever think that it is possible, that it is indeed likely, that many of these beautiful creatures will leave us for all time if we do not treat them kindly and give them every protection in our power? Did you ever think of all the enemies that are constantly on the watch for the birds,--the thoughtless boy who robs their nests, the angry farmer who mistakenly believes they injure him, the hunter who thinks only of how good they taste, the sleek cat lying so innocently by your fireside, which loves a bird above everything else, and last of all, the blue jay, butcher bird, and some of the hawks and owls? To realize how our home would seem without birds, let us take an imaginary journey far across the water to "sunny Italy." Here you will rarely hear bird music upon spring mornings, unless it be that of some poor caged creature. If you will walk through the country, you will see few birds where once they must have been abundant. But upon every holiday you will see the fields filled with hunters, who with keen eyes are watching for any stray birds that have happened to stop on their journey across the country to rest and to hunt worms or taste a bit of fruit. The Italian does not know the good the birds do his garden and that it would be the part of wisdom for him to let them have a little of his corn and fruit. We will now journey to Spain and learn something about the treatment of our bird friends there. This country was once rich and prosperous. From it came many of the early explorers of our own land. The people of the central highlands of Spain never loved to hear the birds sing, because they were always thinking of the grain which the birds took. Thinking to save their crops, they not only killed and scared away all the birds they could, but they also cut down the trees so that the birds would have no places to nest. Thus the people freed themselves from the birds, but what was the harvest that they reaped? When the trees were gone they had no fuel, the soil dried out more quickly, and the insects increased until they destroyed far more of the grain and fruit than the birds could possibly have done. The people are now very poor and just manage to live from one harvest to another. Now let us learn a little about our own birds and what they are doing for us. We ought to know the habits of all the common birds that frequent our gardens and be able to tell each by its note. This would add greatly to our pleasure when out of doors and make us appreciate the services they are rendering. Go where you will through the open fields or among the trees and bushes, you will find different kinds of birds and all of them busily engaged. They are searching over every bit of ground as well as over the trunks, branches, and leaves of the trees. Some are after the seeds of different kinds of weeds. Others are getting the worms and insects that infest the trees. Watch a flock of the little titmice going carefully over all the leaves and branches of an oak tree. When they have finished, there are few insects or their eggs left upon it. How anxious are some of our farmers as well as the sportsmen to have the meadow lark classed as a pest or as a game bird. Would that the farmers knew how much good this bird does them! The stomachs of many of these larks have been carefully examined in order to find out what they really do eat. The contents show that more than half of the food of the meadow lark is made up of harmful insects, including beetles, grasshoppers, crickets, Jerusalem crickets, cutworms, caterpillars, wireworms, bugs, bees, ants, wasps, flies, spiders, and many others. These birds also eat large quantities of the seeds of weeds and at times damage the grain fields. The good that they do, however, far outweighs the evil. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A young meadow lark.] Woodpeckers belong to another class of birds that are very useful to us. How often have we heard them hammering upon a dead tree as they drill holes in search of the worms and beetles that are hidden under the bark or in the heart of the wood. It has long been the habit of hunters to shoot woodpeckers just for sport, although no one eats them nor are they known to do any harm. With a decrease in their numbers there has been an increase in insect pests which are now destroying so many trees in all parts of our country. The woodpeckers in the Sierra Nevada Mountains are worth almost their weight in gold, for they destroy millions of beetles that are killing the great sugar pines and yellow pines. Here and there you will find a tree, attacked by the beetles, from which the woodpeckers have almost stripped the bark in their search for these insects. The food of the martins and swallows is wholly made up of insects. We have all seen them in their graceful flight and have noticed how they seize their insect prey while on the wing. The martins are of little value for food, and yet, in some parts of our country they have become almost extinct because of the pursuit of them by pot hunters. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A barn swallow.] [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A least sandpiper or snipe, one of the shore birds.] The shore birds form a group of very great value. They include those long-legged birds with slender bills which are found, usually along the shores of the ocean and of lakes and small bodies of water, but sometimes in the interior away from the water. The food of these birds is almost wholly insects, which are harmful in various ways. Among these insects are grasshoppers, army worms, cutworms, cabbage worms, grubs, horseflies, and mosquitoes. So cruelly and relentlessly have the shore birds been pursued by men who call themselves "sportsmen;" that many species are nearly extinct. We hope that the Migratory Bird Law will be enforced and that with the protection this gives them they will again increase and fill their old haunts. But we must ever be on the watch, for there will still be greedy hunters trying to evade the law until all our boys grow up with love and appreciation for the birds. The killdeer, snipe, and other plovers, whose habits make them the most interesting of the shore birds, especially need our protection. We have all seen these birds in our walks along the shore. Small and delicate their bodies are; each one would make scarcely a mouthful, and yet the pot hunters have seemed determined to kill them all. How many people ever think of the quail in any other light than as a delicious morsel to be served up on toast for dinner? The quail is not only useful because of the insects which it destroys, but is a most wonderfully interesting and attractive bird. If you have ever disturbed a mountain quail with a brood of young, you will never forget what an interesting sight the mother presented as she strutted back and forth on a log, warning her little ones to keep out of sight. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ A white heron.] Quail eat over a hundred kinds of insects, and happy should be that farmer who can get them to come about his home. Can you find it in your heart to shoot the father bird, as, perched upon some sightly point, he watches for danger while the mother just off the nest with her little brood feeds trustfully under his care? The hunting of quail for market is now prohibited by law. But before protection came market hunters were known to carry out the most cruel methods in order to bag the quail in large numbers. In the drier parts of our country, the springs where quail came to drink were covered until the thirsty birds gathered in large numbers. In this way the hunters were able to obtain all they wanted. [Illustration: _Finley & Bohlman_ Gulls and terns on their resting ground.] Let us henceforth show by our kindness and good will to the living things around us that we are not merciless savages, thinking only of something to eat, but rather that we appreciate their presence and the great good that they do. CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE HOW TO BRING THE WILD CREATURES BACK AGAIN In the preceding chapters we have learned something of the destructive warfare that men have carried on against wild creatures. We have learned that some species are already extinct and that many others have been so reduced in numbers that they are threatened with the same fate. Nothing that we can do will bring back those that are gone, but we can save those that are left. Throughout our own country as well as many foreign countries, people are waking up to the necessity of protecting wild life. Thousands of men and women are spending their time and money trying to save birds and other animals. Among the things they are doing is the establishing of refuges and game preserves, working for better laws, and teaching boys and girls to be careful of life and not wantonly to destroy it. The most important thing that we can do to bring wild creatures back again is to let them alone. Man is their worst enemy, and, if he can be kept from hunting, nearly all will be able to take care of themselves and increase in numbers. We can help Nature by supplying them with food when it is scarce and by protecting them from a few predatory animals and birds. The worst of these are the cougar or mountain lion, wild cat, lynx, wolves, and coyotes; the blue jay, butcher bird, and several of the hawks and owls. The cougar is the worst of all, for it has been estimated that one of these animals kills on the average fifty deer a year. Many of the states offer bounties for the killing of the mountain lion and coyote. Ordinarily birds are able to secure their own food; but sometimes during long, snowy winters those that do not fly away South need food. There are also many trees which bear fruit that is not much used by us but which is very attractive to the birds. The planting of such trees aids in bringing birds to our homes and encourages their increase. [Illustration: We can help to conserve bird life by providing safe nesting places for our feathered friends.] The settlement of the lands suitable to farming has deprived some of the hoofed animals, such as the elk, of their natural feeding grounds. The elk that are found in the summer in the meadows of the Yellowstone Park migrate in winter to the lower valleys outside of the park. These valleys are mostly fenced up, and to keep the elk from getting into trouble with the farmers it is often necessary for the government to buy hay and feed them. In order to make sure that the wild animals shall be free to live and increase safe from the hunter, we have established great game preserves in different parts of the country. These are usually regions that are wild and unsettled and not useful for other purposes. All the great National Parks which we are trying to keep in their natural condition with their animals, birds, and plants are now game preserves. Among them are the Yellowstone, Yosemite, Rainier, and Crater Lake parks. Visitors to these preserves are not allowed to carry any guns, and wardens constantly patrol them. The life of the Yellowstone Park is wonderfully interesting. Here we find droves of many of the animals that were in danger of becoming extinct. Among them are the buffalo, elk, and antelope. Here the grizzly and all the lesser bears are safe from the hunter. They have almost lost their fear of man and come about the camps and hotels for food, as the domestic animals do. In the park are some colonies of beaver, too, which will never again be disturbed by the fur hunter. On the higher peaks are a few Rocky Mountain sheep. Another way in which we are protecting the wild animals is by making it legal to hunt them during only a short time each year. This is called the "open season." In the case of some of the animals that are nearly extinct we have made a "closed season" extending through a number of years. With this protection we are hoping that they will be saved and sometime become numerous again. All our states have made game laws which give more or less protection to the deer, elk, moose, antelope, squirrel, and other animals. In the case of some of these animals the females are absolutely protected, and the number of the males--as of the deer, for example--that may be killed in a season is often as small as two, and in two states it is only one. A heavy fine is imposed upon any one killing the protected animals or having their meat in his possession. We are trying to protect the birds in much the same manner as the wild animals. But because of their migrations this is much more difficult. Many kinds of birds travel with the changing seasons from north to south across different countries. If the people of one country protect them and those of another do not, they may easily become exterminated. Some species have become extinct in the last fifty years, and others have been reduced to a few pairs in regions where they were once seen in thousands. There are three things that have brought about this slaughter of the birds. The first is hunting them for food. This was not so serious until the market hunters began their work. Then the small game birds that were salable quickly began to disappear. In most of our states the sale of game birds in the market is now prohibited. Another cause for the decrease in the birds is the wanton shooting of some just for sport, and the hunting of others that are mistakenly supposed to be harmful. We cannot wholly stop this until we teach people to respect the birds, to love them for their music, and to appreciate the great good which many of them do by their destruction of insects and small animal pests. Many of the birds which we have too often tried to kill or drive away are among the best friends we have. When we have learned all about their habits and their food, we shall find that only a very few are really harmful, and that the others abundantly repay the toll that they take of our produce. The farmer and the fruit grower should be particularly interested in protecting and encouraging the birds. If the birds pull up the sprouting seeds in your garden, do not kill them but protect the plants with wire screens. It is likely that these very birds feed largely upon the insects that are so harmful to your crops. If the children in our schools could spend a little of their time in the interesting study of bird life, we are sure that when they grow up the wanton destruction of birds will almost cease. The Boy Scouts and the Camp Fire Girls are learning to love and respect life in the wilds and would not for anything injure its inhabitants. The children of the Agassiz Associations and the Junior Audubon Societies can also be proud of the work they are doing. They are not only saving the birds about our homes but are attracting others by putting out food, planting trees that bear attractive fruit, and making nesting places for the birds. [Illustration: _American Forestry Association_ The boys who are going to see that our wild life is protected.] The third important thing which has been bringing about the decrease of the birds is hunting them for their plumes. For fifty years the demand for plumes for millinery purposes has been growing. The trade has spread until it now reaches the most remote islands of the sea. No bird, be its home in the most remote and inaccessible jungles, has until recently been safe from the plume hunter. Now some of the foremost nations have passed laws for the protection of many of the water and jungle birds, which, unfortunately for themselves, are so beautiful that milady longs to have them for her bonnet. Nearly all the states of our own land offer more or less protection to birds of beautiful plumage. There is, however, much yet to be done, for in parts of our country birds that should be protected are still at the mercy of the plume hunter. The Migratory Bird Law recently passed by Congress is one of the most important things which we have ever done for the birds. This law protects the multitude of water birds as well as land birds, that migrate with the changing seasons. It is especially important that all such birds be protected in the regions where they nest. In the case of the water birds the nests are often grouped in colonies in certain places and not scattered singly here and there as with most land birds. Thus when a colony, say of the heron, tern, or flamingo, is found it is very easy for the hunter to break it up and destroy all the birds. Among the water birds the gulls, terns, grebes, herons, egrets, osprey, flamingos, and pelicans have been so hunted for their plumes that some of them are almost extinct. Several of these species love the rocky coasts, where their nests are found upon the almost bare ledges of the cliffs. Others establish colonies about the marshy lagoons of the Gulf and South Atlantic coasts and about the marshy shore of the lakes of the interior. During recent years many bird refuges have been established in various parts of the country. Such refuges are now scattered all along the Atlantic and Gulf coasts, as well as at various other localities throughout the country which are favorite nesting places for the birds. Some of these refuges have been established and are guarded by the government; others have been donated by wealthy persons who love birds and want to see them preserved. [Illustration: _E. R. Sanborn, N. Y. Zoölogical Society_ A flock of wild duck.] The most beautiful of the water birds have been so relentlessly hunted by the plume gatherers that at the time of the establishment of the refuges some of them were almost extinct and it was feared the birds would not be able to survive. But in most cases the effect of protection was magical. The bird refuges in the Southern coast islands and marshes which were almost deserted are now alive again with birds. Here we can get some idea of the wonderful richness of life before the bird hunters began their work. Even now, in spite of the watchful patrols, the hunters sometimes succeed in getting at the colonies. In order to insure full protection the refuges must be extended and more patrols employed, for such is the value of the plumes that desperate men will undergo great risks for the sake of obtaining them. In order fully to stop this work, all those countries where plumes are in demand must forbid their sale. Only when there is no more demand can we get rid of the hunters. In our efforts to protect bird life, we must not forget to take into account the instincts of our friend Pussy. It hardly seems as though the quiet house cat could do much harm, but if you will watch one out of doors when the birds are around you will be convinced that Pussy is one of the worst enemies that small birds have. Cats destroy many thousands of birds throughout the country. It is believed that they each average at least fifty birds killed every year. If you will multiply this number by the number of cats in your neighborhood, you will get some idea of the great losses among the birds due to the cats. We must choose between Pussy and the birds. Arbor Day and Bird Day in our schools help call to mind the claims Nature has upon us. We might celebrate them by planting trees which furnish food that the birds like, for the trees and birds go together. How pleasant it will be when that happy time comes in which the wild creatures will cease to regard man as their worst enemy! How pleasant it will be to go out through the fields and woods and along the shores and find that they look upon us as friends! THE PRECEPTOR'S PLEA FOR THE BIRDS Plato, anticipating the Reviewers, From his Republic banished without pity The Poets; in this little town of yours, You put to death, by means of a Committee, The ballad-singers and the Troubadours, The street musicians of the heavenly city, The birds, who make sweet music for us all In our dark hours, as David did for Saul. The thrush that carols at the dawn of day From the green steeples of the piny wood; The oriole in the elm; the noisy jay, Jargoning like a foreigner at his food; The bluebird balanced on some topmost spray, Flooding with melody the neighborhood; Linnet and meadow lark, and all the throng That dwell in nests, and have the gift of song. You slay them all! and wherefore? for the gain Of a scant handful more or less of wheat, Or rye, or barley, or some other grain, Scratched up at random by industrious feet, Searching for worm or weevil after rain! Or a few cherries, that are not so sweet As are the songs these uninvited guests Sing at their feast with comfortable breasts. Do you ne'er think what wondrous beings these? Do you ne'er think who made them, and who taught The dialect they speak, where melodies Alone are the interpreters of thought? Whose household words are songs in many keys, Sweeter than instrument of man e'er caught! Whose habitations in the treetops even Are halfway houses on the road to heaven! Think, every morning when the sun peeps through The dim, leaf-latticed windows of the grove, How jubilant the happy birds renew Their old, melodious madrigals of love! And when you think of this, remember too 'Tis always morning somewhere, and above The awakening continents, from shore to shore, Somewhere the birds are singing evermore. Think of your woods and orchards without birds! Of empty nests that cling to boughs and beams As in an idiot's brain remembered words Hang empty 'mid the cobwebs of his dreams! Will bleat of flocks or bellowing of herds Make up for the lost music, when your teams Drag home the stingy harvest, and no more The feathered gleaners follow to your door? What! would you rather see the incessant stir Of insects in the windrows of the hay, And hear the locust and the grasshopper Their melancholy hurdy-gurdies play? Is this more pleasant to you than the whir Of meadow lark, and its sweet roundelay, Or twitter of little fieldfares, as you take Your nooning in the shade of bush and brake? You call them thieves and pillagers; but know They are the winged wardens of your farms, Who from the cornfields drive the insidious foe, And from your harvests keep a hundred harms; Even the blackest of them all, the crow, Renders good service as your man-at-arms, Crushing the beetle in his coat of mail, And crying havoc on the slug and snail. HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, _The Birds of Killingworth_ INDEX Abandoned farms, 52. Acacia tree, gum arabic made from, 95. Adobe soil, 58. Æolian soil, 66. Africa, need for protection of animals in, 180. Agassiz Associations, work of, 207. Air, importance of pure, 10. Alaska, protection of fish in waters about, 170. Alkali soil, 59. Alluvial soil, 64. Animals, the first domestic, 5; careless destruction of, 12, 49; court of birds and, 188-194; predatory, 203. Antelope, disappearance of, 179; in Yellowstone Park, 205. Appalachian Forest, the, 133-134. Arabs, life of the, 25. Arbor Day, celebration of, 210; Argentine ant, a plague, 153. Australia, rabbits as pests in, 152. Aztec Indians, 20. Bacteria in soil, 59-60. Balance of nature, 151; effects of upsetting, 151-154. Barren Lands, 101. Bears, in early times, 21; in Yellowstone Park, 205. Beaver, trapping of, 179; protection of, 205. Big trees of California, 49, 99. Bird Day, observance of, 210. Bird of paradise, nearly extinct, 187. Bird refuges, 187, 208-209; patrols for, 209-210. Birds, 21; extinct species of, 22; destruction of, 49, 176-182; hunting of, for millinery purposes, 183-187; court of the, 188-194; our good friends and pleasant companions, 195-202; predatory, 203; national protection of, 205-206. Black bears, case of the, 192-193. Blue jays, 189. Bobolink, friends and enemies of, 189. Bone, implements of, 3. Boy Scouts, love of, for wild creatures, 207. Broad-leaved and narrow-leaved trees, 98. Bronze, making of, 5. Browntail moth, 152. Buffaloes, 21; slaughter of, 177; in Yellowstone Park, 205. California, forests of, 49, 98; "big trees" of, 99. California condor, disappearance of, 180. Camp Fire Girls, love of, for wild creatures, 207. Camping parties, forest fires started by, 122. Canada, beaver in, 179. Canada balsam, 93. Canals, use of water for, 87. Cats, killing of birds by, 210. Chesapeake Bay, fisheries of, 167. Chestnut-tree blight, 107. China, results of destruction of vegetation in, 79-80. Christmas decorations, 149. Cigarettes, forest fires caused by, 122. Citrus canker, 109. "City on the Plain, The," 14. Clay, a part of soil, 58. Clay loam, 58. Closed season for hunting, 205. Coal, care necessary in use of, 12; unequal distribution of, 27; deposits and mining of, 155-156; waste connected with, 156-157. Cod fisheries, 170. Codling moth, 153. Colorado River, mud carried by, 73; use of water of, for irrigation, 87. Cone-bearing trees, 98; enemies of, 110. Conservation, meaning of, 8. Conservation commissions, 138. Coon, arguments for and against the, 193. Cotton-boll weevil, 153. Cougar, a predatory beast, 203. Coyotes, killing of, 152; defense of, 193. Crater Lake National Park, 140. Deer, killed by cougars, 203. Deltas of rivers, 43, 55; alluvial soil in, 64. Desert, results of lack of vegetation in the, 70-71. Digger pines, 99. Ducks, complaints of oyster farmers against, disproved, 194. Egrets, killing of, 185, 187. Electricity, harnessing of, 8; use of water for making, 88. Elephant, urgent need of protection of, 181. Elk, 21; hunting of, 179; feeding grounds of, 204. English sparrow, 153; should be driven out, 188. Erie Canal, 87. Eskimos, the, 25; wood lacking among, 89. Farmers, great value of work of, 51. Feldspar, rock grains called, 63. Fertilizers, 11; use of herring for, 167. Field mice, plagues of, 151. Fire, ignorance of early people concerning, 3; discovery of, 3. _See_ Forest fires. Fish, caring for, 14; protection needed by, 162-165. Fish preserves, 169-170. Fish traps, 22, 165-169. Flamingos, killing of, 187. Flowers, destruction of, 144-149. Fool's gold, 63. Forest fires, 110-111, 119-124; steps taken by national government to prevent, 131-138. Forest rangers, work of, 134-137. Forests, effect of cutting down of, on birds, 22; unequal distribution of, 26-27; destruction of, 34; effect of destruction of, on soil, 37-38, 40-42; possible restoration of, 47-49; importance of, to man, 89-95; location of, 96-103; special sources of damage to, 104-111; various methods by which wasted, 112-118; government protection of, 131-138; National Parks and Forests as playgrounds, 139-143. France, cutting of forests and careless pasturing in, 79. Fruit trees, enemies of, 107, 109. Fuel, use of wood for, 90; use of peat for, 155. Fur seals, destruction of, 165. Game preserves, 204-205. Gas, waste connected with, 157-161. Glacial soil, 65. Goats, forests injured by, 111. Grand Cañon National Park, 140. Grasshoppers, plagues of, 109, 151. Great plains, 96. Grizzly bears, destruction of, 179, 192; in Yellowstone Park, 205. Gusher in California oil field, 158, 159. Gypsy moth, 106-107, 151. Hardwood trees, 98. Hawks, arguments for and against, 189-190. "Heart of the Tree, The," 139. Hens, early ancestors of, 5. Herons, hunting of, for their plumage, 185. Herring, waste in capture of, 166-167. Hessian fly, 153. Houses, the first, 3. Huckleberry shrub, cutting of, 147, 149. Humming birds, use of skins of, for capes, 186. Humus, in soil, 57; destruction of, by forest fires, 123, 125. Indians, life of, 19-23; uses found by, for wood, 90; fishing methods of, 163. Insect enemies of trees, 106, 109, 110, 152-154; warfare waged against, by forest rangers, 136-137; eaten by birds, 197-202. "In the Heart of the Woods," 24. Iron, found in quartz sand, 58. Irrigation, storage of water for, 84, 85, 87. Italy, results of destruction of forests in, 77, 79; wild chestnuts valued in, 90; scarcity of birds in, 196. Jays, arguments for and against, 189. Jungle fowls, wild, 5. Junior Audubon Societies, work of, 207. Klamath Lake, bird refuge about, 187. Korea, results of destruction of vegetation in, 79-80; dikes built along rivers in, 80. Lightning, an enemy of the forest, 110-111; fires started by, 121. Limestone soils, 59. Loam, clay and sandy, 58. Lobsters, protection of, 167. Los Angeles, water supply of, 29-30. Lumber, an important use of trees, 90. Lumbering, waste of trees in, 114-118. Malheur Lake, bird refuge about, 187. Maple sugar, 93. Martins, insects eaten by, 199. Meadow larks, 191-192. Medicinal products from trees, 93, 95. Metals, discovery of, 4-5. Mica, in quartz sand, 58. Migrations of birds, 205-206. Migratory Bird Law, 200, 208. Mills, the first, 7. Mineral resources, destruction and new supply of, 49-50. Mink, points against and in favor of, 193. Mississippi Valley, rich prairies of, 53-54. Mistletoe, an enemy of trees, 107. Mocking bird, song of, 195. Mongoose, as a pest, 153, 154. Montenegro, results of destruction of soil in, 79. National Forests, 133-139. National Parks, 19, 139-143; are game preserves, 204-205. Nets, catching of fish in, 167, 169. New England, soil of, 51-53; gypsy and browntail moths in, 152; beaver in, 179. Newfoundland banks, fisheries of, 170. Nitrogen, in soil, 57; stored in soil by plants, 77. Norway rat, 153. Oil, waste connected with, 157-161. Open season for hunting, 205. Orange orchards, citrus canker in, 109. Oregon, protection of beaver in, 179; bird refuges in, 187. Owens River aqueduct, 29. Owls, good and bad points of, 190-191. Oysters, raised on oyster farms, 167. Palestine, destruction of vegetation in, 79. Panama Canal, 87. Passenger pigeon, extermination of, 22, 180. "Passing of the Forest, The," 130. Pear blight, 109. Peat, crumbling vegetation called, 57; use of, for fuel, 155. Peat soils, 58, 59, 66. Phosphorus in soil, 59. Pine beetles, 110. Piñon pines, 99. Plant food, 45, 60. Plants, enemies of, 104-111. Plumage, hunting of birds for, 183-187, 207-208. Polar bear, protection needed by, 181. Potash in soil, 59. Powder, discovery of, 8. Prairie chicken, disappearance of, 180. "Preceptor's Plea for the Birds, The," 211-212. Pueblo Indians, 19-20. Quail, need for protection of, to preserve from extinction, 180; cheery call of, 195; value and attractiveness of, 201; insects eaten by, 202. Quartz, in sand grains, 58. Quinine, made from cinchona tree, 95. Rabbits, as pests, 152. Rainier National Park, 140. Rats, plagues of, 151. Redwood trees, 99. Refuges for birds, 22. Residual soil, 64. Rocks, soil made from, 58, 61-66. Rocky Mountain sheep, in Yellowstone Park, 205. Rubber trees, 93. Sage grouse, need for protection of, 180. Salmon fisheries, 169-170. San Joaquin Valley, 101. San José scale, 109, 151, 153. Santa Catalina Island, fish preserve about, 169. Sea lions, 194. Sea otter, destruction of, 22, 165; protection of, by law, 179. Seals, fur, 22; hunting of, 165. Sequoias, 99, 115. Shad, decrease in numbers of, 169. Sheep, damage done to forests by, 111. Shingle makers, waste of trees by, 115. Shore birds, value of, 200. Sierra Nevadas, "big trees" on, 49; changes in climate in ascent of, 101, 103; usefulness of woodpeckers in, 199. Silt, 75. Skunks, friends and enemies of, 193. Soda in soil, 59. Soil, care of the, 11-12; effect of destruction of forests upon, 37-38, 40-42; renewal of, by nature, 45; story of formation of, 51-56; real wealth of world formed by, 56; things of which made, 57-60; plant food in, 60; how made, 61-66; how vegetation holds, 67-72; our most valuable possession, 74; evil effects upon, of no protecting carpet of vegetation, 74-80; effect of, on growth of trees, 101. Songbirds, hunting of, for their plumage, 185. Southern states, destruction of soil in, 77; turpentine from pine forests of, 93. Spain, waste of resources of, 25-26; results in, of loss of soil, 79; treatment of birds in, 196. Spruce forest, destruction of, by forest fires, 126. Squirrels, nuts of trees eaten by, 109; ground, as pests, 152. Stone, implements of, 3. Sturgeon, destructive fishing of, 167. Subsoil, 64. Sugar pines, 99; nuts of, eaten by squirrels, 109; careless cutting of, 115. Swallows, insects eaten by, 199. Switzerland, care of wood in, 93, 114. Syria, destruction of vegetation in, 79. Tamarack forests, use of, 126. Trees, destruction of, 12; importance of, to man, 89-95; distribution of, in United States, 96-103; enemies of, 104-111; the careless wasting of, 111-118. Tundras of far North, 101. Turpentine obtained from yellow pines, 93. Valley lands, 40, 42; fertility of, 53; alluvial soil in, 64. Vegetation, holding of soil by, 67-72; results of lack of, 73-80. Walrus, nearly extinct, 165. Water, obtaining of pure, 10-11; home of, the ocean, 81; use and care of, 81-88. Water creatures, need for protection of, 162-170. Water power, use of, 157. Water supply, effect upon, of cutting of forests, 127-129. Weasels, defense of, 193. White Mountain Forest, the, 134. White-pine blister, 107. Wild flowers, necessity for care of, 144-149. Wind, effect of, on soil, 65-66; an enemy of the forests, 110. Wood alcohol, 117. Woodpeckers, usefulness of, 198. Yangtse-kiang, soil carried away by, 80. Yellow Sea, reason for name, 80. Yellowstone National Park, 140; a game preserve, 204-205; animal life in, 205. Yosemite National Park, 140. _NEW-WORLD SCIENCE SERIES_ _Edited by John W. Ritchie_ TREES, STARS _and_ BIRDS A BOOK OF OUTDOOR SCIENCE By EDWIN LINCOLN MOSELEY _Head of the Science Department, State Normal College of Northwestern Ohio_ The usefulness of nature study in the schools has been seriously limited by the lack of a suitable textbook. It is to meet this need that _Trees, Stars, and Birds_ is issued. The author is one of the most successful teachers of outdoor science in this country. He believes in field excursions, and his text is designed to help teachers and pupils in the inquiries that they will make for themselves. The text deals with three phases of outdoor science that have a perennial interest, and it will make the benefit of the author's long and successful experience available to younger teachers. The first section deals with trees, and the discussion of maples is typical: the student is reminded that he has eaten maple sugar; there is an interesting account of its production; the fact is brought out that the sugar is really made in the leaves. The stars and planets that all should know are told about simply and clearly. The birds commonly met with are considered, and their habits of feeding and nesting are described. Pertinent questions are scattered throughout each section. The book is illustrated with 167 photographs, 69 drawings, 9 star maps, and with 16 color plates of 58 birds, from paintings by Louis Agassiz Fuertes. It is well adapted for use in junior high schools, yet the presentation is simple enough for pupils in the sixth grade. _Cloth, viii + 404 + xvi pages. Price $1.60_ WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO [Illustration] ELIZABETH V. BROWN'S NATURE AND INDUSTRY READERS These books draw upon the world's best literature, and present well-selected nature material and stories of industry. They are adapted for use either as readers, or to supplement nature, geography, and history lessons. STORIES OF WOODS AND FIELDS Alluring stories of animals, with chapters on our national holidays For fourth and fifth grades. Cloth. 192 pages. Illustrated in _colors_. Price 72 cents. WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNG A fascinating story of the development of modern means of communication, transportation, agriculture, etc. Affords material for supplementary history lessons. For fifth or higher grades. Cloth. 160 pages. Illustrated. Price 64 cents. STORIES OF CHILDHOOD AND NATURE Stories of unusual interest, by some of the greatest and most gifted authors. Much of the material is of pronounced geographic value. For fifth and sixth grades. Cloth. 222 pages. Illustrated. Price 68 cents. WORLD BOOK COMPANY YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK 2126 PRAIRIE AVENUE, CHICAGO 
35419	----	WOOD AND FOREST _By_ WILLIAM NOYES, M.A. Formerly Assistant Professor of Industrial Arts Teachers College, Columbia University NEW YORK CITY [Illustration] THE MANUAL ARTS PRESS PEORIA, ILLINOIS COPYRIGHT WILLIAM NOYES 1912 _FIFTH EDITION, 1921_ _Printed in United States of America_ FOREWORD This book has been prepared as a companion volume to the author's _Handwork in Wood_.[1] It is an attempt to collect and arrange in available form useful information, now widely scattered, about our common woods, their sources, growth, properties and uses. As in the other volume, the credit for the successful completion of the book is to be given to my wife, Anna Gausmann Noyes, who has made the drawings and maps, corrected the text, read the proof, and carried the work thru to its final completion. Acknowledgments are hereby thankfully made for corrections and suggestions in the text to the following persons: Mr. A. D. Hopkins, of the United States Department of Agriculture, Bureau of Entomology, for revision of the text relating to Insect Enemies of the Forest, in Chapter VI. Mr. George G. Hedgcock, of the United States Bureau of Agriculture, Bureau of Plant Industry, for revision of the text relating to the fungal enemies of the forest, in Chapter VI. Mr. S. T. Dana and Mr. Burnett Barrows, of the United States Department of Agriculture, Forest Service, for revision of Chapters IV, V, VI, VII, and VIII. Professor Charles R. Richards, formerly Head of the Manual Training Department of Teachers College, my predecessor as lecturer of the course out of which this book has grown. Professor M. A. Bigelow, Head of the Department of Botany of Teachers College, for revision of Chapter I, on the Structure of Wood. Mr. Romeyn B. Hough, of Lowville, N. Y., author of _American Woods_ and _Handbook of the Trees of the Northern States and Canada_, for suggestions in preparing the maps in Chapter III. The Forest Service, Washington, D. C., for photographs and maps credited to it, and for permission to reprint the key to the identification of woods which appears in Forest Service Bulletin No. 10, _Timber_, by Filibert Roth. The Division of Publications, U. S. Department of Agriculture, for permission to copy illustrations in bulletins. The Macmillan Company, New York, for permission to reproduce Fig. 86, Portion of the Mycelium of Dry Rot, from _Timber and Some of its Diseases_, by H. M. Ward. Mrs. Katharine Golden Bitting, of Lafayette, Indiana, for the photograph of the cross-section of a bud, Figure 5. Finally and not least I hereby acknowledge my obligations to the various writers and publishers whose books and articles I have freely used. As far as possible, appropriate credit is given in the paged references at the end of each chapter. [Footnote 1: William Noyes, _Handwork in Wood_, Peoria, Ill. The Manual Arts Press, 231 pp., $2.] CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE General Bibliography 4 I The Structure of Wood 9 II Properties of Wood 41 III The Principal Species of American Woods 57 IV The Distribution and Composition of the North American Forests 197 V The Forest Organism 211 VI Natural Enemies of the Forest 229 VII The Exhaustion of the Forest 251 VIII The Use of the Forest 271 Appendix 289 Index 304 GENERAL BIBLIOGRAPHY Apgar, A. G., _Trees of the Northern United States_. N. Y.: American Book Co., 224 pp. A small book dealing with the botany of trees, giving descriptions of their essential organs, and particularly valuable for the leaf key to the trees. It should be supplemented by Keeler or Hough's Handbook. Baterden, J. R., _Timber_. N. Y.: D. Van Nostrand Co., 1908, 351 pp. A description of the timbers of various countries, discussion of timber defects, timber tests, etc. Bitting, K. G., _The Structure of Wood_. _Wood Craft_, 5: 76, 106, 144, 172, June-Sept., '06. A very scholarly and valuable series of articles on wood structure and growth. Excellent microphotographs. Britton, Nathaniel Lord, _North American Trees_. N. Y.: Henry Holt & Co., 1908, 894 pp. A description of all the kinds of trees growing independently of cultivation in North America, north of Mexico, and the West Indies. The standard Botany of trees. Boulger, G. S., _Wood_. London: Edward Arnold, 369 pp. A thoro discussion of wood structure, with chapters on the recognition and classification of woods, defects, preservation, uses, tests, supplies, and sources of wood. Good illustrations. Bruce, E. S., _Frost Checks and Wind Shakes_. _Forestry and Irrigation_, 8: 159, April, '02. An original study of the splitting of trees by sudden frost and thaw. Bruncken, Ernest, _North American Forests and Forestry_. N. Y.: G. P. Putnam's Sons. 265 pp. A comprehensive survey of American Forestry conditions including the forest industries, fires, taxation, and management. No illustrations. Busbridge, Harold, _The Shrinkage and Warping of Timber_. _Sci. Amer. Suppl._, No. 1500, Oct. 1, 1904. Good photographic illustrations. Comstock, J. H. and A. B., _A Manual for the Study of Insects_. Ithaca, N. Y.: Comstock Publishing Co., 701 pp. Valuable for reference in classifying insects injurious to wood. Curtis, Carleton C., _Nature and Development of Plants_. N. Y.: Henry Holt & Co., 1907, 471 pp. Chapter III is a very clear and excellent discussion of the structure of the stem of plants (including wood). Encyclopedia Brittannica, Eleventh Edition, Cambridge: At the University Press. Article: _Forests and Forestry_, Vol. 10, p. 645. Article: _Plants_, Anatomy of, Vol. 21, p. 741. Article: _Timber_ Vol. 26, p. 978. Felt, E. P., _The Gypsy and Brown Tail Moths_. N. Y. State Museum: Bulletin 103, Entomology, 25. Valuable for colored illustrations as well as for detailed descriptions. Fernow, B. E., _Economics of Forestry_. N. Y.: T. Y. Crowell & Co. 1902, quarto 520 pp. A treatment of forests and forestry from the standpoint of economics, including a comprehensive exposition of the forester's art, with chapters on forest conditions, silviculture, forest policies, and methods of business conduct, with a bibliography. Fernow, B. E., _Report upon the Forestry Investigation of the U. S. Department of Agriculture_, 1887-1898. Fifty-fifth Congress, House of Representatives, Document No. 181. Quarto, 401 pp. A review of forests and forestry in the U. S., of forest policies of European nations, particularly of Germany, of the principles of silviculture, of a discussion of forest influences, and a section on timber physics. Harwood, W. S., _The New Earth_. N. Y.: The Macmillan Co., 1906. 378 pp. A recital of the triumphs of modern agriculture. Chap. X on modern forestry, describes what has been done in different states in conservative lumbering. Hough, Romeyn B., _American Woods_. Lowville, N. Y.: The author. An invaluable collection in eleven volumes (boxes) of sections of 275 species of American woods. There are three sections of each species, cross, radial, and tangential, mounted in cardboard panels. Accompanied by a list of descriptions and analytical keys. Hough, Romeyn B., _Handbook of the Trees of the Northern States and Canada_. Lowville, N. Y.: The author. 470 pp. A unique, elegant, and sumptuously illustrated book, with photographs of tree, trunk, leaf, fruit, bud, and sometimes wood, a map of the habitat of each species, and a full and careful description of tree and wood. Intended for botanists, foresters and lumbermen. Johnson, J. B., _The Materials of Construction_. N. Y.: John Wiley & Sons. 1898. 775 pp. Chapter XIII is identical with Forestry Bulletin X, Roth's _Timber_. Keeler, Harriet, _Our Native Trees_. N. Y.: Scribner's. 1900. 533 pp. A very attractive and popular book showing great familiarity with the common trees and love of them. Numerous photographs and drawings. Lounsberry, Alice, _A Guide to the Trees_. N. Y.: Frederick A. Stokes Co. 313 pp. A popular description of some 200 common trees, with plentiful illustrations. Pinchot, Gifford, _A Primer of Forestry_. Parts I and II, U. S. Dept. of Agric. For. Serv. Bull. No. 24. 88 pp. and 88 pp. A concise, clear, and fully illustrated little manual of forestry conditions, forest enemies, forestry principles and practice abroad and in the U. S. Pinchot, Gifford. _The Adirondack Spruce._ N. Y.: G. P. Putnam's Sons. A technical account of the author's investigations on a forest estate in Northern New York. Price, O. W., _Saving the Southern Forests_. _World's Work_, 5: 3207, March, '03. A plea for conservative lumbering; excellent illustrations. Record, Samuel J., _Characterization of the Grain and Texture of Wood_. Woodcraft, 15: 3, June, 1911. Roth, Filibert, _A First Book of Forestry_. Boston: Ginn & Co. 291 pp. A book for young people, giving in an interesting form many valuable facts about American forests and their care and use. It includes a leaf key to the trees. Sargent, Charles Sprague, _Forest Trees of North America_. U. S. 10th Census, Vol. 9. Quarto, 612 pp. Part I deals with the distribution of the forests, and gives a catalog and description of the forest trees of North America, exclusive of Mexico. Part II. Tables of properties of the woods of the U. S. Part III. The economic aspects of the forests of the U. S. considered geographically, and maps showing distributions and densities. Exceedingly valuable. Sargent, Charles Sprague, _Jesup Collection, The Woods of the U. S._ N. Y.: D. Appleton & Co., 203 pp. A detailed description of the Jesup Collection of North American Woods in the American Museum of Natural History, N. Y. City, with valuable tables as to strength, elasticity, hardness, weight, etc. Condensed from Vol. IX of 10th U. S. Census. Sargent, Charles Sprague, _Manual of the Trees of North America_. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co. 826 pp. A compact mine of information, with some errors, about the known trees of North America and their woods, summarized from Sargent's larger work, "The Silva of North America." (See below.) Sargent, Charles Sprague, _The Silva of North America_. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin Co. A monumental and sumptuous work of 14 quarto volumes, describing in great detail all the known trees of North America and their woods, with beautiful line drawings of leaves and fruits. Shaler, Nathaniel S., _The United States of America_. Vol. 1, pp. 485-517. N. Y.: D. Appleton & Co. Chapter IX is a popular description of American forests and the Lumber Industry. Snow, Chas. Henry, _The Principal Species of Wood_. N. Y.: John Wiley & Sons. 203 pp. Descriptions and data regarding the economically important varieties of wood, with excellent photographs of trees and woods. Strasburger, Noll, Schenck, and Schimper. _A Text Book of Botany._ N. Y.: Macmillan & Co. 746 pp. Valuable for minute information about the morphology of wood. U. S. Tenth Census, Vol. IX. See Sargent. U. S. Department of Agriculture, _Forest Service Bulletins_. The character of these government pamphlets is well indicated by their titles. No. 10 is an exceedingly valuable summary of the facts about the structure and properties of wood, contains the best available key to identification of common American woods (not trees) and a concise description of each. It is incorporated, as Chap. XIII, in Johnson's, "_The Materials for Construction_." N. Y.: John Wiley & Sons. Nos. 13 and 22 are large monographs containing much valuable information. No. 10. Filibert Roth, _Timber_. No. 13. Charles Mohr, _The Timber Pines of the Southern United States_. No. 15. Frederick V. Coville, _Forest Growth and Sheep Grazing in the Cascade Mountains of Oregon_. No. 16. Filibert Roth, _Forestry Conditions in Wisconsin_. No. 17. George B. Sudworth, _Check List of the Forest Trees of the United States_, 1898. No. 18. Charles A. Keffer, _Experimental Tree Planting on the Plains_. No. 22. V. M. Spalding and F. H. Chittenden, _The White Pine_. No. 24. Gifford Pinchot, _A Primer of Forestry_. No. 26. Henry S. Graves, _Practical Forestry in the Adirondacks_. No. 41. Herman von Schrenck, _Seasoning of Timber_. No. 45. Harold B. Kempton, _The Planting of White Pine in New England_. No. 52. Royal S. Kellogg, _Forest Planting in Western Kansas_. No. 61. _Terms Used in Forestry and Logging_. No. 65. George L. Clothier, _Advice for Forest Planters in Oklahoma and Adjacent Regions_. No. 74. R. S. Kellogg and H. M. Hale, _Forest Products of the U. S._, 1905. U. S. Department of Agriculture, _Forest Service Circulars_. No. 3. George William Hill, _Publications for Sale_. No. 25. Gifford Pinchot, _The Lumberman and the Forester_. No. 26. H. M. Suter, _Forest Fires in the Adirondacks in 1903_. No. 36. The Forest Service: _What it is, and how it deals with Forest Problems_. Also _Classified List of Publications and Guide to Their Contents_. No. 37. _Forest Planting in the Sand Hill Region of Nebraska_. No. 40. H. B. Holroyd, _The Utilization of Tupelo_. No. 41. S. N. Spring, _Forest Planting on Coal Lands in Western Pennsylvania_. No. 45. Frank G. Miller, _Forest Planting in Eastern Nebraska_. No. 81. R. S. Kellogg, _Forest Planting in Illinois_. No. 97. R. S. Kellogg, _Timber Supply of the United States_. No. 153. A. H. Pierson, _Exports and Imports of Forest Products, 1907_. U. S. Department of Agriculture Year Books for: 1896. Filibert Roth, _The Uses of Wood_. 1898, p. 181. Gifford Pinchot, _Notes on some Forest Problems_. 1899, p. 415. Henry S. Graves, _The Practice of Forestry by Private Owners_. 1900, p. 199. Hermann von Schrenck, _Fungous Diseases of Forest Trees_. 1902, p. 145. William L. Hall, _Forest Extension in the Middle West_. 1902, p. 265. A. D. Hopkins, _Some of the Principal Insect Enemies of Coniferous Forests in the United States_. 1902, p. 309. Overton, W. Price, _Influence of Forestry on the Lumber Supply_. 1903, p. 279. James W. Toumey, _The Relation of Forests to Stream Flow_. 1903, p. 313. A. D. Hopkins, _Insect Injuries to Hardwood Forest Trees_. 1904, p. 133. E. A. Sterling, _The Attitude of Lumbermen toward Forest Fires_. 1904, p. 381. A. D. Hopkins, _Insect Injuries to Forest Products_. 1905, p. 455. Henry Grinell, _Prolonging the Life of Telephone Poles_. 1905, p. 483. J. Grivin Peters, _Waste in Logging Southern Yellow Pine_. 1905, p. 636. Quincy R. Craft, _Progress of Forestry in 1905_. 1907, p 277. Raphael Zon and E. H. Clapp, _Cutting Timber in the National Forests_. U. S. Department of Agriculture, Division of Entomology Bulletins: No. 11. n. s. L. O. Howard, _The Gypsy Moth in America_. No. 28. A. D. Hopkins, _Insect Enemies of the Spruce in the Northeast_. No. 32. n. s. A. D. Hopkins, _Insect Enemies of the Pine in the Black Hills Forest Reserve_. No. 48. A. D. Hopkins, _Catalog of Exhibits of Insect Enemies of Forest and Forest Products at the Louisiana Purchase Exposition, St. Louis, Mo._, 1904. No. 56. A. D. Hopkins, _The Black Hills Beetle_. No. 58. Part 1, A. D. Hopkins, _The Locust Borer_. No. 58. Part II, J. L. Webb, _The Western Pine Destroying Bark Beetle_. U. S. Department of Agriculture, Bureau of Plant Industry, Bulletins: No. 32. Herman von Schrenck, _A Disease of the White Ash Caused by Polyporus Fraxinophilus_, 1903. No. 36. Hermann von Schrenck, _The "Bluing" and "Red Rot" of the Western Yellow Pine_, 1903. _Report of the Commissioner of Corporations on the Lumber Industry_, Part I, _Standing Timber_, February, 1911. The latest and most reliable investigation into the amount and ownership of the forests of the United States. Ward, H. Marshall, _Timber and some of its Diseases_. London: Macmillan & Co., 295 pp. An English book that needs supplementing by information on American wood diseases, such as is included in the list of government publications given herewith. The book includes a description of the character, structure, properties, varieties, and classification of timbers. CHAPTER I. THE STRUCTURE OF WOOD. When it is remembered that the suitability of wood for a particular purpose depends most of all upon its internal structure, it is plain that the woodworker should know the essential characteristics of that structure. While his main interest in wood is as lumber, dead material to be used in woodworking, he can properly understand its structure only by knowing something of it as a live, growing organism. To facilitate this, a knowledge of its position in the plant world is helpful. All the useful woods are to be found in the highest sub-kingdom of the plant world, the flowering plants or Phanerogamia of the botanist. These flowering plants are to be classified as follows: { I. Gymnosperms. (Naked seeds.) { 1. Cycadaceae. (Palms, ferns, etc.) { 2. Gnetaceae. (Joint firs.) { 3. Conifers. Pines, firs, etc. Phanerogamia, { II. Angiosperms. (Fruits.) (Flowering plants) { 1. Monocotyledons. (One seed-leaf.) { (Palms, bamboos, grasses, etc.) { 2. Dicotyledons. (Two seed-leaves.) { a. Herbs. { b. Broad-leaved trees. Under the division of naked-seeded plants (gymnosperms), practically the only valuable timber-bearing plants are the needle-leaved trees or the conifers, including such trees as the pines, cedars, spruces, firs, etc. Their wood grows rapidly in concentric annual rings, like that of the broad-leaved trees; is easily worked, and is more widely used than the wood of any other class of trees. Of fruit-bearing trees (angiosperms), there are two classes, those that have one seed-leaf as they germinate, and those that have two seed-leaves. The one seed-leaf plants (monocotyledons) include the grasses, lilies, bananas, palms, etc. Of these there are only a few that reach the dimensions of trees. They are strikingly distinguished by the structure of their stems. They have no cambium layer and no distinct bark and pith; they have unbranched stems, which as a rule do not increase in diameter after the first stages of growth, but grow only terminally. Instead of having concentric annual rings and thus growing larger year by year, the woody tissue grows here and there thru the stem, but mostly crowded together toward the outer surfaces. Even where there is radial growth, as in yucca, the structure is not in annual rings, but irregular. These one seed-leaf trees (monocotyledons) are not of much economic value as lumber, being used chiefly "in the round," and to some extent for veneers and inlays; _e.g._, cocoanut-palm and porcupine wood are so used. The most useful of the monocotyledons, or endogens, ("inside growers," as they are sometimes called,) are the bamboos, which are giant members of the group of grasses, Fig. 1. They grow in dense forests, some varieties often 70 feet high and 6 inches in diameter, shooting up their entire height in a single season. Bamboo is very highly valued in the Orient, where it is used for masts, for house rafters, and other building purposes, for gutters and water-pipes and in countless other ways. It is twice as strong as any of our woods. Under the fruit-bearing trees (angiosperms), timber trees are chiefly found among those that have two seed-leaves (the dicotyledons) and include the great mass of broad-leaved or deciduous trees such as chestnut, oak, ash and maple. It is to these and to the conifers that our principal attention will be given, since they constitute the bulk of the wood in common use. The timber-bearing trees, then, are the: (1) Conifers, the needle-leaved, naked-seeded trees, such as pine, cedar, etc. Fig. 45, p. 199. (2) Endogens, which have one seed-leaf, such as bamboos, Fig. 1. (3) Broad-leaved trees, having two seed-leaves, such as oak, beech, and elm. Fig. 48, p. 202. The common classifications of trees are quite inaccurate. Many of the so-called deciduous (Latin, _deciduus_, falling off) trees are evergreen, such as holly, and, in the south, live oak, magnolia and cherry. So, too, some of the alleged "evergreens," like bald cypress and tamarack, shed their leaves annually. [Illustration: Fig. 1. A Bamboo Grove, Kioto, Japan.] Not all of the "conifers" bear cones. For example, the juniper bears a berry. The ginko, Fig. 2, tho classed among the "conifers," the "evergreens," and the "needle-leaf" trees, bears no cones, has broad leaves and is deciduous. It has an especial interest as being the sole survivor of many species which grew abundantly in the carboniferous age. [Illustration: Fig. 2. Ginko Leaf.] Also, the terms used by lumbermen, "hard woods" for broad-leaved trees and "soft woods" for conifers, are still less exact, for the wood of some broad-leaved trees, as bass and poplar, is much softer than that of some conifers, as Georgia pine and lignum vitae. Another classification commonly made is that of "endogens" (inside growers) including bamboos, palms, etc., and exogens (outside growers) which would include both conifers and broad-leaved trees. One reason why so many classifications have come into use is that none of them is quite accurate. A better one will be explained later. See p. 23. As in the study of all woods three sections are made, it is well at the outset to understand clearly what these are. The sections of a tree made for its study are (Fig. 3): (1) Transverse, a plane at right angles to the organic axis. (2) Radial, a longitudinal plane, including the organic axis. [Illustration: Fig. 3. A. A, B, C, D, Transverse Section. B, D, E, F, Radial Section. G, H, I, J, Tangential Section. B. A, B, C, Transverse Section. A, B, D, E, Radial Section. B, C, E, F, Tangential Section. ] (3) Tangential, a longitudinal plane not including the organic axis. If a transverse section of the trunk of a conifer or of a broad-leaved tree is made, it is to be noted that it consists of several distinct parts. See Fig. 4. These, beginning at the outside, are: (1) Rind or bark (a) Cortex (b) Bast (2) Cambium (3) Wood (a) Sap-wood (b) Heart-wood (4) Pith. [Illustration: Fig. 4. Diagram of Cross-section of Three Year Old Stem of Basswood.] (1) The rind or _bark_ is made up of two layers, the outer of which, the "cortex," is corky and usually scales or pulls off easily; while the inner one is a fibrous coat called "bast" or "phloem." Together they form a cone, widest, thickest, and roughest at the base and becoming narrower toward the top of the tree. The cortex or outer bark serves to protect the stem of the tree from extremes of heat and cold, from atmospheric changes, and from the browsing of animals. It is made up of a tough water-proof layer of cork which has taken the place of the tender skin or "epidermis" of the twig. Because it is water-proof the outside tissue is cut off from the water supply of the tree, and so dries up and peels off, a mass of dead matter. The cork and the dead stuff together are called the bark. As we shall see later, the cork grows from the inside, being formed in the inner layers of the cortex, the outer layers of dry bark being thus successively cut off. The characteristics of the tree bark are due to the positions and kinds of tissue of these new layers of cork. Each tree has its own kind of bark, and the bark of some is so characteristic as to make the tree easily recognizable. Bark may be classified according to formation and method of separation, as scale bark, which detaches from the tree in plates, as in the willows; membraneous bark, which comes off in ribbons and films, as in the birches; fibrous bark, which is in the form of stiff threads, as in the grape vine; and fissured bark, which breaks up in longitudinal fissures, showing ridges, grooves and broad, angular patches, as in oak, chestnut and locust. The last is the commonest form of bark. The bark of certain kinds of trees, as cherry and birch, has peculiar markings which consist of oblong raised spots or marks, especially on the young branches. These are called lenticels (Latin _lenticula_, freckle), and have two purposes: they admit air to the internal tissues, as it were for breathing, and they also emit water vapor. These lenticels are to be found on all trees, even where the bark is very thick, as old oaks and chestnuts, but in these the lenticels are in the bottoms of the deep cracks. There is a great difference in the inflammability of bark, some, like that of the big trees of California, Fig. 54, p. 209, which is often two feet thick, being practically incombustible, and hence serving to protect the tree; while some bark, as canoe birch, is laden with an oil which burns furiously. It therefore makes admirable kindling for camp fires, even in wet weather. Inside the cork is the "phloem" or "bast," which, by the way, gives its name to the bass tree, the inner bark of which is very tough and fibrous and therefore used for mat and rope making. In a living tree, the bast fibers serve to conduct the nourishment which has been made in the leaves down thru the stem to the growing parts. (2) The _cambium_. Inside of the rind and between it and the wood, there is, on living trees, a slimy coat called cambium (Med. Latin, exchange). This is the living, growing part of the stem, familiar to all who have peeled it as the sticky, slimy coat between the bark and the wood of a twig. This is what constitutes the fragrant, mucilaginous inner part of the bark of slippery elm. Cambium is a tissue of young and growing cells, in which the new cells are formed, the inner ones forming the wood and the outer ones the bark. In order to understand the cambium and its function, consider its appearance in a bud, Fig. 5. A cross-section of the bud of a growing stem examined under the microscope, looks like a delicate mesh of thin membrane, filled in with a viscid semi-fluid substance which is called "protoplasm" (Greek, _protos_, first; _plasma_, form). These meshes were first called "cells" by Robert Hooke, in 1667, because of their resemblance to the chambers of a honeycomb. The walls of these "cells" are their most prominent feature and, when first studied, were supposed to be the essential part; but later the slimy, colorless substance which filled the cells was found to be the essential part. This slimy substance, called protoplasm, constitutes the primal stuff of all living things. The cell walls themselves are formed from it. These young cells, at the apex of a stem, are all alike, very small, filled with protoplasm, and as yet, unaltered. They form embryonic tissue, _i.e._ one which will change. One change to which an cell filled with protoplasm is liable is division into two, a new partition wall forming within it. This is the way plant cells increase. [Illustration: Fig. 5. Young Stem, Magnified 18-1/2 Diameters, Showing Primary and Secondary Bundles. _By Courtesy of Mrs. Katharine Golden Bitting._ E, epidermis, the single outside layer of cells. C, cortex, the region outside of the bundles. HB, hard bast, the black, irregular ring protecting the soft bast. SB, soft bast, the light, crescent-shaped parts. Ca, cambium, the line between the soft bast and the wood. W, wood, segments showing pores. MR, medullary rays, lines between the bundles connecting the pith and the cortex. MS, medullary sheath, the dark, irregular ring just inside the bundles. P, pith, the central mass of cells.] In young plant cells, the whole cavity of the chamber is filled with protoplasm, but as the cells grow older and larger, the protoplasm develops into different parts, one part forming the cell wall and in many cases leaving cavities within the cell, which become filled with sap. The substance of the cell wall is called cellulose (cotton and flax fibers consist of almost pure cellulose). At first it has no definite structure, but as growth goes on, it may become thickened in layers, or gummy, or hardened into lignin (wood), according to the function to be performed. Where there are a group of similar cells performing the same functions, the group is called a tissue or, if large enough, a tissue system. When cells are changed into new forms, or "differentiated," as it is called, they become permanent tissues. These permanent tissues of the tree trunk constitute the various parts which we have noticed, viz., the rind, the pith and the wood. The essentially living part of the tree, it should be remembered, is the protoplasm: where there is protoplasm, there is life and growth. In the stems of the conifers and broad-leaved trees--sometimes together called exogens--this protoplasm is to be found in the buds and in the cambium sheath, and these are the growing parts of the tree. If we followed up the sheath of cambium which envelopes a stem, into a terminal bud, we should find that it passed without break into the protoplasm of the bud. In the cross-section of a young shoot, we might see around the central pith or medulla, a ring of wedge-shaped patches. These are really bundles of cells running longitudinally from the rudiments of leaves thru the stem to the roots. They are made of protoplasm and are called the "procambium strands," Fig. 6. [Illustration: Fig. 6. Three Stages in the Development of an Exogenous Stem. P, pith; PB, primary bast; SB, secondary bast; C, cambium; PR, pith ray; PW, primary wood; SW, secondary wood; PS, procambium strands. _After Boulger._] In the monocotyledons (endogens) these procambium strands change completely into wood and bast, and so losing all their protoplasmic cambium, become incapable of further growth. This is why palms can grow only lengthwise, or else by forming new fibers more densely in the central mass. But in the conifers and broad-leaved trees, the inner part of each strand becomes wood and the outer part bast (bark). Between these bundles, connecting the pith in the center with the cortex on the outside of the ring of bundles, are parts of the original pith tissue of the stem. They are the primary pith or medullary rays (Latin, _medulla_, pith). The number of medullary rays depends upon the number of the bundles; and their form, on the width of the bundles, so that they are often large and conspicuous, as in oak, or small and indeed invisible, as in some of the conifers. But they are present in all exogenous woods, and can readily be seen with the microscope. Stretching across these pith rays from the cambium layer in one procambium strand to that in the others, the cambium formation extends, making a complete cylindrical sheath from the bud downward over the whole stem. This is the cambium sheath and is the living, growing part of the stem from which is formed the wood on the inside and the rind (bark) on the outside. In the first year the wood and the bast are formed directly by the growth and change of the inner and outer cells respectively of the procambium strand, and all such material is called "primary;" but in subsequent years all wood, pith rays, and bast, originate in the cambium, and these growths are called "secondary." [Illustration: Fig. 7. Sap-wood and Heart-wood, Lignum Vitae.] (3) The _wood_ of most exogens is made up of two parts, a lighter part called the sap-wood or splint-wood or alburnum, and a darker part called the heart-wood or duramen, Fig. 7. Sap-wood is really immature heartwood. The difference in color between them is very marked in some woods, as in lignum vitae and black walnut, and very slight in others, as spruce and bass. Indeed, some species never form a distinct heart-wood, birch (_Betula alba_) being an example. In a living tree, sap-wood and heart-wood perform primarily quite different functions. The sap-wood carries the water from the roots to the leaves, stores away starch at least in winter, and in other ways assists the life of the tree. The proportional amount of sapwood varies greatly, often, as in long-leaf pine, constituting 40 per cent. of the stem. As the sap-wood grows older, its cells become choked so that the sap can no longer flow thru them. It loses its protoplasm and starch and becomes heartwood, in which all cells are dead and serve only the mechanical function of holding up the great weight of the tree and in resisting wind pressures. This is the reason why a tree may become decayed and hollow and yet be alive and bear fruit. In a tree that is actually dead the sap-wood rots first. Chemical substances infiltrate into the cell walls of heart-wood and hence it has a darker color than the sap-wood. Persimmon turns black, walnut purplish brown, sumac yellow, oak light brown, tulip and poplar yellowish, redwood and cedar brownish red. Many woods, as mahogany and oak, darken under exposure, which shows that the substances producing the color are oxidizable and unstable. Wood dyes are obtained by boiling and distilling such woods as sumach, logwood, red sanders, and fustic. Many woods also acquire distinct odors, as camphor, sandalwood, cedar, cypress, pine and mahogany, indicating the presence of oil. As a rule heart-wood is more valuable for timber, being harder, heavier, and drier than sap-wood. In woods like hickory and ash, however, which are used for purposes that require pliability, as in baskets, or elasticity as in handles of rakes and hoes, sap-wood is more valuable than heart-wood. In a transverse section of a conifer, for example Douglas spruce, Fig. 8, the wood is seen to lie in concentric rings, the outer part of the ring being darker in color than the inner part. In reality each of these rings is a section of an irregular hollow cone, each cone enveloping its inner neighbor. Each cone ordinarily constitutes a year's growth, and therefore there is a greater number of them at the base of a tree than higher up. These cones vary greatly in _thickness_, or, looking at a cross-section, the rings vary in _width_; in general, those at the center being thicker than those toward the bark. Variations from year to year may also be noticed, showing that the tree was well nourished one year and poorly nourished another year. Rings, however, do not always indicate a year's growth. "False rings" are sometimes formed by a cessation in the growth due to drouth, fire or other accident, followed by renewed growth the same season. [Illustration: Fig. 8. Section of Douglas Fir, Showing Annual Rings and Knots at Center of Trunk. _American Museum of Natural History, N. Y._] In a radial section of a log, Fig. 8, these "rings" appear as a series of parallel lines and if one could examine a long enough log these lines would converge, as would the cut edges in a nest of cones, if they were cut up thru the center, as in Fig. 9. [Illustration: Fig. 9. Diagram of Radial Section of Log (exaggerated) Showing Annual Cones of Growth.] In a tangential section, the lines appear as broad bands, and since almost no tree grows perfectly straight, these lines are wavy, and give the characteristic pleasing "grain" of wood. Fig. 27, p. 35. The annual rings can sometimes be discerned in the bark as well as in the wood, as in corks, which are made of the outer bark of the cork oak, a product of southern Europe and northern Africa. Fig. 10. [Illustration: Fig. 10. Annual Rings in Bark (cork).] The growth of the wood of exogenous trees takes place thru the ability, already noted, of protoplasmic cells to divide. The cambium cells, which have very thin walls, are rectangular in shape, broader tangentially than radially, and tapering above and below to a chisel edge, Fig. 11. After they have grown somewhat radially, partition walls form across them in the longitudinal, tangential direction, so that in place of one initial cell, there are two daughter cells radially disposed. Each of these small cells grows and re-divides, as in Fig. 12. Finally the innermost cell ceases to divide, and uses its protoplasm to become thick and hard wood. In like manner the outermost cambium cell becomes bast, while the cells between them continue to grow and divide, and so the process goes on. In nearly all stems, there is much more abundant formation of wood than of bast cells. In other words, more cambium cells turn to wood than to bast. [Illustration: Fig. 11. Diagram Showing Grain of Spruce Highly Magnified. PR, pith rays; BP, bordered pits; Sp W, spring wood; SW, summer wood; CC, overlapping of chisel shaped ends.] [Illustration: Fig. 12. Diagram Showing the Mode of Division of the Cambium Cells. The cambium cell is shaded to distinguish it from the cells derived from it. Note in the last division at the right that the inner daughter cell becomes the cambium cell while the outer cell develops into a bast cell. _From Curtis: Nature and Development of Plants._] In the spring when there is comparatively little light and heat, when the roots and leaves are inactive and feeble, and when the bark, split by winter, does not bind very tightly, the inner cambium cells produce radially wide wood cells with relatively thin walls. These constitute the spring wood. But in summer the jacket of bark binds tightly, there is plenty of heat and light, and the leaves and roots are very active, so that the cambium cells produce thicker walled cells, called summer wood. During the winter the trees rest, and no development takes place until spring, when the large thin-walled cells are formed again, making a sharp contrast with those formed at the end of the previous season. It is only at the tips of the branches that the cambium cells grow much in length; so that if a nail were driven into a tree twenty years old at, say, four feet from the ground, it would still be four feet from the ground one hundred years later. Looking once more at the cross-section, say, of spruce, the inner portion of each ring is lighter in color and softer in texture than the outer portion. On a radial or tangential section, one's finger nail can easily indent the inner portion of the ring, tho the outer dark part of the ring may be very hard. The inner, light, soft portion of the ring is the part that grows in the spring and early summer, and is called the "spring wood" while the part that grows later in the season is called "summer wood." As the summer wood is hard and heavy, it largely determines the strength and weight of the wood, so that as a rule, the greater the proportion of the summer growth, the better the wood. This can be controlled to some extent by proper forestry methods, as is done in European larch forests, by "underplanting" them with beech. In a normal tree, the summer growth forms a greater proportion of the wood formed during the period of thriftiest growth, so that in neither youth nor old age, is there so great a proportion of summer wood as in middle age. It will help to make clear the general structure of wood if one imagines the trunk of a tree to consist of a bundle of rubber tubes crushed together, so that they assume angular shapes and have no spaces between them. If the tubes are laid in concentric layers, first a layer which has thin walls, then successive layers having thicker and thicker walls, then suddenly a layer of thin-walled tubes and increasing again to thick-walled ones and so on, such an arrangement would represent the successive annual "rings" of conifers. _The medullary rays._ While most of the elements in wood run longitudinally in the log, it is also to be noted that running at right angles to these and radially to the log, are other groups of cells called pith rays or medullary rays (Latin, _medulla_, which means pith). These are the large "silver flakes" to be seen in quartered oak, which give it its beautiful and distinctive grain, Fig. 32, p. 38. They appear as long, grayish lines on a cross-section, as broad, shining bands on the radial section, and as short, thick lines tapering at each end on the tangential section. In other words, they are like flat, rectangular plates standing on edge and radiating lengthwise from the center of the tree. They vary greatly in size in different woods. In sycamore they are very prominent, Fig. 13. In oak they are often several hundred cells wide (_i.e._, up and down in the tree). This may amount to an inch or two. They are often twenty cells thick, tapering to one cell at the edge. In oak very many are also small, even microscopic. But in the conifers and also in some of the broad-leaved trees, altho they can be discerned with the naked eye on a split radial surface, still they are all very small. In pine there are some 15,000 of them to a square inch of a tangential section. They are to be found in all exogens. In a cross-section, say of oak, Fig. 14, it can readily be seen that some pith rays begin at the center of the tree and some farther out. Those that start from the pith are formed the first year and are called primary pith rays, while those that begin in a subsequent year, starting at the cambium of that year, are called secondary rays. [Illustration: Fig. 13. Tangential Section of Sycamore, Magnified 37 Diameters. Note the large size of the pith rays, A, A (end view).] The function of the pith rays is twofold. (1) They transfer formative material from one part of a stem to another, communicating with both wood and bark by means of the simple and bordered pits in them, and (2) they bind the trunk together from pith to bark. On the other hand their presence makes it easier for the wood to split radially. The substance of which they are composed is "parenchyma" (Greek, _beside_, to _pour_), which also constitutes the pith, the rays forming a sort of connecting link between the first and last growth of the tree, as the cambium cells form new wood each year. [Illustration: Fig. 14 Cross-section of White Oak. The Radiating White Lines are the Pith Rays.] If a cambium cell is opposite to a pith ray, it divides crosswise (transversely) into eight or ten cells one above another, which stretch out radially, retaining their protoplasm, and so continue the pith ray. As the tree grows larger, new, or secondary medullary rays start from the cambium then active, so that every year new rays are formed both thinner and shorter than the primary rays, Fig. 14. Now suppose that laid among the ordinary thin-walled tubes were quite large tubes, so that one could tell the "ring" not only by the thin walls but by the presence of large tubes. That would represent the ring-porous woods, and the large tubes would be called vessels, or _tracheæ_. Suppose again that these large tubes were scattered in disorder thru the layers. This arrangement would represent the diffuse-porous woods. By holding up to the light, thin cross-sections of spruce or pine, Fig. 15, oak or ash, Fig. 16, and bass or maple, Fig. 17, these three quite distinct arrangements in the structure may be distinguished. This fact has led to the classification of woods according to the presence and distribution of "pores," or as they are technically called, "vessels" or "tracheae." By this classification we have: (1) _Non-porous_ woods, which comprise the conifers, as pine and spruce. (2) _Ring-porous_ woods, in which the pores appear (in a cross-section) in concentric rings, as in chestnut, ash and elm. (3) _Diffuse-porous_ woods, in which (in a cross-section) the rings are scattered irregularly thru the wood, as in bass, maple and yellow poplar. In order to fully understand the structure of wood, it is necessary to examine it still more closely thru the microscope, and since the three classes of wood, non-porous, ring-porous and diffuse-porous, differ considerably in their minute structure, it is well to consider them separately, taking the simplest first. [Illustration: Fig. 15. Cross-section of Non-porous Wood, White Pine, Full Size (top toward pith).] _Non-porous woods._ In examining thru the microscope a transverse section of white pine, Fig. 18: (1) The most noticeable characteristic is the regularity of arrangement of the cells. They are roughly rectangular and arranged in ranks and files. (2) Another noticeable feature is that they are arranged in belts, the thickness of their walls gradually increasing as the size of the cells diminishes. Then the large thin-walled cells suddenly begin again, and so on. The width of one of these belts is the amount of a single year's growth, the thin-walled cells being those that formed in spring, and the thick-walled ones those that formed in summer, the darker color of the summer wood as well as its greater strength being caused by there being more material in the same volume. [Illustration: Fig. 16. Cross-section of Ring-porous Wood, White Ash, Full Size (top toward pith).] [Illustration: Fig. 17. Cross-section of Diffuse-porous Wood, Hard Maple, full size (top toward pith).] (3) Running radially (up and down in the picture) directly thru the annual belts or rings are to be seen what looks like fibers. These are the pith or medullary rays. They serve to transfer formative material from one part of the stem to another and to bind the tree together from pith to bark. (4) Scattered here and there among the regular cells, are to be seen irregular gray or yellow dots which disturb the regularity of the arrangement. These are _resin ducts_. (See cross-section of white pine, Fig. 18.) They are not cells, but openings between cells, in which the resin, an excretion of the tree, accumulates, oozing out when the tree is injured. At least one function of resin is to protect the tree from attacks of fungi. Looking now at the radial section, Fig. 18: (5) The first thing to notice is the straightness of the long cells and their overlapping where they meet endwise, like the ends of two chisels laid together, Fig. 11. (6) On the walls of the cells can be seen round spots called "pits." These are due to the fact that as the cell grows, the cell walls thicken, except in these small spots, where the walls remain thin and delicate. The pit in a cell wall always coincides with the pit in an adjoining cell, there being only a thin membrane between, so that there is practically free communication of fluids between the two cells. In a cross-section the pit appears as a canal, the length of which depends upon the thickness of the walls. In some cells, the thickening around the pits becomes elevated, forming a border, perforated in the center. Such pits are called bordered pits. These pits, both simple and bordered, are waterways between the different cells. They are helps in carrying the sap up the tree. (7) The pith rays are also to be seen running across and interwoven in the other cells. It is to be noticed that they consist of several cells, one above another. In the tangential section, Fig. 18: (8) The straightness and overlapping of the cells is to be seen again, and (9) The numerous ends of the pith rays appear. In a word, the structure of coniferous wood is very regular and simple, consisting mainly of cells of one sort, the pith rays being comparatively unnoticeable. This uniformity is what makes the wood of conifers technically valuable. [Illustration: Fig. 18.] The cells of conifers are called tracheids, meaning "like _tracheæ_." They are cells in which the end walls persist, that is, are not absorbed and broken down when they meet end to end. In other words, conifers do not have continuous pores or vessels or "_tracheæ_," and hence are called "non-porous" woods. But in other woods, the ends of some cells which meet endwise are absorbed, thus forming a continuous series of elements which constitute an open tube. Such tubes are known as pores, or vessels, or "tracheæ," and sometimes extend thru the whole stem. Besides this marked difference between the porous and non-porous woods, the porous woods are also distinguished by the fact that instead of being made up, like the conifers of cells of practically only one kind, namely tracheids, they are composed of several varieties of cells. Besides the tracheae and tracheids already noted are such cells as "wood fiber," "fibrous cells," and "parenchyma." Fig. 19. Wood fiber proper has much thickened lignified walls and no pits, and its main function is mechanical support. Fibrous cells are like the wood fibers except that they retain their protoplasm. Parenchyma is composed of vertical groups of short cells, the end ones of each group tapering to a point, and each group originates from the transverse division of one cambium cell. They are commonly grouped around the vessels (tracheæ). Parenchyma constitutes the pith rays and other similar fibers, retains its protoplasm, and becomes filled with starch in autumn. [Illustration: Fig. 19. Isolated Fibers and Cells. _a_, four cells of wood parenchyma; _b_, two cells from a pith ray; _c_, a single cell or joint of a vessel, the openings, x, x, leading into its upper and lower neighbors; _d_, tracheid; _e_, wood fiber proper. _After Roth._] The most common type of structure among the broad-leaved trees contains tracheæ, trachæids, woody fiber, fibrous cells and parenchyma. Examples are poplars, birch, walnut, linden and locust. In some, as ash, the tracheids are wanting; apple and maple have no woody fiber, and oak and plum no fibrous cells. This recital is enough to show that the wood of the broad-leaved trees is much more complex in structure than that of the conifers. It is by means of the number and distribution of these elements that particular woods are identified microscopically. See p. 289. [Illustration: Fig. 20.] _Ring-porous woods._ Looking thru the microscope at a cross-section of ash, a ring-porous wood, Fig. 20: (1) The large round or oval pores or vessels grouped mostly in the spring wood first attract attention. Smaller ones, but still quite distinct, are to be seen scattered all thru the wood. It is by the number and distribution of these pores that the different oak woods are distinguished, those in white oak being smaller and more numerous, while in red oak they are fewer and larger. It is evident that the greater their share in the volume, the lighter in weight and the weaker will be the wood. In a magnified cross-section of some woods, as black locust, white elm and chestnut, see Chap. III, beautiful patterns are to be seen composed of these pores. It is because of the size of these pores and their great number that chestnut is so weak. (2) The summer wood is also distinguishable by the fact that, as with the conifers, its cells are smaller and its cell walls thicker than those of the spring wood. The summer wood appears only as a narrow, dark line along the largest pores in each ring. (3) The lines of the pith rays are very plain in some woods, as in oak. No. 47, Chap. III. (4) The irregular arrangement and (5) Complex structure are evident, and these are due to the fact that the wood substance consists of a number of different elements and not one (tracheids) as in the conifers. Looking at the radial section, Fig. 20: (6) If the piece is oak, the great size of the medullary rays is most noticeable. Fig. 32, p. 38. They are often an inch or more wide; that is, high, as they grow in the tree. In ash they are plain, seen thru the microscope, but are not prominent. (7) The interweaving of the different fibers and the variety of their forms show the structure as being very complex. In the tangential section, Fig. 20: (8) The pattern of the grain is seen to be marked not so much by the denseness of the summer wood as by the presence of the vessels (pores). (9) The ends of the pith rays are also clear. In _diffuse porous woods_, the main features to be noticed are: In the transverse section, Fig. 21: (1) The irregularity with which the pores are scattered, (2) The fine line of dense cells which mark the end of the year's growth, (3) The radiating pith rays, (4) The irregular arrangement and, (5) The complex structure. In the radial section, Fig. 21: (6) The pith rays are evident. In sycamore, No. 53, Chap. III, they are quite large. (7) The interweaving of the fibers is to be noted and also their variety. In the tangential section, Fig. 21: (8) The grain is to be traced only dimly, but the fibers are seen to run in waves around the pith rays. (9) The pith rays, the ends of which are plainly visible. [Illustration: Fig. 21.] THE GRAIN OF WOOD. The term "grain" is used in a variety of meanings which is likely to cause confusion. This confusion may be avoided, at least in part, by distinguishing between grain and texture, using the word grain to refer to the arrangement or direction of the wood elements, and the word texture to refer to their size or quality, so far as these affect the structural character of the wood. Hence such qualifying adjectives as coarse and fine, even and uneven, straight and cross, including spiral, twisted, wavy, curly, mottled, bird's-eye, gnarly, etc., may all be applied to grain to give it definite meaning, while to texture the proper modifying adjectives are coarse and fine, even and uneven. Usually the word grain means the pattern or "figure" formed by the distinction between the spring wood and the summer wood. If the annual rings are wide, the wood is, in common usage, called "coarse grained," if narrow, "fine grained," so that of two trees of the same species, one may be coarse grained and the other fine grained, depending solely on the accident of fast or slow growth. The terms coarse grain and fine grain are also frequently used to distinguish such ring-porous woods as have large prominent pores, like chestnut and ash, from those having small or no pores, as cherry and lignum vitae. A better expression in this case would be coarse and fine textured. When such coarse textured woods are stained, the large pores in the spring wood absorb more stain than the smaller elements in the summer wood, and hence the former part appears darker. In the "fine grained" (or better, fine textured,) woods the pores are absent or are small and scattered, and the wood is hard, so that they are capable of taking a high polish. This indicates the meaning of the words coarse and fine in the mind of the cabinet-maker, the reference being primarily to texture. If the elements of which a wood are composed are of approximately uniform size, it would be said to have a uniform texture, as in white pine, while uniform grain would mean, that the elements, tho of varying sizes, were evenly distributed, as in the diffuse-porous woods. The term "grain" also refers to the regularity of the wood structure. An ideal tree would be composed of a succession of regular cones, but few trees are truly circular in cross-section and even in those that are circular, the pith is rarely in the center, showing that one side of the tree, usually the south side, is better nourished than the other, Fig. 14, p. 23. The normal direction of the fibers of wood is parallel to the axis of the stem in which they grow. Such wood is called "straight-grained," Fig. 22, but there are many deviations from this rule. Whenever the grain of the wood in a board is, in whole or in part, oblique to the sides of the board, it is called "cross-grained." An illustration of this is a bend in the fibers, due to a bend in the whole tree or to the presence of a neighboring knot. This bend makes the board more difficult to plane. In many cases, probably in more cases than not, the wood fibers twist around the tree. (See some of the logs in Fig. 107, p. 254.) This produces "spiral" or "twisted" grain. [Illustration: Fig. 22. Straight Grained Long-leaf Pine (full size).] Often, as in mahogany and sweet gum, the fibers of several layers twist first in one direction and then those of the next few layers twist the other way, Fig. 24. Such wood is peculiarly cross-grained, and is of course hard to plane smooth. But when a piece is smoothly finished the changing reflection of light from the surface gives a beautiful appearance, which can be enhanced by staining and polishing. It constitutes the characteristic "grain" of striped mahogany, Fig. 23. It is rarely found in the inner part of the tree. [Illustration: Fig. 23. Mahogany, Showing Alternately Twisted Grain (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 24. Spiral Grain in Cypress. _After Roth._] Sometimes the grain of wood is "cross," because it is "wavy" either in a radial or a tangential section, as in maple, Fig. 25, and Fig. 26. [Illustration: Fig. 25. Planed Surface of Wavy-Grained Maple (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 26. Split Surface of Wavy-Grained Maple (full size).] "Curly grain" refers to the figure of circlets and islets and contours, often of great beauty, caused by cutting a flat surface in crooked-grained wood. See Fig. 27, curly long-leaf pine, and Fig. 28, yellow poplar. When such crookedness is fine and the fibers are contorted and, as it were, crowded out of place, as is common in and near the roots of trees, the effect is called "burl," Fig. 29. The term burl is also used to designate knots and knobs on tree trunks, Fig. 31. Burl is used chiefly in veneers. [Illustration: Fig. 27. Curly Grained Long-leaf Pine (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 28. Curly Yellow Poplar (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 29. Redwood Burl (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 30. Bird's-eye Maple (full size.)] [Illustration: Fig. 31. Burl on White Oak.] Irregularity of grain is often caused by the presence of adventitious and dormant buds, which may be plainly seen as little knobs on the surface of some trees under the bark. In most trees, these irregularities are soon buried and smoothed over by the successive annual layers of wood, but in some woods there is a tendency to preserve the irregularities. On slash (tangent) boards of such wood, a great number of little circlets appear, giving a beautiful grain, as in "Bird's-eye maple," Fig. 30. These markings are found to predominate in the inner part of the tree. This is not at all a distinct variety of maple, as is sometimes supposed, but the common variety, in which the phenomenon frequently appears. Logs of great value, having bird's-eyes, have often unsuspectingly been chopped up for fire wood. The term "grain" may also mean the "figure" formed by the presence of pith rays, as in oak, Fig. 32, or beech, or the word "grain" may refer simply to the uneven deposit of coloring matter as is common in sweet gum, Fig. 33, black ash, or Circassian walnut. [Illustration: Fig. 32. Figure Formed by Pith Rays in Oak (full size).] [Illustration: Fig. 33. Sweet Gum, Showing Uneven Deposit of Coloring Matter (full size.)] The presence of a limb constitutes a knot and makes great irregularity in the grain of wood, Fig. 34. In the first place, the fibers on the upper and lower sides of the limb behave differently, those on the lower side running uninterruptedly from the stem into the limb, while on the upper side the fibers bend aside making an imperfect connection. Consequently to split a knot it is always necessary to start the split from the lower side. On the other hand it is easier to split around a knot than thru it. The texture as well as the grain of wood is modified by the presence of a branch. The wood in and around a knot is much harder than the main body of the trunk on account of the crowding together of the elements. Knots are the remnants of branches left in the trunk. These once had all the parts of the trunk itself, namely bark, cambium, wood, and pith. Normally, branches grow from the pith, tho some trees, as Jack pine and redwood, among the conifers, and most of the broad-leaf trees have the power of putting out at any time adventitious buds which may develop into branches. When a branch dies, the annual layer of wood no longer grows upon it, but the successive layers of wood on the trunk itself close tighter and tighter around it, until it is broken off. Then, unless it has begun to decay, it is successively overgrown by annual layers, so that no sign of it appears until the trunk is cut open. A large trunk perfectly clean of branches on the outside may have many knots around its center, remnants of branches which grew there in its youth, as in Fig. 34, and Fig. 8, p. 18. The general effect of the presence of a knot is, that the fibers that grow around and over it are bent, and this, of course, produces crooked grain. Following are the designations given to different knots by lumbermen: A _sound_ knot is one which is solid across its face and is as hard as the wood surrounding it and fixed in position. A _pin_ knot is sound, but not over 1/4" in diameter. A _standard_ knot is sound, but not over 1-1/2" in diameter. A _large_ knot is sound, and over 1-1/2" in diameter. A _spike_ knot is one sawn in a lengthwise position. A _dead_, or, _loose_ knot is one not firmly held in place by growth or position. (4) _Pith._ At the center or axis of the tree is the pith or _medulla_, Fig. 34. In every bud, that is, at the apex of every stem and branch, the pith is the growing part; but as the stem lengthens and becomes overgrown by successive layers of wood the pith loses its vital function. It does not grow with the plant except at the buds. It varies in thickness, being very small,--hardly more than 1/16", in cedar and larch,--and so small in oak as to be hardly discernible; and what there is of it turns hard and dark. In herbs and shoots it is relatively large, Fig. 5, p. 15, in a three-year old shoot of elder, for example, being as wide as the wood. In elder, moreover, it dies early and pulverizes, leaving the stem hollow. Its function is one of only temporary value to the plant. [Illustration: Fig. 34. Section Thru the Trunk of a Seven Year Old Tree, Showing Relation of Branches to Main Stem. A, B, two branches which were killed after a few years' growth by shading, and which have been overgrown by the annual rings of wood; C, a limb which lived four years, then died and broke off near the stem, leaving the part to the left of XY a "sound" knot, and the part to the right a "dead" knot, which unless rotting sets in, would in time be entirely covered by the growing trunk; D, a branch that has remained alive and has increased in size like the main stem; P, P, pith of both stem and limb.] THE STRUCTURE OF WOOD. REFERENCES:[A] Roth, _Forest Bull._ No. 10, pp. 11-23. Boulger, pp. 1-39. Sickles, pp. 11-20. Pinchot, _Forest Bull._ No. 24, I, pp. 11-24. Keeler, pp. 514-517. Curtis, pp. 62-85. Woodcraft, 15: 3, p. 90. Bitting, _Wood Craft_, 5: 76, 106, 144, 172, (June-Sept. 1906). Ward, pp. 1-38. _Encyc. Brit._, 11th Ed., "Plants," p. 741. Strasburger, pp. 120-144 and Part II, Sec. II. Snow, pp. 7-9, 183. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER II. PROPERTIES OF WOOD. There are many properties of wood,--some predominant in one species, some in another,--that make it suitable for a great variety of uses. Sometimes it is a combination of properties that gives value to a wood. Among these properties are hygroscopicity, shrinkage, weight, strength, cleavability, elasticity, hardness, and toughness. THE HYGROSCOPICITY[1] OF WOOD. It is evident that water plays a large part in the economy of the tree. It occurs in wood in three different ways: In the sap which fills or partly fills the cavities of the wood cells, in the cell walls which it saturates, and in the live protoplasm, of which it constitutes 90 per cent. The younger the wood, the more water it contains, hence the sap-wood contains much more than the heart-wood, at times even twice as much. In fresh sap-wood, 60 per cent. of the water is in the cell cavities, 35 per cent. in the cell walls, and only 5 per cent. in the protoplasm. There is so much water in green wood that a sappy pole will soon sink when set afloat. The reason why there is much less water in heart-wood is because its cells are dead and inactive, and hence without sap and without protoplasm. There is only what saturates the cell walls. Even so, there is considerable water in heart-wood.[2] The lighter kinds have the most water in the sap-wood, thus sycamore has more than hickory. Curiously enough, a tree contains about as much water in winter as in summer. The water is held there, it is supposed, by capillary attraction, since the cells are inactive, so that at all times the water in wood keeps the cell walls distended. THE SHRINKAGE OF WOOD. When a tree is cut down, its water at once begins to evaporate. This process is called "seasoning."[A] In drying, the free water within the cells keeps the cell walls saturated; but when all the free water has been removed, the cell walls begin to yield up their moisture. Water will not flow out of wood unless it is forced out by heat, as when green wood is put on a fire. Ordinarily it evaporates slowly. [Footnote A: See _Handwork in Wood_, Chapter III.] The water evaporates faster from some kinds of wood than from other kinds, _e.g._, from white pine than from oak, from small pieces than from large, and from end grain than from a longitudinal section; and it also evaporates faster in high than in low temperatures. Evaporation affects wood in three respects, weight, strength, and size. The weight is reduced, the strength is increased, and shrinkage takes place. The reduction in weight and increase in strength, important as they are, are of less importance than the shrinkage, which often involves warping and other distortions. The water in wood affects its size by keeping the cell walls distended. If all the cells of a piece of wood were the same size, and had walls the same thickness, and all ran in the same direction, then the shrinkage would be uniform. But, as we have seen, the structure of wood is not homogeneous. Some cellular elements are large, some small, some have thick walls, some thin walls, some run longitudinally and some (the pith rays) run radially. The effects will be various in differently shaped pieces of wood but they can easily be accounted for if one bears in mind these three facts: (1) that the shrinkage is in the cell wall, and therefore (2) that the thick-walled cells shrink more than thin-walled cells and (3) that the cells do not shrink much, if any, lengthwise. (1) The shrinkage of wood takes place in the walls of the cells that compose it, that is, the cell walls become thinner, as indicated by the dotted lines in Fig. 35, which is a cross-section of a single cell. The diameter of the whole cell becomes less, and the opening, or lumen, of the cell becomes larger. [Illustration: Fig. 35. How Cell Walls Shrink.] (2) Thick-walled cells shrink more than thin-walled cells, that is, summer cells more than spring cells. This is due to the fact that they contain more shrinkable substance. The thicker the wall, the more the shrinkage. Consider the effects of these changes; ordinarily a log when drying begins to "check" at the end. This is to be explained thus: Inasmuch as evaporation takes place faster from a cross than from a longitudinal section, because at the cross-section all the cells are cut open, it is to be expected that the end of a piece of timber, Fig. 36, A, will shrink first. This would tend to make the end fibers bend toward the center of the piece as in B, Fig. 36. But the fibers are stiff and resist this bending with the result that the end splits or "checks" as in C, Fig. 36. But later, as the rest of the timber dries out and shrinks, it becomes of equal thickness again and the "checks" tend to close. [Illustration: Fig. 36. The Shrinkage and Checking at the End of a Beam.] (3) For some reason, which has not been discovered, the cells or fibers of wood do not shrink in length to any appreciable extent. This is as true of the cells of pith rays, which run radially in the log, as of the ordinary cells, which run longitudinally in it. In addition to "checking" at the end, logs ordinarily show the effect of shrinkage by splitting open radially, as in Fig. 37. This is to be explained by two factors, (1) the disposition of the pith (or medullary) rays, and (2) the arrangement of the wood in annual rings. [Illustration: Fig. 37. The Shrinkage and Splitting of a Log.] (1) The cells of the pith rays, as we have seen in Chapter I, run at right angles to the direction of the mass of wood fibers, and since they shrink according to the same laws that other cells do, viz., by the cell wall becoming thinner but not shorter, the strain of their shrinkage is contrary to that of the main cells. The pith rays, which consist of a number of cells one above the other, tend to shrink parallel to the length of the wood, and whatever little longitudinal shrinkage there is in a board is probably due mostly to the shrinkage of the pith rays. But because the cells of pith rays do not appreciably shrink in their length, this fact tends to prevent the main body of wood from shrinking radially, and the result is that wood shrinks less radially than tangentially. Tangentially is the only way left for it to shrink. The pith rays may be compared to the ribs of a folding fan, which keep the radius of unaltered length while permitting comparative freedom for circumferential contraction. (2) It is evident that since summer wood shrinks more than spring wood, this fact will interfere with the even shrinkage of the log. Consider first the tangential shrinkage. If a section of a single annual ring of green wood of the shape A B C D, in Fig. 38, is dried and the mass shrinks according to the thickness of the cell walls, it will assume the shape A' B' C' D'. When a number of rings together shrink, the tangential shrinkage of the summer wood tends to contract the adjoining rings of spring wood more than they would naturally shrink of themselves. Since there is more of the summer-wood substance, the spring-wood must yield, and the log shrinks circumferentially. The radial shrinkage of the summer-wood, however, is constantly interrupted by the alternate rows of spring-wood, so that there would not be so much radial as circumferential shrinkage. As a matter of fact, the tangential or circumferential shrinkage is twice as great as the radial shrinkage. [Illustration: Fig. 38. Diagram to Show the Greater Shrinkage of Summer Cells, A, B, than of Spring Cells, C, D.] Putting these two factors together, namely, the lengthwise resistance of the pith rays to the radial shrinkage of the mass of other fibers, and second, the continuous bands of summer wood, comparatively free to shrink circumferentially, and the inevitable happens; the log splits. If the bark is left on and evaporation hindered, the splits will not open so wide. There is still another effect of shrinkage. If, immediately after felling, a log is sawn in two lengthwise, the radial splitting may be largely avoided, but the flat sides will tend to become convex, as in Fig. 39. This is explained by the fact that circumferential shrinkage is greater than radial shrinkage. [Illustration: Fig. 39. Shrinkage of a Halved Log.] If a log is "quartered,"[A] the quarters split still less, as the inevitable shrinkage takes place more easily. The quarters then tend to assume the shape shown in Fig. 40, C. If a log is sawed into timber, it checks from the center of the faces toward the pith, Fig. 40, D. Sometimes the whole amount of shrinkage may be collected in one large split. When a log is slash-sawed, Fig. 40, I, each board tends to warp so that the concave side is away from the center of the tree. If one plank includes the pith, Fig. 40, E and H, that board will become thinner at its edges than at its center, _i.e._, convex on both faces. Other forms assumed by wood in shrinking are shown in Fig. 40. In the cases A-F the explanation is the same; the circumferential shrinkage is more than the radial. In J and K the shapes are accounted for by the fact that wood shrinks very little longitudinally. [Footnote A: See _Handwork in Wood_, p. 42.] [Illustration: Fig. 40. Shapes Assumed by Wood in Shrinking.] Warping is uneven shrinkage, one side of the board contracting more than the other. Whenever a slash board warps under ordinary conditions, the convex side is the one which was toward the center of the tree. However, a board may be made to warp artificially the other way by applying heat to the side of the board toward the center of the tree, and by keeping the other side moist. The board will warp only sidewise; lengthwise it remains straight unless the treatment is very severe. This shows again that water distends the cells laterally but not longitudinally. The thinning of the cell walls due to evaporation, is thus seen to have three results, all included in the term "working," viz.: _shrinkage_, a diminution in size, _splitting_, due to the inability of parts to cohere under the strains to which they are subjected, and _warping_, or uneven shrinkage. In order to neutralize warping as much as possible in broad board structures, it is common to joint the board with the annual rings of each alternate board curving in opposite directions, as shown in _Handwork in Wood_, Fig. 280, _a_, p. 188. Under warping is included bowing. Bowing, that is, bending in the form of a bow, is, so to speak, longitudinal warping. It is largely due to crookedness or irregularity of grain, and is likely to occur in boards with large pith rays, as oak and sycamore. But even a straight-grained piece of wood, left standing on end or subjected to heat on one side and dampness on the other, will bow, as, for instance a board lying on the damp ground and in the sun. [Illustration: Fig. 41. _a_, Star Shakes; _b_, Heart Shakes; _c_, Cup Shakes or Ring Shakes; _d_, Honeycombing.] Splitting takes various names, according to its form in the tree. "Check" is a term used for all sorts of cracks, and more particularly for a longitudinal crack in timber. "Shakes" are splits of various forms as: _star shakes_, Fig. 41, _a_, splits which radiate from the pith along the pith rays and widen outward; _heart shakes_, Fig. 41, _b_, splits crossing the central rings and widening toward the center; and _cup_ or _ring shakes_, Fig. 41, _c_, splits between the annual rings. _Honeycombing_, Fig. 41, _d_, is splitting along the pith rays and is due largely to case hardening. These are not all due to shrinkage in drying, but may occur in the growing tree from various harmful causes. See p. 232. Wood that has once been dried may again be swelled to nearly if not fully its original size, by being soaked in water or subjected to wet steam. This fact is taken advantage of in wetting wooden wedges to split some kinds of soft stone. The processes of shrinking and swelling can be repeated indefinitely, and no temperature short of burning, completely prevents wood from shrinking and swelling. Rapid drying of wood tends to "case harden" it, _i.e._, to dry and shrink the outer part before the inside has had a chance to do the same. This results in checking separately both the outside and the inside, hence special precautions need to be taken in the seasoning of wood to prevent this. When wood is once thoroly bent out of shape in shrinking, it is very difficult to straighten it again. Woods vary considerably in the amounts of their shrinkage. The conifers with their regular structure shrink less and shrink more evenly than the broad-leaved woods.[3] Wood, even after it has been well seasoned, is subject to frequent changes in volume due to the varying amount of moisture in the atmosphere. This involves constant care in handling it and wisdom in its use. These matters are considered in _Handwork in Wood_, Chapter III, on the Seasoning of Wood. THE WEIGHT OF WOOD. Wood substance itself is heavier than water, as can readily be proved by immersing a very thin cross-section of pine in water. Since the cells are cut across, the water readily enters the cavities, and the wood being heavier than the water, sinks. In fact, it is the air enclosed in the cell cavities that ordinarily keeps wood afloat, just as it does a corked empty bottle, altho glass is heavier than water. A longitudinal shaving of pine will float longer than a cross shaving for the simple reason that it takes longer for the water to penetrate the cells, and a good sized white pine log would be years in getting water-soaked enough to sink. As long as a majority of the cells are filled with air it would float. In any given piece of wood, then, the weight is determined by two factors, the amount of wood substance and the amount of water contained therein. The amount of wood substance is constant, but the amount of water contained is variable, and hence the weight varies accordingly. Moreover, considering the wood substance alone, the weight of wood substance of different kinds of wood is about the same; namely, 1.6 times as heavy as water, whether it is oak or pine, ebony or poplar. The reason why a given bulk of some woods is lighter than an equal bulk of others, is because there are more thin-walled and air-filled cells in the light woods. Many hard woods, as lignum vitae, are so heavy that they will not float at all. This is because the wall of the wood cells is very thick, and the lumina are small. In order, then, to find out the comparative weights of different woods, that is, to see how much wood substance there is in a given volume of any wood, it is necessary to test absolutely dry specimens. The weight of wood is indicated either as the weight per cubic foot or as specific gravity. It is an interesting fact that different parts of the same tree have different weights, the wood at the base of the tree weighing more than that higher up, and the wood midway between the pith and bark weighing more than either the center or the outside.[4] The weight of wood has a very important bearing upon its use. A mallet-head, for example, needs weight in a small volume, but it must also be tough to resist shocks, and elastic so as to impart its momentum gradually and not all at once, as an iron head does. Weight is important, too, in objects of wood that are movable. The lighter the wood the better, if it is strong enough. That is why spruce is valuable for ladders; it is both light and strong. Chestnut would be a valuable wood for furniture if it were not weak, especially in the spring wood. The weight of wood is one measure of its strength. Heavy wood is stronger than light wood of the same kind, for the simple reason that weight and strength are dependent upon the number and compactness of the fibers.[5] THE STRENGTH OF WOOD. Strength is a factor of prime importance in wood. By strength is meant the ability to resist stresses, either of tension (pulling), or of compression (pushing), or both together, cross stresses. When a horizontal timber is subjected to a downward cross stress, the lower half is under tension, the upper half is under compression and the line between is called the neutral axis, Fig. 42. [Illustration: Fig. 42. A Timber Under Cross Stress, Showing Neutral Axis, and the Lines of Tension and Compression. A knot occurring in such a timber should be in the upper half, as at A.] Wood is much stronger than is commonly supposed. A hickory bar will stand more strain under tension than a wrought iron bar of the same length and weight, and a block of long-leaf pine a greater compression endwise than a block of wrought iron of the same height and weight. It approaches the strength of cast iron under the same conditions. Strength depends on two factors: the strength of the individual fibers, and the adhesive power of the fibers to each other. So, when a piece of wood is pulled apart, some of the fibers break and some are pulled out from among their neighbors. Under compression, however, the fibers seem to act quite independently of each other, each bending over like the strands of a rope when the ends are pushed together. As a consequence, we find that wood is far stronger under tension than under compression, varying from two to four times. Woods do not vary nearly so much under compression as under tension, the straight-grained conifers, like larch and longleaf pine, being nearly as strong under compression as the hard woods, like hickory and elm, which have entangled fibers, whereas the hard woods are nearly twice as strong as the conifers under tension. Moisture has more effect on the strength of wood than any other extrinsic condition. In sound wood under ordinary conditions, it outweighs all other causes which affect strength. When thoroly seasoned, wood is two or three times stronger, both under compression and in bending, than when green or water soaked.[6] The tension or pulling strength of wood is much affected by the direction of the grain, a cross-grained piece being only 1/10th to 1/20th as strong as a straight-grained piece. But under compression there is not much difference; so that if a timber is to be subjected to cross strain, that is the lower half under tension and the upper half under compression, a knot or other cross-grained portion should be in the upper half. [Illustration: Fig. 43. Shearing Strength is Measured by the Adhesion of the Portion A, B, C, D or to the Wood on both sides of it.] Strength also includes the ability to resist shear. This is called "_shearing strength_." It is a measure of the adhesion of one part of the wood to an adjoining part. Shearing is what takes place when the portion of wood beyond a mortise near the end of a timber, A B C D, Fig. 43, is forced out by the tenon. In this case it would be shearing along the grain, sometimes called detrusion. The resistance of the portion A B C D, _i.e._, its power of adhesion to the wood adjacent to it on both sides, is its shearing strength. If the mortised piece were forced downward until it broke off the tenon at the shoulder, that would be shearing across the grain. The shearing resistance either with or across the grain is small compared with tension and compression. Green wood shears much more easily than dry, because moisture softens the wood and this reduces the adhesion of the fibers to each other.[7] CLEAVABILITY OF WOOD. Closely connected with shearing strength is cohesion, a property usually considered under the name of its opposite, cleavability, _i.e._, the ease of splitting. When an ax is stuck into the end of a piece of wood, the wood splits in advance of the ax edge. See _Handwork in Wood_, Fig. 59, p. 52. The wood is not cut but pulled across the grain just as truly as if one edge were held and a weight were attached to the other edge and it were torn apart by tension. The length of the cleft ahead of the blade is determined by the elasticity of the wood. The longer the cleft, the easier to split. Elasticity helps splitting, and shearing strength and hardness hinder it. A normal piece of wood splits easily along two surfaces, (1) along any radial plane, principally because of the presence of the pith rays, and, in regular grained wood like pine, because the cells are radially regular; and (2) along the annual rings, because the spring-wood separates easily from the next ring of summer-wood. Of the two, radial cleavage is 50 to 100 per cent. easier. Straight-grained wood is much easier to split than cross-grained wood in which the fibers are interlaced, and soft wood, provided it is elastic, splits easier than hard. Woods with sharp contrast between spring and summer wood, like yellow pine and chestnut, split very easily tangentially. All these facts are important in relation to the use of nails. For instance, the reason why yellow pine is hard to nail and bass easy is because of their difference in cleavability. ELASTICITY OF WOOD. Elasticity is the ability of a substance when forced out of shape,--bent, twisted, compressed or stretched, to regain its former shape. When the elasticity of wood is spoken of, its ability to spring back from bending is usually meant. The opposite of elasticity is brittleness. Hickory is elastic, white pine is brittle. Stiffness is the ability to resist bending, and hence is the opposite of pliability or flexibility. A wood may be both stiff and elastic; it may be even stiff and pliable, as ash, which may be made into splints for baskets and may also be used for oars. Willow sprouts are flexible when green, but quite brittle when dry. Elasticity is of great importance in some uses of wood, as in long tool handles used in agricultural implements, such as rakes, hoes, scythes, and in axes, in archery bows, in golf sticks, etc., in all of which, hickory, our most elastic wood, is used.[8] HARDNESS OF WOOD. Hardness is the ability of wood to resist indentations, and depends primarily upon the thickness of the cell walls and the smallness of the cell cavities, or, in general, upon the density of the wood structure. Summer wood, as we have seen, is much harder than spring wood, hence it is important in using such wood as yellow pine on floors to use comb-grain boards, so as to present the softer spring wood in as narrow surfaces as possible. See _Handwork in Wood_, p. 41, and Fig. 55. In slash-grain boards, broad surfaces of both spring and summer wood appear. Maple which is uniformly hard makes the best floors, even better than oak, parts of which are comparatively soft. The hardness of wood is of much consequence in gluing pieces together. Soft woods, like pine, can be glued easily, because the fibers can be forced close together. As a matter of fact, the joint when dry is stronger than the rest of the board. In gluing hard woods, however, it is necessary to scratch the surfaces to be glued in order to insure a strong joint. It is for the same reason that a joint made with liquid glue is safe on soft wood when it would be weak on hard wood.[9] TOUGHNESS OF WOOD. Toughness may be defined as the ability to resist sudden shocks and blows. This requires a combination of various qualities, strength, hardness, elasticity and pliability. The tough woods, _par excellence_, are hickory, rock elm and ash. They can be pounded, pulled, compressed and sheared. It is because of this quality that hickory is used for wheel spokes and for handles, elm for hubs, etc. In the selection of wood for particular purposes, it is sometimes one, sometimes another, and more often still, a combination of qualities that makes it fit for use.[10] It will be remembered that it was knowledge of the special values of different woods that made "the one horse shay," "The Deacon's Masterpiece." "So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke,-- That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The cross bars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these. The hubs of logs from the "Settler's Ellum,"-- Last of its timber,--they couldn't sell 'em. Never an ax had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery tips; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle and linch pin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue; Thorough brace, bison skin, thick and wide; Boot, top dasher from tough old hide, Found in the pit when the tanner died. That was the way to "put her through." 'There!' said the Deacon, 'naow she'll dew!'" [Footnote 1: Hygroscopicity, "the property possessed by vegetable tissues of absorbing or discharging moisture and expanding or shrinking accordingly."--_Century Dictionary._] [Footnote 2: This is shown by the following table, from Forestry Bulletin No. 10, p. 31, _Timber_, by Filibert Roth: POUNDS OF WATER LOST IN DRYING 100 POUNDS OF GREEN WOOD IN THE KILN. Sap-wood or Heart-wood outer part. or interior. 1. Pines, cedars, spruces, and firs 45-65 16-25 2. Cypress, extremely variable 50-65 18-60 3. Poplar, cottonwood, basswood 60-65 40-60 4. Oak, beech, ash, elm, maple, birch, hickory, chestnut, walnut, and sycamore 40-50 30-40 ] [Footnote 3: The following table from Roth, p. 37, gives the approximate shrinkage of a board, or set of boards, 100 inches wide, drying in the open air: Shrinkage Inches. 1. All light conifers (soft pine, spruce, cedar, cypress) 3 2. Heavy conifers (hard pine, tamarack, yew, honey locust, box elder, wood of old oaks) 4 3. Ash, elm, walnut, poplar, maple, beech, sycamore, cherry, black locust 5 4. Basswood, birch, chestnut, horse chestnut, blue beech, young locust 6 5. Hickory, young oak, especially red oak Up to 10 The figures are the average of radial and tangential shrinkages.] [Footnote 4: How much different woods vary may be seen by the following table, taken from Filibert Roth, _Timber_, Forest Service Bulletin No. 10, p. 28: WEIGHT OF KILN-DRIED WOOD OF DIFFERENT SPECIES. ------------------------------------+--------------------------------- | Approximate. +-----------+--------------------- | | Weight of | +---------+----------- | Specific | 1 cubic | 1,000 feet | weight. | foot. | of lumber. ------------------------------------+-----------+---------+----------- | | Pounds | Pounds (a) Very heavy woods: | | | Hickory, oak, persimmon, | | | osage, orange, black | | | locust, hackberry, blue | | | beech, best of elm, and ash | 0.70-0.80 | 42-48 | 3,700 (b) Heavy woods: | | | Ash, elm, cherry, birch, | | | maple, beech, walnut, sour | | | gum, coffee tree, honey | | | locust, best of southern | | | pine, and tamarack | .60-.70 | 36-42 | 3,200 (c) Woods of medium weight: | | | Southern pine, pitch pine, | | | tamarack, Douglas spruce, | | | western hemlock, sweet gum, | | | soft maple, sycamore, light | | | sassafras, mulberry, | | | grades of birch and cherry | .50-.60 | 30-36 | 2,700 (d) Light woods: | | | Norway and bull pine, red | | | cedar, cypress, hemlock, | | | the heavier spruce and fir, | | | redwood, basswood, chestnut, | | | butternut, tulip, catalpa, | | | buckeye, heavier grades of | | | poplar | .40-.50 | 24-30 | 2,200 (e) Very light woods: | | | White pine, spruce, fir, white | | | cedar, poplar | .30-.40 | 18-24 | 1,800 ------------------------------------+-----------+---------+----------- ] [Footnote 5: For table of weights of different woods see Sargent, _Jesup Collection,_ pp. 153-157.] [Footnote 6: See Forestry Bulletin No. 70, pp. 11, 12, and Forestry Circular No. 108.] [Footnote 7: For table of strengths of different woods, see Sargent, _Jesup Collection_, pp. 166 ff.] [Footnote 8: For table of elasticity of different woods, see Sargent, _Jesup Collection_, pp. 163 ff.] [Footnote 9: For table of hardnesses of different woods, see Sargent, _Jesup Collection_, pp. 173 ff.] [Footnote 10: For detailed characteristics of different woods see Chapter III.] THE PROPERTIES OF WOOD. REFERENCES[A] Moisture and Shrinkage. Roth, _For. Bull._, No. 10, pp. 25-37. Busbridge, _Sci. Am. Sup._ No. 1500. Oct. 1, '04. Weight, Strength, Cleavability, Elasticity and Toughness. Roth, _For. Bull._, 10, p. 37-50. Boulger, pp. 89-108, 129-140. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 229-233. Sargent, _Jesup Collection_, pp. 153-176. Forest Circulars Nos. 108 and 139. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER III. THE PRINCIPAL SPECIES OF AMERICAN WOODS. NOTES. The photographs of tangential and radial sections are life size. The microphotographs are of cross-sections and are enlarged 37-1/2 diameters. Following the precedent of U. S. Forest Bulletin No. 17, Sudworth's _Check List of the Forest Trees of the United States_, the complicated rules for the capitalization of the names of species are abandoned and they are uniformly not capitalized. On pages 192-195 will be found lists of the woods described, arranged in the order of their comparative weight, strength, elasticity, and hardness. These lists are based upon the figures in Sargent's _The Jesup Collection_. In the appendix, p. 289, will be found a key for distinguishing the various kinds of wood. Information as to current wholesale prices in the principal markets of the country can be had from the U. S. Dept. of Agriculture, The Forest Service, Washington, D. C., _Record of Wholesale Prices of Lumber, List A._ These lists are published periodically. No attempt is made in this book to give prices because: (1) only lists of wholesale prices are available; (2) the cuts and grades differ considerably, especially in soft woods (conifers); (3) prices are constantly varying; (4) the prices differ much in different localities. 1 WHITE PINE, WEYMOUTH PINE. Named for Lord Weymouth, who cultivated it in England. _Pinus strobus_ Linnaeus. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _strobus_ refers to the cone, or strobile, from a Greek word, _strobus_, meaning twist. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); now best in Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-120', even 200'; diameter, 2'-4'; branches in whorls, cleans poorly; bark, dark gray, divided by deep longitudinal fissures into broad ridges; leaves in clusters of 5, 3"-5" long; cone drooping, 4"-10" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, heart-wood, very light brown, almost cream color, sap-wood, nearly white; non-porous; rings, fine but distinct; grain, straight; pith rays, very faint; resin ducts, small, inconspicuous. [Illustration: Leaf.] PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, very light (59th in this list); 27 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.3854; strength, medium (55th in this list); elasticity, medium (47th in this list); soft (57th in this list); shrinkage 3 per cent.; warps very little; durability, moderate; works easily in every way; splits easily but nails well. COMMON USES: Doors, window sashes and other carpentry, pattern-making, cabinet-work, matches. REMARKS: This best of American woods is now rapidly becoming scarce and higher in price. Its uses are due to its uniform grain, on account of which it is easily worked and stands well. Known in the English market as yellow pine. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 2 WESTERN WHITE PINE. _Pinus monticola_ Douglas. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _monticola_ means mountain-dweller. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows at great elevations, 7,000'-10,000'. Best in northern Idaho. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-160'; diameter, 4' to even 8'; branches, slender, spreading; bark, gray and brown, divided into squarish plates by deep longitudinal and cross fissures; leaves, 5 in sheath; cones, 12"�18" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown or red, sap-wood nearly white; non-porous; rings, summer wood, thin and not conspicuous; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure; resin ducts, numerous and conspicuous tho not large. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, very light (58th in this list); 24 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.3908; strength, medium (56th in this list); elastic (35th in this list); soft (63d in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; moderately durable; easy to work; splits readily but nails well. COMMON USES: Lumber for construction and interior finish. REMARKS: Closely resembles _Pinus Strobus_ in appearance and quality of wood. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 3 SUGAR PINE. Sugar refers to sweetish exudation. _Pinus lambertiana_ Douglas. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _lambertiana_, from the botanist, A. B. Lambert, whose chief work was on Pines. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows on high elevations (5,000'), best in northern California. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-300'; diameter, 15"-20"; branches, in remote regular whorls; bark, rich purple or brown, thick, deep irregular fissures making long, flaky ridges; leaves, stout, rigid, in bundles of five; cones, 10"-18" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pinkish brown, sap-wood, cream white; non-porous; rings, distinct; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure; resin ducts, numerous, large and conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, very light (61st in this list); 22 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.3684; strength, weak (59th in this list); elasticity, medium (56th in this list); soft (53d in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; durable; easily worked; splits little, nails well. COMMON USES: Carpentry, interior finish, doors, blinds, shingles, barrels, etc. REMARKS: Exudes a sweet substance from heart-wood. A magnificent and important lumber tree on Pacific coast. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 4 NORWAY PINE. RED PINE. Red refers to color of bark. _Pinus resinosa_ Solander. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _resinosa_ refers to very resinous wood. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows best in northern Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-90'; diameter, 2'-3'; tall, straight; branches in whorls, low; bark, thin, scaly, purplish and reddish-brown; longitudinal furrows, broad flat ridges; leaves, in twos in long sheaths; cones, 2". APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color of wood, pale red, sap-wood, wide, whitish; non-porous; rings summer wood broad, dark; grain, straight; rays, numerous, pronounced, thin; very resinous, but ducts small and few. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light, (43d in this list); 31 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4854; strong (39th in this list); elastic (16th in this list); soft (48th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps moderately; not durable; easy to work; splits readily, nails well. COMMON USES: Piles, electric wire poles, masts, flooring. REMARKS: Often sold with and as white pine. Resembles Scotch pine (_Pinus sylvestris_). Bark used to some extent for tanning. Grows in open groves. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 5 WESTERN YELLOW PINE. BULL PINE. Bull refers to great size of trunk. _Pinus ponderosa_ Lawson. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _ponderosa_ refers to great size of trunk. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Rocky Mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100' to 300'; diameter, 6' to even 12'; branches, low, short trunk; bark, thick, dark brown, deep, meandering furrows, large, irregular plates, scaly; leaves, in twos or threes, 5" to 11" long; cones 3" to 6" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light red, sap-wood, thick, nearly white, and very distinct; non-porous; rings, conspicuous; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure; very resinous but ducts small. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (44th in this list); 25-30 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4715; strength, medium (45th in this list); elasticity, medium (41st in this list); hardness, medium (42nd in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps ...........; not durable; hard to work, brittle; splits easily in nailing. COMMON USES: Lumber, railway ties, mine timbers. REMARKS: Forms extensive open forests. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 6 LONG-LEAF PINE. GEORGIA PINE. _Pinus palustris_ Miller. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _palustris_ means swampy, inappropriate here. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Louisiana and East Texas. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-100'; diameter, 2'-3'; trunk, straight, clean, branches high; bark, light brown, large, thin, irregular papery scales; leaves 8"-12" long, 3 in a sheath; cones 6"-10" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Heart-wood, spring wood light yellow, summer wood, red brown; sap wood, lighter; non-porous; rings, very plain and strongly marked; grain, straight; rays, numerous, conspicuous; very resinous, but resin ducts few and not large. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (18th in this list); 38 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.6999; very strong (7th in this list); very elastic (4th in this list); hardness, medium (33d in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps very little; quite durable; works hard, tough; splits badly in nailing. COMMON USES: Joists, beams, bridge and building trusses, interior finish, ship building, and general construction work. REMARKS: Almost exclusively the source of turpentine, tar, pitch and resin in the United States. Known in the English market as pitch pine. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 7 SHORT-LEAF PINE. YELLOW PINE. _Pinus echinata_ Miller. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _echinata_ refers to spiny cones. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Mississippi basin. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Straight, tall trunk, sometimes 100' high; branches high; diameter 2'-4'; bark, pale grayish red-brown, fissures, running helter-skelter, making large irregular plates, covered with small scales; leaves in twos, 3" long; cones small. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, heartwood, summer wood, red, spring-wood, yellow; sap-wood, lighter; non-porous; annual rings very plain, sharp contrast between spring and summer wood; grain, straight, coarse; rays, numerous, conspicuous; very resinous, ducts large and many. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (32nd in this list); 32 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6104; very strong (18th in this list); very elastic (8th in this list); soft (38th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps little; durable; troublesome to work; likely to split along annual rings in nailing. COMMON USES: Heavy construction, railroad ties, house trim, ship building, cars, docks, bridges. REMARKS: Wood hardly distinguishable from long-leaf pine. Often forms pure forests. The most desirable yellow pine, much less resinous and more easily worked than others. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 8 LOBLOLLY PINE. OLD FIELD PINE. _Loblolly_ may refer to the inferiority of the wood; old field refers to habit of spontaneous growth on old fields. _Pinus taeda_ Linnaeus. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _taeda_, the classical Latin name for pitch-pine, which was used for torches. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows best in eastern Virginia, and eastern North Carolina. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-150'; diameter, often 4'-5'; branches high; bark, purplish brown, shallow, meandering fissures, broad, flat, scaly ridges; leaves, 3 in sheath, 4"-7" long; cones 3"-5" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, heart-wood orange, sap-wood lighter; non-porous; rings very plain, sharp contrast between spring wood and summer wood; grain, straight, coarse; rays conspicuous; very resinous, but ducts few and small. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (39th in this list); 33 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.5441; strong (26th in this list); elastic (17th in this list); medium hard (43d in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps little; not durable; difficult to work, brittle; splits along rings in nailing. COMMON USES: Heavy construction, beams, ship building, docks, bridges, flooring, house trim. REMARKS: Resembles Long-leaf Pine, and often sold as such. Rarely makes pure forests. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 9 SLASH PINE. CUBAN PINE. _Pinus caribaea_ Morelet. _Pinus heterophylla_ (Ell.) Sudworth. _Pinus_, the classical Latin name; _caribaea_ refers to the Caribbean Islands; _heterophylla_ refers to two kinds of leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows best in Alabama, Mississippi, and Louisiana. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, sometimes 110', straight, tall, branching high; diameter 1'-3'; bark, dark red and brown, shallow irregular fissures; leaves, 2 or 3 in a sheath, 8"-12" long; cones, 4"-5" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dark orange, sapwood lighter; non-porous; annual rings, plain, sharp contrast between spring wood and summer wood; grain, straight; rays numerous, rather prominent; very resinous, but ducts few. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (7th in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.7504; very strong (6th in this list); very elastic (3d in this list); hard (24th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps little; quite durable; troublesome to work; splits along annual rings in nailing. COMMON USES: Heavy construction, ship building, railroad ties, docks, bridges, house trim. REMARKS: Similar to and often sold as Long-leaf Pine. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 10 TAMARACK. LARCH. HACKMATACK. _Larix laricina_ (Du Roi) Koch. _Larix americana_ Michaux. _Larix_, the classical Latin name. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); prefers swamps, "Tamarack swamps." [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-60' and even 90', diameter 1'-3'; intolerant; tall, slender trunk; bark, cinnamon brown, no ridges, breaking into flakes; leaves, deciduous, pea-green, in tufts; cone, 1/2"-3/4", bright brown. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sapwood hardly distinguishable; non-porous; rings, summer wood, thin but distinct, dark colored; grain, straight, coarse; rays, numerous, hardly distinguishable; very resinous, but ducts few and small. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (29th in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.6236; strong (24th in this list); elastic (11th in this list); medium hard (40th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps .........; very durable; easy to work; splits easily. COMMON USES: Ship building, electric wire poles, and railroad ties; used for boat ribs because of its naturally crooked knees; slenderness prevents common use as lumber. REMARKS: Tree desolate looking in winter. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 11 WESTERN LARCH. TAMARACK. _Larix occidentalis_ Nuttall. _Larix_, the classical Latin name; _occidentalis_ means western. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in northern Montana and Idaho, on high elevations. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 90'-130', even 250'; diameter 6'-8'; tall, slender, naked trunk, with branches high; bark, cinnamon red or purplish, often 12" thick, breaking into irregular plates, often 2' long; leaves, in tufts; deciduous; cones small. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light red, thin, whitish, sap-wood; non-porous; grain, straight, fine; rays numerous, thin; very resinous, but ducts small and obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, heavy (11th in this list); 46 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.7407; very strong (3d in this list); very elastic (1st in this list); medium hard (35th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps ..........; very durable; rather hard to work, takes fine polish; splits with difficulty. COMMON USES: Posts, railroad ties, fencing, cabinet material and fuel. REMARKS: A valuable tree in the Northwest. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 12 WHITE SPRUCE. _Picea canadensis_ (Miller) B. S. P. _Picea alba_ Link. _Picea_, the classical Latin name; white and _alba_ refers to the pale color of the leaves, especially when young, and to the whitish bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map). [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-100' and even 150'; diameter, 1'-2' and even 4'; long, thick branches; bark, light grayish brown, separating into thin plate-like scales, rather smooth appearance, resin from cuts forms white gum; leaves, set thickly on all sides of branch, finer than red spruce, odor disagreeable; cones, 2" long, cylindrical, slender, fall during second summer. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light yellow, sap-wood, hardly distinguishable; non-porous; rings, wide, summer wood thin, not conspicuous; grain, straight; rays, numerous, prominent; resin ducts, few and minute. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (51st in this list); 25 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4051; medium strong (42d in this list); elastic (29th in this list); soft (58th in this list); shrinks 3 per cent.; warps ........; fairly durable; easy to work, satiny surface; splits readily. COMMON USES: Lumber and paper pulp; (not distinguished from Red and Black Spruce in market). REMARKS: Wood very resonant, hence used for sounding boards. The most important lumber tree of the sub-arctic forest of British Columbia. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 13 RED SPRUCE.[A] _Picea rubens_ Sargent. _Picea_, the classical Latin name for the pitch pine; _rubens_ refers to reddish bark, and perhaps to the reddish streaks in the wood. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); stunted in north. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-80', even 100'; diameter, 2'-3', grows slowly; trunk, straight, columnar, branches in whorls, cleans well in forest; bark, reddish brown with thin irregular scales; leaves, needle-shaped, four-sided, pointing everywhere; cones, 1-1/4"-2" long, pendent, fall during the first winter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dull white with occasional reddish streaks; sap-wood not distinct; non-porous; rings, summer rings thin, but clearly defined; grain, straight; rays, faintly discernible; resin ducts, few and small. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (47th in this list); 28 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4584; medium strong (41st in this list); elastic (21st in this list); soft (54th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; not durable; easy to plane, tolerably easy to saw, hard to chisel neatly; splits easily in nailing. COMMON USES: Sounding boards, construction, paper pulp, ladders. REMARKS: The exudations from this species are used as chewing gum. Bark of twigs is used in the domestic manufacture of beer. The use of the wood for sounding boards is due to its resonance, and for ladders to its strength and lightness. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] [Footnote A: Not distinguished in the Jesup collection from _Picea nigra_.] 14 BLACK SPRUCE.[A] _Picea mariana_ (Miller) B. S. P. _Picea nigra_ Link. _Picea_, the classical Latin name for the pitch pine; _mariana_ named for Queen Mary; black and _nigra_ refer to dark foliage. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Canada. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-80' and even 100'; diameter, 6"-1' even 2'; branches, whorled, pendulous with upward curve; bark, gray, loosely attached flakes; leaves, pale blue-green, spirally set, pointing in all directions; cones, small, ovate-oblong, persistent for many years. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pale, reddish, sap-wood, thin, white, not very distinct; non-porous; rings, summer wood, small thin cells; grain, straight; rays, few, conspicuous; resin ducts, few and minute. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (47th in this list); 33 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4584; medium strong (41st in this list); elastic (21st in this list); soft (54th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; not durable; easy to work; splits easily in nailing. COMMON USES: Sounding boards, lumber in Manitoba. REMARKS: Not distinguished from Red Spruce commercially. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] [Footnote A: Not distinguished in Jesup Collection from _Picea rubens_.] 15 WHITE SPRUCE. ENGELMANN'S SPRUCE. _Picea engelmanni_ (Parry) Engelmann. Named for George Engelmann, an American botanist. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows at very high elevations, forming forest at 8,000'-10,000'; best in British Columbia. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 75'-100', even 150'; diameter, 2'-3', even 5'; branches whorled, spreading; bark, deeply furrowed, red-brown to purplish brown, thin, large, loose scales; leaves, blue-green, point in all directions; cones, 2" long, oblong, cylindrical. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pale yellow or reddish, sap-wood hardly distinguishable; non-porous; rings, very fine, summer wood, narrow, not conspicuous; grain, straight, close; rays, numerous, conspicuous; resin ducts, small and few. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, very light (57th in this list); 22 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.3449; weak (61st in this list); elasticity medium (55th in this list); soft (56th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps .........; durable; easy to work; splits easily. COMMON USES: Lumber. REMARKS: A valuable lumber tree in the Rocky Mountains and the Cascades. Bark used for tanning. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters]. [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 16 TIDELAND SPRUCE. SITKA SPRUCE. _Picea sitchensis_ (Bongard) Carrière. _Picea_, the classical Latin name for the pitch pine. Tideland refers to its habit of growth along the sea coast; _sitchensis_, named for Sitka. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on Pacific slope of British Columbia and northwestern United States. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-150' and even 200' high; diameter 3'-4' and even 15'; trunk base enlarged; bark, thick, red-brown, scaly; leaves, standing out in all directions; cones, 2-1/2"-4" long, pendent, cylindrical, oval. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood whitish; non-porous; rings, wide, summer wood, thin but very distinct, spring wood, not plain; grain, straight, coarse; rays, numerous, rather prominent; resin ducts, few and small. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (52d in this list); 27 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4287; medium strong (53d in this list); elastic (31st in this list); soft (59th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps ...........; durable; easy to work; splits easily. COMMON USES: Interior finish, boat building and cooperage. REMARKS: Largest of the spruces. Common in the coast belt forest. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 17 HEMLOCK. _Tsuga canadensis_ (Linnaeus) Carrière. _Tsuga_, the Japanese name latinized; _canadensis_ named for Canada. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in North Carolina and Tennessee. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-70', sometimes 100'; diameter, 2'-3'; branches, persistent, making trunk not very clean; bark, red-gray, narrow, rounded ridges, deeply and irregularly fissured; leaves, spirally arranged, but appear two-ranked; cones, 3/4" long, graceful. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood just distinguishable; non-porous; rings, rather broad, conspicuous; grain, crooked; rays, numerous, thin; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (53d in this list); 26 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4239; medium strong (44th in this list); elasticity, medium (40th in this list); soft (51st in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps and checks badly; not durable; difficult to work, splintery, brittle; splits easily, holds nails well. COMMON USES: Coarse, cheap lumber, as joists, rafters, plank walks and laths. REMARKS: The poorest lumber. Bark chief source of tanning material. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 18 WESTERN HEMLOCK. BLACK HEMLOCK. _Tsuga heterophylla_ (Rafinesque) Sargent. _Tsuga_, the Japanese name latinized; _heterophylla_ refers to two kinds of leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on coast of Washington and Oregon. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 150'-200'; diameter, 6'-10'; branches, pendent, slender; bark, reddish gray, deep, longitudinal fissures between, broad, oblique, flat ridges; leaves, dark green, two-ranked; cones, small, like Eastern Hemlock. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pale brown, sap-wood thin, whitish; non-porous; rings, narrow, summer wood thin but distinct; grain, straight, close; rays, numerous, prominent; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight, strong, elastic, hard;[A] shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps ..........; durable, more so than other American hemlocks; easier to work than eastern variety; splits badly. COMMON USES: Lumber for construction. REMARKS: Coming to be recognized as a valuable lumber tree. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] [Footnote A: Not in Jesup Collection.] 19 DOUGLAS SPRUCE. OREGON PINE. RED FIR. DOUGLAS FIR. _Pseudotsuga mucronata_ (Rafinesque) Sudworth. _Pseudotsuga taxifolia_ (Lambert) Britton. _Pseudotsuga_ means false hemlock; _mucronata_ refers to abrupt short point of leaf; _taxifolia_ means yew leaf. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Puget Sound region. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 175'-300'; diameter, 3'-5', sometimes 10'; branches high, leaving clean trunk; bark, rough, gray, great broad-rounded ridges, often appears braided; leaves, radiating from stem; cones, 2"-4" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light red to yellow, sap-wood white; non-porous; rings, dark colored, conspicuous, very pronounced summer wood; grain, straight, coarse; rays, numerous, obscure; resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (41st in this list); 32 lbs. per cu. ft, sp. gr. 0.5157; strong (21st in this list); very elastic (10th in this list); medium hard (45th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent. or 4 per cent.;, warps ...............; durable; difficult to work, flinty, splits readily. COMMON USES: Heavy construction, masts, flag poles, piles, railway ties. REMARKS: One of the greatest and the most valuable of the western timber trees. Forms extensive forests. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 20 GRAND FIR. WHITE FIR. LOWLAND FIR. SILVER FIR. _Abies grandis_ Lindley. _Abies_, the classical Latin name. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Puget Sound region. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, in interior 100'; diameter, 2'; on coast, 250'-300' high; diameter, 2'-5'; long pendulous branches; bark, quite gray or gray brown, shallow fissures, flat ridges; leaves, shiny green above, silvery below, 1-1/2"-2" long, roughly two-ranked; cones, cylindrical, 2"-4" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood lighter; non-porous; rings, summer cells broader than in other American species, dark colored, conspicuous; grain straight, coarse; rays, numerous, obscure; resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very light (62d in this list); 22 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.3545; weak (62d in this list); elastic (34th in this list); soft (65th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; not durable; works easily; splits readily. COMMON USES: Lumber and packing cases. REMARKS: No resin ducts. Not a very valuable wood. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 21 BIG TREE. SEQUOIA. GIANT SEQUOIA. _Sequoia washingtoniana_ (Winslow) Sudworth. _Sequoia gigantea_, Decaisne. _Sequoia_ latinized from Sequoiah, a Cherokee Indian; _washingtoniana_, in honor of George Washington. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); in ten groves in southern California, at high elevation. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 275', sometimes 320'; diameter, 20', sometimes 35'; trunk, swollen and often buttressed at base, ridged, often clear for 150'; thick horizontal branches; bark, 1'-2' thick, in great ridges, separates into loose, fibrous, cinnamon red scales, almost non-combustible; leaves, very small, growing close to stem; cones, 2"-3" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, red, turning dark on exposure, sap-wood thin, whitish; non-porous; rings, very plain; grain straight, coarse; rays, numerous, thin; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light (65th in this list); 18 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.2882; weak (63d in this list); brittle (62d in this list); very soft (61st in this list); shrinks little; warps little; remarkably durable; easy to work, splits readily, takes nails well. COMMON USES: Construction, lumber, coffins, shingles. REMARKS: Dimensions and age are unequalled; Big Tree and Redwood survivors of a prehistoric genus, once widely distributed. Some specimens 3600 years old. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 22 REDWOOD. COAST REDWOOD. SEQUOIA. _Sequoia sempervirens_ (Lambert) Endlicher. _Sequoia_, latinized from Sequoiah, a Cherokee Indian; _sempervirens_ means ever living. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in southern Oregon and northern California, near coast. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 200'-340'; diameter, 10'-15', rarely 25'; clean trunk, much buttressed and swollen at base, somewhat fluted, branches very high; bark, very thick, 6"-12", rounded ridges, dark scales falling reveal inner red bark; leaves, small, two-ranked; cones, small, 1" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, red, turning to brown on seasoning, sap-wood whitish; non-porous; rings, distinct; grain, straight; rays, numerous, very obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (55th in this list); 26 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4208; weak (58th in this list); brittle (60th in this list); soft (55th in this list); shrinks little; warps little; very durable; easily worked; splits readily; takes nails well. COMMON USES: Shingles, construction, timber, fence posts, coffins, railway ties, water pipes, curly specimens used in cabinet work. REMARKS: Low branches rare. Burns with difficulty. Chief construction wood of Pacific Coast. Use determined largely by durability. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 23 BALD CYPRESS. Bald refers to leaflessness of tree in winter. _Taxodium distichum_ (Linnaeus) L. C. Richard. _Taxodium_ means yew-like; _distichum_ refers to the two-ranked leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in South Atlantic and Gulf States. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 75', occasionally 150'; diameter, 4'-5'; roots project upward into peculiar knees; trunk strongly buttressed at base, straight, majestic and tapering; bark, light red, shallow fissures, flat plates, peeling into fibrous strips; leaves, long, thin, two-ranked, deciduous; cones, nearly globular, 1" in diameter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, heart-wood, reddish brown, sap-wood, nearly white; non-porous; rings, fine and well marked; grain, nearly straight, burl is beautifully figured; rays, very obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (48th in this list); 29 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4543; medium strong (48th in this list); elastic (28th in this list); soft (52d in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps but little, likely to check; very durable; easy to work, in splitting, crumbles or breaks; nails well. COMMON USES: Shingles, posts, interior finish, cooperage, railroad ties, boats, and various construction work, especially conservatories. REMARKS: Forms forests in swamps; subject to a fungous disease, making wood "peggy" or "pecky"; use largely determined by its durability. In New Orleans 90,000 fresh water cisterns are said to be made of it. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 24 WESTERN RED CEDAR. CANOE CEDAR. GIANT ARBORVITAE. _Thuja plicata_ D. Don. _Thuya gigantea_ Nuttall. _Thuya_ or _Thuja_, the classical Greek name; _plicata_ refers to the folded leaves; _gigantea_ refers to the gigantic size of the tree. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Puget Sound region. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-200'; diameter, 2'-10', even 15'; trunk has immense buttresses, often 16' in diameter, then tapers; branches, horizontal, short, making a dense conical tree; bark, bright cinnamon red, shallow fissures, broad ridges, peeling into long, narrow, stringy scales; leaves, very small, overlapping in 4 ranks, on older twigs, sharper and more remote; cones, _1/2"_ long, small, erect. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dull brown or red, thin sap-wood nearly white; non-porous; rings, summer bands thin, dark colored, distinct; grain, straight, rather coarse; rays, numerous, obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very light in weight (60th in this list); medium strong (40th in this list); elastic (26th in this list); soft (60th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps and checks little; very durable; easy to work; splits easily. COMMON USES: Interior finish, cabinet making, cooperage, shingles, electric wire poles. REMARKS: Wood used by Indians for war canoes, totems and planks for lodges; inner bark used for ropes and textiles. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 25 WHITE CEDAR. _Chamaecyparis thyoides_ (Linnaeus) B. S. P. _Chamaecyparis_ means low cypress; _thyoides_ means like _thuya_ (_Aborvitae_). [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Virginia and North Carolina. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-80'; diameter, 2'-4'; branches, low, often forming impenetrable thickets; bark, light reddish brown, many fine longitudinal fissures, often spirally twisted around stem; leaves, scale-like, four-ranked; cones, globular, 1/4" diameter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pink to brown, sap-wood lighter; non-porous; rings, sharp and distinct; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very light in weight (64th in this list); 23 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.3322); weak (64th in this list); brittle (63d in this list; soft (62d in this list); shrinkage 3 per cent.; warps little; extremely durable; easily worked; splits easily; nails well. COMMON USES: Boats, shingles, posts, railway ties, cooperage. REMARKS: Grows chiefly in swamps, often in dense pure forests. Uses determined largely by its durability. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 26 LAWSON CYPRESS. PORT ORFORD CEDAR. OREGON CEDAR. WHITE CEDAR. _Chamaecyparis lawsoniana_ (A. Murray) Parlatore. _Chamaecyparis_ means low cypress. [Illustration: Habitat.] [Illustration: Leaf.] HABITAT: (See map); best on coast of Oregon. CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-200'; diameter, 4'-8', even 12'; base of trunk abruptly enlarged; bark, very thick, even 10" at base of trunk, inner and outer layers distinct, very deep fissures, rounded ridges; leaves, very small, 1/16" long, four-ranked, overlapped, flat sprays; cones, small, 1/4", globular. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pinkish brown, sap-wood hardly distinguishable; non-porous; rings, summer wood thin, not conspicuous; grain, straight, close; rays, numerous, very obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (46th in this list); 28 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4621; strong (25th in this list); elastic (12th in this list); soft (50th in this list); shrinkage 3 or 4 per cent.; warps little; durable; easily worked; splits easily. COMMON USES: Matches (almost exclusively on the Pacific Coast), interior finish, ship and boat building. REMARKS: Resin, a powerful diuretic and insecticide. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 27 RED CEDAR. _Juniperus virginiana_ Linnaeus. _Juniperus_, the classical Latin name; _virginiana_, in honor of the State of Virginia. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Gulf States in swamps, especially on the west coast of Florida. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 40'-50', even 80'; diameter, 1'-2'; trunk, ridged, sometimes expanded; branches, low; bark, light brown, loose, ragged, separating into long, narrow, persistent, stringy scales; leaves, opposite, of two kinds, awl-shaped, and scale-shaped; fruit, dark blue berry. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dull red, sap-wood white; non-porous; rings, easily distinguished; grain, straight; rays, numerous, very obscure; non-resinous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very light in weight (42d in this list); 30 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4826; medium strong (43d in this list); brittle (61st in this list); medium hard (34th in this list); shrinkage, 3 per cent.; warps little; very durable; easy to work; splits readily, takes nails well. COMMON USES: Pencils, chests, cigar boxes, pails, interior finish. REMARKS: Fragrant. Pencils are made almost exclusively of this wood, because it is light, strong, stiff, straight and fine-grained and easily whittled; supply being rapidly depleted. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 28 BLACK WILLOW. _Salix nigra_ Marshall. _Salix_, from two Celtic words meaning near-water; _nigra_ refers to the dark bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); grows largest in southern Illinois, Indiana and Texas, on moist banks. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 30'-40', sometimes 120'; diameter, 1'-2', rarely 3'-4'; stout, upright, spreading branches, from common base; bark, rough and dark brown or black, often tinged with yellow or brown; leaves, lanceolate, often scythe-shaped, serrate edges; fruit, a capsule containing small, hairy seeds. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light reddish brown, sap-wood, thin, whitish; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, close and weak; rays, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (51st in this list); 27.77 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4456; weak (65th in this list); very brittle (64th in this list); soft (46th in this list); shrinks considerably; warps and checks badly; soft, weak, indents without breaking; splits easily. COMMON USES: Lap-boards, baskets, water wheels, fuel and charcoal for gunpowder. REMARKS: Its characteristic of indenting without breaking has given it use as lining for carts and as cricket bats. Of the many willows, the most tree like in proportion in eastern North America. Bark contains salycylic acid. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 29 BUTTERNUT. WHITE WALNUT. Butternut, because the nuts are rich in oil. _Juglans cinerea_ Linnaeus. _Juglans_ means Jove's nut; _cinerea_ refers to ash-colored bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT:: (See map); best in Ohio basin. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 75'-100'; diameter, 2'-4'; branches low, broad spreading deep roots; bark, grayish brown, deep fissures broad ridges; leaves 15"-30" long, compound 11 to 17 leaflets, hairy and rough; fruit, oblong, pointed, edible, oily nut. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, darkening with exposure, sap-wood whitish; diffuse, porous; rings, not prominent; grain, fairly straight, coarse, takes high polish; rays, distinct, thin, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (56th in this list); 25 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4086; weak (57th in this list); elasticity, medium (52d in this list); soft (47th in this list); shrinkage ....... per cent.; warps little; durable; easy to work; splits easily. COMMON USES: Cabinet work, inside trim. REMARKS: Green husks of fruit give yellow dye. Sugar made from sap. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 30 BLACK WALNUT. _Juglans nigra_ Linnaeus. _Juglans_ means Jove's nut; _nigra_ refers to the dark wood. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in western North Carolina and Tennessee. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 90'-120', even 150'; diameter, 3' to even 8'; clean of branches for 50' to 60'; bark, brownish, almost black, deep fissures, and broad, rounded ridges; leaves, 1'-2' long, compound pinnate, 15 to 23 leaflets, fall early; fruit, nut, with adherent husk, and edible kernel. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, chocolate brown, sap-wood much lighter; diffuse-porous; rings, marked by slightly larger pores; grain, straight; rays, numerous, thin, not conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (31st in this list); 38 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.6115; strong (32d in this list); elastic (23d in this list); hard (21st in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps little; very durable; easy to work; splits with some difficulty, takes and holds nails well. COMMON USES: Gun stocks (since 17th century), veneers, cabinet making. REMARKS: Formerly much used for furniture, now scarce. Plentiful in California. Most valuable wood of North American forests. Wood superior to European variety. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 31 MOCKERNUT. BLACK HICKORY. BULL-NUT. BIG-BUD HICKORY. WHITE-HEART HICKORY. KING NUT. Mockernut refers to disappointing character of nuts. _Hicoria alba_ (Linnaeus) Britton. _Carya tomentosa_ Nuttall. _Hicoria_, shortened and latinized from _Pawcohicora_, the Indian name for the liquor obtained from the kernels; _alba_ refers to the white wood, _carya_, the Greek name for walnut; _tomentosa_ refers to hairy under surface of leaf. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley, Missouri and Arkansas. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 75', rarely 100'; diameter, 2'-3'; rises high in forest; bark, dark gray, shallow, irregular interrupted fissures, rough but not shaggy in old trees; leaves, 8"-12" long, compound, 7-9 leaflets, fragrant when crushed; fruit, spherical nut, thick shell, edible kernel. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dark brown, sap-wood nearly white; ring-porous; rings, marked by few large regularly distributed open ducts; grain, usually straight, close; rays, numerous, thin, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very heavy (3d in this list); 53 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.8218; very strong (11th in this list); very elastic (14th in this list); very hard (3d in this list); shrinkage, 10 per cent.; warps ..........; not durable; very hard to work; splits with great difficulty, almost impossible to nail. COMMON USES: Wheels, runners, tool and axe handles, agricultural implements. REMARKS: Confounded commercially with shellbark hickory. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 32 SHELLBARK HICKORY. SHAGBARK HICKORY. _Hicoria ovata_ (Millar) Britton. _Carya alba_ Nuttall. _Hickory_ is shortened and latinized from _Pawcohicora_, the Indian name for the liquor obtained from the kernels; _ovata_ refers to oval nut; _carya_, the Greek name for walnut. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-90' and even 120'; diameter, 2'-3', even 4'; straight, columnar trunk; bark, dark gray, separates into long, hard, plate-like strips, which cling to tree by middle, on young trees very smooth and close; leaves, 8"-20" long, compound 5 or (7) leaflets; nuts, globular, husk, four-valved, split easily, thin-shelled, edible. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood whitish; ring-porous; rings, clearly marked; grain, straight; rays, numerous, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very Heavy (1st in this list); 51 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.8372; very strong (5th in this list); very elastic (7th in this list); very hard (5th in this list); shrinkage, 10 per cent.; warps badly; not very durable under exposure; hard to work, very tough; hard to split, very difficult to nail. COMMON USES: Agricultural implements, handles, wheel spokes. REMARKS: American hickory is famous both for buggies and ax handles, because it is flexible and very tough in resistance to blows. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 33 PIGNUT. Nuts eaten by swine. _Hicoria glabra_ (Miller) Britton. _Carya porcina._ _Hicoria_ is shortened and latinized from _Pawcohicora_, the Indian name for the liquor obtained from the kernel; _glabra_ refers to smooth bark; _Carya_ the Greek name for walnut; _porcina_ means pertaining to hogs. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-100'; diameter 2'-4'; trunk often forked; bark, light gray, shallow fissures, rather smooth, rarely exfoliates; leaves, 8"-12" long, compound 7 leaflets, sharply serrate; fruit, a thick-shelled nut, bitter kernel. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light or dark brown, the thick sap-wood lighter, often nearly white; ring-porous; rings marked by many large open ducts; grain, straight; rays, small and insignificant. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very heavy (4th in this list); 56 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.8217; very strong (15th in this list); elastic (27th in this list); very hard (2d in this list); shrinkage, 10 per cent.; warps ..........; hard to work; splits with difficulty, hard to drive nails into. COMMON USES: Agricultural implements, wheels, runners, tool handles. REMARKS: Wood not distinguished from shellbark hickory in commerce. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 34 BLUE BEECH. HORNBEAM. WATER BEECH. IRON-WOOD. Blue refers to color of bark; the trunk resembles beech; horn refers to horny texture of wood. _Carpinus caroliniana_ Walter. _Carpinus_, classical Latin name; _caroliniana_, named from the state. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on western slopes of Southern Allegheny Mountains and in southern Arkansas and Texas. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, a small tree, 30'-50' high; diameter, 6"-2'; short, fluted, sinewy trunk; bark, smooth, bluish gray; leaves, falcate, doubly serrate; fruit, small oval nut, enclosed in leaf-like bract. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood thick, whitish; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, close; rays, numerous, broad. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (13th in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.7286; very strong (9th in this list); very stiff (15th in this list); hard (14th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps and checks badly; not durable; hard to work; splits with great difficulty. COMMON USES: Levers, tool handles. REMARKS: No other wood so good for levers, because of stiffness. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 35 CANOE BIRCH. WHITE BIRCH. PAPER BIRCH. All names refer to bark. _Betula papyrifera_ Marshall. _Betula_, the classical Latin name; _papyrifera_ refers to paper bearing bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best west of Rocky Mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-80'; diameter, 2'-3'; stem rarely quite straight; bark, smooth, white, exterior marked with lenticels, peeling freely horizontally into thin papery layers, showing brown or orange beneath, contains oil which burns hotly, formerly used by Indians for canoes, very remarkable (see Keeler, page 304); leaves, heart-shaped, irregularly serrate; fruit, pendulous strobiles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, brown or reddish, sap-wood white; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, fairly straight; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (33d in this list); 37 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.5955; very strong (14th in this list); very elastic (2d in this list); medium hard (39th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps, .........; not durable, except bark; easy to work; splits with difficulty, nails well, tough. COMMON USES: Spools, shoe lasts and pegs, turnery, bark for canoes. REMARKS: Forms forests. Sap yields syrup. Bark yields starch. Valuable to woodsmen in many ways. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 36 RED BIRCH. RIVER BIRCH. Red refers to color of bark; river, prefers river bottoms. _Betula nigra_ Linnaeus. _Betula_, the classical Latin name. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Florida, Louisiana and Texas. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 30'-80', and even higher; diameter, 1', even 5'; trunk, often divided low; bark, dark brown, marked by horizontal lenticels, peels into paper plates, curling back; leaves, doubly serrate, often almost lobed; fruit, pubescent, erect, strobiles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, thick sap-wood, whitish; diffuse-porous; rings, not plain; grain, close, rather crooked; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (36th in this list); 35 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.5762; strong (22d in this list); very elastic (19th in this list); medium hard (37th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps, .......; not durable when exposed; hard to work, tough; splits with difficulty, nails well. COMMON USES: Shoe lasts, yokes, furniture. REMARKS: Prefers moist land. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 37 CHERRY BIRCH. SWEET BIRCH. BLACK BIRCH. MAHOGANY BIRCH. Cherry, because bark resembles that of cherry tree; sweet, refers to the taste of the spicy bark. _Betula lenta_ Linnaeus. _Betula_, the classical Latin name; _lenta_, meaning tenacious, sticky, may refer to the gum which exudes from the trunk. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Tennessee Mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-80'; diameter, 2'-5'; trunk, rarely straight; bark, dark reddish brown, on old trunks deeply furrowed and broken into thick, irregular plates, marked with horizontal lenticels; resembles cherry; spicy, aromatic; leaves, ovate, oblong, 2"-6" long, irregularly serrate; fruit, erect strobiles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dark, reddish brown; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, close, satiny, polishes well, often stained to imitate mahogany; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (6th in this list); 47 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7617; very strong (4th in this list); very elastic (6th in this list); hard (11th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps, little; not durable if exposed; rather hard to work; splits hard, tough. COMMON USES: Dowel pins, wooden ware, boats and ships. REMARKS: The birches are not usually distinguished from one another in the market. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 38 YELLOW BIRCH. GRAY BIRCH. Yellow and gray, both refer to the color of the bark. _Betula lutea_ F. A. Michaux. _Betula_, the classical Latin name; _lutea_ refers to the yellow color of the bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in northern New York and New England. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-100'; diameter, 3'-4'; branches, low; bark, silvery, yellow, gray, peeling horizontally into thin, papery, persistent layers, but on very old trunks, there are rough, irregular, plate-like scales; leaves, ovate, sharply, doubly serrate; fruit, erect, 1" strobiles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light reddish brown, sap-wood white; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, close, fairly straight; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (21st in this list); 40 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6553; very strong (2nd in this list); very elastic (2d in this list); medium hard (22d in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps .........; not durable; rather hard to work, polishes well; splits with difficulty, holds nails well. COMMON USES: Furniture, spools, button molds, shoe lasts, shoe pegs, pill boxes, yokes. REMARKS: The birches are not usually distinguished from one another in the market. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 39 BEECH. _Fagus grandifolia_ Ehrhart. _Fagus americana_ Sweet. _Fagus ferruginea_ Aiton. _Fagus atropunicea_ (Marshall) Sudworth. _Fagus_ (Greek _phago_ means to eat), refers to edible nut; _ferruginea_, refers to the iron rust color of the leaves in the fall; _atropunicea_, meaning dark red or purple, may refer to the color of the leaves of the copper beech. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in southern Alleghany Mountains and lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-80' and even 120'; diameter, 3'-4'; in forest, trunk tall, slender, sinewy; bark, smooth, ashy gray; leaves, feather-veined, wedge-shaped, serrate; leaf buds, long, pointed; fruit, 2 small triangular nuts, enclosed in burr, seeds about once in 3 years. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish, variable, sap-wood white; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, straight; rays, broad, very conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (20th in this list); 42 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6883; very strong (10th in this list); elastic (13th in this list); hard (22d in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps and checks during seasoning; not durable; hard to work, takes fine polish; splits with difficulty, hard to nail. COMMON USES: Plane stocks, shoe lasts, tool handles, chairs. REMARKS: Often forms pure forests. Uses due to its hardness. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters]. [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 40 CHESTNUT. _Castanea dentata_ (Marshall) Borkhausen. _Castanea_, the classical Greek and Latin name; _dentata_, refers to toothed leaf. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in western North Carolina, and eastern Tennessee. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 75'-100'; diameter, 3'-4', and even 12'; branches, low; bark, thick, shallow, irregular, fissures, broad, grayish brown ridges; leaves, lanceolate, coarsely serrate, midribs and veins prominent; fruit, nuts, thin-shelled, sweet, enclosed in prickly burrs. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood lighter; ring-porous; rings, plain, pores large; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, light (50th in this list); 28 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4504; medium strong (46th in this list); elasticity, medium (46th in this list); medium hard (44th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps badly; very durable, especially in contact with soil, fairly easy to plane, chisel and saw; splits easily. COMMON USES: Railway ties, fence posts, interior finish. REMARKS: Grows rapidly, and lives to great age. Wood contains much tannic acid. Uses depend largely upon its durability. Lately whole regions depleted by fungous pest. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 41 RED OAK. _Quercus rubra_ Linnaeus. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _rubra_, refers to red color of wood. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Massachusetts and north of the Ohio river. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-100', even 150'; diameter, 3'-6'; a tall, handsome tree, branches rather low; bark, brownish gray, broad, thin, rounded ridges, rather smooth; leaves, 7 to 9 triangular pointed lobes, with rounded sinuses; acorns, characteristically large, in flat shallow cups. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood darker; ring-porous; rings, marked by several rows of very large open ducts; grain, crooked, coarse; rays, few, but broad, conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (23d in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6540; strong (21st in this list); elastic (18th in this list); hard (26th in this list); shrinkage 6 to 10 per cent.; warps and checks badly; moderately durable; easier to work than white oak; splits readily, nails badly. COMMON USES: Cooperage, interior finish, furniture. REMARKS: Grows rapidly. An inferior substitute for white oak. Bark used in tanning. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 42 BLACK OAK. YELLOW BARK OAK. Black refers to color of outer bark; yellow bark, refers to the inner bark, which is orange yellow. _Quercus velutina_ Lamarck. _Quercus tinctoria_ Michaux. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _velutina_, refers to the velvety surface of the young leaf; _tinctoria_, refers to dye obtained from inner bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-80', even 150'; diameter 3'-4'; branches, low; bark, dark gray to black, deep fissures, broad, rounded, firm ridges, inner bark, yellow, yielding dye; leaves, large, lustrous, leathery, of varied forms; acorns, small; kernel, yellow, bitter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood lighter; ring-porous; rings, marked by several rows of very large open ducts; grain, crooked; rays, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (17th in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7045; very strong (17th in this list); elastic (25th in this list); hard (18th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent. or more; warps and checks in drying; durable; rather hard to work; splits readily, nails badly. COMMON USES: Furniture, interior trim, cooperage, construction. REMARKS: Foliage handsome in fall; persists thru winter. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 43 BASKET OAK. COW OAK. Cow refers to the fact that its acorns are eaten by cattle. _Quercus michauxii_ Nuttall. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _michauxii_, named for the botanist Michaux. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Arkansas and Louisiana, especially in river bottoms. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-100'; diameter 3', even 7'; trunk, often clean and straight for 40' or 50'; bark, conspicuous, light gray, rough with loose ashy gray, scaly ridges; leaves, obovate, regularly scalloped; acorns, edible for cattle. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood light buff; ring-porous; rings, marked by few rather large, open ducts; grain, likely to be crooked; rays, broad, conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very heavy (5th in this list); 46 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.8039; very strong (12th in this list); elastic (33d in this list); hard (10th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent. or more; warps unless carefully seasoned; durable; hard and tough to work; splits easily, bad to nail. COMMON USES: Construction, agricultural implements, wheel stock, baskets. REMARKS: The best white oak of the south. Not distinguished from white oak in the market. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 44 BUR OAK. MOSSY-CUP OAK. OVER-CUP OAK. _Quercus macrocarpa_ Michaux. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _macrocarpa_, refers to the large acorn. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in southern Indiana, Illinois and Kansas. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-130', even 170'; diameter, 5'-7'; branches, high; corky wings on young branches; bark, gray brown, deeply furrowed; deep opposite sinuses on large leaves; acorns, half enclosed in mossy-fringed cup. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, rich brown, sap-wood, thin, lighter; ring-porous; rings, marked by 1 to 3 rows of small open ducts; grain, crooked; rays, broad, and conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (9th in this list); 46 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7453; very strong (16th in this list); elastic (37th in this list); hard (9th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent. or more; warps, ..........; hard, and tough to work; splits easily, resists nailing. COMMON USES: Ship building, cabinet work, railway ties, cooperage. REMARKS: Good for prairie planting. One of the most valuable woods of North America. Not distinguished from White Oak in commerce. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 45 WHITE OAK (Western). _Quercus garryana_ Douglas. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _garryana_, named for Garry. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in western Washington and Oregon. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-70', even 100'; diameter, 2'-3'; branches, spreading; bark, light brown, shallow fissures, broad ridges; leaves, coarsely pinnatified, lobed; fruit, large acorns. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood whitish; ring-porous; rings, marked by 1 to 3 rows of open ducts; grain, close, crooked; rays, varying greatly in width, often conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (10th in this list); 46 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7449; strong (28th in this list); elasticity medium (54th in this list); hard (8th in this list); shrinkage, 5 or 6 per cent.; warps, unless carefully seasoned; durable; hard to work, very tough; splits badly in nailing. COMMON USES: Ship building, vehicles, furniture, interior finish. REMARKS: Best of Pacific oaks. Shrubby at high elevations. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 46 POST OAK. _Quercus stellata_ Wangenheim. _Quercus minor_ (Marsh) Sargent. _Quercus obtusiloba_ Michaux. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; _stellata_, refers to the stellate hairs on upper side of leaf; _minor_, refers to size of tree, which is often shrubby; _obtusiloba_, refers to the blunt lobes of leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Mississippi basin. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-75', even 100'; but often a shrub; diameter, 2'-3'; branches, spreading into dense round-topped head; bark, red or brown, deep, vertical, almost continuous, fissures and broad ridges, looks corrugated; leaves, in large tufts at ends of branchlets; acorns, small, sessile. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, brown, thick, sap-wood, lighter; ring-porous; rings, 1 to 3 rows of not large open ducts; grain, crooked; rays, numerous, conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Very heavy (2d in this list); 50 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.8367; strong (29th in this list); medium elastic (50th in this list); very hard (4th in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent. or more; warps and checks badly in seasoning; durable; hard to work; splits readily, bad to nail. COMMON USES: Cooperage, railway ties, fencing, construction. REMARKS: Wood often undistinguished from white oak. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 47 WHITE OAK. STAVE OAK. _Quercus alba_ Linnaeus. _Quercus_, the classical Latin name; white and _alba_, refer to white bark. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on western slopes of Southern Alleghany Mountains, and in lower Ohio river valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-100'; diameter, 3'-5'; trunk, in forest, tall, in open, short; bark, easily distinguished, light gray with shallow fissures, scaly; leaves, rounded lobes, and sinuses; acorns, 3/4" to 1" long, ripen first year. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood paler; ring-porous; rings, plainly defined by pores; grain crooked; rays, broad, very conspicuous and irregular. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (8th in this list); 50 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7470; strong (23d in this list); elastic (32d in this list); hard (13th in this list); shrinkage, from 4 to 10 per cent.; warps and checks considerably, unless carefully seasoned; very durable, hard to work; splits somewhat hard, very difficult to nail. COMMON USES: Interior finish, furniture, construction, ship building, farm implements, cabinet making. REMARKS: The most important of American oaks. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 48 CORK ELM. ROCK ELM. HICKORY ELM. WHITE ELM. CLIFF ELM. Cork refers to corky ridges on branches. _Ulmus thomasi_ Sargent. _Ulmus racemosa_ Thomas. _Ulmus_, the classical Latin name; _racemosa_, refers to racemes of flowers. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Ontario and southern Michigan. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-100'; diameter, 2'-3', trunk often clear for 60'; bark, gray tinged with red, corky, irregular projections, give shaggy appearance; leaves, obovate, doubly serrate, 3"-4" long; fruit, pubescent, samaras. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown or red; sap-wood yellowish; ring-porous; rings, marked with one or two rows of small open ducts; grain, interlaced; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (15th in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7263; very strong (13th in this list); elastic (22d in this list); hard (15th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps, ........; very durable; hard to work; splits and nails with difficulty. COMMON USES: Hubs, agricultural implements, sills, bridge timbers. REMARKS: The best of the elm woods. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 49 WHITE ELM. AMERICAN ELM. WATER ELM. Water, because it flourishes on river banks. _Ulmus americana_ Linnaeus. _Ulmus_, the classical Latin name. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best northward on river bottoms. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 90', even 120'; diameter, 3'-8'; trunk, usually divides at 30'-40' from ground into upright branches, making triangular outline; bark, ashy gray, deep longitudinal fissures, broad ridges; leaves, 4"-6" long, oblique obovate, doubly serrate, smooth one way; fruit, small, roundish, flat, smooth, samaras. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood yellowish; ring-porous; rings, marked by several rows of large open ducts; grain, interlaced; rays, numerous, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (24th in this list); 34 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6506; strong (33d in this list); elasticity, medium (59th in this list); medium hard (28th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps .........; not durable; hard to work, tough, will not polish; splits with difficulty. COMMON USES: Cooperage, wheel stock, flooring. REMARKS: Favorite ornamental tree, but shade light, and leaves fall early. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 50 CUCUMBER TREE. MOUNTAIN MAGNOLIA. Cucumber, refers to the shape of the fruit. _Magnolia acuminata_ Linnaeus. _Magnolia_, named for Pierre Magnol, a French botanist; _acuminata_, refers to pointed fruit. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best at the base of mountains in North Carolina and South Carolina and Tennessee. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-90'; diameter, 3'-4'; in forest, clear trunk for 2/3 of height (40' or 50'); bark, dark brown, thick, furrowed; leaves, large, smooth; flowers, large greenish yellow; fruit, dark red "cones" formed of two seeded follicles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, yellow brown, thick sapwood, lighter; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, very straight, close, satiny; rays, numerous thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light (45th in this list); .... lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4690; medium strong (49th in this list); elastic (38th in this list); medium hard (41st in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps .........; very durable; easy to work; splits easily, takes nails well. COMMON USES: Pump logs, cheap furniture, shelving. REMARKS: Wood similar to yellow poplar, and often sold with it. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 51 YELLOW POPLAR. WHITEWOOD. TULIP TREE. Poplar, inappropriate, inasmuch as the tree does not belong to poplar family. White, refers inappropriately to the color of the wood, which is greenish yellow. _Liriodendron tulipifera_ Linnaeus. _Liriodendron_, means lily-tree; _tulipifera_ means tulip-bearing. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley and southern Appalachian mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-90'; even 200'; diameter, 6'-8', even 12'; tall, magnificent trunk, unsurpassed in grandeur by any eastern American tree; bark, brown, aromatic, evenly furrowed so as to make clean, neat-looking trunk; leaves, 4 lobed, apex, peculiarly truncated, clean cut; flowers, tulip-like; fruit, cone, consisting of many scales. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light greenish or yellow brown, sap-wood, creamy white; diffuse-porous; rings, close but distinct; grain, straight; rays, numerous and plain. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light (54th in this list); 26 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4230; medium strong (51st in this list); elastic (39th in this list); soft (49th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps little; durable; easy to work; brittle and does not split readily, nails very well. COMMON USES: Construction work, furniture, interiors, boats, carriage bodies, wooden pumps. REMARKS: Being substituted largely for white pine. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 52 SWEET GUM. Gum, refers to exudations. _Liquidambar styraciflua_ Linnaeus. _Liquidambar_, means liquid gum; _styraciflua_, means fluid resin (storax). [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in the lower Mississippi valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-140'; diameter, 3'-5'; trunk, tall, straight; bark, light brown tinged with red, deeply fissured; branchlets often having corky wings; leaves, star-shaped, five pointed; conspicuously purple and crimson in autumn; fruit, multi-capsular, spherical, persistent heads. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light red brown, sap-wood almost white; diffuse-porous; rings, fine and difficult to distinguish; grain, straight, close, polishes well; rays, numerous, very obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (34th in this list); 37 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.5909; medium strong (52d in this list); elasticity medium (44th in this list); medium hard (36th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps and twists badly in seasoning; not durable when exposed; easy to work; crumbles in splitting; nails badly. COMMON USES: Building construction, cabinet-work, veneering, street pavement, barrel staves and heads. REMARKS: Largely used in veneers, because when solid it warps and twists badly. Exudations used in medicine to some extent. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 53 SYCAMORE. BUTTONWOOD. BUTTON BALL. WATER BEECH. Sycamore, from two Greek words meaning fig and mulberry; buttonwood and button-ball, refer to fruit balls. _Platanus occidentalis_ Linnaeus. _Platanus_, refers to the broad leaves; _occidentalis_, western, to distinguish it from European species. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in valley of lower Ohio and Mississippi. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-100', and even 170'; diameter, 6'-12'; trunk, commonly divides into 2 or 3 large branches, limbs spreading, often dividing angularly; bark, flakes off in great irregular masses, leaving mottled surface, greenish gray and brown, this peculiarity due to its rigid texture; leaves, palmately 3 to 5 lobed, 4"-9" long, petiole enlarged, enclosing buds; fruit, large rough balls, persistent through winter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, reddish brown, sap-wood lighter; diffuse-porous; rings, marked by broad bands of small ducts; grain, cross, close; rays, numerous, large, conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (38th in this list); 35 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.5678; medium strong (54th in this list); elasticity, medium (43d in this list); medium hard (30th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps little; very durable, once used for mummy coffins; hard to work; splits very hard. COMMON USES: Tobacco boxes, yokes, furniture, butcher blocks. REMARKS: Trunks often very large and hollow. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 54 WILD BLACK CHERRY. _Padus serotina_ (Ehrhart) Agardh. _Prunus serotina_ Ehrhart. _Padus_, the old Greek name; _prunus_, the classical Latin name; _serotina_, because it blossoms late (June). [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on southern Allegheny mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 40'-50', even 100'; diameter, 2'-4'; straight, columnar trunk, often free from branches for 70'; bark, blackish and rough, fissured in all directions, broken into small, irregular, scaly plates, with raised edges; leaves, oblong to lanceolate, deep, shiny green; fruit, black drupe, 1/2". APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown or red, sap-wood yellow; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, straight, close, fine, takes fine polish; rays, numerous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (35th in this list); 36 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.5822; strong (35th in this list); elasticity medium (45th in this list); hard (16th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps, little; durability .........; easily worked; splits easily, must be nailed with care. COMMON USES: Cabinet-work, costly interior trim. REMARKS: Grows rapidly. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 55 BLACK LOCUST. LOCUST. YELLOW LOCUST. Yellow, from color of sap-wood. _Robinia pseudacacia_ Linnaeus. _Robinia_, in honor of Jean Robin, of France; _pseudacacia_, means false acacia. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best on western Allegheny mountains in West Virginia. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-80'; diameter, 3'-4'; bark, strikingly deeply furrowed, dark brown; prickles on small branches, grows fast, forms thickets, on account of underground shoots; leaves, 8"-14" long, pinnately compound; 7 to 9 leaflets, close at night and in rainy weather; fruit, pod 3"-4" long. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, brown, sap-wood thin, yellowish; ring-porous; rings, clearly marked by 2 or 3 rows of large open ducts; grain, crooked, compact. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (12th in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7333; very strong (1st in this list); elastic (9th in this list); very hard (6th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps badly, very durable; hard to work, tough; splits in nailing. COMMON USES: Shipbuilding, construction, "tree-nails" or pins, wagon hubs. REMARKS: Widely planted and cultivated east and west. Likely to be infested with borers. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 56 MAHOGANY. _Swietenia mahagoni_ Jacquin. _Swietenia_, in honor of Dr. Gerard Van Swieten of Austria; _mahagoni_, a South American word. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); only on Florida Keys in the United States. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 40'-50'; diameter, 2' or more, foreign trees larger; immense buttresses at base of trunk; bark, thick, dark red-brown, having surface of broad, thick scales; leaves, 4"-6" long, compound, 4 pairs of leaflets; fruit, 4"-5" long, containing seeds. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, red-brown, sap-wood, thin, yellow; diffuse-porous; rings, inconspicuous; grain, crooked; rays, fine and scattered, but plain. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (14th in this list); 45 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7282; very strong (20th in this list); elastic (24th in this list); very hard (1st in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps very little; very durable; genuine mahogany, hard to work; especially if grain is cross; somewhat brittle, and comparatively easy to split, nails with difficulty; polishes and takes glue well. COMMON USES: Chiefly for cabinet-making, furniture, interior finishes and veneers. REMARKS: Mahogany, now in great demand in the American market for fine furniture and interior trim comes from the West Indies, Central America and West Africa. The so-called Spanish mahogany, the most highly prized variety, came originally from the south of Hayti. The Honduras Mahogany was often called baywood. Botanically the varieties are not carefully distinguished; in the lumber yard the lumber is known by its sources. The Cuba wood can be partly distinguished by the white chalk-like specks in the pores and is cold to the touch, while the Honduras wood can be recognized by the black specks or lines in the grain. Both the Honduras and West India woods have a softer feel than the African wood, when rubbed with the thumb. The Cuba and St. Domingo wood are preferred to the Honduras, and still more to the African, but even experts have difficulty in distinguishing the varieties. Spanish cedar, or furniture cedar (_Cedrela odorata_) belongs to the same family as mahogany and is often sold for it. It is softer, lighter, and easier to work. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 57 OREGON MAPLE. WHITE MAPLE. LARGE LEAVED MAPLE. _Acer macrophyllum_ Pursh. _Acer_, the classical Latin name; _macrophyllum_, refers to the large leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in southern Oregon. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-100'; diameter, 3'-5'; stout, often pendulous branches, making a handsome tree; bark, reddish brown, deeply furrowed, square scales; leaves, very large, 8"-12" and long petioles, deep, narrow sinuses; fruit, hairy samaras. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, rich brown and red, sap-wood thick, nearly white; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, close, fibres interlaced, sometimes figured, polishes well; rays, numerous and thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (26th in this list); 30 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr. 0.4909; medium strong (47th in this list); elasticity medium (57th in this list); medium hard (31st in this list); shrinkage, 4 per cent.; warps ..........; not durable; rather hard to work; splits with difficulty. COMMON USES: Tool and ax handles, furniture, interior finish. REMARKS: A valuable wood on the Pacific coast. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 58 SOFT MAPLE. WHITE MAPLE. SILVER MAPLE. Silver, refers to white color of underside of leaf. _Acer saccharinum_ Linnaeus. _Acer dasycarpum_ Ehrhart. _Acer_, the classical Latin name; _saccharinum_, refers to sweetish juice; _dasycarpum_, refers to the wooliness of the fruit when young. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-90', even 120'; diameter, 3'-5'; form suggests elm; bark, reddish brown, furrowed, surface separating into large, loose scales; leaves, palmately 5 lobed, with narrow, acute sinuses, silvery white beneath, turn only yellow in autumn; fruit, divergent, winged samaras. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, brown and reddish, sap-wood, cream; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, twisted, wavy, fine, polishes well; rays, thin, numerous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (40th in this list); 32 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.5269; very strong (19th in this list); very elastic (20th in this list); hard (25th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps, ............; not durable under exposure; easily worked; splits in nailing. COMMON USES: Flooring, furniture, turnery, wooden ware. REMARKS: Grows rapidly. Curly varieties found. Sap produces some sugar. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 59 RED MAPLE. _Acer rubrum_ Linnaeus. _Acer_, the classical Latin name; _rubrum_, refers to red flowers and autumn leaves. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-120'; diameter, 2'-4'; branches, low; bark, dark gray, shaggy, divided by long ridges; leaves, palmately 5 lobed, acute sinuses; fruit, double samaras, forming characteristic maple key. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light reddish brown, sap-wood, lighter; diffuse-porous; rings, obscure; grain, crooked; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (30th in this list); 38 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6178; strong (36th in this list); elastic (36th in this list); hard (27th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps .......; not durable; fairly hard to work; splits with difficulty, splits badly in nailing. COMMON USES: Flooring, turning, wooden ware. REMARKS: Grows rapidly. Has red flowers, red keys, red leaf stems, and leaves scarlet or crimson in autumn. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 60 HARD MAPLE. SUGAR MAPLE. ROCK MAPLE. _Acer saccharum_ Marshall. _Acer_, the classical Latin name; _saccharum_, refers to sweet sap. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in regions of Great Lakes. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 100'-120'; diameter, 1-1/2'-3', even 4'; often trees in forest are without branches for 60'-70' from ground, in the open, large impressive tree; bark, gray brown, thick, deep, longitudinal fissures, hard and rough; leaves, opposite, 3 to 5 lobed, scarlet and yellow in autumn; fruit, double, slightly divergent samaras. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown tinged with red; diffuse-porous rings, close but distinct; grain, crooked, fine, close, polishes well; rays, fine but conspicuous. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (19th in this list); 43 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6912; very strong (8th in this list); very elastic (5th in this list); very hard (7th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps badly; not durable when exposed; hard to work; splits badly in nailing. COMMON USES: School and other furniture, car construction, carving, wooden type, tool handles, shoe lasts, piano actions, ships' keels. REMARKS: Tree very tolerant. The uses of this wood are chiefly due to its hardness. Bird's-Eye Maple and Curly Maple are accidental varieties. Pure maple sugar is made chiefly from this species. Its ashes yield large quantities of potash. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 61 BASSWOOD. LINDEN. Bass, refers to bast or inner bark. _Tilia americana_ Linnaeus. _Tilia_, the classical Latin name. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in bottom lands of lower Ohio River. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-70', even 130'; diameter, 2'-4'; trunk, erect, pillar-like, branches spreading, making round heads; bark, light brown, furrowed, scaly surface, inner bark fibrous and tough, used for matting; leaves, oblique, heart-shaped, side nearest branch larger; fruit clustered on long pendulous stem, attached to vein of narrow bract. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, very light brown, approaching cream color, sap-wood, hardly distinguishable; diffuse-porous; rings, fine and close but clear; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Light in weight (49th in this list); 28 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.4525; weak (60th in this list); elasticity, medium (49th in this list); soft (64th in this list); shrinkage, 6 per cent.; warps comparatively little; quite durable; very easily worked; somewhat tough to split, nails well. COMMON USES: Woodenware, carriage bodies, etc., picture molding, paper pulp, etc. REMARKS: May be propagated by grafting as well as by seed. Is subject to attack by many insects. Wood used for carriage bodies because flexible and easily nailed. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 62 SOUR GUM. TUPELO. PEPPERIDGE. BLACK GUM. Tupelo, the Indian name. _Nyssa sylvatica_ Marshal. _Nyssa_, from Nysa, the realm of moist vegetation and the home of _Dio-nysus_ (Bacchus) (the tree grows in low wet lands); _sylvatica_, refers to its habit of forest growth. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in Southern Appalachian mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 40'-50', even 100'; diameter, 1'6"-3'6", even 5'; variable in form; bark, brown, deeply fissured and scaly; leaves, in sprays, short, petioled, brilliant scarlet in autumn; fruit, bluish black, sour, fleshy drupe. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, pale yellow, sap-wood, white, hardly distinguishable; diffuse-porous; rings, not plain; grain fine, twisted and interwoven; rays, numerous, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Medium heavy (25th in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6356; strong (34th in this list); elasticity, medium (51st in this list); hard (20th in this list); shrinkage, 5 or 6 per cent.; warps and checks badly; not durable if exposed; hard to work; splits hard, tough. COMMON USES: Wagon hubs, handles, yokes, wooden shoe soles, docks and wharves, rollers in glass factories. REMARKS: The best grades closely resemble yellow poplar. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 63 BLACK ASH. HOOP ASH. Hoop, refers to its use for barrel hoops. _Fraxinus nigra_ Marshall. _Fraxinus sambucifolia._ _Fraxinus_, from a Greek word (_phraxis_) meaning split, refers to the cleavability of the wood; _sambucifolia_, refers to the fact that the leaves are in odor like those of Elder (Sambucus). [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in moist places. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 80'-90'; diameter, 1'-1-1/2'; slenderest of the forest trees, upright branches; bark, gray tinged with red, irregular plates, with thin scales; leaves, 10"-16" long, compound, 7 to 11 leaflets, in autumn rusty brown; fruit, single samaras in panicles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, dark brown, sap-wood light; ring-porous; rings, well defined; grain, straight, burls often form highly prized veneers; rays, numerous and thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Medium heavy (27th in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6318; strong (38th in this list); elasticity, medium (12th in this list); hard (23d in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps, but not very much; not durable when exposed; hard to work; separates easily in layers, hence used for splints. COMMON USES: Interior finish, cabinet work, fencing, barrel hoops. REMARKS: The flexibility of the wood largely determines its uses. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 64 OREGON ASH. _Fraxinus oregona_ Nuttall. _Fraxinus_, from a Greek word (_phraxis_) meaning split, refers to the cleavability of the wood; _oregona_, named for the State of Oregon. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in southern Oregon. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 50'-80'; diameter, 1'-1-1/2', even 4'; branches, stout, erect; bark, grayish brown, deep interrupted fissures, broad, flat ridges, exfoliates; leaves, 5"-14" long; pinnately compound, 5 to 7 leaflets; fruit, single samaras in clusters. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, brown, sap-wood thick, lighter; ring-porous; rings, plainly marked by large, open, scattered pores; grain, coarse, straight; rays, numerous, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (37th in this list); 35 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.5731; medium strong (50th in this list); elasticity, medium (48th in this list); medium hard (29th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps,............; not durable; hard to work, tough; splits with difficulty. COMMON USES: Furniture, vehicles, cooperage. REMARKS: A valuable timber tree of the Pacific coast. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 65 BLUE ASH. Blue, refers to blue dye obtained from inner bark. _Fraxinus quadrangulata_ Michaux. _Fraxinus_, from a Greek word (_phraxis_) meaning split, refers to the cleavability of the wood; _quadrangulata_, refers to four-angled branchlets. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in lower Wabash valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 60'-70', even 120'; diameter, 1'-2'; tall, slender, four-angled, branchlets; bark, light gray, irregularly divided into large plate-like scales, inside bark, bluish, yielding dye; leaves, 8"-12" long, compound pinnate, 5 to 9 leaflets; fruit, winged samaras in panicles. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light yellow, streaked with brown, sap-wood lighter; ring-porous; rings, clearly marked by 1 to 3 rows of large, open ducts; grain, straight; rays, numerous, obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (16th in this list); 44 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.7184; strong (37th in this list); elasticity, medium (58th in this list); hard (12th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps, ............; most durable of the ashes; hard to work; splits readily, bad for nailing. COMMON USES: Carriage building, tool handles. REMARKS: Blue ash pitchfork handles are famous. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 66 RED ASH. Red, from color of inner bark. _Fraxinus pennsylvanica_ Marshall. _Fraxinus pubescens_ Lambert. _Fraxinus_, from a Greek word (_phraxis_) meaning split, refers to the cleavability of the wood; _pennsylvanica_, in honor of the State of Pennsylvania; _pubescens_, refers to down on new leaves and twigs. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best east of Alleghany mountains. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 40'-60'; diameter, 12"-18"; small, slim, upright branches; bark, brown or ashy, great, shallow, longitudinal furrows; leaves, 10"-12" long, pinnately compound, 7 to 9 leaflets, covered with down; fruit, single samara. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light brown, sap-wood lighter and yellowish; ring porous; rings, marked by pores; grain, straight, coarse; rays, numerous, thin. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Weight, medium (28th in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6251; strong (30th in this list); elasticity, medium (53d in this list); hard (17th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps little; not durable; hard to work; splits in nailing. COMMON USES: Agricultural implements, oars, handles, boats. REMARKS: Often sold with and as the superior white ash. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] 67 WHITE ASH. White, refers to whitish color of wood. _Fraxinus americana_ Linnaeus. _Fraxinus_, from a Greek word (_phraxis_) meaning split, refers to the cleavability of the wood. [Illustration: Habitat.] HABITAT: (See map); best in the bottom lands of lower Ohio valley. [Illustration: Leaf.] CHARACTERISTICS OF THE TREE: Height, 70'-80', even 120'; diameter, 3'-6'; branches rather high, tree singularly graceful; bark, gray, narrow furrows, clean, neat trunk; leaves, 8"-15" long, compound, tufted, smooth, turns in autumn to beautiful purples, browns and yellows; fruit, panicles of samaras, persistent till midwinter. APPEARANCE OF WOOD: Color, light reddish brown, sap-wood whitish; ring-porous, rings clearly marked by pores; straight-grained; pith rays obscure. PHYSICAL QUALITIES: Heavy (22d in this list); 39 lbs. per cu. ft.; sp. gr., 0.6543; strong (31st in this list); elastic (30th in this list); hard (17th in this list); shrinkage, 5 per cent.; warps little; not durable in contact with soil; hard and tough; splits readily, nails badly. COMMON USES: Inside finish, farm implements, barrels, baskets, oars, carriages. REMARKS: Forms no forests, occurs scattered. Its uses for handles and oars determined by combination of strength, lightness and elasticity. [Illustration: Radial Section, life size.] [Illustration: Cross-section, magnified 37-1/2 diameters.] [Illustration: Tangential Section, life size.] LIST OF 66 COMMON WOODS ARRANGED IN THE ORDER OF THEIR WEIGHT. 1. Shellbark hickory. 2. Post oak. 3. Mockernut. 4. Pignut. 5. Basket oak. 6. Cherry birch. 7. Slash pine. 8. White oak. 9. Bur oak. 10. Western white oak. 11. Western larch. 12. Black locust. 13. Blue beech. 14. Mahogany. 15. Cork elm. 16. Blue ash. 17. Black oak. 18. Longleaf pine. 19. Hard maple. 20. Beech. 21. Yellow birch. 22. White ash. 23. Red oak. 24. White elm. 25. Sour gum. 26. Oregon maple. 27. Black ash. 28. Red ash. 29. Tamarack. 30. Red maple. 31. Black walnut. 32. Shortleaf pine. 33. Canoe birch. 34. Sweet gum. 35. Wild black cherry. 36. Red birch. 37. Oregon ash. 38. Sycamore. 39. Loblolly pine. 40. Soft maple. 41. Douglas spruce. 42. Red cedar. 43. Norway pine. 44. Western yellow pine. 45. Cucumber tree. 46. Lawson cypress. 47. Black spruce and Red spruce. 48. Bald cypress. 49. Basswood. 50. Chestnut. 51. Black willow. 52. Tideland spruce. 53. Hemlock. 54. Yellow poplar. 55. Redwood. 56. Butternut. 57. White spruce. 58. Western white pine. 59. White pine. 60. Western red cedar. 61. Sugar pine. 62. Grand fir. 63. Engelmann's spruce. 64. White cedar. 65. Big tree. LIST OF 66 COMMON WOODS ARRANGED IN THE ORDER OF THEIR STRENGTH. 1. Black locust. 2. Yellow birch. 3. Western larch. 4. Cherry birch. 5. Shellbark hickory. 6. Slash pine. 7. Longleaf pine. 8. Hard maple. 9. Blue beech. 10. Beech. 11. Mockernut. 12. Basket Oak. 13. Cork elm. 14. Canoe birch. 15. Pignut hickory. 16. Bur oak. 17. Black oak. 18. Shortleaf pine. 19. Soft maple. 20. Mahogany. 21. Red oak. 22. Red birch. 23. White oak. 24. Tamarack. 25. Lawson cypress. 26. Loblolly pine. 27. Douglas spruce. 28. Western white oak. 29. Post oak. 30. Red ash. 31. White ash. 32. Black walnut. 33. White elm. 34. Sour gum. 35. Wild black cherry. 36. Red maple. 37. Blue ash. 38. Black ash. 39. Norway pine. 40. Western red cedar. 41. Black spruce and Red spruce. 42. White spruce. 43. Red cedar. 44. Hemlock. 45. Western yellow pine. 46. Chestnut. 47. Oregon maple. 48. Bald cypress. 49. Cucumber tree. 50. Oregon ash. 51. Yellow poplar. 52. Sweet gum. 53. Tideland spruce. 54. Sycamore. 55. White pine. 56. Western white pine. 57. Butternut. 58. Redwood. 59. Sugar pine. 60. Basswood. 61. Engelmann's spruce. 62. Grand fir. 63. Big tree. 64. White cedar. 65. Black willow. LIST OF 66 COMMON WOODS ARRANGED IN THE ORDER OF THEIR ELASTICITY. 1. Western larch. 2. Canoe birch and Yellow birch. 3. Slash pine. 4. Longleaf pine. 5. Hard maple. 6. Cherry birch. 7. Shortleaf pine. 8. Shellbark hickory. 9. Black locust. 10. Douglas spruce. 11. Tamarack. 12. Lawson cypress. 13. Beech. 14. Mockernut. 15. Blue beech. 16. Norway pine. 17. Loblolly pine. 18. Red oak. 19. Red birch. 20. Soft maple. 21. Red spruce and Black spruce. 22. Cork elm. 23. Black walnut. 24. Mahogany. 25. Black oak. 26. Western red cedar. 27. Pignut hickory. 28. Bald cypress. 29. White spruce. 30. White ash. 31. Tideland spruce. 32. White oak. 33. Basket oak. 34. Grand fir. 35. Western white pine. 36. Red maple. 37. Bur oak. 38. Cucumber tree. 39. Yellow poplar. 40. Hemlock. 41. Western yellow pine. 42. Black ash. 43. Sycamore. 44. Sweet gum. 45. Wild black cherry. 46. Chestnut. 47. White pine. 48. Oregon ash. 49. Bass. 50. Post oak. 51. Sour gum. 52. Butternut. 53. Red ash. 54. Western white oak. 55. Engelmann's spruce. 56. Sugar pine. 57. Oregon maple. 58. Blue ash. 59. White elm. 60. Redwood. 61. Red cedar. 62. Big tree. 63. White cedar. 64. Black willow. LIST OF 66 COMMON WOODS ARRANGED IN THE ORDER OF THEIR HARDNESS. 1. Mahogany. 2. Pignut. 3. Mockernut. 4. Post oak. 5. Shellbark hickory. 6. Black locust. 7. Hard maple. 8. Western white oak. 9. Bur oak. 10. Basket oak. 11. Cherry birch. 12. Blue ash. 13. White oak. 14. Blue beech. 15. Cork elm. 16. Wild black cherry. 17. Red ash. 18. Black oak. 19. White ash. 20. Sour gum. 21. Black walnut. 22. Beech. 23. Black ash. 24. Slash pine. 25. Soft maple. 26. Red oak. 27. Red maple. 28. White elm. 29. Oregon ash. 30. Sycamore. 31. Oregon maple. 32. Yellow birch. 33. Long leaf pine. 34. Red cedar. 35. Western larch. 36. Sweet gum. 37. Red birch. 38. Short leaf pine. 39. Canoe birch. 40. Tamarack. 41. Cucumber tree. 42. Western yellow pine. 43. Loblolly pine. 44. Chestnut. 45. Douglas spruce. 46. Black willow. 47. Butternut. 48. Norway pine. 49. Yellow poplar. 50. Lawson cypress. 51. Hemlock. 52. Bald cypress. 53. Sugar pine. 54. Red spruce and Black spruce. 55. Redwood. 56. Engelmann's spruce. 57. White pine. 58. White spruce. 59. Tideland spruce. 60. Western white cedar. 61. Big tree. 62. White cedar. 63. Western white pine. 64. Basswood. 65. Grand fir. THE PRINCIPAL SPECIES OF WOODS. REFERENCES:[A] Sargent, _Jesup Collection_. Sargent, _Manual_. Britton. Roth, _Timber_. Hough, _Handbook_. Keeler. Apgar. Mohr. _For. Bull._, No. 22. Fernow, _Forestry Investigations_. Lumber Trade Journals. Baterden. Sargent, _Silva_. Sargent, _Forest Trees_, 10th Census, Vol. IX. Boulger. Hough, _American Woods_. Snow. Lounsberry. Spaulding. _For. Bull._, No. 13. Sudworth. _For. Bull._, No. 17. Forest Service _Records of Wholesale Prices of Lumber_, List. A. For particular trees consult For. Serv., Bulletins and Circulars. See For. Service _Classified List of Publications_. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER IV. THE DISTRIBUTION AND COMPOSITION OF THE NORTH AMERICAN FORESTS. The forests of the United States, Map, Fig. 44, may be conveniently divided into two great regions, the Eastern or Atlantic Forest, and the Western or Pacific Forest. These are separated by the great treeless plains which are west of the Mississippi River, and east of the Rocky Mountains, and which extend from North Dakota to western Texas.[1] [Illustration: Fig. 44. Forest Regions of the United States. _U. S. Forest Service._] The Eastern Forest once consisted of an almost unbroken mass, lying in three quite distinct regions, (1) the northern belt of conifers, (2) the southern belt of conifers, and (3) the great deciduous (hardwood) forest lying between these two. (1) The northern belt of conifers or "North Woods" extended thru northern New England and New York and ran south along the Appalachians. It reappeared again in northern Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. White pine, Fig. 45, was the characteristic tree in the eastern part of this belt, tho spruce was common, Fig. 56, p. 213, and white and Norway pine and hemlock distinguished it in the western part. Altho the more valuable timber, especially the pine, has been cut out, it still remains a largely unbroken forest mainly of spruce, second growth pine, hemlock and some hardwood. [Illustration: Fig. 45. Interior of Dense White Pine Forest, Cass Lake, Minn. _U. S. Forest Service._] (2) The southern pine forest formerly extended from the Potomac River in a belt from one to two hundred miles wide along the Atlantic coast, across the Florida peninsula, and along the gulf of Mexico, skipping the Mississippi River and reappearing in a great forest in Louisiana and Eastern Texas. It was composed of almost pure stands of pine, the long-leaf, Fig. 46, the short-leaf, and the loblolly, with cypress in the swamps and bottom lands. In southern Florida the forest is tropical, Fig. 47, like that of the West Indies, and in southern Texas it partakes of the character of the Mexican forest. [Illustration: Fig. 46. Long-leaf Pine Forest. Oscilla, Georgia. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 47. Semi-tropical Forest, Florida. Live Oak, Surrounded by Cabbage Palmetto, and Hung With Spanish Moss. _U. S. Forest Service._] (3) Between these north and south coniferous belts, lay the great broad-leaf or hardwood forest, Fig. 48, which constituted the greater part of the Eastern Forest and characterized it. It was divided into two parts by an irregular northeast and southwest line, running from southern New England to Missouri. The southeast portion consisted of hardwoods intermixed with conifers. The higher ridges of the Appalachian Range, really a leg of the northern forest, were occupied by conifers, mainly spruce, white pine, and hemlock. The northwest portion of the region, particularly Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois, was without the conifers. It was essentially a mixed forest, largely oak, with a variable mixture of maples, beech, chestnut, yellow poplar, hickory, sycamore, elm, and ash, with birch appearing toward the north and pine toward the south. [Illustration: Fig. 48. Broad-leaf Forest, Protected from Cattle and Fire. Hancock Co., Indiana. _U. S. Forest Service._] Taking the Eastern Forest as a whole, its most distinguishing feature was the prevalence of broad-leaved trees, so that it might properly be called a deciduous forest. The greatest diversity of trees was to be found in Kentucky, Tennessee and North Carolina, and this region is still the source of the best hardwood lumber. This great eastern forest, which once extended uninterruptedly from the Atlantic to the Mississippi and beyond, has now been largely lumbered off, particularly thru the middle or hardwood portion, making way for farms and towns. The north and south coniferous belts are still mainly unbroken, and are sparsely settled, but the big timber is cut out, giving place to poorer trees. This is particularly true of the white pine, "the king of American trees," only a little of which, in valuable sizes, is left in Michigan, Wisconsin and Minnesota. In the same way in the south, the long-leaf pine, once the characteristic tree, is fast being lumbered out. [Illustration: Fig. 49. Irrigated Ranch on Treeless Alkali Plain. Rio Blanco Co., Colorada. _U. S. Forest Service._] The Western or Pacific forest extends two great legs, one down the Rocky Mountain Range, and the other along the Pacific coast. Between them lies the great treeless alkali plain centering around Nevada, Fig. 49. In these two regions coniferous trees have almost a monopoly. Broad-leaved trees are to be found there, along the river beds and in ravines, but they are of comparatively little importance. The forest is essentially an evergreen forest. Another marked feature of this western forest, except in the Puget Sound region, is that the trees, in many cases, stand far apart, their crowns not even touching, so that the sun beats down and dries up the forest floor, Fig. 50. There is no dense "forest cover" or canopy as in the Eastern Forest. Moreover these western forests are largely broken up, covering but a part of the mountains, many of which are snow-clad, and interrupted by bare plains. Along the creeks there grow a variety of hardwoods. It was never a continuous forest as was the Eastern Forest. The openness of this forest on the Rockies and on the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevadas is in marked contrast to the western slopes of the Sierras, where there are to be seen the densest and most remarkable woods of the world, Fig. 51. This is due to the peculiar distribution of the rainfall of the region. The precipitation of the moisture upon the northwest coast where the trees are dripping with fog a large part of the time, is unequaled by that of any other locality on the continent. But the interior of this region, which is shut off by the high Sierra Nevadas from the western winds, has a very light and irregular rainfall. Where the rainfall is heavy, the forests are dense; and where the rainfall is light, the trees are sparse. [Illustration: Fig. 50. Open Western Forest, Bull Pine. Flagstaff, Arizona. _U. S. Forest Service._] Along the Rockies the characteristic trees are Engelmann's spruce, bull pine, Douglas fir, and lodgepole pine. As one goes west, the variety of trees increases and becomes, so far as conifers are concerned, far greater than in the east. Of 109 conifers in the United States, 80 belong to the western forests and 28 to the eastern. The Pacific forest is rich in the possession of half a dozen leading species--Douglas fir, western hemlock, sugar pine, bull pine, cedar and redwood. [Illustration: Fig. 51. Dense Forest of Puget Sound Region, Red Fir and Red Cedar. Pierce Co., Washington. _U. S. Forest Service._] But the far western conifers are remarkable, not only for their variety, but still more for the density of their growth, already mentioned, and for their great size, Fig. 52. The pines, spruces and hemlocks of the Puget Sound region make eastern trees look small, and both the red fir and the redwood often grow to be over 250 feet high, and yield 100,000 feet, B.M., to the acre as against 10,000 feet, B.M., of good spruce in Maine. The redwood, Fig. 53, occupies a belt some twenty miles wide along the coast from southern Oregon to a point not far north of San Francisco and grows even taller than the famous big trees. The big trees are the largest known trees in diameter, occasionally reaching in that measurement 35 feet. [Illustration: Fig. 52. Virgin Forest of Red Fir, Red Cedar, Western Hemlock, and Oregon Maple. Ashford, Washington. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 53. Redwood Forest. Santa Cruz Co., Calif. _U. S. Forest Service._] The big tree, Fig. 54, occurs exclusively in groves, which, however, are not pure, but are scattered among a much larger number of trees of other kinds. [Illustration: Fig. 54. Big Tree Forest. Sierra National Forest, California. _U. S. Forest Service._] The great and unsurpassed Puget Sound forest is destined to be before long the center of the lumber trade of this country. These two great forests of the east and the west both run northward into British America, and are there united in a broad belt of subarctic forest which extends across the continent. At the far north it is characterized by the white spruce and aspen. The forest is open, stunted, and of no economic value. Taking all the genera and species together, there is a far greater variety in the eastern than in the western forests. A considerable number of genera, perhaps a third of the total, grow within both regions, but the species having continental range are few. They are the following: Larch (_Larix laricina_), white spruce (_Picea canadensis_), dwarf juniper (_Juniperus communis_), black willow (_Salix nigra_), almond leaf willow (_Salix amygdaloides_), long leaf willow (_Salix fluviatilis_), aspen (_Populus tremuloides_), balm of Gilead (_Populus balsamifera_), and hackberry (_Celtis occidentalis_). [Footnote 1: ORIGINAL FOREST REGIONS OF THE UNITED STATES. Area Area Thousand acres Per cent. Northern forest 158,938 8.4 Hardwood forest 328,183 17.3 Southern forest 249,669 13.1 Rocky Mountains forest 155,014 8.1 Pacific forest 121,356 6.4 Treeless area 887,787 46.7 --------- ----- Total land area 1,900,947 100.0 ] THE DISTRIBUTION AND COMPOSITION OF NORTH AMERICAN FORESTS. REFERENCES:[A] Sargent, _Forest Trees_, Intro., pp. 3-10. Bruncken, pp. 5-16. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 209-212. Shaler, I, pp. 489-498. Fernow, _For. Inves._, pp. 45-51. Fernow, _Economics_, pp. 331-368. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER V. THE FOREST ORGANISM. The forest is much more than an assemblage of different trees, it is an organism; that is, the trees that compose it have a vital relation to each other. It may almost be said to have a life of its own, since it has a soil and a climate, largely of its own making. Without these conditions, and without the help and hindrance which forest trees give to each other, these trees would not have their present characteristics, either in shape, habits of growth or nature of wood grain. Indeed, some of them could not live at all. Since by far the greater number of timber trees grow in the forest, in order to understand the facts about trees and woods, it is necessary to know something about the conditions of forest life. A tree is made up of three distinct parts: (1) the roots which anchor it in the ground, and draw its nourishment from the moist soil; (2) the trunk, or bole, or stem, which carries the weight of the branches and leaves, and conveys the nourishment to and from the leaves; (3) the crown, composed of the leaves, the branches on which they hang, and the buds at the ends of the branches. As trees stand together in the forest, their united crowns make a sort of canopy or cover, Fig. 55, which, more than anything, determines the factors affecting forest life, viz., the soil, the temperature, the moisture, and most important of all, the light. [Illustration: Fig. 55. The Forest Cover. Spruce Forest, Bavaria, Germany. _U. S. Forest Service._] On the other hand, every species of tree has its own requirements in respect to these very factors of temperature,--moisture, soil and light. These are called its _silvical characteristics_. SOIL. Some trees, as black walnut, flourish on good soil, supplanting others because they are better able to make use of the richness of the soil; while some trees occupy poor soil because they alone are able to live there at all. Spruce, Fig. 56, will grow in the north woods on such poor soil that it has no competitors, and birches, too, will grow anywhere in the north woods. In general, it is true that mixed forests, Fig. 57, _i.e._, those having a variety of species, grow on good loamy soil. The great central, deciduous Atlantic Forest grew on such soil until it was removed to make room for farms. On the other hand, pure stands--_i.e._, forests made up of single varieties--of pine occupy poor sandy soil. Within a distance of a few yards in the midst of a pure stand of pine in the south, a change in the soil will produce a dense mixed growth of broad-leaves and conifers. [Illustration: Fig. 56. Virgin Stand of Red Spruce. White Mountains, New Hampshire. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 57. Typical Mixed Forest,--Red Spruce, Hemlock, White Ash, Yellow Birch, Balsam Fir, and Red Maple. Raquette Lake, New York. _U. S. Forest Service._] The soil in the forest is largely determined by the forest itself. In addition to the earth, it is composed of the fallen and decayed leaves and twigs and tree trunks, altogether called the _forest floor_. It is spongy and hence has the ability to retain moisture, a fact of great importance to the forest. MOISTURE. Some trees, as black ash and cypress, Fig. 58, and cotton gum, Fig. 59, grow naturally only in moist places; some, as the piñon and mesquite, a kind of locust, grow only in dry places; while others, as the juniper and Douglas fir, adapt themselves to either. Both excessively wet and dry soils tend to diminish the number of kinds of trees. In many instances the demand for water controls the distribution altogether. In the Puget Sound region, where there is a heavy rain-fall, the densest forests in the world are found, whereas on the eastern slopes of the same mountains, altho the soil is not essentially different, there are very few trees, because of the constant drouth. [Illustration: Fig. 58. Cypress and Cypress "Knees." Jasper Co., Texas. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 59. Cotton Gums, Showing Buttresses. St. Francis River, Arkansas. _U. S. Forest Service._] TEMPERATURE. The fact that some trees, as paper birch and white spruce, grow only in cold regions, and some, as rubber trees and cypress, only in the tropics, is commonplace; but a fact not so well known is that it is not the average temperature, but the extremes which largely determine the habitat of trees of different kinds. Trees which would not live at all where there is frost, might flourish well in a region where the average temperature was considerably lower. On the other hand, provided the growing season is long enough for the species, there is no place on earth too cold for trees to live. Fig. 60. [Illustration: Fig. 60. Northern Forest,--Young Spruce Growing Under Yellow Birch. Santa Clara, New York. _U. S. Forest Service._] In general, cold affects the forest just as poor soil and drought do, simplifying its composition and stunting its growth. In Canada there are only a few kinds of trees, of which the hardwoods are stunted; south of the Great Lakes, there is a great variety of large trees; farther south in the southern Appalachian region, there is a still greater variety, and the trees are just as large; and still farther south in tropical Florida, there is the greatest variety of all. The slopes of a high mountain furnish an illustration of the effect of temperature. In ascending it, one may pass from a tropical forest at the base, thru a belt of evergreen, broad-leaved trees, then thru a belt of deciduous broad-leaved trees, then thru a belt of conifers and up to the timber line where tree life ceases. Figs. 61, and 62. [Illustration: Fig. 61. Mixed Hardwoods on Lower Levels. Spruce and Balsam Dominate on Higher Elevations. Mt. McIntyre, Adirondack Mountains, New York. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 62. Scrub Growth on Mountain Top. Mt. Webster, New Hampshire. _U. S. Forest Service._] LIGHT. More than by any other factor, the growth of trees in a forest is determined by the effect of light. All trees need light sooner or later, but some trees have much more ability than others to grow in the shade when young. Such trees, of which maple and spruce are examples, are called _tolerant_, while others, for instance, larch, which will endure only a comparatively thin cover or none at all, are called _intolerant_. The leaves of tolerant trees endure shade well, so that their inner and lower leaves flourish under the shadow of their upper and outer leaves, with the result that the whole tree, as beech and maple, makes a dense shadow; whereas the leaves of intolerant trees are either sparse, as in the larch, or are so hung that the light sifts thru them, as in poplar and oak. The spruces and balsam fir have the remarkable power of growing slowly under heavy shade for many years, and then of growing vigorously when the light is let in by the fall of their overshadowing neighbors. This can plainly be seen in the cross-section of balsam fir, Fig. 63, where the narrow annual rings of the early growth, are followed by the wider ones of later growth. A common sight in the dense woods is the maple sending up a long, spindly stem thru the trees about it and having at its top a little tuft of leaves, Fig. 64. By so doing it survives. The fact that a tree can grow without shade often determines its possession of a burnt-over tract. The order in the North Woods after a fire is commonly, first, a growth of fire weed, then raspberries or blackberries, then aspen, a very intolerant tree whose light shade in turn permits under it the growth of the spruce, to which it is a "nurse," Fig. 65. In general it may be said that all seedling conifers require some shade the first two years, while hardwoods in temperate climates, as a rule, do not. [Illustration: Fig. 63. Cross section of Balsam Fir, Showing Fast Growth After Years of Suppression. Notice the width of the annual rings in later age compared with early. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 64. Tolerant Maple. The trees are too slender to stand alone. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 65. Intolerant Aspen, a "nurse" of Tolerant Spruce._ U. S. Forest Service._] This matter of tolerance has also much to do with the branching of trees. The leaves on the lower branches of an intolerant tree will not thrive, with the result that those branches die and later drop off. This is called "cleaning," or natural pruning. Intolerant trees, like aspen and tulip, Fig. 66, clean themselves well and hence grow with long, straight boles, while tolerant trees, like spruce and fir, retain their branches longer. [Illustration: Fig. 66. Intolerant Tulip. Notice the long, straight boles. _U. S. Forest Service._] The distribution of a species may also be determined by geographical barriers, like mountain ranges and oceans. This is why the western forests differ radically from the eastern forests and why the forest of Australasia is sharply distinct from any other forest in the world. Any one or several of these factors, soil, moisture, heat, and light, may be the determining factor in the make-up of a forest, or it may be that a particular tree may survive, because of a faster rate of growth, thus enabling it to overtop its fellows and cut off their light. The struggle for survival is constant, and that tree survives which can take the best advantage of the existent conditions. Besides these topographical and climatic factors which help determine the distribution of trees, a very important factor is the historical one. For example, the only reason by which the location of the few isolated groves of big trees in California can be accounted for is the rise and fall of glacial sheets, which left them, as it were, islands stranded in a sea of ice. As the glaciers retreated, the region gradually became re-forested, those trees coming up first which were best able to take advantage of the conditions, whether due to the character of their seeds, their tolerance, their endurance of moisture or whatever. This process is still going on and hardwoods are probably gaining ground. Besides these external factors which determine the composition and organic life of the forest, the trees themselves furnish an important factor in their methods of reproduction. These, in general, are two, (1) by sprouts, and (2) by seeds. (1) Most conifers have no power of sprouting. The chief exceptions are pitch pine and, to a remarkable degree, the redwood, Fig. 67. This power, however, is common in broad-leaved trees, as may be seen after a fire has swept thru second growth, hardwood timber. Altho all the young trees are killed down to the ground, the young sprouts spring up from the still living roots. This may happen repeatedly. Coppice woods, as of chestnut and oak, which sprout with great freedom, are the result of this ability. The wood is poor so that it is chiefly used for fuel. [Illustration: Fig. 67. Sprouting Redwood Stumps. Glen Blair, Calif. _U. S. Forest Service._] (2) Most trees, however, are reproduced by seeds. Trees yield these in great abundance, to provide for waste,--nature's method. Many seeds never ripen, many perish, many are eaten by animals, many fall on barren ground or rocks, and many sprout, only to die. The weight of seeds has much to do with their distribution. Heavy seeds like acorns, chestnuts, hickory and other nuts, grow where they fall, unless carried down hill by gravity or by water, or scattered by birds and squirrels. Trees with winged seeds, however, Fig. 68, as bass, maple and pine, or with light seeds, as poplar, often have their seeds carried by the wind to great distances. [Illustration: Fig. 68. Winged Seeds. 1, Basswood; 2, Box-elder; 3, Elm; 4, Fir; 5, 6, 7, 8, Pines. _U. S. Forest Service._] Again some trees, as spruce, are very fertile, while others, like beech, have only occasional seed-bearing seasons, once in three or four years. Willow seeds lose their power of germination in a few days, and hence, unless they soon reach ground where there is plenty of moisture, they die. This is why they grow mostly along water courses. On the other hand, black locust pods and the cones of some pines keep their seeds perfect for many years, often until a fire bursts them open, and so they live at the expense of their competitors. It is such facts as these that help to account for some of the acts of forest composition,--why in one place at one time there is a growth of aspens, at another time pines, at still another oaks; and why beeches spring up one year and not another. That red cedars grow in avenues along fences, is explained by the fact that the seeds are dropped there by birds, Fig. 69. [Illustration: Fig. 69. Red Cedar Avenue. Seeds dropped by birds which perched on the fences. Indiana. _U. S. Forest Service._] The fact that conifers, as the longleaf pine, Fig. 46, p. 200, and spruce, Fig. 55, p. 212, are more apt to grow in pure stands than broad-leaved trees, is largely accounted for by their winged seeds; whereas the broad-leaved trees grow mostly in mixed stands because their heavy seeds are not plentifully and widely scattered. This is a rule not without exceptions, for beech sometimes covers a whole mountain side, as Slide Mountain in the Catskills, and aspens come in over a wide area after a fire; but later other trees creep in until at length it becomes a mixed forest. The essential facts of the relation of trees to each other in the forest has been clearly stated by Gifford Pinchot thus:[1] The history of the life of a forest is a story of the help and harm which trees receive from one another. On one side every tree is engaged in a relentless struggle against its neighbors for light, water and food, the three things trees need most. On the other side each tree is constantly working with all its neighbors, even those which stand at some distance, to bring about the best condition of the soil and air for the growth and fighting power of every other tree. The trees in a forest help each other by enriching the soil in which they stand with their fallen leaves and twigs, which are not quickly blown or washed away as are those under a tree in the open. This collection of "duff" or "the forest floor" retains the moisture about their roots, and this moist mass tends to keep the temperature of the forest warmer in winter and cooler in summer. The forest cover, Fig. 55, p. 212, consisting largely of foliage, has the same effect, and in addition protects the bark, the roots, and the seedlings of the trees from the direct and continuous hot rays of the sun. Without the shade of the leaves, many trees, as white pine, would quickly die, as may readily be seen by transplanting them to the open. The mass of standing trees tempers the force of the wind, which might overthrow some of them, and hinders the drying up of the duff. [Illustration: Fig. 70. Shallow Roots of Hemlock. Bronx Park, New York, N. Y.] But trees hinder as well as help each other. There is a constant struggle between them for nourishment and light. To get food and water, some trees, as spruces and hemlocks, Fig. 70, spread their roots out flat; others, as oak and pine, send down a deep tap root. Those succeed in any environment that find the nourishment they need. Still more evident is the struggle for light and air. However well a tree is nourished thru its roots, unless its leaves have an abundance of light and air it will not thrive and make wood. [Illustration: Fig. 71. Long-bodied White Oak of the Forest. _U. S. Forest Service._] Even the trees most tolerant of shade in youth, like spruce, must have light later or perish, and hence in a forest there is the constant upward reach. This produces the characteristic "long-bodied" trunk of the forest tree, Fig. 71, in contrast to the "short-bodied" tree of the open, where the branches reach out in all directions, Fig. 72. In this constant struggle for existence is involved the persistent attempt of scattered seeds to sprout whenever there is an opening. The result is that a typical forest is one in which all sizes and ages of trees grow together. Scattered among these are bushes and scrubby trees, called "forest weeds," such as mountain maple and dogwood, Fig. 80, p. 234, which do not produce timber. [Illustration: Fig. 72. Short-bodied White Oak of the Open. Fort Lee, N. J.] By foresters the trees themselves are classified according to their size into: Seedlings, less than 3' high, Saplings, Small, 3'-10' high. Large, 4" in diameter, at breast height (4' 6"). Poles, Small, 4"-8" in diameter, at breast height. Large, 8"-12" in diameter, at breast height. Standards, 1'-2' in diameter, at breast height. Veterans, over 2' in diameter, at breast height. Every age has its own dangers. Many seeds never germinate, many seedlings perish because they do not reach soil, or are killed by too much or too little moisture, or by heat or cold, or shade. At the sapling age, the side branches begin to interfere with those of other saplings. Buds are bruised and lower branches broken by thrashing in the wind, and their leaves have less light. Only the upper branches have room and light, and they flourish at the expense of lower ones, which gradually die and are thus pruned off. Some trees naturally grow faster than others, and they attain additional light and room to spread laterally, thus overtopping others which are suppressed and finally killed, beaten in the race for life. If the growth should remain about even so that the trees grew densely packed together, the whole group would be likely to be of a poorer quality, but ordinarily the few outgrow the many and they are called dominant trees. Even then, they still have to struggle against their neighbors, and at this, the large sapling stage, many perish, and of those that survive there are great differences in size. Trees make their most rapid growth in height, and lay on the widest yearly "rings," at the large sapling and small pole age, Fig. 114, p. 263. It is at this stage, too, if the growth is at all dense, that the young trees (poles) clean themselves most thoroly of their branches. The growth in diameter continues to the end of the tree's life, long after the height growth has ceased. When trees become "standards," and reach the limit of height growth, thru their inability to raise water to their tops, their branches must perforce grow sidewise, or not at all. The struggle for life thus takes a new form. How trees are able to raise water as high as they do is still unexplained, but we know that the chief reason why some trees grow taller than others, is due to their ability to raise water. The most remarkable in this respect are the California redwoods, the big trees, and certain eucalypts in Australia. This inability of trees to grow above a certain height results in a flattening of the crown, Fig. 73, and at this stage, the trees struggle against each other by crowding at the side. [Illustration: Fig. 73. Flattened Crown of Red Pine. _U.S. Forest Service._] Inasmuch as trees grow more sensitive to shade with advancing age, the taller trees have the advantage. Each survivor is one of a thousand, and has outlived the others because it is best fitted for the place. This fact has its effect upon the next generation, because it is these dominant surviving trees which bear seed most abundantly. After the tree has finished growing in height and diameter most vigorously--the pole stage--and proved to be fitted for the place, its energy is largely spent in raising seed. As this process goes on generation after generation, only the best coming to maturity in each, the poorer sorts are sifted out, and each region and continent has those species best fitted to meet the conditions of life there. This is the reason why exotics are very likely to be sensitive and perhaps succumb to influences to which native trees are immune. Standards and veterans are the survivors of all the lower stages, each of which has had its especial dangers. If left alone, the tree gradually dies and at last falls and decays, adding somewhat to the fertility of the forest soil. From the point of view of human use, it would far better have been cut when ripe and turned into lumber. It is a mistake to suppose that the natural virgin forest is the best possible forest, and that it should therefore be left alone. In the National Forests the ripe lumber is sold and a considerable revenue is thus available. But nature's way with the dead tree is to use it to produce more life. How she does so will be explained in the next chapter, on the enemies of the forest. [Footnote 1: Gifford Pinchot, _Primer of Forestry_, p. 44.] THE FOREST ORGANISM. REFERENCES:[A] Pinchot, _For. Bull._ No. 24, I, pp. 25-66. Bruncken, pp. 13-31. _For. Circ._ No. 36, p. 8. Fernow, _Economics_, pp. 140-164. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4] CHAPTER VI. NATURAL ENEMIES OF THE FOREST. The natural enemies of the forest--as distinct from its human enemies--fall into three groups: (1) Meteorological, (2) Vegetable, (3) Animal. METEOROLOGICAL FORCES. [Illustration: Fig. 74. Effect of Wind, July, 1902, Cass County, Minnesota. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Wind._ "Windfalls" are not an uncommon sight in any forest. Frequently only small areas are blown down, one large tree upsetting a few others, or again a vast region is destroyed by great storms, Fig. 74. An area of many square miles in Florida covered with long-leaf pine was thus destroyed several years ago. The "slash" thus formed, when well dried, is particularly liable to catch fire and burn furiously. Windfalls are especially common among shallow-rooted trees, as hemlock, basswood and spruce, on sandy soil and on shallow soil underlaid with solid stone, especially where open spaces give the wind free sweep. It follows that an unbroken forest is a great protection to itself. The only precautions against wind therefore, that can be taken by the forester, are to keep the forest unbroken by selecting only the larger trees for felling or to cut down a given tract by beginning at the side opposite the direction of prevailing storms and working toward them. In sandy regions, the wind does immense harm by blowing the sand to and fro in constantly shifting dunes, Figs. 75 and 76. These dunes occupy long stretches of the Atlantic coast and the shore of Lake Michigan. Such dunes have been estimated to cover 20,000 square miles of Europe. Along the Bay of Biscay in France, the sand dunes formerly drifted in ridges along the shore, damming up the streams and converting what was once a forest into a pestilential marsh. This region has been reclaimed at great expense by building fences along the shore to break the wind and thus keep the moving sand within limits. In this way a million acres of productive forest have been obtained. [Illustration: Fig. 75. Sand-dunes, Cape May, New Jersey. _U.S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 76. Sand-dune. Oregon. _U.S. Forest Service._] On the other hand winds are beneficial to the forest in scattering seeds, weeding out weak trees, and developing strength in tree trunks. _Drouth_ both injures the foliage of trees and causes defects in the grain of wood, the latter appearing as "false rings." These arise from the effort of the tree to resume growth when the water supply is restored. See p. 19. _Water._ Certain trees have become accustomed to living in much water, as cedar and cypress have in swamps, and certain trees have become accustomed to periodical floods, but other trees are killed by much water. So when lumbermen make a pond which overflows forest land, the trees soon die, Fig. 77. [Illustration: Fig. 77. Effect of Flooding. First Connecticut Lake, New Hampshire. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Lightning_ frequently blasts single trees, and in dry seasons may set fire to forests. This is a much more important factor in the west than in the east,--in the Rockies, for instance, where there are electrical storms without rain. _Fires_ will be considered later under man's relation to the forest. [Illustration: Fig. 78. Slim Trees Bent Over by Snow; Stouter Trees Unharmed. Zurich, Switzerland. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Snow and ice_ often bring serious harm to saplings by permanently bending them over, Fig. 78, or by breaking off tops and branches. _Frost_ kills young plants; and sudden changes in temperature seriously affect grown timber, producing "frost checks" and "wind shakes." When there is a sudden fall in temperature, the outside layers of the tree, which are full of sap, contract more rapidly than the inner portions, with the result that the tree splits with a sudden pistol-like report, the check running radially up and down the tree. This is called a "frost check" or "star shake," Fig. 41._a_, p. 47, and such wounds rarely heal, Fig. 79. On the other hand when the temperature rapidly rises, the outside layers of the tree expand so much more rapidly than the inside, that they separate with a dull muffled chug, the check extending in a circular direction following the annual rings. Such checks are often called "wind shakes" and "cup shakes," Fig. 41._c_, p. 47. These injuries are found in regions where sudden changes of temperature occur, rather than in the tropics or in very cold climates. [Illustration: Fig. 79. Contraction Frost Check. _U. S. Forest Service._] VEGETABLE ENEMIES. Under this head may be classed, in addition to fungi, a number of unrelated plants, including such as: moosewood and dogwood, Fig. 80, which crowd out young trees; vines, like bitter-sweet, which wind about trees and often choke them by pressure, cutting thru the bark and cambium; saprophytes, which smother the foliage of trees, of which Spanish moss, Fig. 47, p. 201, is an example; and finally such parasites as the mistletoes, which weaken and deform the trees. [Illustration: Fig. 80. A "Forest Weed," Flowering Dogwood. North Carolina. _U.S. Forest Service._] The most important of the vegetable enemies of trees are fungi. It should be remembered, however, that, without the decay produced by them, the fallen trees would soon cover the ground, and prevent any new growth, thus destroying the natural forest. Every tree, as has been noted (p. 17), is composed of two parts, one part, including leaves, young branches, roots and sap-wood, living, and the other part, namely, the heart-wood, practically dead. Fungi that attack the live parts of a tree are called parasites, while those that live on dead trunks and branches are designated as saprophytes. The line, however, between these two classes of fungi is not well defined, since some parasites live on both living and dead wood. The parasites are of first importance, for, since they kill many trees, they control to a large extent the supply of living timber. Nearly all parasitic fungi have two portions, an external fruiting portion which bears the spores--which correspond to the seeds of flowering plants--and an internal portion consisting of a tangle of threads or filaments, which ramify the tissues of the tree and whose function is to absorb nutriment for the fungus. Fungi are classified botanically according to the spore-bearing bodies, their form, color, etc. The parasitic fungi which are especially destructive to wood are those that have naked spores growing on exposed fruiting surfaces (the _Hymenomycetes_). In toadstools (the _agarics_) these exposed surfaces are thin, flat plates called gills. In the polypores, which include the shelf fungi, the spore surfaces are tubes whose openings constitute the pores. In the dry-rot, or tear fungus (_Merulius lacrymans_), the spore surfaces are shallow cavities. Some varieties, called _true_ parasites, develop in uninjured trees, while others, called _wound_ parasites, can penetrate the tissues of trees, only where a cut or injury makes a suitable lodgment for the spores. Some fungi attack only a single species of trees, others whole genera; some attack only conifers, others deciduous trees, while a few attack trees of nearly all kinds alike. Fungal spores when brought in contact with a wound on a tree or other suitable place, and provided with suitable conditions of growth, germinate, penetrate the tissues and grow very rapidly. These spores send out long threads or filaments which run thru the cells lengthwise and also pierce them in all directions, soon forming a network in the wood called the mycelium. Rotting, in a large number of cases, is due to the ravages of fungi. This sometimes shows in the color, as the "red rot" of pine or the "bluing" of ash. Sometimes as in "pecky" or "peggy" cypress, the decayed tracts are tubular. More commonly the decayed parts are of irregular shape. The decay of wood is due to the ravages of low forms of plant life, both bacteria and fungi. A few of the more destructive forms may be noted. _Trametes pini_ (Brot.) Fr. Foremost among the timber destroying fungi is the large brown "punk" or "conch" found in its typical development on the long-leaf and short-leaf pines, _Pinus palustris_ and _Pinus echinata_, Fig. 81. The fruiting bodies form large masses which grow out from a knot, oftentimes as large as a child's head. They are cinnamon brown on the lower surface, and much fissured and broken, on the black charcoal-like upper surface. This fungus probably causes four-fifths of the destruction brought about by the timber destroying fungi. It occurs on most of the conifers in the United States which have any value as lumber trees, and brings about a characteristic white spotting of the wood, Fig. 82, which varies with the kind of tree attacked. (Von Schrenk, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1900, p. 206.) [Illustration: Fig. 81. A "Conch," the fruiting body of _Trametes pini_, on Sugar Pine. [_Agric. Year Book, 1900_, Pl. XXII, Fig. 2.]] [Illustration: Fig. 82. Effect of Fungus. (_Trametes pini._) _U. S. Dept. Agric._] [Illustration: Fig. 83. "Shelf" Fungus on Pine. _a._ Sound wood; _b._ Resinous "light" wood; _c._ Partly decayed wood or punk; _d._ Layer of living spore tubes; _e._ Old filled-up spore tubes; _f._ Fluted upper surface of the fruiting body of the fungus, which gets its food thru a great number of fine threads (the mycelium), its vegetative tissue penetrating the wood and causing its decay. [_After Hartig._]] Of the shelf fungi, which project like brackets from the stems of trees, and have their pores on their under surfaces, one of the commonest in many localities is the yellow cheese-like _Polyporus sulphureus_, Fig. 83. This is found on oak, poplar, willow, larch, and other standing timber. Its spawnlike threads spread from any exposed portion of cambium into the pith-rays and between the annual rings, forming thick layers of yellowish-white felt, and penetrating the vessels of the wood, which thereupon becomes a deep brown color and decays. Of the umbrella-shaped gill-bearing fungi, a yellow toadstool, called the honey mushroom (_Agaricus melleus_), is a good example, Fig. 84. [Illustration: Fig. 84. Honey Mushroom. _Agaricus melleus._ 1. Cluster of small sporophores. 2. Larger sporophore with root-like organ of attachment. _Forestry Bulletin 22._ Plate XII, Figs. 1 and 2.] This fungus, of common occurrence in the United States as well as in Europe, is exceedingly destructive to coniferous trees, the white pine in particular suffering greatly from its attacks. It also fastens upon various deciduous species as a parasite, attacking living trees of all ages, but living as well upon dead roots and stumps and on wood that has been cut and worked up, occurring frequently on bridges, railroad ties, and the like, and causing prompt decay wherever it has effected an entrance. The most conspicuous part of the fungus is found frequently in the summer and fall on the diseased parts of the tree or timber infested by it. It is one of the common toadstools, this particular species being recognized by its yellowish color, gills extending downward upon the stem, which is encircled a little lower down by a ring, and by its habit of growing in tufts or little clumps of several or many individuals together. It is also particularly distinguished by the formation of slender, dark-colored strings, consisting of compact mycelium, from which the fruiting parts just described arise. These hard root-like strings (called rhizomorphs) extend along just beneath the surface of the ground, often a distance of several feet, and penetrate the roots of sound trees. By carefully removing the bark from a root thus invaded the fungus is seen in the form of a dense, nearly white, mass of mycelium, which, as the parts around decay, gradually produces again the rhizomorphs already described. These rhizomorphs are a characteristic part of the fungus. Occurring both in the decayed wood from which they spread to the adjacent parts, and extending in the soil from root to root, they constitute a most effective agency in the extension of the disease. * * * External symptoms, to be observed especially in young specimens recently attacked, consist in a change of the leaves to a pale sickly color and often the production of short stunted shoots. A still more marked symptom is the formation of great quantities of resin, which flow downward thru the injured parts and out into the ground. (_Forestry Bulletin_ No. 22, p. 51.) Of the irregular shaped fungi, one of the most destructive is a true parasite, _i.e._, one that finds lodgment without help, called _Polyporus annosus_ and also _Trametes radiciperda_, Fig. 85. It is peculiar in developing its fructifications on the exterior of roots, beneath the soil. Its pores appear on the upper side of the fructifications. It attacks only conifers. Its spores, which can be readily conveyed in the fur of mice or other burrowing animals, germinate in the moisture around the roots: the fine threads of "spawn" penetrate the cortex, and spread thru and destroy the cambium, extending in thin, flat, fan-like, white, silky bands, and, here and there, bursting thru the cortex in white, oval cushions, on which the subterranean fructifications are produced. Each of these is a yellowish-white, felt-like mass, with its outer surface covered with crowded minute tubes or "pores" in which the spores are produced. The wood attacked by this fungus first becomes rosy or purple, then turns yellowish, and then exhibits minute black dots, which surround themselves with extending soft white patches. (Boulger, p. 73.) [Illustration: Fig. 85. 1. Stump of Norway Spruce, with a sporophore of _polyporus annosus_ several years old; the inner portions of the stump wholly decayed. 2. Roots of a diseased spruce tree, with numerous small sporophores of _polyporus annosus_ attached. _Forestry Bulletin 22_, Plate XIII, Figs. 1 and 2.] Of the fungi which attack converted timber, the most important is "dry rot" or "tear fungus" (_Merulius lachrymans_), Fig. 86. It flourishes on damp wood in still air, especially around stables and ill ventilated cellars. It gets its name lachrymans (weeping) from its habit of dripping moisture. The fungus destroys the substance of the timber, lessening its weight and causing it to warp and crack; until at length it crumbles up when dry into a fine brown powder, or, readily absorbing any moisture in its neighborhood, becomes a soft, cheese-like mass. * * * Imperfectly seasoned timber is most susceptible to dry rot: the fungus can be spread either by its spawn or by spores, and these latter can be carried even by the clothes or saws of workmen, and are, of course, only too likely to reach sound wood if diseased timber is left about near it; but on the other hand dry timber kept dry is proof against dry rot, and exposure to really dry air is fatal to the fungus. (Boulger, p. 75.) [Illustration: Fig. 86. Portion of the mycelium of dry rot or tear fungus, _Merulius lachrymans_. This cakelike mass spreads over the surface of the timber. In a moist environment pellucid drops or "tears" distil from its lower surface: Hence its name. [Ward: _Timber_; Fig. 21.]] About all that can be done to protect the forest against fungi is to keep it clean, that is, to clear out fallen timber and slash, and in some cases to dig trenches around affected trees to prevent spreading or to cut them out and destroy them. Such methods have heretofore been too expensive to employ in any ordinary American forest, but the time is at hand when such action will prove profitable in many localities. For the preservation of cut timber from decay, several methods are used. Fungi need heat, air, moisture and food. If any one of these is lacking the fungus cannot grow. Air and heat are hard to exclude from wood, but moisture and food can be kept from fungi. The removal of moisture is called seasoning, and the poisoning of the food of fungi is a process of impregnating wood with certain chemicals. Both these processes are described in _Handwork in Wood_, Chapter III. ANIMAL ENEMIES. The larger animals working damage to our forests are chiefly rodents and grazing animals. Beavers gnaw the bark, while mice and squirrels rob the forest of seed and consequently of new trees. The acorns of white oak are particularly liable to be devoured because of their sweetness, while those of red and black oak, which afford timber of comparatively little value, are allowed to sprout, and thus come to possess the land. Hogs annually consume enormous quantities of "mast," _i.e._, acorns or other nuts, by pasturing in oak and other forests. They, together with goats and sheep, Figs. 87 and 88, deer and cattle, work harm by trampling and browsing. Browsing destroys the tender shoots, especially of deciduous trees, but trampling entirely kills out the seedlings. The cutting up of the soil by the sharp cleft hoofs injures the forest floor, by pulverizing it and allowing it to be readily washed away by storms until deforestation may result, as was the case in France after the Revolution. It has cost the French people from thirty to forty million dollars to repair the damage begun by the sheep. In this country, this matter has become a very serious one on the Pacific Coast, where there are enormous flocks of sheep, and therefore the government is trying to regulate the grazing on public lands there, especially on steep slopes, where erosion takes place rapidly.[1] [Footnote 1: The evils of grazing are increased by the fact that fires are sometimes started intentionally in order to increase the area of grazing land.] [Illustration: Fig. 87. Goats Eating Foliage, New Mexico. _U.S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 88. Sheep Grazing in Forest, Idaho. _U.S. Forest Service._] The most destructive animal enemies of the forest are the insects. The average annual loss of trees in the United States from this cause alone has been estimated to be one hundred million dollars. Insects have two objects in their attack on trees, one is to obtain food, as when they are in the larval stage, and the other is to provide for offspring, as do certain beetles. The number of insect enemies of the forest is enormous. At the St. Louis Exposition, there were on exhibit nearly three hundred such insects. These belong to some twenty orders, of which the beetles (_Coleoptera_), which have horny wings and biting mouth parts, and the moths and butterflies (_Lepidoptera_), with membraneous wings and sucking mouth parts, are the most destructive. Insects attack every part of the tree, the seed, the shoot, the flower, the root, the leaf, the bark and the wood, both standing and cut. Of the fruit and seed pests, the most destructive are weevils, worms and gall insects. Of the twig and shoot pests, beetles, weevils and caterpillars are the worst. Among insects that attack roots, the periodical cicada (17 year old locust) may be noted. The leaf pests are far more serious. They include the true and false caterpillars, moths, gall insects and plant lice. Of the bark pests, the bark beetles are the most destructive. These are also called Engraver Beetles from the smoothly cut figures which are their burrows under the bark, Figs. 89, 90, 91. [Illustration: Fig. 89. Work of the Spruce Destroying Beetle: _a._ Primary gallery; _b._ Borings packed in side; _c._ Entrance and central burrow thru the packed borings; _d._ Larval mines. Note how the eggs are grouped on the sides. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1902, Fig. 24, p. 268.]] [Illustration: Fig. 90. Complete brood Galleries of the Hickory Bark Beetle in Surface of Wood. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1903, Fig. 28, p. 316.]] [Illustration: Fig. 91. Brood Galleries of the Oak Bark Beetle, showing Character of Primary Gallery at _b_; Larval or Brood Mines at _a._ [_Agric. Year Book_, 1903, Fig. 30, page 318.]] Many pairs of beetles make a simultaneous attack on the lower half of the main trunk of medium-sized to large trees. They bore thru the outer bark to the inner living portion, and thru the inner layers of the latter; they excavate long, irregular, longitudinal galleries, and along the sides of these at irregular intervals, numerous eggs are closely placed. The eggs soon hatch and the larvae at once commence to feed on the inner bark, and as they increase in size, extend and enlarge their food burrows in a general transverse but irregular course, away from the mother galleries (see illustration). When these young and larval forms are full grown, each excavates a cavity or cell at the end of its burrow and next to the outer corky bark. (Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1902.) Some of the species attack living trees, causing their rapid death, and are among the most destructive enemies of American forests. All of the above indirectly affect both the quantity and quality of the wood supply. They can be studied more in detail in the publications of the U.S. Bureau of Entomology. Of the insects directly attacking wood, the most important are the ambrosia or timber beetles, the borers, the ants, and the carpenter bees. The most remarkable feature of the beetle is the manner of its boring into the harder parts of the wood. Its jaws are particularly constructed for this work, being heavy and strong. The boring is done something after the manner of countersinking, and the jaws are believed to be self-sharpening, by reason of the peculiar right to left and left to right motion. _Ambrosia_ or _timber beetles_, Fig. 92. This class of insects attacks living, dead, and felled trees, sawlogs, green lumber, and stave-bolts, often causing serious injury and loss from the pin-hole and stained-wood defects caused by their brood galleries. The galleries are excavated by the parent beetles in the sound sap-wood sometimes extending into the heart-wood, and the young stages feed on a fungus growth which grows on the walls of galleries. (Hopkins, Entom. Bulletin No. 48, p. 10.) The growth of this ambrosia-like fungus is induced or controlled by the parent beetles and the young are dependent on it for food. (Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1904.) [Illustration: Fig. 92. Work of Ambrosia Beetle, _Xyloborus celsus_, in Hickory Wood: _a_, Larva; _b_, Pupa; _c_, Adult beetle; _d_, Character of work in lumber cut from injured log; _e_, Bark; _f_, Sap wood; _g_, Heartwood. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 44, p. 384.]] [Illustration: Fig. 93. Work of Ambrosia Beetles in Oak: _a_, _Monarthum mali_, and work; _b_, _Platypus compositus_, and work; _c_, Bark; _d_, Sap-wood; _e_, Heart-wood; _f_, Character of work in lumber from injured log. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 45, p. 384.]] There are two general types or classes of these galleries, one in which the broods develop together in the main burrows, the other, in which the individuals develop in short separate side chambers extending at right angles from the primary gallery, Fig. 93. The galleries of the latter type are usually accompanied by a distinct staining of the wood, while those of the former are not. (Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1904, p. 383.) _Bark_ and _wood borers_, Fig. 94. This class of enemies differs from the preceding in the fact that the parent beetles do not burrow into the wood or bark, but deposit their eggs on the surface. The elongate, whitish, round-headed (_Cerambycid_), flat-headed (_Buprestid_), or short, stout (_Curculionid_) grubs hatching from these eggs cause injury by burrowing beneath the bark, or deep into the sap-wood and heart-wood of living, injured and dead trees, sawlogs, etc. Some of the species infest living trees, Fig. 95, causing serious injury or death. Others attack only dead or dying bark and wood, but this injury often results in great loss from the so-called wormhole defects. (A. D. Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._, No. 48, p. 10.) [Illustration: Fig. 94. Work of Round-Headed and Flat-Headed Borers in Pine: _a_, Work of round-headed borers, "sawyer," _Monohamnus_ sp.; _b_, _Ergates spiculatus_; _c_, Work of flat-headed borer, _Buprestis_, larva and adult. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 46, p. 385.]] [Illustration: Fig. 95. Hemlock Killed by Buprestid Worms. Hoquiam, Washington. _U.S. Forest Service._] The pine sawyers are among the most troublesome pests in the mill yard, and their large, white larvae often do much damage to logs by eating great holes thru their solid interior. While burrowing in the wood the larvae make a peculiar grating sound that may be heard on quiet nights at a considerable distance. This is a familiar sound in the lumber camps of the North, and has probably given rise to the name of the pine sawyers by which these insects are known. (_Forestry Bulletin_, No. 22, p. 58.) _Powder-post beetles_, Fig. 96. This is a class of insects representing two or three families of beetles, the larvae of which infest and convert into fine powder many different kinds of dry and seasoned wood products, such as hickory and ash handles, wagon spokes, lumber, etc., when wholly or in part from the sap-wood of trees. Oak and hemlock tan-bark is sometimes injured to a great extent, and the structural timbers of old houses, barns, etc., are often seriously injured, while hop poles and like products are attacked by one set of these insects, the adults of which burrow into the wood for the purpose of depositing their eggs. (Hopkins, _Forestry Bulletin_ No. 48, p. 11.) [Illustration: Fig. 96. Work of Powder Post Beetle, _Sinoxylon basilare_, in hickory pole: _a_, Character of work by larvae; _b_, Exit holes made by emerging broods. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 49.]] _Timber worms_, Fig. 97. This class of true wood-boring "worms," or grubs, are the larvae of beetles. They enter the wood from eggs deposited in wounds in living trees, from which they burrow deep into the heart-wood. Generation after generation may develop in the wood of a tree without affecting its life but the wood is rendered worthless for most purposes by the so-called wormhole and pinhole defects resulting from their burrows. The same species also breed in the wood of dying and dead standing trees, and in the stumps and logs of felled ones, often for many years after the trees are felled. One species sometimes attacks freshly sawed oak lumber, new stave bolts, etc. They are among the most destructive enemies of hardwood forest trees, especially in reducing the value of the wood of the best part of the trunks. (Hopkins, _Forestry Bulletin_ No. 48, p. 10.) [Illustration: Fig. 97. Work of Timber Worms in Oak: _a_, Work of oak timber worm, _Eupsalis minuta_; _b._ Barked surface; _c._ Bark; _d._ Sap-wood timber worm, _Hylocaetus lugubris_, and its work; _e._ Sap-wood. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 47, p. 386.]] The _carpenter worms_, Fig. 98. These are large pinkish caterpillars which are the larvae of stout-bodied moths. They enter the bark and wood of living oak, locust, poplar and other trees, from eggs deposited by the moths in the crevices of uninjured bark, or in the edges of wounds. They burrow deep into the solid wood, where they live for two or three years before transforming to the adult. The wood is seriously injured by the very large wormhole defects, and while the life of the tree is but slightly, if at all, affected by the earlier attacks, the continued operations of this class of borers year after year, finally results in the decay of the heart-wood, or a hollow trunk and a dead top. (Hopkins, _Forestry Bulletin_, No. 48, p. 11.) [Illustration: Fig. 98. Worm Holes in Red Oak, Work of the Oak Carpenter Worm. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1903, Fig. 37, p. 324.]] _Columbian Timber-beetle_ One of the commonest wormhole defects in white oak, rock oak, beech, and tulip ("whitewood" or "yellow poplar") is one known to the lumber trade as grease spots, patch-worm, or black holes, Fig. 99, steam boats, Fig. 100, etc., caused by the Columbian timber beetle (_Corthylus columbianus Hopk_.) The characteristic feature of this wormhole defect, which will enable it to be readily recognized in oak and beech, is transverse series of two or more black holes about the size of the lead in an ordinary lead pencil, with a streak of stained wood extending with the grain two or three or more inches each side, as in Fig. 99. In quarter-sawed oak or split or sawed staves, a short longitudinal section of one of these black holes is seen attended by the stained streak on one side of a thick or curly growth or grain, Fig. 100. It is this form which is called "steamboats." In whitewood (yellow poplar) the black holes are attended by very long black, greenish, or bluish streaks, sometimes five or six feet long. When this is common in the lumber it is called "calico poplar." Fig. 101 represents the characteristic appearance of this defect greatly reduced. (Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1903, p. 327.) [Illustration: Fig. 99. Work of the Columbian Timber Beetle: Black holes and "grease spots" in white oak. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1903, Fig. 38, p. 325.]] [Illustration: Fig. 100. Work of the Columbian Timber Beetle: "Steamboats" in quartered or Split white oak. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1903, Fig. 39, p. 326.]] [Illustration: Fig. 101. Work of the Columbian Timber Beetle in Tulip Wood, "Calico Poplar," [_Agric. Year Book_ 1903, Fig. 40, p. 326.]] _Carpenter bees._ The work of this class of woodboring bees is shown in Fig. 102. The injury consists of large augerlike tunnels in exposed, solid dry wood of buildings and other structures. It is most common in soft woods, such as pine, poplar, redwood and the like. (Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1904, p. 390.) [Illustration: Fig. 102. Work of the Carpenter Bee, _Xylocopa orpifex_, in Redwood Lumber: _a_, entrance; _b_, galleries; _c_, cells; _d_, larva; _e_, adult. [_Agric. Year Book_, 1904, Fig. 53, p. 390.]] _Horn tails._ This is a class of borers which are the larvae of the so-called wood wasps. They may enter the exposed dead wood of wounds of living trees, but more commonly attack the wood of dead standing conifers and hard woods, in the sap-wood of which they excavate irregular burrows, which are packed with their borings. When the adults emerge they leave the surface perforated with numerous round holes. Water and fungi entering these holes cause a very rapid decay of the wood. (Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._ No. 48, p. 11.) The tunnels of these various wood pests are most frequently to be seen in chestnut, ash, hickory, oak, tulip, and cypress. One would think that with such an array of enemies, the forest would hardly survive, but on the other hand there are many enemies of these pests. The most destructive are the predaceous and parasitic insects. Many insects are simply predaceous, pouncing upon and destroying such other insects as they can overcome. Still others are parasites, some external, but most of them living within the bodies of their victims where they pass their entire larval life. The eggs are laid on or in the body of the victim, so that as soon as one hatches, it has suitable food. The ichneumon fly, Fig. 103, is such a parasite; it destroys millions of insect pests. It has a long and peculiar ovipositor with which it drills a hole into the tree and deposits the egg in a burrow of the Pigeon Horntail, a wood wasp that burrows into deciduous trees. The larva soon finds its victim, the grub of the Pigeon Horntail, and lives on it to its destruction. [Illustration: Fig. 103. Ichneumon Fly whose Larva Feeds on the Larva of the Pigeon Horn-tail.] It would seem that it is a hopeless task to control the insect enemies of forest trees and forest products or to prevent losses from their ravages, but the writer is informed by Dr. A. D. Hopkins, the expert in the Bureau of Entomology in charge of forest insect investigations, that the results of their investigations show conclusively that there are many practical and inexpensive methods of control now available thru the suggestions and recommendations in recent Department publications on forest insects, as well as thru direct correspondence with the Department. These methods are based on the principle of prevention and not on that of extermination. It has been shown that thru proper adjustment of the details in management of forests and of the business of manufacturing, storing, transporting, and utilizing the products a large percentage of the losses can be prevented at small additional expense, and that even when considerable cost is involved the amount saved will often represent a handsome profit. THE NATURAL ENEMIES OF THE FOREST. REFERENCES:[A] (1) Meterological. Pinchot, _Primer_ I, pp. 75-76. Roth, _First Book_, _pp._ 198-202. Bruncken, pp. 27-29. Water. Roth, _First Book_, p. 27. Snow, ice and frost. Pinchot, _Primer_, I, p. 76. Bruce, _For. and Irr._, 8: 159, Ap. '02. (2) Vegetable. Roth, _First Book_, p. 4. Boulger, pp. 70-75. Spaulding, _For. Bull._, No. 22. Ward, Chaps. V, VI, VII. Sickles, pp. 41-45. von Schrenck, _For. Bull._, No. 41, Pl. III. Sherfesee. _For. Circ._ No. 139. von Schrenck, _Bur. Plant Ind. Bull._ No. 36. von Schrenck, _Bur. Plant Ind. Bull._ No. 32. von Schrenck, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1900, p. 199. (3) Animal. Grazing. Pinchot, _Primer I_, pp. 69-73, II, p. 73. Pinchot, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1898, p. 187 Coville, _For. Bull._ No. 15, pp. 28-31. Roth, _First Bk._, p. 130, 178. Insects. Comstock, passim. Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1902, pp. 265-282. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 115-130. Howard, _Entom. Bull._, No. 11, n. s. Hopkins, Spaulding, _Entom. Bull._, No. 28. Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._, No. 48. Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1903, pp. 313-329. Hopkins, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1904, pp. 382-389, Figs. 43-56. Pinchot, _Primer_, I, p. 73. Felt, N. Y. _State Museum Bull._, 103, Ent. 25. Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._ No. 32. Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._ No. 56. Hopkins, _Entom. Bull._ No. 58. Spaulding and Chittenden, _For. Bull._ No. 22, pp. 55-61. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER VII. THE EXHAUSTION OF THE FOREST. The exhaustion of the forest in the United States is due to two main causes: (1) Fire, and (2) Destructive Lumbering. FIRE. It is not commonly realized that forest fires are almost entirely the result of human agency. When cruisers first began to locate claims in this country, practically no regions had been devastated by fire. Now such regions are to be seen everywhere. Altho lightning occasionally sets fire to forests, especially in the Rocky Mountains, the losses from this cause are trifling compared with the total loss. [Illustration: Fig. 104. Slash, Left in the Woods, and Ready to Catch Fire. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Opportunities for fire._ There are a number of facts that make the forest peculiarly liable to fire. Especially in the fall there are great quantities of inflammable material, such as dry leaves, twigs, and duff lying loose ready for ignition. The bark of some trees, as "paper birch," and the leaves of others, as conifers, are very inflammable. It follows that fires are more common in coniferous than in deciduous forests. After lumbering or windfalls, the accumulated "slash" burns easily and furiously, Fig. 104. Moreover a region once burned over, is particularly liable to burn again, on account of the accumulation of dry trunks and branches. See Fig. 107. Long dry seasons and high wind furnish particularly favorable conditions for fire. On the other hand, the wind by changing in direction may extinguish the fire by turning it back upon its track. Indeed the destructive power of fires depends largely upon the wind. [Illustration: Fig. 105. Forest Fire. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Causes of fire._ Forest fires are due to all sorts of causes, accidental and intentional. Dropped matches, smouldering tobacco, neglected camp fires and brush fires, locomotive sparks, may all be accidental causes that under favorable conditions entail tremendous loss. There is good reason to believe that many forest fires are set intentionally. The fact that grass and berry bushes will soon spring up after a fire, leads sheep men, cattle and pig owners, and berry pickers to set fires. Vast areas are annually burned over in the United States for these reasons. Most fires run only along the surface of the ground, doing little harm to the big timber, and if left alone will even go out of themselves; but if the duff is dry, the fire may smoulder in it a long time, ready to break out into flame when it reaches good fuel or when it is fanned by the wind, Fig. 105. Even these ground fires do incalculable damage to seeds and seedlings, and the safest plan is to put out every fire no matter how small. [Illustration: Fig. 106. Burned Forest of Engelmann Spruce. Foreground, Lodgepole Pine Coming in. _U. S. Forest Service._] Altho it is true that the loss of a forest is not irremediable because vegetation usually begins again at once, Fig. 106, yet the actual damage is almost incalculable. The tract may lie year after year, covered with only worthless weeds and bushes, and if hilly, the region at once begins to be eroded by the rains. After the fire, may come high winds that blow down the trunks of the trees, preparing material for another fire, Fig. 107. [Illustration: Fig. 107. Effect of Fire and Wind. Colorado. _U. S. Forest Service._] The statistics of the actual annual money loss of the timber burned in the United States are not gathered. In 1880 Professor Sargent collected much information, and in the census of that year (10th Census, Vol. IX) reported 10,000,000 acres burned that year at a value of $25,000,000. In 1891, the Division of Forestry collected authentic records of 12,000,000 acres burned over in a single year, at an estimated value of $50,000,000. In the Adironacks in the spring of 1903, an unprecedentedly dry season, fire after fire caused a direct loss of about $3,500,000. In 1902, a fire on the dividing line between Washington and Oregon destroyed property amounting to $12,000,000. Within comparatively recent years, the Pacific Coast states have lost over $100,000,000 worth of timber by fire alone. During September, 1908, forest fires raged in Minnesota, Michigan, Wisconsin, Maine, New York and Pennsylvania. The estimates of loss for northern Michigan alone amounted to $40,000,000. For two weeks the loss was set at $1,000,000 a day. The two towns of Hibbing and Chisholm were practically wiped out of existence, and 296 lives were lost. Certain forest fires have been so gigantic and terrible as to become historic. One of these is the Miramichi fire of 1825. It began its greatest destruction about one o'clock in the afternoon of October 7th of that year, at a place about sixty miles above the town of Newcastle, on the Miramichi River, in New Brunswick. Before ten o'clock at night it was twenty miles below New Castle. In nine hours it had destroyed a belt of forest eighty miles long and twenty-five miles wide. Over more than two and a half million acres almost every living thing was killed. Even the fish were afterwards found dead in heaps on the river banks. Many buildings and towns were destroyed, one hundred and sixty persons perished, and nearly a thousand head of stock. The loss from the Miramichi fire is estimated at $300,000, not including the value of the timber. (Pinchot, Part 1. p. 79-80.) Of such calamities, one of the worst that is on record is that known as the Peshtigo fire, which, in 1871, during the same month, October, when Chicago was laid in ashes, devastated the country about the shores of Green Bay in Wisconsin. More than $3,000,000 worth of property was burnt, at least two thousand families of settlers were made homeless, villages were destroyed and over a thousand lives lost. (Bruncken, p. 110.) The most destructive fire of more recent years was that which started near Hinckley, Minn., September 1, 1894. While the area burned over was less than in some other great fires, the loss of life and property was very heavy. Hinckley and six other towns were destroyed, about 500 lives were lost, more than 2,000 persons were left destitute, and the estimated loss in property of various kinds was $25,000,000. Except for the heroic conduct of locomotive engineers and other railroad men, the loss of life would have been far greater. This fire was all the more deplorable, because it was wholly unnecessary. For many days before the high wind came and drove it into uncontrollable fury, it was burning slowly close to the town of Hinckley and could have been put out. (Pinchot, Part I, 82-83.) One of the most remarkable features of these "crown fires," is the rapidity with which they travel. The Miramichi fire traveled nine miles an hour. To get an idea of the fury of a forest fire, read this description from Bruncken. After describing the steady, slow progress of a duff fire, he proceeds: But there comes an evening when nobody thinks of going to bed. All day the smoke has become denser and denser, until it is no longer a haze, but a thick yellowish mass of vapor, carrying large particles of sooty cinders, filling one's eyes and nostrils with biting dust, making breathing oppressive. There is no escape from it. Closing windows and doors does not bar it out of the houses; it seems as if it could penetrate solid walls. Everything it touches feels rough, as if covered with fine ashes. The heat is horrible altho no ray of sunshine penetrates the heavy pall of smoke. In the distance a rumbling, rushing sound is heard. It is the fire roaring in the tree tops on the hill sides, several miles from town. This is no longer a number of small fires, slowly smouldering away to eat up a fallen log; nor little dancing flames running along the dry litter on the ground, trying to creep up the bark of a tree, where the lichens are thick and dry, but presently falling back exhausted. The wind has risen, fanning the flames on all sides, till they leap higher and higher, reaching the lower branches of the standing timber, enveloping the mighty boles of cork pine in a sheet of flame, seizing the tall poles of young trees and converting them into blazing beacons that herald the approach of destruction. Fiercer and fiercer blows the wind, generated by the fire itself as it sends currents of heated air rushing upward into infinity. Louder and louder the cracking of the branches as the flames seize one after the other, leaping from crown to crown, rising high above the tree tops in whirling wreaths of fire, and belching forth clouds of smoke hundreds of feet still higher. As the heated air rises more and more, rushing along with a sound like that of a thousand foaming mountain torrents, burning brands are carried along, whirling on across the firmament like evil spirits of destruction, bearing the fire miles away from its origin, then falling among the dry brush heaps of windfall or slashing, and starting another fire to burn as fiercely as the first. * * * There is something horrible in the slow, steady approach of a top fire. It comes on with the pitiless determination of unavoidable destiny, not faster than a man can walk. But there is no stopping it. You cannot fight a fire that seizes tree top after tree top, far above your reach, and showers down upon the pigmy mortals that attempt to oppose it an avalanch of burning branches, driving them away to escape the torture and death that threatens them. (Bruncken, _American Forests and Forestry_, 106-109.) [Illustration: Fig. 108. Fighting Forest Fire. _U. S. Forest Service._] Real forest fires are not usually put out; men only try to limit them. A common method of limitation is to cut trenches thru the duff so that the fire cannot pass across, Fig. 108. In serious cases back fires are built on the side of the paths or roads or trenches toward the fire, in the expectation that the two fires will meet. In such cases great care has to be taken that the back fire itself does not escape. Small fires, however, can sometimes be beaten out or smothered with dirt and sand, since water is usually unavailable. [Illustration: Fig. 109. Fire Lane. Worcester Co., Mass. _U. S. Forest Service._] But "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure." One of the best of these preventions is a system of fire lanes. Even narrow paths of dirt will stop an ordinary fire. Roads, of course, are still better. Systems of fire lanes, Fig. 109, are made great use of in Europe and British India. Belts of hardwood trees are also cultivated along railways, and to break up large bodies of conifers. If in lumbering, the slash were destroyed or even cut up so as to lie near the ground and rot quickly, many fires would be prevented. Some states, as New York, have a fairly well organized system of fire wardens, who have the authority to draft as much male help as they need at $2.00 a day to fight forest fires. Unfortunately "ne'er-do-wells" sometimes set fire to the woods, in order to "make work" for themselves. Much preventive work is also done by educating the public in schools and by the posting of the fire notices,[1] Fig. 110. [Illustration: Fig. 110. Look out for Fire. Rules and Laws.] DESTRUCTIVE LUMBERING. How the reckless and destructive methods of lumbering common in America came into vogue, is worth noting.[2] The great historical fact of the first half century of our country was the conquest of the wilderness. That wilderness was largely an unbroken forest. To the early settler, this forest was the greatest of barriers to agriculture. The crash of a felled tree was to him a symbol of advancing civilization. The woods were something to be got rid of to make room for farms, Fig. 111. In Virginia, for example, where the soil was soon exhausted by tobacco culture and modern fertilizers were unknown, there was a continual advance into the woods to plant on new and richer land. The forest was also full of enemies to the settler, both animals and Indians, and was a dreaded field for fire. So there grew up a feeling of hate and fear for the forest. [Illustration: Fig. 111. Forest Giving Place to Farm Land. North Carolina. _U. S. Forest Service._] More than that the forest seemed exhaustless. The clearings were at first only specks in the woods, and even when they were pushed farther and farther back from the seacoast, there was plenty of timber beyond. The idea that the area of this forest could ever be diminished by human hands to any appreciable extent so that people would become afraid of not having woodland enough to supply them with the needed lumber, would have seemed an utter absurdity to the backwoodsman. * * * Thus the legend arose of the inexhaustible supply of lumber in American forests, a legend which only within the last twenty years has given place to juster notions. (Bruncken, p. 57.) This tradition of abundant supply and the feeling of hostility to the forest lasted long after the reasons for them had disappeared. When we remember that every farm in the eastern United States, is made from reclaimed forest land and that for decades lumber was always within reach up the rivers, down which it was floated, it is not strange that reckless and extravagant methods of cutting and using it prevailed. Following the settler came the lumberman, who continued the same method of laying waste the forest land. The lumber market grew slowly at first, but later developed by leaps and bounds, until now the output is enormous. Lumbering in America has come to be synonymous with the clearing off of all the marketable timber, regardless of the future. It treats the forest as tho it were a mine, not a crop, Fig. 112. Since 1880 the total cut has been over 700,000,000 feet, enough to make a one inch floor over Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island and Delaware, or one-half of the State of New York, an area of 25,000 square miles. [Illustration: Fig. 112. Redwood Forest Turned Into Pasture. California. _U. S. Forest Service._] Other countries, too, have devastated their forests. Portugal has a forest area of only 5 per cent. of the total land area, Spain and Greece, each 13 per cent., Italy 14 per cent. and Turkey 20 per cent. Whether the destruction of the American forests shall go as far as this is now a live question which has only just begun to be appreciated. Another reason for the reckless American attitude toward the forest is the frequency and severity of forest fires. This has led to the fear on the part of lumbermen of losing what stumpage they had, and so they have cleared their holdings quickly and sold the timber. Their motto was "cut or lose." A third incentive to devastative methods was the levy of what were considered unjust taxes. Hundreds of thousands of acres in the white pine region, notably in Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota, have been cut over, abandoned, sold for taxes, and finally reduced by fire to a useless wilderness because of the shortsighted policy of heavy taxation. To lay heavy taxes on timber land is to set a premium on forest destruction, a premium that is doing more than any other single factor to hinder the spread of conservative lumbering among the owners of large bodies of timber land. * * * Heavy taxes are responsible for the barrenness of thousands of square miles which should never have ceased to be productive, and which must now lie fallow for many decades before they can be counted again among the wealth-making assets of the nation. (Pinchot, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1898, pp. 184-185.) On the treatment of the questions of fire and taxes depends the future of American forest industries. (Bruncken, p. 226.) Undoubtedly much waste has been caused by sheer ignorance of forest conditions and methods, which, if followed, would secure successive crops instead of one, but it is safe to say that the desire for immediate profits has been the dominant cause of reckless lumbering. So short-sighted has the policy of private owners proved itself, that it is a question whether any large extent of forest land can safely be left in private hands. No individual lives long enough to reap more than one forest crop. Only corporations and States can be expected to have an interest long enough continued to justify the methods of conservative lumbering. As a matter of fact, nearly one-half of the privately owned timber of the United States is held by 195 great holders, the principal ones being the Southern Pacific Company, the Weyerhauser Timber Company, and the Northern Pacific Railway Company, which together own nearly 11 per cent. of the privately owned forests of the country. These large holders are cutting little of their timber, their object, however, being not so much to conserve the forests as to reserve to themselves the incalculable private profits which are expected to come with the future enormous increase in the value of timber. Over against this policy, stands that of the United States Forest Service of increasing the area of the National Forests in order to conserve them for the public welfare. The pity is that the government ever let the forests pass out of its hands. Only forty years ago seventy-five per cent. of the timber now standing was publicly owned. Now about eighty per cent. of it is privately owned. In the meanwhile its value has increased anywhere from ten to fifty fold, according to locality.[3] Some large corporations, however, like the Pennsylvania Railroad, the Kirby Lumber Company, of Texas, and the International Paper Company, have entered upon a policy of conservative lumbering. Of the actual practices which distinguish destructive lumbering, a few may be cited. Stumps are cut too high and tops too low. Good lumber is wasted on lumber roads and bridges, Fig. 113. Saplings are torn down in dragging out logs. Slash is left in condition to foster fires and left with no shade protection. Seedlings are smothered with slash. Seed trees are all cut out leaving no chance for reproduction. Only poorer sorts of trees are left standing, thus insuring deterioration. Paper pulp cutting goes even farther than lumbering, and ordinarily leaves nothing behind but a howling wilderness. [Illustration: Fig. 113. Red Spruce Used in Building Skidway, and Left in the Woods. Hamilton Co., New York.] The production of turpentine from the long-leaf pine, Fig. 114, at the annual rate of 40,000 barrels has meant the devastation of 70,000 acres of virgin forest. [Illustration: Fig. 114. Turpentine Boxing, Cup System. Georgia. _U. S. Forest Service._] In view of this wholesale destruction it becomes of interest to know how much still remains of the timber supply of the United States. The latest and most authoritative estimate of standing timber in continental United States, excluding Alaska, gives a total of 2,800,000,000 M feet B.M.,[4] of which 2,200,000,000 M feet are privately owned, about 539,000,000 M feet are in the National Forests (Fig. 119, p. 271,) and 90,000,000 M feet are on the unreserved public lands, National parks, State lands and Indian reservations. Earlier estimates were hardly more than guesses. For example the census of 1880 estimated the stumpage of the U. S. at 856,290,100 M feet, while the census of 1900 gives a total of 1,390,000,000 M feet. The discrepancy appears still greater when it is remembered that in the meantime 700,000,000 M feet were cut. Of this amount 500,000,000 M feet were of conifers or 80,000,000 M feet more than were included in the estimate of 1880. The simple fact is of course that the earlier estimates were gross underestimates, due to the fact that they were based on entirely inadequate data, and therefore can not be used to obscure the now unquestionable fact that the timber supply of this country is surely and rapidly melting away. The Forest Service estimates that the present annual cut of saw timber is about 50,000,000 M feet. At this rate the present stand would last about 55 years and the privately owned timber only 44 years. This estimate does not allow for growth and decay. While the population of the United States increased 52 per cent. from 1880 to 1900, during the same period the lumber-cut increased 94 per cent. In other words the yearly increase in use is 20 to 25 per cent. per capita, that is, fast as the population grows, the lumber consumption increases nearly twice as fast. This increase in the lumber-cut far overbalances the growth of trees. It is also to be remembered that this increase in the use of lumber is in spite of the enormous increase of substitutes for lumber, such as brick, cement and steel for building, and steel for bridges, vehicles, fences, machinery, tools, and implements of all kinds. How lavishly we use lumber may further be appreciated from the fact that we consume 260 cubic feet[5] per capita, while the average for 13 European countries is but 49 cubic feet per capita. In other words every person in the U. S. is using five times as much wood as he would use if he lived in Europe. It is estimated that on an average each person in this country uses annually the product of 25 acres of forest. _The country as a whole, cuts every year, between three and four times more wood than all the forests grow in the meantime._ By contrast, the principal countries of Europe, cut just the annual growth, while Russia, Sweden and Japan, cut less than the growth. In other words, the 2,800,000,000,000 feet B.M. of the stumpage of the United States is a capital which is constantly drawn upon, whereas, the 944,700,000,000 board feet of the forest of the German Empire is a capital which is untouched but produces annually 300 board feet per acre. [Illustration: Fig. 115. (Lumber Production by Regions, 1907). Southern States include: Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Arkansas, Texas and Oklahoma. Pacific States include: Washington, Oregon and California. North Atlantic States include: New England, New York, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, Delaware, and Maryland. Lake States include: Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. Central States include: Ohio, West Virginia, Kentucky, Tennessee, Indiana, Illinois, and Missouri. Rocky Mountain States include: Montana, Idaho, Wyoming, Nevada, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico.] One striking evidence of the decrease of the timber supply is the shifting of its sources. Once the northeastern States produced over half of the lumber product. They reached their relative maximum in 1870 when they produced 36 per cent. At that time the Lake States produced about 24 per cent. By 1890 the Lake States came to their maximum of 36 per cent. Today the southern States are near their maximum with 41 per cent., but the center will soon shift to the Pacific States. Their product rose from less than 10 per cent. of the whole in 1900 to 17 per cent. in 1908, Figs. 115 and 116. When that virgin forest has been cut off, there will be no new region to exploit; whereas, heretofore, when a region was exhausted, the lumbermen have always had a new one to which to move. At the annual meeting of the Northern Pine Manufacturers' Association in Minneapolis, Minn., January 22, 1907, Secretary J. E. Rhodes made this striking statement: Since 1895, 248 firms, representing an annual aggregate output of pine lumber of 4-1/4 billion feet, have retired from business, due to the exhaustion of their timber supply. Plants representing approximately 500 million feet capacity, which sawed in 1906, will not be operated in 1907. The shifting of the chief sources of supply has, of course, been accompanied by a change in the kinds of lumber produced. There was a time when white pine alone constituted one-half of the total quantity. In 1900 this species furnished but 21.5 per cent., in 1904 only 15 per cent., of the lumber cut.[6] We do not use less pine because we have found something better, but because we have to put up with something worse. [Illustration: Fig. 116. (Lumber Production by States).] The present annual cut of southern yellow pine is about 13-1/4 million M feet, or a little less than one-third of the total cut of all the species. At the present rate of consumption, it is evident that within ten or fifteen years, there will be a most serious shortage of it. Meanwhile the cut of Douglas fir on the Pacific coast has increased from 5 per cent. of the total lumber cut in 1900 to 12 per cent. in 1905. This increase is in spite of the fact, already noted (p. 262) that the great timber owning companies of the northwest are holding their stumpage for an expected great increase in value. Another evidence of shortage is the almost total disappearance of certain valuable species. Hickory, which once made American buggies famous, is getting very scarce, and black walnut once commonly used for furniture, is available now for only fine cabinet work, veneers, gun stocks, etc. Hardwoods that are fit for the saw are rapidly decreasing. The hardwood cut of 1900 of 8,634,000 M feet diminished in 1904 to 6,781,000 M feet. [Illustration: Fig. 117. (Lumber Production by Species).] A still further evidence of the decreasing supply, is the rising scale of prices. White pine, which sold for $45.00 per M during 1887-1892, sold for $100.00 f.o.b. N. Y., Jan. 1, 1911. Yellow poplar went up in the same period, 1887-1911, from $29.00 to $63.00. Yellow pine rose from $18.00 in 1896 to $47.00 in 1911, and hemlock, the meanest of all woods, from $11.50 in 1889 to $21.00 in 1911, Fig. 118. [Illustration: Fig. 118. Wholesale lumber prices, 1887-1911. The qualities of lumber shown in the above chart are as follows: White Ash, 1st and 2d, 1" and 1-1/2" x 8" and up by 12'-16'. Basswood, 1st and 2d, 1" x 8" and up by x 00". White Oak, quarter-sawed, 1st and 2d, all figured, 1" x 6" and up x 10'-16'. Yellow poplar, 1st and 2d, 1" x 7"-17" x 12'-16'. Hemlock, boards Spruce, No. 1 and clear, 1" and 1-1/4" x 4" x 13'. White pine, rough uppers, 1" x 8" and up x 00'. Yellow pine, edge grain flooring. The curve is approximately correct, for the standard of quality has been changed several times.] It is to be remembered, moreover, that as the timber in any region becomes scarcer, the minimum cutting limit is constantly lowered, and the standard of quality constantly depreciated. Poorer species and qualities and smaller sizes, which were once rejected, are now accepted in the market. For example, 6 inches is now a common cutting diameter for pine and spruce, whereas 12 inches was the minimum limit, and on the Pacific coast there is still nothing cut below 18 inches. This cutting of smaller sizes is largely due to the capacious maw of the pulp mill, which swallows even the poorest stuff. Altho the amount of wood used for paper pulp is small in comparison with the total lumber production, being about 5.4 per cent., yet this cutting of young growth keeps the forest land devastated. In 1906 nearly 9,000,000 tons of wood were used for paper pulp in the United States. No one who is at all familiar with the situation doubts for an instant that we are rapidly using up our _forest capital_. In fact it is unquestionably safe to say that our present annual consumption of wood in all forms is _from three to four times as great as the annual increment of our forests_. Even by accepting the highest estimate of the amount of timber standing we postpone for only a few years the time when there must be a great curtailment in the use of wood, if the present methods of forest exploitation are continued. Every indication points to the fact that under present conditions the maximum annual yield of forest products for the country as a whole has been reached, and that in a comparatively short time, there will be a marked decrease in the total output, as there is now in several items. (Kellogg, _Forestry Circular_, No. 97, p. 12.) On the other hand, it is to be remembered that there are influences which tend to save and extend the forest area. These will be considered in the next chapter, on the Use of the Forest. [Footnote 1: LOOK OUT FOR FIRE! RULES AND LAWS. Fires for clearing land near a forest must not be started until the trees are in full leaf. Before lighting such fires three days' notice, at least, must be given to the Firewarden and occupants of adjoining lands. After such fires are lighted, competent persons must remain to guard them until the fire is completely extinguished, and the persons starting such fires will be held responsible for all damages notwithstanding notice had been given to the Firewarden. Fires will be permitted for the purposes of cooking, warmth and insect smudges, but before such fires are kindled, sufficient space around the spot where the fire is to be lighted must be cleared from all combustible material; and before the place is abandoned, fires so lighted must be thoroly quenched. All fires other than those hereinbefore mentioned are absolutely prohibited. Hunters and smokers are cautioned against allowing fires to originate from the use of firearms, cigars and pipes. Especial care should be taken that lighted matches are extinguished before throwing them down. All persons are warned that they will be held responsible for any damage or injury to the forest which may result from their carelessness or neglect. Girdling and peeling bark from standing trees on state land is prohibited. Fallen timber only may be used for firewood. All citizens are requested to report immediately any cases which may come to their knowledge of injury to woodlands arising from a violation of these rules. Then follow quotations from the laws of the state of New York. ] [Footnote 2: For the common methods of logging see _Handwork in Wood_, Chapter I.] [Footnote 3: See Summary of Report of the Commissioner of Corporations on the Lumber Industry. February 13, 1911. Washington, D. C.] [Footnote 4: A board foot is one foot square and one inch thick.] [Footnote 5: 167 cubic feet equal about 1000 board feet.] [Footnote 6: _Forestry Circular_, No. 97.] THE EXHAUSTION OF THE FOREST REFERENCES:[A] (1) Fires. Bruncken, pp. 183-207. Pinchot, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, p. 189. Suter, _For. Circ._ No. 36. U. S. Tenth Census, Vol. IX, p. 491 ff. Pinchot, _Primer_, pp. 77-88. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 104-112. Sterling, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1904, p. 133. (2) Destructive Lumbering. The Settler's Tradition. Bruncken, pp. 40-59, 94. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 41-45. Pinchot, _Primer_, II, p. 82. Taxation. _For. and Irr._, April, '06. Pinchot, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1898, p. 184. Reckless Practices. Pinchot, _Primer_ II, 42-47. Pinchot, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1898, p. 184. Pinchot, _For. Circ._, No. 25, p. 11. Price, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1902, p. 310. Fox, _For. Bull._, No. 34, p. 40. Peters, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1905, pp. 483-494. Graves, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1899, p. 415. Suter, _For. Bull._, 26, pp. 58, 69, 76. Mohr, _For. Bull._ No. 13, p. 61. Bruncken, pp. 90-98. The Timber Supply. Kellogg, _For. Circ._, No. 97 ... Zon, _For. Bull._, No. 83. Fernow, _Economics_, pp. 35-45. Report of the Commissioner of Corporations on the Lumber Industry. Part I, Feb. 13, 1911. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] CHAPTER VIII. THE USE OF THE FOREST. Man's relation to the forest has not been entirely destructive and injurious. He has exerted and is more and more exerting influences which while still enabling him to use the forest, also preserve and improve it. These activities may all be included under the term Forestry. The objects of modern forestry then are threefold: 1. The _utilization_ of the forest and its products, the main object; 2. The _preservation_ of the forest, _i.e._, its continued reproduction; 3. The _improvement_ of the forest. UTILIZATION. The uses of the forest are threefold: (1) Protective, (2) Productive, and (3) Esthetic. (1) _Protective._ The forest may be used as a protection against floods, wind, shifting sand, heat, drought, etc. The National Forests of the United States, Fig. 119, with the state forests, which include one-fifth of the total forest area, are largely treated as "protection forests" to maintain the head waters of streams, Fig. 120, used for irrigation, for power or for commerce. The attempt now being made to reserve large areas in the White Mountains and southern Appalachians is chiefly for this purpose of protection. [Illustration: Fig. 119. National Forests in the United States.] A comparison of Figs. 120 and 121 shows clearly the difference between a region protected by forest and one unprotected.[1] [Illustration: Fig. 120. A Protection Forest, Maintaining the Headwaters of Streams. North Carolina. _U. S. Forest Service._] [Illustration: Fig. 121. Hillside Erosion. North Carolina. _U. S. Forest Service_] (2) _Productive._ All practical foresters have as their first aim the _yield_ of the forest. This distinguishes forestry from landscape architecture, the object of which may equally be the preservation and improvement of a given tract. The crop to be produced is as truly the prime concern of the forester as the raising of agricultural crops is the prime concern of the farmer. It is for this reason that forestry is said to be the same thing as conservative lumbering, Fig. 122. The prejudice of lumbermen against forestry has arisen from a misunderstanding of its aim. Its aim is not to prevent the cutting down of trees, but to direct their cutting in such ways that in the future there will still be trees to cut. "Thru use to a greater use," is the motto of the Forest Service. The difference between destructive lumbering and conservative lumbering is that the former cuts one crop regardless of the future; while the latter plans to cut crop after crop indefinitely. In other words, in conservative lumbering, the trees to be cut are not selected solely with reference to their immediate market value. Not one crop, but many, is the forester's motto. [Illustration: Fig. 122. Conservative Lumbering. Black Hills National Forest, South Dakota. Note the brush, cord-wood, and logs piled separately,--a fine clean-up. Nothing cut below 12" diameter. _U. S. Forest Service._] So long as the supply seemed exhaustless, forests might be and were treated as mines are, _i.e._, exploited for the sake of immediate profit; but now that lumbermen begin to realize that the end of the supply is in sight, more conservative methods are being adopted. We cannot afford to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs. In order then to obtain as rich harvests as possible, the modern forester makes use of various methods, some negative, some positive. Waste is avoided in all possible ways, stumps are cut low and tops high on the trunk, first class trees are not used for skids, bridges, roads, etc., care is taken in "falling" trees and in dragging out logs, that they will not injure other trees. Just as economical disposal of the log has already been carried to a high degree of perfection in the saw-mill, (see _Handwork in Wood_, Chapter II,) so one object of forestry is to carry this economy back into the woods. One of the underlying ideas in conservative lumbering is that the "yield," _i.e._, the amount of wood taken out of a healthy forest in a given time, shall be equal to the amount grown during the same period. If less is taken out than grows, some trees will overmature and decay; if more is taken out than grows, the forest will ultimately be exhausted. This principle may be carried out in a number of ways; but in any case it is necessary to know how fast the forest is reproducing itself, and this is one of the functions of the forester. The United States Forest Service makes a definite offer of cooperation with farmers and lumbermen and owners of forests to provide them with skilled foresters for direction in this matter. In the United States, the most practicable way of determining the yield is by area, _i.e._, a certain fraction of a forest is to be cut over once in a given length of time, a year or longer. The time between two successive cuttings on the same area must be long enough to allow the young trees left standing to ripen. In a word, conservative lumbering involves (1) the treatment of the forest as a source of crops, (2) systematic gathering, and (3) young growth so left as to replace the outgo. The important place that forests fill in the national economy may be realized partly by the citation of a few facts as to the forest products. The lumber industry is the fourth in value of products among the great manufacturing industries of the United States, being exceeded only by the iron and steel, the textile, and the meat industries. It turns out a finished product worth $567,000,000.00. And yet lumber constitutes only about one-half of the value of the total output of forest products. Its annual value is three-fourths of a billion dollars, ($666,641,367 in 1907,) while the annual value of wood fuel, is $350,000,000. More than two-thirds of the people burn wood for fuel. The next largest single item in the list is shingles and laths, $32,000,000. (See _Forestry Bulletin_ No. 74, p. 7.) Outside of food products, no material is so universally used and so indispensable in human economy as wood. (Fernow, _Econ._, p. 21.) The importance of forest products may also be learned from a mere list of the varied uses to which they are put. Such a list would include: fuel, wood and charcoal; houses (over half the population of the United States live in wooden houses); the wooden parts of masonry and steel buildings; scaffolding; barns, sheds and outhouses; ships, with all their parts, and the masts and trim of steel ships, boats and canoes; oars and paddles; railway ties (annual expenditure $50,000,000), railway cars, a million in number; trestles and bridges (more than 2,000 miles in length); posts and fencing; cooperage stock (low estimate, $25,000,000 annually); packing crates, including coffins; baskets; electric wire poles (annual cost about $10,000,000); piles and submerged structures, like canal locks and water-wheels; windmills; mining timbers (yearly cost, $7,500,000), indispensable in all mining operations (for every 100 tons of coal mined, 2 tons of mining timber are needed); street paving; veneers ($5,000,000.00 worth made annually); vehicles, including carriages, wagons, automobiles and sleighs; furniture; machines and their parts; patterns for metal molding; tools and tool handles; musical instruments; cigar boxes; matches; toothpicks; pencils; (315 million a year in the U. S., requiring over 7 million cubic feet of wood); engraving blocks; shoe lasts, shoe trees and parts of shoes; hat blocks; agricultural implements; hop and bean poles; playthings and toys, for both children and adults; Christmas trees and decorations; pipes; walking sticks; umbrella handles; crutches and artificial limbs; household utensils; excelsior. Products other than wood: Turpentine and resin (worth $20,000,000 a year); tar; oils; tan-bark, 1-1/2 million cords (worth $13,000,000 a year); wood alcohol; wood pulp (worth $15,000,000 a year); nuts; cellulose for collars, combs and car wheels; balsam, medicines; lampblack; dyes; paper fiber (xylolin) for textiles; shellac and varnish ($8,500,000 worth imported in 1907); vinegar and acetic acid; confections (including maple sugar and syrup at $2,500,000 a year). (3) The _Esthetic_ and sentimental uses of the forest, tho not to be estimated in dollars and cents, are nevertheless of incalculable benefit to the community. They would include the use of the forest as pleasure grounds, for hunting, fishing, camping, photography, and general sightseeing. Notable instances of the growing appreciation of these uses of the forest are the reservation of the Yellowstone and Yosemite Parks as pleasure grounds. PRESERVATION. The second object of forestry is the preservation of the forest, or continued reproduction. In addition to obtaining crops of trees, the forester plans to keep the forest in such condition that it will constantly reproduce itself and never become exhausted. This does not mean that no forests are to be cut down, or that a given area, once a forest, is to be always a forest. Just as the individual farmer needs some land for fields, some for pasture, and some for woodlots, so the nation needs some for cities, some for farms, some for pleasure grounds, and some for forests. But it does mean that fruitful forests shall not be turned into wildernesses as thousands of square miles now are, by the methods of destructive lumbering. In general, better land is necessary for agriculture than for forestry, and it is therefore only the part of wisdom to use the better land for fields and reserve the poorer land for forests. There are in the United States enormous regions that are fit for nothing but forests, but many of these, as in Wisconsin, Minnesota, and Michigan, have simply been denuded of their trees and no provision has been made for their reproduction. This then is the second aim of forestry,--to treat the forest so that it will continue to reproduce itself. In order to obtain this result, certain forest conditions have to be preserved. What these conditions are, we have already noticed (see Chap. V, The Forest Organism). They are partly topographical and climatic and partly historical. They include such factors as, soil, moisture, temperature, and light, the forest cover, the forest floor, the density and mixture of growth, all conditions of forest growth. It is only as the forester preserves these conditions, or to put it otherwise, it is only as he obeys the laws of the forest organism that he can preserve the forest. For a long period of our national history, we Americans were compelled to conform our life and institutions to the presence of the primeval forest, but by long observation of what happens naturally in the forest, there have been developed in Europe and in America certain ways of handling it so as to make it our servant and not our master. These ways are called silvicultural systems. They are all based on the nature of the forest itself, and they succeed only because they are modifications of what takes place naturally in the woods. As we have seen above (p. 220) trees reproduce themselves either by sprouts or by seeds. This fact gives rise to two general methods of reproduction, called the coppice systems and the seed systems. [Illustration: Fig. 123. Chestnut Coppice. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Coppice_, Fig. 123. In the simpler form of this system, the forest is divided into a certain number of parts, say thirty, and one part is cut down each year. New sprouts at once start up, which will mature a year later than those in the part cut the previous year. Where the trees of each part are thirty years old at cutting, thirty years is called the "rotation period." The coppice is said to be managed on a thirty-year rotation. The system is widely used in eastern United States, for fuel, posts, charcoal, railway ties, and other small stuff, as well as for tan-bark. This system is modified by maintaining an overwood composed of seedling trees or selected sprouts above a stand of sprouts. This is called the Reserve Sprout method and is used with admirable results by the French. _Seed Forests._ In contrast with coppice forests, those raised from seeds produce the best class of timber, such as is used for saw logs. [Illustration: Fig. 124. Seeding from the Side. White Pine. New Hampshire. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Seeding from the side_, Fig. 124. Many forests naturally spread at their borders from the scattering of their seeds. "Old field pine" is so called from its tendency to spread in this way on old fields. This natural "Seeding from the Side" has given rise to the "Group System," in which an area of ripe trees is cut off and the trees alongside are depended upon to reproduce new ones on the cut-over area. The openings are gradually enlarged until all the old timber is cut out, and the young growth has taken its place. In its best form there is a definite "rotation period," say eighty years. This system is simple, safe, and very useful, especially for small openings in woodlots. A modification of this is the "Strip System," in which long narrow openings, say seventy-five yards wide, are cut out and gradually widened. The strips are cut in the proper direction so that the prevailing winds will cross them, both for the sake of avoiding windfalls and to help scatter the seed. Where the soil is very dry, the strips may run east and west to protect the seedlings from the sun. [Illustration: Fig. 125. Virgin Forest, Trees of All Ages. Jackson Co., North Carolina. _U.S. Forest Service._] _Selection Forests._ The typical virgin forest, Fig. 125, is one in which trees of all ages are closely intermingled, and it may be either "mixed" or "pure." If a farmer had a woodlot of this character and every year went over it with the ax, cutting out such trees as he needed for his purpose, and also trees whose removal would improve the woods, but taking care not to cut out each year more than the amount of the average growth, he would be using the "Selection System." This system is the best way of keeping a forest dense and of preserving one which is difficult to start afresh, as on a mountain slope; it is practicable where the woods are small or under a high state of care, as in Europe, where this system has been in use for seven centuries. But the cost of road maintenance and of logging is high and it is therefore impracticable in most lumber regions in the United States, except for woods of especial value, like black walnut. _Localized Selection._ If instead of the whole forest being treated in this way every year, it were divided up into perhaps twenty parts, and from each part there were taken out each year as much lumber as would equal the annual growth of the whole forest, such a system would be called "Localized Selection." The cost of logging would be greatly reduced and if care were taken to leave standing some seed trees and to cut no trees below a determined size, as twelve inches, the forest would maintain itself in good condition. This system has been applied with great success in certain private forests in the Adirondacks. _Regular Seed Forest or High Forest._ In the system already mentioned above of seeding from the side, the trees near the cut areas are depended upon to seed these areas. Moreover, no especial pains are taken to preserve the forest floor and the forest cover. But all trees do not bear seeds annually, nor do their seedlings thrive under such conditions. In other words, in some forests especial pains must be taken to secure reproduction, and the forest conditions must be maintained with special reference to the growing crop. For this purpose, the cuttings take place thru a series of years, sometimes lasting even twenty years. These reproduction cuttings have reference, now to a stimulus to the seed trees, now to the preparation of the seed bed, now to the encouragement of the seedlings. Then later, the old crop is gradually cut away. Later still, in twenty or thirty years, the new forest is thinned, and when it reaches maturity, perhaps in one hundred or two hundred years, the process is repeated. This is called the "Regular Seed Forest." It produces very valuable timber, and has been used for a long time in Switzerland, especially for beech and balsam. The system is complicated and therefore unsafe in ignorant hands, and the logging is expensive. _Two-storied Seed Forest._ A modification of the system of Regular Seed Forest is the planting of another and a tolerant species of tree under older intolerant trees to make a cover for the soil, to prevent the growth of grass and weeds, and to improve the quality of the upper growth.[2] An illustration of a natural two-storied seed forest is shown in Fig. 126. [Illustration: No. 126. Two-storied Seed Forest. Fir under Beech, Germany. _U. S. Forest Service._] _Planting._ The planting of forest trees is a comparatively unimportant part of modern forestry. It is a mistaken idea, not uncommon, that the usual way of reproducing forests is to plant trees. It is true that in the pineries of North Germany and in the spruce forests of Saxony, it is common to cut clean and then replant, but it is absurd to conclude, as some have done, that forestry consists of planting a tree every time one is cut. Even if planting were the best method, many more than one tree would have to be planted for each one cut, in order to maintain the forest. So far as America is concerned, not for a long time will planting be much used for reproduction. The greater portion of American woodlands is in the condition of culled forests, that is, forests from which the merchantable trees have been cut, leaving the younger individuals, as well as all trees belonging to unmarketable species. Even on the areas where the lumbermen have made a clean cut of the original timber, new trees will come up of themselves from seeds blown from the surrounding forests or falling from occasional individuals left standing. (Bruncken, p. 133.) The usefulness of planting in America is mainly for reclaiming treeless regions, as in the west, and where timber is high priced. The area of planted timber in the Middle West aggregates many hundred thousand acres, once waste land, now converted into useful woods.[3] Planting has been made possible in the far west by extensive irrigation systems, and farther east by the lessening of prairie fires, which once set the limit to tree growth in the prairie states. In many parts of Illinois, southern Wisconsin and other prairie States, there is much more forest land than there was twenty-five years ago. What planting can do, may be seen on some worn out pastures in New England, Fig. 127. With the western movement of agriculture, the abandoned farms of New England are to some extent becoming re-forested, both naturally and by planting, as with white pine, which grows even on sandy soil. Between 1820 and 1880, there was a period of enthusiastic white-pine planting in New England, and tho the interest died on account of the cheap transportation of western lumber, those early plantations prove that white pine can be planted at a profit even on sand barrens. Once worn out and useless pastures are now worth $150 an acre and produce yearly a net income of $3 or more an acre. [Illustration: Fig. 127. Planted White Pine, Fifty Years Old, Bridgewater, Mass. _U. S. Forest Service._] IMPROVEMENT. Besides utilization and preservation, the third main object of forestry is the improvement of the forest. It is not an uncommon mistake to suppose that the virgin forest is the best forest for human purposes. It is a comparatively new idea, especially in America, that a forest can be improved; that is, that better trees can be raised than those which grow naturally. Lumbermen commonly say, "You never can raise a second growth of white pine as good as the first growth." As if this "first growth" were not itself the successsor of thousands of other generations! There is even a legend that white pine will not grow in its old habitat. Says Bruncken, Many people probably imagine that a primeval wood, "by nature's own hand planted," cannot be surpassed in the number and size of its trees, and consequently in the amount of wood to be derived from it. But the very opposite is true. No wild forest can ever equal a cultivated one in productiveness. To hope that it will, is very much as if a farmer were to expect a full harvest from the grain that may spring up spontaneously in his fields without his sowing. A tract of wild forest in the first place does not contain so many trees as might grow thereon, but only so many as may have survived the struggle for life with their own and other species of plants occupying the locality. Many of the trees so surviving never attain their best development, being suppressed, overshadowed, and hindered by stronger neighbors. Finally much of the space that might be occupied by valuable timber may be given up to trees having little or no market value. The rule is universal that the amount and value of material that can be taken from an area of wild forest remains far behind what the same land may bear if properly treated by the forester. It is certain, therefore, that in the future, when most American forests shall be in a high state of cultivation, the annual output of forests will, from a much restricted area, exceed everything known at the present day. (Bruncken, _North American Forests and Forestry_, pp. 134-135.) It is probable that the virgin forest produces but a tithe of the useful material which it is capable of producing. (Fernow, p. 98.) Mr. Burbank has demonstrated that trees can be bred for any particular quality,--for largeness, strength, shape, amount of pitch, tannin, sugar and the like, and for rapidity of growth; in fact that any desirable attribute of a tree may be developed simply by breeding and selecting. He has created walnut trees, by crossing common varieties, that have grown six times as much in thirteen years as their ancestors did in twenty-eight years, preserving at the same time, the strength, hardness and texture of their forebears. The grain of the wood has been made more beautiful at the same time. The trees are fine for fuel and splendidly adapted to furniture manufacture. (Harwood, _The New Earth_, p. 179.) Nature provides in the forest merely those varieties that will survive. Man, by interfering in Nature's processes but obeying her laws, raises what he wants. Nature says: those trees that survive are fit and does not care whether the trees be straight or crooked, branched or clear. Man says: those trees shall survive which are fit for human uses. Man raises better grains and fruits and vegetables than Nature, unaided, can, and, in Europe, better trees for lumber. In America there has been such an abundance of trees good enough for our purposes that we have simply gone out and gathered them, just as a savage goes out to gather berries and nuts. Some day our descendants will smile at our treatment of forests much as we smile at root-digging savages, unless, indeed, we so far destroy the forests that they will be more angered than amused. In Europe and Japan, the original supply of trees having been exhausted, forests have been cultivated for centuries with the purpose of raising crops larger in quantity and better in quality. There are various methods used in forest improvement. Improvement cuttings, as the name implies, are cuttings made to improve the quality of the forest, whether by thinning out poor species of trees, unsound trees, trees crowding more valuable ones, or trees called "wolves"; that is, trees unduly overshadowing others. Improvement cuttings are often necessary as a preliminary step before any silvicultural system can be applied. Indeed, many of the silvicultural systems involve steady improvement of the forest. The pruning of branches is a method of improvement, carrying on the natural method by which trees in a forest clean themselves of their branches. Seeds of valuable species are often sowed, when the conditions are proper, in order to introduce a valuable species, just as brooks and ponds are stocked with fine fish. In general it may be said that improvement methods are only in their infancy, especially in America. [Footnote 1: A concise and interesting statement of the relation of the forest to rain and floods is to be found in Pinchot: _Primer of Forestry_, Bulletin No. 24, Part II, Chap. III.] [Footnote 2: For an interesting account of an application of this method, see Ward, p. 35.] [Footnote 3: To encourage such forest extension, the Forest Service is doing much by the publication of bulletins recommending methods and trees suited to special regions, as, e.g., on Forest Planting in Illinois, in the Sand Hill Region of Nebraska, on Coal Lands in Western Pennsylvania, in Western Kansas, in Oklahoma and adjacent regions, etc.] THE USE OF THE FOREST. REFERENCES:[A] I Utilization. Pinchot, _Primer_, II, pp. 14-18, 38-48. Bruncken, pp. 121-131, _For. Bull._ No. 61. (1) Protective. Pinchot, _Primer_, II, pp. 66-73. Craft, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1905, pp. 636-641, (Map. p. 639.) Toumey, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1903, p. 279. Bruncken, pp. 166-173. _For. and Irrig._, passim. Shaler, I, pp. 485-489. (2) Productive. Kellogg, _For. Bull._, No. 74, Fernow, _For. Invest._, p. 9. Roth, _First Book_, p. 133. Zon & Clark, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1907, p. 277. Boulger, pp. 60-76. Roth, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1896, p. 391. Fernow, _Economics_, pp. 23-33. (3) Esthetic. Roth, _First Book_, p. 180. II Preservation. Pinchot, _Primer_, II, pp. 18-36. Bruncken, pp. 95, 190. Graves, _For. Bull._, No. 26, pp. 67-70. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 41-76, 193-194. Roth, _For. Bull._, No. 16, pp. 8, 9. Fernow, _Economics_, 165-196. Planting. Roth, _First Book_, pp. 76-94, 195-198. Hall, _Agric. Yr. Bk._, 1902, pp. 145-156. _For. Circs._, Nos. 37, 41, 45, 81. Bruncken, pp. 92, 133. _Forestry Bulletins_ Nos. 18, 45, 52, 65. III Improvement. Bruncken, pp. 134-135, 152-160. Graves, _For. Bull._, No. 26, p. 39. Pinchot, _Adirondack Spruce_, p. 4. Harwood, pp. 143-181. [Footnote A: For general bibliography, see p. 4.] APPENDIX. HOW TO DISTINGUISH THE DIFFERENT KINDS OF WOOD.[A] BY B. E. FERNOW AND FILIBERT ROTH. The carpenter or other artisan who handles different woods, becomes familiar with those he employs frequently, and learns to distinguish them thru this familiarity, without usually being able to state the points of distinction. If a wood comes before him with which he is not familiar, he has, of course, no means of determining what it is, and it is possible to select pieces even of those with which he is well acquainted, different in appearance from the general run, that will make him doubtful as to their identification. Furthermore, he may distinguish between hard and soft pines, between oak and ash, or between maple and birch, which are characteristically different; but when it comes to distinguishing between the several species of pine or oak or ash or birch, the absence of readily recognizable characters is such that but few practitioners can be relied upon to do it. Hence, in the market we find many species mixed and sold indiscriminately. To identify the different woods it is necessary to have a knowledge of the definite, invariable differences in their structure, besides that of the often variable differences in their appearance. These structural differences may either be readily visible to the naked eye or with a magnifier, or they may require a microscopical examination. In some cases such an examination can not be dispensed with, if we would make absolutely sure. There are instances, as in the pines, where even our knowledge of the minute anatomical structure is not yet sufficient to make a sure identification. In the following key an attempt has been made--the first, so far as we know, in English literature--to give a synoptical view of the distinctive features of the commoner woods of the United States, which are found in the markets or are used in the arts. It will be observed that the distinction has been carried in most instances no further than to genera or classes of woods, since the distinction of species can hardly be accomplished without elaborate microscopic study, and also that, as far as possible, reliance has been placed only on such characteristics as can be distinguished with the naked eye or a simple magnifying glass, in order to make the key useful to the largest number. Recourse has also been taken for the same reason to the less reliable and more variable general external appearance, color, taste, smell, weight, etc. The user of the key must, however, realize that external appearance, such, for example, as color, is not only very variable but also very difficult to describe, individual observers differing especially in seeing and describing shades of color. The same is true of statements of size, when relative, and not accurately measured, while weight and hardness can perhaps be more readily approximated. Whether any feature is distinctly or only indistinctly seen will also depend somewhat on individual eyesight, opinion, or practice. In some cases the resemblance of different species is so close that only one other expedient will make distinction possible, namely, a knowledge of the region from which the wood has come. We know, for instance, that no longleaf pine grows in Arkansas and that no white pine can come from Alabama, and we can separate the white cedar, giant arbor vitæ of the West and the arbor vitæ of the Northeast, only by the difference of the locality from which the specimen comes. With all these limitations properly appreciated, the key will be found helpful toward greater familiarity with the woods which are more commonly met with. The features which have been utilized in the key and with which--their names as well as their appearance--therefore, the reader must familiarize himself before attempting to use the key, are mostly described as they appear in cross-section. They are: (1) Sap-wood and heart-wood (see p. 17), the former being the wood from the outer and the latter from the inner part of the tree. In some cases they differ only in shade, and in others in kind of color, the heart-wood exhibiting either a darker shade or a pronounced color. Since one can not always have the two together, or be certain whether he has sap-wood or heart-wood, reliance upon this feature is, to be sure, unsatisfactory, yet sometimes it is the only general characteristic that can be relied upon. If further assurance is desired, microscopic structure must be examined; in such cases reference has been made to the presence or absence of tracheids in pith rays and the structure of their walls, especially projections and spirals. (2) Annual rings, their formation having been described on page 19. (See also Figs. 128-130.) They are more or less distinctly marked, and by such marking a classification of three great groups of wood is possible. (3) Spring wood and summer wood, the former being the interior (first formed wood of the year), the latter the exterior (last formed) part of the ring. The proportion of each and the manner in which the one merges into the other are sometimes used, but more frequently the manner in which the pores appear distributed in either. (4) Pores, which are vessels cut thru, appearing as holes in cross-section, in longitudinal section as channels, scratches, or identifications. (See p. 23 and Figs. 129 and 130.) They appear only in the broad-leaved, so called, hard woods; their relative size (large, medium, small, minute, and indistinct when they cease to be visible individually by the naked eye) and manner of distribution in the ring being of much importance, and especially in the summer wood, where they appear singly, in groups, or short broken lines, in continuous concentric, often wavy lines, or in radial branching lines. (5) Resin ducts (see p. 26 and Fig. 128) which appear very much like pores in cross-section, namely, as holes or lighter or darker colored dots, but much more scattered. They occur only in coniferous woods, and their presence or absence, size, number, and distribution are an important distinction in these woods. (6) Pith rays (see p. 21 and Figs. 129 and 130), which in cross-section appear as radial lines, and in radial section as interrupted bands of varying breadth, impart a peculiar luster to that section in some woods. They are most readily visible with the naked eye or with a magnifier in the broad-leaved woods. In coniferous woods they are usually so fine and closely packed that to the casual observer they do not appear. Their breadth and their greater or less distinctness are used as distinguishing marks, being styled fine, broad, distinct, very distinct, conspicuous, and indistinct when no longer visible by the naked (strong) eye. (7) Concentric lines, appearing in the summer wood of certain species more or less distinct, resembling distantly the lines of pores but much finer and not consisting of pores. (See Fig. 129.) Of microscopic features, the following only have been referred to: (8) Tracheids, a description of which is to be found on page 28. (9) Pits, simple and bordered, especially the number of simple pits in the cells of the pith rays, which lead into each of the adjoining tracheids. For standards of weight, consult table on pages 50 and 192; for standards of hardness, table on page 195. Unless otherwise stated the color refers always to the fresh cross-section of a piece of dry wood; sometimes distinct kinds of color, sometimes only shades, and often only general color effects appear. [Footnote A: From Forestry Bulletin No. 10, _U. S. Department of Agriculture_.] HOW TO USE THE KEY. Nobody need expect to be able to use successfully any key for the distinction of woods or of any other class of natural objects without some practice. This is especially true with regard to woods, which are apt to vary much, and when the key is based on such meager general data as the present. The best course to adopt is to supply one's self with a small sample collection of woods, accurately named. Small, polished tablets are of little use for this purpose. The pieces should be large enough, if possible, to include pith and bark, and of sufficient width to permit ready inspection of the cross-section. By examining these with the aid of the key, beginning with the better-known woods, one will soon learn to see the features described and to form an idea of the relative standards which the maker of the key had in mind. To aid in this, the accompanying illustrations will be of advantage. When the reader becomes familiar with the key, the work of identifying any given piece will be comparatively easy. The material to be examined must, of course, be suitably prepared. It should be moistened; all cuts should be made with a very sharp knife or razor and be clean and smooth, for a bruised surface reveals but little structure. The most useful cut may be made along one of the edges. Instructive, thin, small sections may be made with a sharp penknife or razor, and when placed on a piece of thin glass, moistened and covered with another piece of glass, they may be examined by holding them toward the light. Finding, on examination with the magnifier, that it contains pores, we know it is not coniferous or non-porous. Finding no pores collected in the spring-wood portion of the annual ring, but all scattered (diffused) thru the ring, we turn at once to the class of "Diffuse-porous woods." We now note the size and manner in which the pores are distributed thru the ring. Finding them very small and neither conspicuously grouped, nor larger nor more abundant in the spring-wood, we turn to the third group of this class. We now note the pith rays, and finding them neither broad nor conspicuous, but difficult to distinguish, even with the magnifier, we at once exclude the wood from the first two sections of this group and place it in the third, which is represented by only one kind, cottonwood. Finding the wood very soft, white, and on the longitudinal section with a silky luster, we are further assured that our determination is correct. We may now turn to the list of woods and obtain further information regarding the occurrence, qualities, and uses of the wood. Sometimes our progress is not so easy; we may waver in what group or section to place the wood before us. In such cases we may try each of the doubtful roads until we reach a point where we find ourselves entirely wrong and then return and take up another line; or we may anticipate some of the later mentioned features and finding them apply to our specimen, gain additional assurance of the direction we ought to travel. Color will often help us to arrive at a speedy decision. In many cases, especially with conifers, which are rather difficult to distinguish, a knowledge of the locality from which the specimen comes is at once decisive. Thus, northern white cedar, and bald cypress, and the cedar of the Pacific will be identified, even without the somewhat indefinite criteria given in the key. KEY TO THE MORE IMPORTANT WOODS OF NORTH AMERICA. I. NON-POROUS WOODS--Pores not visible or conspicuous on cross-section, even with magnifier. Annual rings distinct by denser (dark colored) bands of summer wood (Fig. 128). [Illustration: Fig. 128. "Non-porous" Woods. _A_, fir; _B_, "hard" pine; _C_, soft pine; _ar_, annual ring; _o.e._, outer edge of ring; _i.e._, inner edge of ring; _s.w._, summer wood; _sp.w._, spring wood; _rd._, resin ducts.] II. RING-POROUS WOODS--Pores numerous, usually visible on cross-section without magnifier. Annual rings distinct by a zone of large pores collected in the spring wood, alternating with the denser summer wood (Fig. 129). [Illustration: Fig. 129. "Ring-porous" Woods White Oak and Hickory. _a. r._, annual ring; _su. w._, summer wood; _sp. w._, spring wood; _v_, vessels or pores; _c. l._, "concentric" lines; _rt_, darker tracts of hard fibers forming the firm part of oak wood; _pr_, pith rays.] III. DIFFUSE-POROUS WOODS--Pores numerous, usually not plainly visible on cross-section without magnifier. Annual rings distinct by a fine line of denser summer wood cells, often quite indistinct; pores scattered thru annual ring, no zone of collected pores in spring wood (Fig. 130). [Illustration: Fig. 130. "Diffuse-porous" Woods. _ar_, annual ring; _pr_, pith rays which are "broad" at _a_, "fine" at _b_, "indistinct" at _d_.] NOTE.--The above described three groups are exogenous, i.e., they grow by adding annually wood on their circumference. A fourth group is formed by the endogenous woods, like yuccas and palms, which do not grow by such additions. I.--NON-POROUS WOODS. (Includes all coniferous woods.) A. Resin ducts wanting.[1] 1. No distinct heart-wood. _a._ Color effect yellowish white; summer wood darker yellowish (under microscope pith ray without tracheids)..........FIRS. _b._ Color effect reddish (roseate) (under microscope pith ray with tracheids) ................................HEMLOCK. 2. Heart-wood present, color decidedly different in kind from sap-wood. _a._ Heart-wood light orange red; sap-wood, pale lemon; wood, heavy and hard .........................................YEW. _b._ Heartwood purplish to brownish red; sap-wood yellowish white; wood soft to medium hard, light, usually with aromatic odor, ...................................RED CEDAR. _c._ Heart-wood maroon to terra cotta or deep brownish red; sap-wood light orange to dark amber, very soft and light, no odor; pith rays very distinct, specially pronounced on radial section ..................................REDWOOD. 3. Heart-wood present, color only different in shade from sap-wood, dingy-yellowish brown. _a._ Odorless and tasteless ........................BALD CYPRESS. _b._ Wood with mild resinous odor, but tasteless ....WHITE CEDAR. _c._ Wood with strong resinous odor and peppery taste when freshly cut, ................................INCENSE CEDAR. B. Resin ducts present. 1. No distinct heartwood; color white, resin ducts very small, not numerous ............................................SPRUCE. 2. Distinct heart-wood present. _a._ Resin ducts numerous, evenly scattered thru the ring. _a.'_ Transition from spring wood to summer wood gradual; annual ring distinguished by a fine line of dense summer-wood cells; color, white to yellowish red; wood soft and light .......................SOFT PINES.[2] _b.'_ Transition from spring wood to summer wood more or less abrupt; broad bands of dark-colored summer wood; color from light to deep orange; wood medium hard and heavy ............................HARD PINES.[2] _b._ Resin ducts not numerous nor evenly distributed. _a'._ Color of heart-wood orange-reddish, sap-wood yellowish (same as hard pine); resin ducts frequently combined in groups of 8 to 30, forming lines on the cross-section (tracheids with spirals), ..............DOUGLAS SPRUCE. _b'._ Color of heart-wood light russet brown; of sap-wood yellowish brown; resin ducts very few, irregularly scattered (tracheids without spirals) ........TAMARACK. [Footnote 1: Soft and hard pines are arbitrary distinctions and the two not distinguishable at the limit.] [Footnote 2: To discover the resin ducts a very smooth surface is necessary, since resin ducts are frequently seen only with difficulty, appearing on the cross-section as fine whiter or darker spots normally scattered singly, rarely in groups, usually in the summer wood of the annual ring. They are often much more easily seen on radial, and still more so on tangential sections, appearing there as fine lines or dots of open structure of different color or as indentations or pin scratches in a longitudinal direction.] ==== ADDITIONAL NOTES FOR DISTINCTIONS IN THE GROUP. Spruce is hardly distinguishable from fir, except by the existence of the resin ducts, and microscopically by the presence of tracheids in the medullary rays. Spruce may also be confounded with soft pine, except for the heart-wood color of the latter and the larger, more frequent, and more readily visible resin ducts. In the lumber yard, hemlock is usually recognized by color and the silvery character of its surface. Western hemlocks partake of this last character to a less degree. Microscopically the white pine can be distinguished by having usually only one large pit, while spruce shows three to five very small pits in the parenchyma cells of the pith ray communicating with the tracheid. The distinction of the pines is possible only by microscopic examination. The following distinctive features may assist in recognizing, when in the log or lumber pile, those usually found in the market: The light, straw color, combined with great lightness and softness, distinguishes the white pines (white pine and sugar pine) from the hard pines (all others in the market), which may also be recognized by the gradual change of spring wood into summer wood. This change in hard pines is abrupt, making the summer wood appear as a sharply defined and more or less broad band. The Norway pine, which may be confounded with the shortleaf pine, can be distinguished by being much lighter and softer. It may also, but more rarely, be confounded with heavier white pine, but for the sharper definition of the annual ring, weight, and hardness. The longleaf pine is strikingly heavy, hard, and resinous, and usually very regular and narrow ringed, showing little sap-wood, and differing in this respect from the shortleaf pine and loblolly pine, which usually have wider rings and more sap-wood, the latter excelling in that respect. The following convenient and useful classification of pines into four groups, proposed by Dr. H. Mayr, is based on the appearance of the pith ray as seen in a radial section of the spring wood of any ring: Section I. Walls of the tracheids of the pith ray with dentate projections. _a._ One to two large, simple pits to each tracheid on the radial walls of the cells of the pith ray.--Group 1. Represented in this country only by _P. resinosa_. _b._ Three to six simple pits to each tracheid, on the walls of the cells of the pith ray.--Group 2. _P. taeda_, _palustris_, etc., including most of our "hard" and "yellow" pines. Section II. Walls of tracheids of pith ray smooth, without dentate projections. _a._ One or two large pits to each tracheid on the radial walls of each cell of the pith ray.--Group 3. _P. strobus, lambertiana_, and other true white pines. _b._ Three to six small pits on the radial walls of each cell of the pith ray. Group 4. _P. parryana_, and other nut pines, including also _P. balfouriana_. ==== II.--RING-POROUS WOODS. (Some of Group D and cedar elm imperfectly ring-porous.) A. Pores in the summer wood minute, scattered singly or in groups, or in short broken lines, the course of which is never radial. 1. Pith rays minute, scarcely distinct. _a._ Wood heavy and hard; pores in the summer wood not in clusters. _a.'_ Color of radial section not yellow.................ASH. _b.'_ Color of radial section light yellow; by which, together with its hardness and weight, this species is easily recognized, ............OSAGE ORANGE. _b._ Wood light and soft; pores in the summer wood in clusters of 10 to 30 .......................................CATALPA. 2. Pith rays very fine, yet distinct; pores in summer wood usually single or in short lines; color of heart-wood reddish brown; of sap-wood yellowish white; peculiar odor on fresh section .....................................SASSAFRAS. 3. Pith rays fine, but distinct. _a._ Very heavy and hard; heart-wood yellowish brown. BLACK LOCUST. _b._ Heavy; medium hard to hard. _a.'_ Pores in summer wood very minute, usually in small clusters of 3 to 8; heart-wood light orange brown. RED MULBERRY. _b.'_ Pores in summer wood small to minute, usually isolated; heart-wood cherry red ..........COFFEE TREE. 4. Pith rays fine but very conspicuous, even without magnifier. Color of heart-wood red; of sap-wood pale lemon ...HONEY LOCUST. B. Pores of summer wood minute or small, in concentric wavy and sometimes branching lines, appearing as finely-feathered hatchings on tangential section. 1. Pith rays fine, but very distinct; color greenish white. Heart-wood absent or imperfectly developed ...........HACKBERRY. 2. Pith rays indistinct; color of heart-wood reddish brown; sap-wood grayish to reddish white .........................ELMS. C. Pores of summer wood arranged in radial branching lines (when very crowded radial arrangement somewhat obscured). 1. Pith rays very minute, hardly visible .................CHESTNUT. 2. Pith rays very broad and conspicuous .......................OAK. D. Pores of summer wood mostly but little smaller than those of the spring wood, isolated and scattered; very heavy and hard woods. The pores of the spring wood sometimes form but an imperfect zone. (Some diffuse-porous woods of groups A and B may seem to belong here.) 1. Fine concentric lines (not of pores) as distinct, or nearly so, as the very fine pith rays; outer summer wood with a tinge of red; heart-wood light reddish brown ....................HICKORY. 2. Fine concentric lines, much finer than the pith rays; no reddish tinge in summer wood; sap-wood white; heart-wood blackish .............................................PERSIMMON. ==== ADDITIONAL NOTES FOR DISTINCTIONS IN THE GROUP. Sassafras and mulberry may be confounded but for the greater weight and hardness and the absence of odor in the mulberry; the radial section of mulberry also shows the pith rays conspicuously. Honey locust, coffee tree, and black locust are also very similar in appearance. The honey locust stands out by the conspicuousness of the pith rays, especially on radial sections, on account of their height, while the black locust is distinguished by the extremely great weight and hardness, together with its darker brown color. [Illustration: Fig. 131. Wood of Coffee Tree.] The ashes, elms, hickories, and oaks may, on casual observation, appear to resemble one another on account of the pronounced zone of porous spring wood. (Figs. 129, 132, 135.) The sharply defined large pith rays of the oak exclude these at once; the wavy lines of pores in the summer wood, appearing as conspicuous finely-feathered hatchings on tangential section, distinguish the elms; while the ashes differ from the hickory by the very conspicuously defined zone of spring wood pores, which in hickory appear more or less interrupted. The reddish hue of the hickory and the more or less brown hue of the ash may also aid in ready recognition. The smooth, radial surface of split hickory will readily separate it from the rest. [Illustration: Fig. 132. _A_, black ash; _B_, white ash; _C_, green ash.] The different species of ash may be identified as follows (Fig. 132): 1. Pores in the summer wood more or less united into lines. _a._ The lines short and broken, occurring mostly near the limit of the ring .......................................WHITE ASH. _b._ The lines quite long and conspicuous in most parts of the summer wood .......................................GREEN ASH. 2. Pores in the summer wood not united into lines, or rarely so. _a._ Heart-wood reddish brown and very firm ..............RED ASH. _b._ Heart-wood grayish brown, and much more porous ....BLACK ASH. In the oaks, two groups can be readily distinguished by the manner in which the pores are distributed in the summer wood. (Fig. 133.) In the white oaks the pores are very fine and numerous and crowded in the outer part of the summer wood, while in the black or red oaks the pores are larger, few in number, and mostly isolated. The live oaks, as far as structure is concerned, belong to the black oaks, but are much less porous, and are exceedingly heavy and hard. [Illustration: Fig. 133. Wood of Red Oak. (For white oak see fig. 129, p. 291.)] [Illustration: Fig. 134. Wood of Chestnut.] [Illustration: Fig. 135. Wood of Hickory.] ==== III.--DIFFUSE-POROUS WOODS. (A few indistinctly ring-porous woods of Group II, D, and cedar elm may seem to belong here.) A. Pores varying in size from large to minute; largest in spring wood, thereby giving sometimes the appearance of a ring-porous arrangement. 1. Heavy and hard; color of heart-wood (especially on longitudinal section) chocolate brown ..........................BLACK WALNUT. 2. Light and soft; color of heart-wood light reddish brown BUTTERNUT. B. Pores all minute and indistinct; most numerous in spring wood, giving rise to a lighter colored zone or line (especially on longitudinal section), thereby appearing sometimes ring-porous; wood hard, heart-wood vinous reddish; pith rays very fine, but very distinct. (See also the sometimes indistinct ring-porous cedar elm, and occasionally winged elm, which are readily distinguished by the concentric wavy lines of pores in the summer wood) .........CHERRY. C. Pores minute or indistinct, neither conspicuously larger nor more numerous in the spring wood and evenly distributed. 1. Broad pith rays present. _a._ All or most pith rays broad, numerous, and crowded, especially on tangential sections, medium heavy and hard, difficult to split. ................................SYCAMORE. _b._ Only part of the pith rays broad. _a.'_ Broad pith rays well defined, quite numerous; wood reddish white to reddish ....................BEECH. _b.'_ Broad pith rays not sharply defined, made up of many small rays, not numerous. Stem furrowed, and therefore the periphery of section, and with it the annual rings sinuous, bending in and out, and the large pith rays generally limited to the furrows or concave portions. Wood white, not reddish .....................BLUE BEECH. 2. No broad pith rays present. _a._ Pith rays small to very small, but quite distinct. _a.'_ Wood hard. _a."_ Color reddish white, with dark reddish tinge in outer summer wood ...........................MAPLE. _b."_ Color white, without reddish tinge ...........HOLLY. _b.'_ Wood soft to very soft. _a."_ Pores crowded, occupying nearly all the space between pith rays. _a.'"_ Color yellowish white, often with a greenish tinge in heart-wood ........................TULIP POPLAR. CUCUMBER TREE. _b.'"_ Color of sap-wood grayish, of heart-wood light to dark reddish brown ......................SWEET GUM. _b."_ Pores not crowded, occupying not over one-third the space between pith rays; heart-wood brownish white to very light brown .........................BASSWOOD. _b._ Pith rays scarcely distinct, yet if viewed with ordinary magnifier, plainly visible. _a.'_ Pores indistinct to the naked eye. _a."_ Color uniform pale yellow; pith rays not conspicuous even on the radial section .....BUCKEYE. _b."_ Sap-wood yellowish gray, heart-wood grayish brown; pith rays conspicuous on the radial section. SOUR GUM. _b.'_ Pores scarcely distinct, but mostly visible as grayish specks on the cross-section; sap-wood whitish, heart-wood reddish ..............................BIRCH. D. Pith rays not visible or else indistinct, even if viewed with magnifier. 1. Wood very soft, white, or in shades of brown, usually with a silky luster .................................COTTONWOOD (POPLAR). ==== ADDITIONAL NOTES FOR DISTINCTIONS IN THE GROUP. Cherry and birch are sometimes confounded, the high pith rays on the cherry on radial sections readily distinguishes it; distinct pores on birch and spring wood zone in cherry as well as the darker vinous-brown color of the latter will prove helpful. Two groups of birches can be readily distinguished, tho specific distinction is not always possible. 1. Pith rays fairly distinct, the pores rather few and not more abundant in the spring wood: wood heavy, usually darker, CHERRY BIRCH and YELLOW BIRCH. 2. Pith rays barely distinct, pores more numerous and commonly forming a more porous spring wood zone; wood of medium weight, CANOE OR PAPER BIRCH. [Illustration: Fig. 136. Wood of Beech, Sycamore and Birch.] The species of maple may be distinguished as follows: 1. Most of the pith rays broader than the pores and very conspicuous ........................................SUGAR MAPLE. 2. Pith rays not or rarely broader than the pores, fine but conspicuous. _a._ Wood heavy and hard, usually of darker reddish color and commonly spotted on cross-section ...............RED MAPLE. _b._ Wood of medium weight and hardness, usually light colored. SILVER MAPLE. [Illustration: Fig. 137. Wood of Maple.] Red maple is not always safely distinguished from soft maple. In box elder the pores are finer and more numerous than in soft maple. The various species of elm may be distinguished as follows: 1. Pores of spring wood form a broad band of several rows; easy splitting, dark brown heart ............................RED ELM. 2. Pores of spring wood usually in a single row, or nearly so. _a._ Pores of spring wood large, conspicuously so WHITE ELM. _b._ Pores of spring wood small to minute. _a.'_ Lines of pores in summer wood fine, not as wide as the intermediate spaces, giving rise to very compact grain ROCK ELM. _b.'_ Lines of pores broad, commonly as wide as the intermediate spaces .........................WINGED ELM. _c._ Pores in spring wood indistinct, and therefore hardly a ring-porous wood .................................CEDAR ELM. [Illustration: Fig. 138. Wood of Elm. _a_ red elm; _b_, white elm; _c_, winged elm.] [Illustration: Fig. 139. Walnut. _p.r._, pith rays; _c.l._, concentric lines; _v_, vessels or pores; _su. w._, summer wood; _sp. w._, spring wood.] [Illustration: Fig. 140. Wood of Cherry.] INDEX. _Abies grandis_, 96. _Acer dasycarpum_, 172. _Acer macrophyllum_, 170. _Acer rubrum_, 174. _Acer saccharinum_, 172. _Acer saccharum_, 176. _Agaricus melleus_, 236. _Agarics_, 234, 236. Alburnum, 17. Ambrosia beetles, 242. Angiosperms, 9. Animal enemies, 239. Arborvitae, Giant, 104. Ash, 182-191, 296. Ash, Black, 182, 298. Ash, Blue, 186. Ash, Hoop, 182. Ash, Oregon, 184. Ash, Red, 188, 298. Ash, White, 25, 190, 298. Bamboo, 10, 11. Bark, 10, 13, 14. Bark borers, 243. Basswood, 14, 178, 301. Bast, 13, 15, 16, 20. Beech, 134, 300. Beech, Blue, 124, 300. Beech, Water, 124. Beech, Water, 162. Bees, carpenter, 246. Beetles, 241-246. _Betula lenta_, 130. _Betula lutea_, 132. _Betula nigra_, 128. _Betula papyrifera_, 126. Big Tree, 98, 208, 209, 220. Birch, Black, 130. Birch, Canoe, 126. Birch, Cherry, 130. Birch, Gray, 132. Birch, Mahogany, 130. Birch, Paper, 126. Birch, Red, 128. Birch, River, 128. Birch, Sweet, 130. Birch, White, 126. Birch, Yellow, 132. Bird's eye maple, 36. Bluing, 234. Bole, 211, 218. Borers, 243-246. Bowing, 47. Branches, 37, 218, 226, 286. Brittleness, 53. Broad-leaved trees. See Trees, Broad-leaved. Browsing, 240. Buckeye, 301. Bud, 14, 16, 36. Buds, Adventitious, 36, 37. Bullnut, 118. _Buprestid_, 243. Burl, 35. Butternut, 144, 300. Button Ball, 162. Buttonwood, 162. Calico poplar, 246. Cambium, 10, 13, 14, 15, 16, 22, 237. Canopy, 204, 211, 212. Carpenter worms, 245. Carpenter bees, 246. _Carpinus caroliniana_, 124. Catalpa, 296. _Castanea dentata_, 136. Case-hardening, 48. _Carya tomentosa_, 118. _Carya porcina_, 122. _Carya alba_, 120. Cedar, Canoe, 104. Cedar Incense, 295. Cedar, Oregon, 108. Cedar, Port Orford, 108. Cedar, Red, 110, 223, 295. Cedar, Western Red, 104, 206, 207. Cedar, White, 106, 295. Cedar, White, 108. Cells, Wood, 15, 19, 20, 21, 24, 26, 41, 42. Cells, Fibrous, 28. Cellulose, 15. _Cerambycid_, 243. _Chamaecyparis lawsoniana_, 108. _Chamaecyparis thyordes_, 106. Checks, 43, 47, 232. Cherry, Wild Black, 164, 300. Chestnut, 136, 298. Cleaning, 218, 286. Cleavability of wood, 41, 53. Coffee Tree, 297. Color of wood, 18. Cold, 214, 216. _Coleoptera_, 241. Colors of woods, 17, 18, 290. Columbian timber beetle, 245. Comb-grain, 54. Composition of forest, 197-210, 223. Compression, 51, 52. Conch, 235. Cones, Annual, 19. Conifers, 9, 10, 12, 24-26, 29, 30, 48, 58-111, 205, 220, 237, 251. Conservation of forests, 262. Coppice, 220, 278, 279. Cork, 13, 19. Cortex, 13, 15. _Corthylus columbianus_, 245. Cottonwood, 301. Cover, 211. Crop, The Forest, 274. Crown, 211, 227. Cucumber Tree, 156, 301. _Curculionid_, 243. Cypress, Bald, 102, 215, 295. Cypress, Lawson, 108. Decay, 235. Deciduous trees, 10. Dicotoledons, 9, 10. Differentiation of cells, 16. Diffuse-porous. See wood, diffuse-porous. Distribution of species, 218. Distribution of forests, 197-210. Drouth, 213, 231. Dry-rot, 234, 238. Duff, 224, 251. Duramen, 17. Elasticity of wood, 41, 53. Elm, 152-155, 298. Elm, American, 154. Elm, Cedar, 303. Elm, Cliff, 152. Elm, Cork, 152. Elm, Hickory, 152. Elm, Red, 302. Elm, Rock, 152, 303. Elm, Slippery, 14. Elm, Water, 154. Elm, White, 152. Elm, White, 154, 302. Elm, Winged, 303. Endogens, 10, 17. See Monocotoledons. Enemies of the Forest, 229-249. Engraver beetles, 241. Entomology, Bureau of, 247. Epidermis, 13, 15. Erosion, 273. Evaporation, 42, 47. Evergreens, 10. Exotics, 227. Exogens, 12, 16. _Fagus americana_, 134. _Fagus atropunicea_, 134. _Fagus ferruginea_, 134. _Fagus grandifolia_, 134. Figure, 37. Fir, 96, 294. Fir, Douglas, 94. Fir, Grand, 96. Fir, Lowland, 96. Fir, Red, 94, 206, 207. Fir, Silver, 96. Fir, White, 96. Fire, 232, 251-258. Fire lanes, 257. Fire losses, 253. Fire notice, 258. Fire trenches, 256. Fire Wardens, 257. Fires, Causes of, 252. Fires, Control of, 256-258. Fires, Crown, 255. Fires, Description of, 254-256. Fires, Fear of, 261. Fires, Opportunities for, 251. Fires, Statistics of, 253. Fires, Surface, 252. Floor, Forest, 213, 224. Forest, Abundance of, 260. Forest, Appalachian, 204. Forest, Atlantic, 197. Forest, Broadleaf, 202. Forest, Eastern, 197-204. Forest, Enemies of, 229-249. Forest, Exhaustion of, 241-270. Forest, Esthetic use of, 277. Forest, Fear of, 260. Forest, Hardwood, 197. Forest, High, 281. Forest, Hostility toward, 260. Forest, Mixed, 204, 213, 214. Forest, Northern, 197, 216. Forest, Pacific, 197, 204-208. Forest, Productive, 274-277. Forest, Protective, 271-274. Forest, Puget Sound, 206. Forest, Regular Seed, 281. Forest, Rocky Mountain, 197, 204, 205. Forest, Seed, 297-282. Forest, Selection, 280-281. Forest, Southern, 197. Forest, Subarctic, 209. Forest, Two-storied Seed, 282. Forest, Use of, 271-287. Forest, Utilization of, 271-277. Forest, Virgin, 280. Forest, Western, 197. Forestry, 271-287. Forests, Composition of North American, 197. Forests, National, 228. Forests and agriculture, 258, 277. Forest conditions, 211-228, 278. Forest conservation, 262. Forest cover, 204, 211, 212, 224. Forest crop, 274, 276. Forest devastation, 261. Forest fires, 251-258, 261. Forest floor, 213, 224. Forest improvement, 284-286. Forest map, 198. Forest organism, The, Chapter V., pp. 211-228. Forest ownership, 262. Forest planting, 282-284. Forest preservation, 277-284. Forest products, 276. Forest Service, U. S., 262, 264, 275. _Fraxinus americana_, 190. _Fraxinus nigra_, 182. _Fraxinus oregona_, 184. _Fraxinus pennsylvanica_, 188. _Fraxinus quadrangulata_, 186. Frost, 232. Frost-check, 232. Fungi, 20, 233-239. Ginko, 12. Gluing, 54. Goats, 240. Grain of wood, 19, 30, 31, 32-37, 53. Grain, Bird's eye. Grain, coarse, 32. Grain, cross, 33, 53. Grain, curly, 35. Grain, fine, 32. Grain, spiral, 33. Grain, straight, 33, 53. Grain, twisted, 33. Grain, wavy, 34. Grazing, 239. Group system, 279. Grubs, 243, 244. Gum, Black, 180. Gum, Sour, 180, 301. Gum, Sweet, 160, 301. Gymnosperms, 9. Hackberry, 297. Hackmatack, 76. Hardness of wood, 41, 54. Hardwoods, 12. Heart-wood, 13, 17, 18, 19, 290. Hemlock, 90, 295. Hemlock, Black, 92. Hemlock, Western, 92, 206. _Hicoria alba_, 118. _Hicoria glabra_, 122. _Hicoria ovata_, 120. Hickory, 118-123, 298. Hickory, Big-bud, 118. Hickory, Black, 118. Hickory, Shagbark, 120. Hickory, Shellbark, 120. Hickory, White-heart, 118. High Forest, 281. Holly, 301. Honeycombing, 48. Hornbeam, 124. Horn-tails, 246. Hygroscopicity of wood, 41. _Hymenomycetes_, 234. Ice, 232. Ichneumon fly, 247. Identification of woods, 289-303. Improvement of forests, 284-286. Inflammability of bark, 14, 251. Insects, 240-248. Insects, parasitic, 247. Insects, predaceous, 247. Intolerance, 216, 219, 221. Iron-wood, 124. _Juglans cinerea_, 114. _Juglans nigra_, 116. _Juniperus virginiana_, 110. Key for the distinction of woods, 292-303. King-nut, 118. Knot, 35, 37, 38. Larch, 76. Larch, Western, 78. _Larix americana_, 76. _Larix laricina_, 76. _Larix occidentales_, 78. Leaves, 14, 216. Lenticels, 14. _Lepidoptera_, 241. Light, 216-218. Lightning, 231, 251. Lignin, 16. Linden, 178. _Liquidambar styraciflua_, 160. _Liriodendron tulipifera_, 158. Localized Selection system, 281. Locust, 166. Locust, Black, 166, 296. Locust, Honey, 166, 297. Locust, Yellow, 166. Long-bodied trunk, 225. Lumber consumption, 264. Lumber, 9, 10. Lumber prices, 267, 268. Lumber production, 265-267. Lumber, substitutes for, 264. Lumbering, conservative, 274, 276. Lumbering, destructive, 251, 258-263. Lumberman, 260. _Magnolia acuminata_, 156. Magnolia, Mountain, 156. Mahogany, 168. Maple, 170-177, 301. Maple, Hard, 25, 176. Maple, Large Leaved, 170. Maple, Oregon, 170, 207. Maple, Red, 174, 302. Maple, Rock, 25, 176. Maple, Silver, 172, 302. Maple, Soft, 172. Maple, Sugar, 176. Maple, White, 170. Maple, White, 172. Medullary rays. See Rays. Medullary Sheath. See Sheath. _Merulius lachrymans_, 234, 238. Meteorological enemies, 229-233. Mice, 237. Microscope, 14, 24-31, 290. Mine, Forest treated as, 261, 274. Mockernut, 118. Moisture, 213. Moisture in wood, 41, 52. Monocotoledons, 9, 10, 17. See also Endogens. Mountain, 216. Mulberry, Red, 297. Mushroom, 236. Mutual aid, 224. Nailing, 53. Needle-leaf trees, 12. Non-porous. See Wood, non-porous. North Woods, 197, 218. Nurse, 218, 219. _Nyssa sylvatica_, 180. Oak, 138-151, 298. Oak, Basket, 142. Oak, Black, 140. Oak, Bur, 144. Oak, Cow, 142. Oak, Live, 201. Oak, Mossy-cup, 144. Oak, Over-cup, 144. Oak, Post, 148. Oak, Red, 138. Oak, Stave, 150. Oak, White, 150. Oak, White (Western), 146. Oak, Yellow bark, 140. Odors of wood, 18. Osage Orange, 296. Organism, Forest, 211. _Padus serotina_, 164. Palm, 9, 17. Paper pulp, 263. Parasites, 233. Parenchyma, 23, 28. Pecky cypress, 234. Peggy cypress, 234. Pepperidge, 180. Persimmon, 298. Phanerogamia, 9. Phloem, 13. _Picea alba_, 80. _Picea canadensis_, 80. _Picea engelmanni_, 86. _Picea mariana_, 84. _Picea nigra_, 84. _Picea rubens_, 82. _Picea sitchensis_, 88. Pigeon Horn-tail, 247. Pignut, 122. Pines, 58-75, 295. Pine, Bull, 66, 205, 282. Pine, Cuban, 74. Pine, Georgia, 68. Pine, Loblolly, 72. Pine, Long-leaf, 68, 200. Pine, Norway, 64. Pine, Old Field, 72. Pine, Oregon, 94. Pine, Red, 64. Pine, Short-leaf, 70. Pine, Slash, 74. Pine, Sugar, 62. Pine, Western White, 60. Pine, Western Yellow, 66. Pine, Weymouth, 58. Pine, White, 24, 58, 199. Pine, Yellow, 70. Pine sawyers, 244. _Pinus caribaea_, 74. _Pinus echinata_, 70. _Pinus heterophylla_, 74. _Pinus lambertiana_, 62. _Pinus monticola_, 60. _Pinus palustris_, 68. _Pinus ponderosa_, 66. _Pinus resinosa_, 64. _Pinus strobus_, 58. _Pinus taeda_, 72. Pith, 10, 13, 15, 16, 23, 32, 39. Pith ray. See Ray, medullary. Pits, 26, 292. Planting, 282-284. _Platanus occidentalis_, 162. Poles, 225. Polypores, 234 _Polyporus annosus_, 237. _Polyporus sulphureus_, 236. Poplar, yellow, 158, 221, 245, 246, 301. Pores, 23, 28, 29, 291. Powder-post beetles, 244. Preservation of forests, 277-284. Prices of lumber, 267, 268. Primary growth, 17, 22. Procambium strands, 16. Protection against fungi, 239. Protection against insects, 247. Properties of wood, Chap II., p. 41. Protoplasm, 14, 16, 23, 41. Pruning of branches, 286. _Prunus serotina_, 164. _Pseudotsuga mucronata_, 94. _Pseudotsuga taxifolia_, 94. Quartering a log, 45. Quartered oak, 22. _Quercus alba_, 150. _Quercus garryana_, 146. _Quercus macrocarpa_, 144. _Quercus michauxii_, 142. _Quercus minor_, 148. _Quercus obtusiloba_, 148. _Quercus rubra_, 138. _Quercus stellata_, 148. _Quercus tinctoria_, 140. _Quercus velutina_, 140. Rainfall, effect on forest, 205, 213. Rays, medullary, 15, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23, 26, 30, 31, 37, 44, 53, 291. Red rot, 234. Redwood, 100, 207, 208, 222, 295. Regularity of cells, 24. Reproduction, 220. Reserve sprout method, 279. Resin ducts, 26, 291. Rhizomorphs, 236. Rind, 13. Ring-porous. See Wood, ring-porous. Rings, Annual, 9, 18, 19, 21, 23, 44, 226, 290. Rings, False, 19, 231. _Robinia pseudacacia_, 166. Rodents, 239. Roots, 211, 224. Rotation period, 279. Rotting, 234. _Salix nigra_, 112. Sand dunes, 230, 231. Saplings, 225, 226. Saprophytes, 233. Sap-wood, 13, 17, 18, 41, 42, 290. Sassafras, 296. Sawyers, Pine, 244. Secondary growth, 17. Section, cross, 21, 22, 29. See also Section, transverse. Section, radial, 19, 22, 26, 30, 31. Section, tangential, 19, 22, 26, 30, 31. Section, transverse, 19, 24, 29, 30. Seasoning, 42. Sections, transverse, radial and tangential, 12. Seed forests, 279-282. Seeding from the side, 279. Seedlings, 225, 226. Seeds, 220-223, 226. Sequoia, 98. Sequoia, 100. Sequoia, Giant, 98. _Sequoia gigantea_, 98. _Sequoia sempervirens_, 100. _Sequoia washingtoniana_, 98. Settler, 258. Shake, 47, 232, 233. Shearing strength, 52. Sheep, 240. Shelf fungus, 234, 236. Short-bodied trunk, 225, 226. Shrinkage of wood, 41, 42-47. Silver flakes, 22. See Rays, Medullary. Silvical characteristics, 211. Silvicultural systems, 278-284. Slash, 229, 251, 257. Slash-grain, 54. Snow, 232. Slash-sawing, 45, 47. Softwoods, 12. Soil, 211, 213. Specific gravity. See Weight. Splint-wood, 17. Splitting. See Cleavability. Spores, 234. Spring-wood, 20, 21, 24, 30, 32, 44, 53, 54, 291. Sprouts, 220, 222. Spruce, 80-89, 295. Spruce, Black, 84. Spruce, Douglas, 94, 296. Spruce, Engelmann's, 86. Spruce, Red, 82, 213. Spruce, Sitka, 88. Spruce, Tideland, 88. Spruce, Western White, 86. Spruce, White, 80. Stand, mixed, 213, 223. Stand, pure, 213, 223. Standards, 225, 226. Steamboats, 246. Stem, diagram of cross section, Fig. 4, p. 13, fig. 5, p. 15, 211. Strength of wood, 41, 51-53. Strip system, 279. Structure of wood, 9-40, 29, 30, 32. Struggle for existence, 224, 226, 227. Summer-wood, 20, 21, 24, 30, 32, 44, 53, 54, 291. _Swietenia mahagoni_, 168. Sycamore, 22, 162, 300. Tamarack, 76, 296. Tamarack, Western, 78. Taxes on forests, 261. _Taxodium distichum_, 102. Tear fungus, 234, 238. Temperature, 214. Tension, 51, 52. Texture of wood, 32. _Thuja gigantea_, 104. _Thuja plicata_, 104. _Tilia americana_, 178. Timber beetles, 242, 245. Timber supply of U. S., 264-269. Timber trees, 10. Timber worms, 244. Tissue, 16. Toadstools, 234. Tolerance, 216, 219. Toughness of wood, 41, 54. Tracheae, 23, 28. Tracheid, 28, 30, 290, 292. _Trametes pini_, 235. _Trametes radiciperda_, 237. Tree, parts of, 211. Treeless area, 197, 203. Trees, Broad-leaved, 9, 10, 28, 29. Trees, deciduous, 10. Trunk, 13, 211. Long-bodied, 225. Short-bodied, 225. _Tsuga canadensis_, 90. _Tsuga heterophylla_, 92. Tulip Tree, 158. See Poplar Yellow Tupelo, 180. Turpentine, 263. Two-storied Seed Forest, 282. _Ulmus americana_, 154. _Ulmus racemosa_, 152. _Ulmus thomasi_, 152. Utilization of forests, 271-277. Vegetable enemies, 233-239. Veneer, 10, 35. Vessels, 23, 28, 29. Veterans, 225. Walnut, Black, 116, 300. Walnut, White, 114. Warping, 45-47. Waste, Avoidance of, 274. Waste in lumbering, 263. Water, 41, 42, 226, 231. Weeds, Forest, 225. Weight of wood, 41, 49-51. Whitewood, 158. Wilderness, Conquest of, 258. Willow, Black, 112. Wind, 229, 252, 253. Windfalls, 229. Wood, Diffuse-porous, 23, 30, 300-303. Wood, Non-porous, 24-26, 58-111, 294-296. Wood, Primary, 17. Wood, Properties of, Chap. II., 41-56. Wood, Ring-porous, 23, 29, 296-299. Wood, Spring, 20, 21, 24, 30, 32, 44, 53, 54, 291. Wood, Structure of, 9-40. Wood, secondary, 17. Wood, summer, 20, 21, 24, 30, 32, 44, 53, 54, 291. Wood borers, 243. Wood cells. See Cells. Wood. See Sap-wood, Heart wood. Wood dyes, 18. Wood fiber, 28. Woods, Color of, 17, 18, 290. Woods, The distinguishing of, 289-303. Working, 47. Worm-holes, 243. Worms, carpenter, 245. Worms, Timber, 244. Wound parasites, 234. Yew, 295. Yield, 275. Yucca, 10. Books on the Manual Arts DESIGN AND CONSTRUCTION IN WOOD. By William Noyes. A book full of charm and distinction and the first to give due consideration to the esthetic side of wood-working. It is intended to give to beginners practice in designing simple projects in wood and an opportunity to acquire skill in handling tools. The book illustrates a series of projects and gives suggestions for other similar projects together with information regarding tools and processes for making. A pleasing volume abundantly and beautifully illustrated. HANDWORK IN WOOD. By William Noyes. A handbook for teachers and a textbook for normal school and college students. A comprehensive and scholarly treatise, covering logging, saw-milling, seasoning and measuring, hand tools, wood fastenings, equipment and care of the shop, the common joints, types of wood structures, principles of joinery, and wood finishing. 304 illustrations--excellent pen drawings and many photographs. WOOD AND FOREST. By William Noyes. A companion volume to "Handwork in Wood," by the same author. Especially adapted as a reference book for teachers of woodworking. Not too difficult for use as a textbook for normal school and college students. Treats of wood, distribution of American forests, life of the forest, enemies of the forest, destruction, conservation and uses of the forest, with a key to the common woods by Filibert Roth. Describes 67 principal species of wood with maps of the habitat, leaf drawings, life size photographs and microphotographs of sections. Contains a general bibliography of books and articles on wood and forest. Profusely illustrated with photographs from the United States forest service and with pen and ink drawings by Anna Gausmann Noyes and photographs by the author. 309 pages. WOODWORK FOR BEGINNERS. By Ira S. Griffith. A remarkably simple treatment of elementary woodworking for students in the seventh and eighth grades. It deals with tools, processes and materials and includes only such subject matter as should be taught to grammar grade students. It meets the requirements of students working in large classes and devoting the minimum of time to manual training. A practical and unusually attractive textbook and one that can be used with any course of models and in any order. BEGINNING WOODWORK, At Home and in School. By Clinton S. VanDeusen. A full and clear description in detail of the fundamental processes of elementary benchwork in wood. This description is given thru directions for making a few simple, useful articles, suitable either for school or home problems. The book contains more than one hundred original sketches and ten working drawings. PROBLEMS IN FARM WOODWORK. By Samuel A. Blackburn. A book of working drawings of 100 practical problems relating to agriculture and farm life. Especially valuable to the student or teacher of agriculture or manual arts in rural schools and in high schools in agricultural communities, and to the boy on the farm. There are 60 full-page plates of working drawings, each accompanied by a page or more of text treating of "Purpose," "Material," "Bill of Stock," "Tools," "Directions," and "Assembly." A wonderfully practical book. PROBLEMS IN FURNITURE MAKING. By Fred D. Crawshaw. This book, revised and enlarged, consists of 43 plates of working drawings suitable for use in grammar and high schools, and 36 pages of text, including chapters on design, construction and finishes, and notes on the problems. FURNITURE DESIGN FOR SCHOOLS AND SHOPS. By Fred D. Crawshaw. A manual on furniture design. A book that will stimulate and encourage designing and initiation on the part of the student. It contains a collection of plates showing perspective drawings of typical designs, representing particular types of furniture. Each perspective is accompanied by suggestions for rearrangement and the modeling of parts. The text discusses and illustrates principles of design as applied to furniture. A practical and helpful book that should be in the hands of every teacher of cabinet making and designing. PROBLEMS IN WOODWORKING. By M. W. Murray. A convenient collection of good problems consisting of forty plates of working drawings, of problems in benchwork that have been successfully worked out by boys in grades seven to nine inclusive. SHOP PROBLEMS. (On Tracing Paper). By Albert F. Siepert. A collection of working drawings of a large variety of projects printed on tracing paper and ready for blue printing. The projects have all been worked out in manual arts classes and have proved their value from the standpoint of design, construction, use, human interest, etc. They are of convenient size, 6x9-inch, and are enclosed in a portfolio. To the teacher, in search of additional projects to supplement and enrich his course these tracings are worth far more than the price asked. Published in series. Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, and 7. WORKSHOP NOTE-BOOK--WOODWORKING. By George G. Greene. A small-size textbook and notebook combined. It furnishes a few general and extremely important directions about tools and processes; and provides space for additional notes and working drawings of exercises and articles which the pupil is to construct. It is essentially a collection of helps, ideas, hints, suggestions, questions, facts, illustrations, etc., which have been prepared by a practical teacher to meet a real need in his own shop. The notebook is full of suggestions; shows a keen insight into subject matter and teaching methods and is an effective teaching tool. PROBLEMS IN WOOD-TURNING. By Fred D. Crawshaw. In the first place this is a book of problems--25 plates covering spindle, face-plate, and chuck turning. In the second place it is a textbook on the science and art of wood-turning illustrated by fifty pen sketches. It gives the mathematical basis for the cuts used in turning. In the third place it is a helpful discussion of the principles of design as applied to objects turned in wood. It is a clear, practical and suggestive book on wood-turning. WOOD PATTERN-MAKING. By Horace T. Purfield. This book was written expressly for use as a textbook for high school, trade school, technical school, and engineering college students. It is a revised, enlarged, and newly illustrated edition. CORRELATED COURSES IN WOODWORK AND MECHANICAL DRAWING. By Ira S. Griffith. This book is designed to meet the every-day need of the teacher of woodworking and mechanical drawing for reliable information concerning organization of courses, subject matter and methods of teaching. It covers classification and arrangement of tool operations for grades, 7, 8, 9, and 10, shop organization, allotment of time design, shop excursions, stock bills, cost of material, records, shop conduct, the lesson, maintenance, equipment, and lesson outlines for grammar and high schools. It is based on sound pedagogy, thoro technical knowledge and successful teaching experience. It is practical. ESSENTIALS OF WOODWORKING. By Ira S. Griffith. A textbook written especially for the use of grammar and high school students. A clear and comprehensive treatment of woodworking tools, materials, and processes, to supplement, but not to take the place of the instruction given by the teacher. The book does not contain a course of models; it may be used with any course. It is illustrated with photographs and numerous pen drawings. PROJECTS FOR BEGINNING WOODWORK AND MECHANICAL DRAWING. By Ira S. Griffith. A work book for the use of students in grammar grade classes. It consists of working drawings and working directions. The projects are such as have proven of exceptional service where woodworking and mechanical drawing are taught in a thoro, systematic manner in the seventh and eighth grades. The aim has been to provide successful rather than unique problems. The 50 projects in the book were selected and organized with the constant aim of securing the highest educational results. The book is especially suited for use in connection with "Essentials of Woodworking," by the same author. FURNITURE MAKING. (Advanced Projects in Woodwork.) By Ira S. Griffith. This book is similar to "Projects for Beginning Woodwork and Mechanical Drawing," but is suited to high school needs. It consists of fifty plates of problems and accompanying notes. It is essentially a collection of problems in furniture making selected or designed with reference to school use. On the plate with each working drawing is a good perspective sketch of the completed object. In draftsmanship and refinement of design these problems are of superior quality. It is in every respect an excellent collection. PROBLEMS IN MECHANICAL DRAWING. By Charles A. Bennett. This book consists of 80 plates and a few explanatory notes. Its purpose is to furnish teachers of classes beginning mechanical drawing with a large number of simple, practical problems. These have been selected with reference to the formation of good habits in technique, the interest of the pupils, and the subjects generally included in a grammar and first-year high school course. Each problem given is unsolved and therefore in proper form to hand to the pupil for solution. MECHANICAL DRAWING PROBLEMS. By Edward Berg and Emil F. Kronquist. A direct and concise text adapted for high school students beginning mechanical drawing. It covers two year's work and contains 128 full-page plates--excellent examples of draftsmanship. Text accompanies each plate, giving necessary facts and helpful hints wherever needed. The underlying principles of drafting are thoroly covered and the practical applications, which are abundant, have been most skilfully chosen and admirably presented. The plates tell what to do, almost at a glance, yet prevent mere copy work. Each problem tests the ability of the student to think and execute graphically and unconsciously develops an excellent technique. MECHANICAL DRAFTING. By W. H. Miller. (Revised edition). A textbook for advanced high school students which presents drafting room practice in practical textbook form. It is so written that it may be used with any course of exercises or problems and supplements the instruction of the teacher in such a way as to reduce lecture work to a minimum. It is a direct and simple treatment of mechanical drafting, giving due consideration to the needs of the student, the beginning draftsman and the requirements of the best teaching methods. It is complete, yet condensed and is well adapted for handbook use by the student and draftsman. It is well illustrated and is bound in flexible binding, pocket size. A thoroughly practical, modern textbook. GRAMMAR GRADE PROBLEMS IN MECHANICAL DRAWING. By Charles A. Bennett. A remarkably simple and carefully graded treatment of the fundamentals of mechanical drawing for the use of students in the 7th and 8th grades. It combines an abundance of text and simple problems, accompanied by notes and directions. Its use insures the early formation of correct habits of technique and makes possible the development of a standard in grammar grade mechanical drawing parallel with woodworking. Abundantly and well illustrated. MECHANICAL DRAWING FOR BEGINNERS. By Charles H. Bailey. A textbook suitable wherever this subject is taught to beginners, in Junior High Schools, High and Continuation Schools. It successfully combines instructions which are minute and complete, with problems, gradually leading the student to learn with little or no other help, the essentials and technique of the work. The matter is condensed but leaves no important points not covered. PROGRESSIVE STEPS IN ARCHITECTURAL DRAWING. By George W. Seaman. A textbook and practical handbook, describing and illustrating every successive step in drawing of floor plans, elevations and various details for successful dwellings. Numerous plates illustrate details of doors, windows, mouldings, cornices, porches, etc. Architectural orders shown in practical working forms. "Single line sketches" illustrate method of practical designer in planning a house. ARCHITECTURAL DRAWING PLATES. By Franklin G. Elwood. A collection of 15 plates showing the various details included in the plans for frame houses. Names and typical sizes are given and much information helpful to the student or draftsman. One plate shows eleven "Plan Studies," another "How Elevations are Worked Up from Plans and Sections." A wonderfully convenient help in architectural drawing. SIMPLIFIED MECHANICAL PERSPECTIVE. By Frank Forrest Frederick. A book of simple problems covering the essentials of mechanical perspective. It is planned for pupils of high school age who have already received some elementary training in mechanical drawing. It is simple, direct and practical. WOODWORK FOR SECONDARY SCHOOLS. By Ira S. Griffith. The most complete and comprehensive textbook on secondary school woodworking ever published. Treats of Common Woods, Tools and Processes, Woodworking Machines, Joinery, Wood-Turning, Inlaying and Wood Carving, Wood Finishing, Furniture Construction, Pattern-Making. Although written for the student, every teacher of high school or normal school woodwork will find this text a valuable and necessary volume for reference use. It contains 370 pages and 580 special illustrations. CARPENTRY. By Ira S. Griffith. A well illustrated textbook for use in vocational schools, trade schools, technical schools, and by apprentices to the trade, presenting the principles of house construction in a clear and fundamental way. It treats of the "everyday" practical problems of the carpenter and house builder from the "laying of foundations" to the completion of the "interior finish." It meets every requirement as a textbook and is also well adapted for reference use. It is well illustrated by photographs taken "on the job." BOY ACTIVITY PROJECTS. By Samuel A. Blackburn. A book of full-page plates and accompanying text giving complete directions for making 86 projects of interest to the energetic American boy. The projects are for the school, the home, the playground, the camp, the out-of-doors, and include a complete wireless telegraph apparatus. The plates give every required dimension, and show each project complete and in detail. The text is in reality working directions telling just "how to make," including bills of material, lists of tools required, etc. A thoroly practical and suggestive book for school use and rich in inspiration for the boy in his own home shop. SEAT WEAVING. By L. Day Perry. A handbook for teacher or student. Tells how to cane chairs, how to use cane webbing, how to do rush seating, how to do reed and splint weaving, how to make seats of reeds and splints, how to prepare raw materials, how to stain, finish and refinish, etc. Also treats of the use of cane and other seating materials as a decorative element in furniture construction. Well illustrated, practical and authoritative. FURNITURE UPHOLSTERY FOR SCHOOLS. By Emil A. Johnson. The only text and reference book on upholstery written for school use. Contains detailed, practical instructions telling how to upholster a variety of articles, also how to re-upholster old furniture and how to do spring-edge upholstery work. Describes necessary tools and materials. Abundantly and beautifully illustrated. PRACTICAL TYPOGRAPHY. By George E. McClellan. A remarkable textbook for students of printing. It contains a course of exercises ready to place in the hands of pupils, and explains and illustrates the most approved methods used in correct composition. A valuable feature of the book lies in the fact that in the early stages of the course the pupil sets up in type a description of what he is doing with his hands. It contains 63 exercises, treating of composition from "Correct Spacing" to the "Making up of a Book," and the "Composition of Tables." ART METALWORK. By Arthur F. Payne. A textbook written by an expert craftsman and experienced teacher. It treats of the various materials and their production, ores, alloys, commercial forms, etc.; of tools and equipments suitable for the work, the inexpensive equipment of the practical craftsman; and of the correlation of art metalwork with design and other school subjects. It describes in detail all the processes involved in making articles ranging from a watch fob to a silver loving-cup. It gives new methods of construction, new finishes, new problems. It is abundantly and beautifully illustrated, showing work done by students under ordinary school conditions in a manual training shop. The standard book on the subject. TEACHING THE MANUAL AND INDUSTRIAL ARTS. By Ira S. Griffith. A text for normal schools or colleges and a reference for manual and vocational teachers. Presents the philosophy of teaching manual and vocational education in terms of psychology, social science, and economics. It gives the conclusions of Thorndike, Judd, Bagley, Dewey and others, and illustrates them so they serve the teacher as a basis for evaluating the manual and industrial arts. A book of value to the beginning teacher, the experienced supervisor or the educational expert; an exceptional source of information on the theory and practice of its subject. THE MANUAL ARTS. By Charles A. Bennett. A treatise on the selection and organization of subject matter in the manual arts and on the methods of teaching. It states what manual arts should be taught in the schools, their place as concerns general and vocational education, principles underlying the making of courses of instruction and methods of teaching, and shows the place of the factory system in industrial schools, etc. Heretofore no book has dealt with the pedagogy of the manual arts in so definite and clear cut a manner. The author has brought together, with ripened judgment, the result of years of experience. It is especially adapted for normal class and reading circle use and should be read and studied by every teacher or prospective teacher of the manual arts. EDUCATIONAL TOYS. By Louis C. Petersen. A comprehensive book on toy-making for the school or home. Shows 57 toys including animals, wheeled toys, stationary toys, moving toys, puzzles, etc., made chiefly from thin wood, with the coping saw and easily constructed in the ordinary school room or in the home. Tells how to make each toy, how to finish and color, about the few simple tools and materials required. Well illustrated with photographs and full-size pattern drawings. TOY PATTERNS. By Michael C. Dank. A portfolio of toy patterns. Among them are Animals, Animal Rocking Toys, Wheeled Platform Toys, String Toys, Lever Toys, Freak Toys and Novelties. Each toy is shown complete and each part is also shown full-size. They are designed to be made with the coping saw out of thin wood. Twelve sheets, size 10-1/2" x 14", enclosed in a portfolio with an attractive color design. BIRD HOUSES BOYS CAN BUILD. By Albert F. Siepert. A book of rare interest to boys. It is written in the boy spirit and combines the charm of nature with the allurements of continuation work in wood. It illustrates hundreds of bird houses and shows working drawings of various designs, also feeders, shelters, sparrow traps, and other bird accessories. The common house nesting birds are pictured and described with information regarding houses, foods, etc., suitable for each. A pleasing and practical book for wide-awake boys. MANUAL TRAINING TOYS. FOR THE BOYS' WORKSHOP. By Harris W. Moore. A popular boys' book that is truly educational. It is a collection of forty-two projects overflowing with "boy" interest and new in the manual training shop. Full-page working drawings show each project in detail and the text gives instructions for making, together with information on tools and tool processes. KITECRAFT AND KITE TOURNAMENTS. By Charles M. Miller. An authoritative and comprehensive treatment of kitecraft. The book deals with the construction and flying of all kinds of kites, and the making and using of kite accessories. Also aeroplanes, gliders, propellers, motors, etc. Four chapters are devoted to presenting a detailed description of kite flying tournaments. Abundantly illustrated and attractively bound. THE CONSTRUCTION AND FLYING OF KITES. By Charles M. Miller. This contains seven full-page plates of drawings of kites, and fifteen figures--over forty kites shown. Details of construction given; a kite tournament is described. Full of interesting suggestions. COPING SAW WORK. By Ben W. Johnson. Contains working drawings and suggestions for teaching a course of work in thin wood that is full of fun for the children, and affords ample means for training in form study, construction, invention and careful work. Has been called "applied mechanics for the fourth grade." SELECTED SHOP PROBLEMS. By George A. Seaton. A collection of sixteen problems in woodworking made to meet the needs of busy teachers of manual training. Each problem has been put to the test and has proven satisfactory to the teacher who designed it and to the pupil who made it. MANUAL TRAINING MAGAZINE. A magazine of "quality." The professional journal of the teachers of manual, vocational and industrial education. It publishes practical articles on the ways and means of "doing things." It discusses vital problems in teaching the manual arts and presents the best current thought on the development of manual training and vocational education. To the inexperienced teacher, it is valuable in solving numerous problems, and to the experienced teacher, it is a means of keeping abreast of the times. It is ably edited, attractively printed, and well illustrated with photographs and drawings made especially for its pages. Published monthly. $1.50 a year; Canada, $1.80; Foreign, $2.00. * * * * * _Published by_ Manual Arts Press :: Peoria, Illinois We can supply you with any book on the Manual Arts * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Transcriber's Note: 'M', in the context of lumber measurement, means '1000 feet'. From 'Handwork in Wood', Chapter III, page 48. Also (ibid): "There are several methods of measuring lumber. The general rule is to multiply the length in feet by the width and thickness in inches and divide by 12, thus: 1" � 6" � 15' ÷ 12 = 7½ feet." In the interests of clarity, some Illustrations have been moved closer to their descriptive text. Hyphenation and spelling are not uniform throughout this book, e.g., 'sapwood' and 'sap-wood' both occur; '_Columbian Timber-beetle_' and 'Columbian timber beetle' occur in the same paragraph. Chapter II has three types of footnotes, with different notations. References to the author's previous book, being short, are placed at the end of the paragraph; numbered technical or tabular footnotes, or footnotes referencing other publications are collected at the end of the Chapter, before the Chapter Bibliography; and Chapter Bibliography footnotes are placed at the end of the Chapter Bibliography. In later Chapters, numbered footnotes are placed either at the end of the Chapter (before the Bibliography) or at the end of a relevant section of a Chapter. Chapter III lists 67 trees; The (following) Lists from the Jesup Collection list 66 trees, including the 'tied place' trees. The tree missing from the Jesup Collection is No. 18: Western Hemlock, or Black Hemlock. Damaged or missing punctuation has been repaired. Page 18: 'sumac' and 'sumach'. Both spellings correct. Also 'sumak', shoomak. From Arabic 'summ[=a]q'. Page 19: 'charactistic' corrected to 'characteristic' ... "and give the characteristic pleasing "grain" of wood." Page 23: inconsistent spelling--_tracheæ_, tracheae. The two spellings occur in the book; also trachæids, tracheids. All have been retained. The author's bibliography is extensive. Page 124 etc.: The Allegheny Mountain Range (also spelled Alleghany and Allegany, ~Wikipedia). Page 143: 'distinguised' corrected to 'distinguished' ... "Not distinguished from white oak in the market." Page 180: diameter, '1"-6", even 5';' corrected to 'diameter, 1'6"-3'6", even 5';' (Wikipedia) Page 182: 'scambucifolia' corrected to 'sambucifolia' ... "_Fraxinus nigra_ Marshall. _Fraxinus sambucifolia._" Page 186: 'cleavabilty' corrected to 'cleavability' ... "refers to the cleavability of the wood;" Page 268: Fig. 118 text: Basswood, 1st and 2d, 1" x 8" and up by x 00". and: White pine, rough uppers, 1" x 8" and up x 00'. This is as printed; the transcriber has no idea what was meant by '00"' and '00'', or what it should have been. Page 292: 'miscroscopic' corrected to 'microscopic' ... "Of microscopic features, the following only have been referred to:" Page 304: 'Agaricus mellens' corrected to 'Agaricus melleus'. The (archaic) U.S. American spellings, 'drouth' (='drought'), 'thoroly', 'tho', 'altho', 'tire' (='tyre'), etc., are correct. 
32141	----	file was produced from images generously made available by the Library of Congress) [Illustration: VOL·I· NO·1· GARDEN AND FOREST ·A·JOURNAL·OF·HORTICULTURE· ·LANDSCAPE·ART·AND·FORESTRY· ·FEBRUARY·29, 1888.] PRICE TEN CENTS.] Copyright, 1888, by THE GARDEN AND FOREST PUBLISHING COMPANY, LIMITED. [$4.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE.] IMPORTANT NEW BOOKS. I. By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. APRIL HOPES. A Novel. By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. 12mo, Cloth, $1 50. _Mr. Howells never wrote a more bewitching book. It is useless to deny the rarity and worth of the skill that can report so perfectly and with such exquisite humor the manifold emotions of the modern maiden and her lover._--Philadelphia Press. MODERN ITALIAN POETS. Essays and Versions. By WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS. Author of "April Hopes," &c. With Portraits. 12mo, Half Cloth, Uncut Edges and Gilt Tops, $2 00. _A portfolio of delightsome studies.... 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By JAMES PAYN. 16mo, Cloth, 75 cents. _The above works are for sale by all booksellers, or will be sent by_ HARPER & BROTHERS, _postpaid, to any part of the United States and Canada on receipt of price. Catalogue sent on receipt of Ten Cents in postage stamps._ Published by HARPER & BROTHERS, New York. GARDEN AND FOREST: An Illustrated Weekly Journal of Horticulture, Landscape Art and Forestry. GARDEN AND FOREST will be devoted to Horticulture in all its branches, Garden Botany, Dendrology and Landscape Gardening, and will discuss Plant Diseases and Insects injurious to vegetation. Professor C. S. SARGENT, of Harvard College, will have general editorial control of GARDEN AND FOREST. Professor WM. G. FARLOW, of Harvard College, will have editorial charge of the Department of Cryptogamic Botany and Plant Diseases. Professor A. S. PACKARD, of Brown University, will have editorial charge of the Department of Entomology. Mr. WM. A. STILES will be the Managing Editor. GARDEN AND FOREST will record all noteworthy discoveries and all progress in science and practice within its field at home and abroad. It will place scientific information clearly and simply before the public, and make available for the instruction of all persons interested in garden plants the conclusions reached by the most trustworthy investigators. Arrangements have been made to figure and describe new and little-known plants (especially North American) of horticultural promise. A department will be devoted to the history and description of ornamental trees and shrubs. New florists' flowers, fruits and vegetables will be made known, and experienced gardeners will describe practical methods of cultivation. GARDEN AND FOREST will report the proceedings of the principal Horticultural Societies of the United States and the condition of the horticultural trade in the chief commercial centres of the country. GARDEN AND FOREST, in view of the growing taste for rural life, and of the multiplication of country residences in all parts of the United States, especially in the vicinity of the cities and of the larger towns, will make a special feature of discussing the planning and planting of private gardens and grounds, small and large, and will endeavor to assist all who desire to make their home surroundings attractive and artistic. It will be a medium of instruction for all persons interested in preserving and developing the beauty of natural scenery. It will co-operate with Village Improvement Societies and every other organized effort to secure the proper ordering and maintenance of parks and squares, cemeteries, railroad stations, school grounds and roadsides. It will treat of Landscape Gardening in all its phases; reviewing its history and discussing its connection with architecture. GARDEN AND FOREST will give special attention to scientific and practical Forestry in their various departments, including Forest Conservation and economic Tree Planting, and to all the important questions which grow out of the intimate relation of the forests of the country to its climate, soil, water supply and material development. Original information on all these subjects will be furnished by numerous American and foreign correspondents. Among those who have promised contributions to GARDEN AND FOREST are: Mr. SERENO WATSON, Curator of the Herbarium, Harvard College. Prof. GEO. L. GOODALE, Harvard College. " WOLCOTT GIBBS, " " WM. H. BREWER, Yale College. " D. G. EATON, " " WM. J. BEAL, Agricultural College of Michigan. " L. H. BAILEY, Jr., " " J. L. BUDD, Agricultural College of Iowa. " B. D. HALSTED, " " " " E. W. HILGARD, University of California. " J. T. ROTHROCK, University of Pennsylvania. " CHAS. E. BESSEY, University of Nebraska. " WM. TRELEASE, Shaw School of Botany, St. Louis. " T. J. BURRILL, University of Illinois. " W. W. BAILEY, Brown University. " E. A. POPENOE, Agricultural College, Kansas. " RAPHAEL PUMPELLY. United States Geological Survey. " JAMES H. GARDINER, Director New York State Survey. " WM. R. LAZENBY, Director of the Ohio Agricultural Experiment Station. " W. W. TRACY, Detroit, Mich. " C. V. RILEY, Washington, D. C. Mr. DONALD G. MITCHELL, New Haven, Conn. " FRANK J. SCOTT, Toledo, O. Hon. ADOLPHE LEUÉ, Secretary of the Ohio Forestry Bureau. " B. G. NORTHROP, Clinton, Conn. Mr. G. W. HOTCHKISS, Secretary of the Lumber Manufacturers' Association. Dr. C. L. ANDERSON, Santa Cruz, Cal. Mr. FREDERICK LAW OLMSTED, Brookline, Mass. " FRANCIS PARKMAN, Boston. Dr. C. C. PARRY, San Francisco. Mr. PROSPER J. BERCKMANS, President of the American Pomological Society. " CHARLES A. DANA, New York. " BURNET LANDRETH, Philadelphia. " ROBERT RIDGEWAY, Washington, D. C. " CALVERT VAUX, New York. " J. B. HARRISON, Franklin Falls, N. H. Dr. HENRY P. WALCOTT, President of the Massachusetts Horticultural Society. Mr. C. G. PRINGLE, Charlotte, Vt. " ROBERT DOUGLAS, Waukegan, Ill. " H. W. S. CLEVELAND, Minneapolis, Minn. " CHAS. W. GARFIELD, Secretary of the American Pomological Society. " C. R. ORCUTT, San Diego, Cal. " B. E. FERNOW, Chief of the Forestry Division, Washington, D. C. " JOHN BIRKENBINE, Secretary of the Pennsylvania Forestry Association. " JOSIAH HOOPES, West Chester, Pa. " PETER HENDERSON, New York. " WM. FALCONER, Glen Cove, N. Y. " JACKSON DAWSON, Jamaica Plain, Mass. " WM. H. HALL, State Engineer, Sacramento, Cal. " C. C. CROZIER, Department of Agriculture, Washington, D. C. The Rev. E. P. ROE, Cornwall, N. Y. Dr. C. C. ABBOTT, Trenton, N. J. Mrs. SCHUYLER VAN RENSSELAER, New York. " MARY TREAT, Vineland, N. J. Dr. KARL MOHR, Mobile, Ala. Hon. J. B. WALKER, Forest Commissioner of New Hampshire. Mr. WM. HAMILTON GIBSON, Brooklyn, N. Y. " EDGAR T. ENSIGN, Forest Commissioner of Colorado. " E. S. CARMAN, Editor of the _Rural New Yorker_. " WM. M. CANBY. Wilmington, Del. " JOHN ROBINSON, Salem, Mass. " J. D. LYMAN, Exeter, N. H. " SAMUEL PARSONS, Jr., Superintendent of Central Park, N. Y. " WM. MCMILLAN, Superintendent of Parks, Buffalo. N. Y. " SYLVESTER BAXTER, Boston. " CHARLES ELIOT, Boston. " JOHN THORPE, Secretary of the New York Horticultural Society. " EDWIN LONSDALE, Secretary of the Philadelphia Horticultural Society. " ROBERT CRAIG, President of the Philadelphia Florists' Club. " SAMUEL B. PARSONS, Flushing, N. Y. " GEORGE ELLWANGER, Rochester. " P. H. BARRY, Rochester. " W. J. STEWART, Boston, Mass. " W. A. MANDA, Botanic Gardens, Cambridge, Mass. " DAVID ALLAN, Mount Vernon, Mass. " WM. ROBINSON, North Easton, Mass. " A. H. FEWKES, Newton Highlands, Mass. " F. GOLDRING, Kenwood, N. Y. " C. M. ATKINSON, Brookline, Mass. * * * * * Dr. MAXWELL T. MASTERS, Editor of the Gardener's Chronicle. Mr. GEO. NICHOLSON, Curator of the Royal Gardens, Kew. " W. B. HEMSLEY, Herbarium, Royal Gardens, Kew. " WM. GOLDRING, London. Mr. MAX LEICHTLIN, Baden Baden. M. EDOUARD ANDRÉ, Editor of the Revue Horticole, Paris, France. Dr. G. M. DAWSON, Geological Survey of Canada. Prof. JOHN MACOUN, " " " M. CHARLES NAUDIN, Director of the Gardens of The Villa Thuret, Antibes. Dr. CHAS. BOLLE, Berlin. M. J. ALLARD, Angers, Maine & Loire, France. Dr. H. MAYE, University of Tokio, Japan. Prof. D. P. PENHALLOW, Director of the Botanical Gardens, Montreal. Mr. WM. SAUNDERS, Director of the Agricultural Experiment Station, Ontario. " WM. LITTLE, Montreal. Single numbers, 10 cents. Subscription price, Four Dollars a year, in advance. THE GARDEN AND FOREST PUBLISHING CO., Limited, D. A. MUNRO, _Manager_. TRIBUNE BUILDING, NEW YORK GARDEN AND FOREST. PUBLISHED WEEKLY BY THE GARDEN AND FOREST PUBLISHING CO. [LIMITED.] OFFICE: TRIBUNE BUILDING, NEW YORK. Conducted by Professor C. S. SARGENT. ENTERED AS SECOND-CLASS MATTER AT THE POST OFFICE AT NEW YORK, N. Y. NEW YORK, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 29, 1888. TABLE OF CONTENTS. PAGE. EDITORIAL ARTICLES:--Asa Gray. The Gardener's Monthly. The White Pine in Europe 1 The Forests of the White Mountain _Francis Parkman._ 2 Landscape Gardening.--A Definition _Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer._ 2 Floriculture in the United States _Peter Henderson._ 2 How to Make a Lawn _Professor W. J. Beal._ 3 Letter from London _W. Goldring._ 4 A New Departure in Chrysanthemums _A. H. Fewkes._ 5 New Plants from Afghanistan _Max Leichtlin._ 6 Iris Tenuis, with figure _Sereno Watson._ 6 Hardy Shrubs for Forcing _Wm. Falconer._ 6 Plant Notes _C. C. Pringle; Professor W. Trelease._ 7 Wire Netting for Tree Guards _A. A. Crozier._ 7 Artificial Water, with Illustration 8 Some New Roses _Edwin Lonsdale._ 8 Two Ferns and Their Treatment _F. Goldring._ 9 Timely Hints about Bulbs _John Thorpe._ 9 ENTOMOLOGY: Arsenical Poisons in the Orchard _Professor A. S. Packard._ 9 THE FOREST: The White Pine in Europe _Professor H. Mayr._ 10 European Larch in Massachusetts 11 Thinning Pine Plantations _B. E. Fernow._ 11 BOOK REVIEWS: Gray's Elements of Botany _Professor G. L. Goodale._ 11 Kansas Forest Trees _Professor G. L. Goodale._ 12 PUBLIC WORKS:--The Falls of Minnehaha--A Park for Wilmington 12 FLOWER MARKETS:--New York--Philadelphia--Boston 12 * * * * * Asa Gray. The whole civilized world is mourning the death of Asa Gray with a depth of feeling and appreciation perhaps never accorded before to a scholar and man of science. To the editors of this Journal the loss at the very outset of their labors is serious indeed. They lose a wise and sympathetic adviser of great experience and mature judgment to whom they could always have turned with entire freedom and in perfect confidence; and they lose a contributor whose vast stores of knowledge and graceful pen might, it was reasonable to hope, have long enriched their columns. The career of Asa Gray is interesting from many points of view. It is the story of the life of a man born in humble circumstances, without the advantages of early education, without inherited genius--for there is no trace in his yeoman ancestry of any germ of intellectual greatness--who succeeded in gaining through native intelligence, industry and force of character, a position in the very front rank of the scientific men of his age. Among the naturalists who, since Linnæus, have devoted their lives to the description and classification of plants, four or five stand out prominently in the character and importance of their work. In this little group Asa Gray has fairly won for himself a lasting position. But he was something more than a mere systematist. He showed himself capable of drawing broad philosophical conclusions from the dry facts he collected and elaborated with such untiring industry and zeal. This power of comprehensive generalization he showed in his paper upon the "Characters of Certain New Species of Plants Collected in Japan" by Charles Wright, published nearly thirty years ago. Here he first pointed out the extraordinary similarity between the Floras of Eastern North America and Japan, and then explained the peculiar distribution of plants through the northern hemisphere by tracing their direct descent through geological eras from ancestors which flourished in the arctic regions down to the latest tertiary period. This paper was Professor Gray's most remarkable and interesting contribution to science. It at once raised him to high rank among philosophical naturalists and drew the attention of the whole scientific world to the Cambridge botanist. Asa Gray did not devote himself to abstract science alone; he wrote as successfully for the student as for the professional naturalist. His long list of educational works have no equals in accuracy and in beauty and compactness of expression. They have had a remarkable influence upon the study of botany in this country during the half century which has elapsed since the first of the series appeared. Botany, moreover, did not satisfy that wonderful intellect, which hard work only stimulated but did not weary, and one of Asa Gray's chief claims to distinction is the prominent and commanding position he took in the great intellectual and scientific struggle of modern times, in which, almost alone and single handed he bore in America the brunt of the disbelief in the Darwinian theory shared by most of the leading naturalists of the time. But the crowning labor of Asa Gray's life was the preparation of a descriptive work upon the plants of North America. This great undertaking occupied his attention and much of his time during the last forty years of his life. Less fortunate than his greatest botanical contemporary, George Bentham, who turned from the last page of corrected proof of his work upon the genera of plants to the bed from which he was never to rise again, Asa Gray's great work is left unfinished. The two volumes of the "Synoptical Flora of North America" will keep his memory green, however, as long as the human race is interested in the study of plants. But his botanical writings and his scientific fame are not the most valuable legacy which Asa Gray has left to the American people. More precious to us is the example of his life in this age of grasping materialism. It is a life that teaches how industry and unselfish devotion to learning can attain to the highest distinction and the most enduring fame. Great as were his intellectual gifts, Asa Gray was greatest in the simplicity of his character and in the beauty of his pure and stainless life. * * * * * It is with genuine regret that we read the announcement of the discontinuance of the _Gardener's Monthly_. It is like reading of the death of an old friend. Ever since we have been interested in the cultivation of flowers we have looked to the _Monthly_ for inspiration and advice, and its pages have rarely been turned without finding the assistance we stood in need of. But, fortunately, the _Gardener's Monthly_, and its modest and accomplished editor, Mr. Thomas Meehan, were one and the same thing. It is Mr. Meehan's long editorial experience, high character, great learning and varied practical knowledge, which made the _Gardener's Monthly_ what it was. These, we are happy to know, are not to be lost to us, as Mr. Meehan will, in a somewhat different field and with new associates, continue to delight and instruct the horticultural public. Americans who visit Europe cannot fail to remark that in the parks and pleasure grounds of the Continent no coniferous tree is more graceful when young or more dignified at maturity than our White Pine. The notes of Dr. Mayr, of the Bavarian Forest Academy, in another column, testify that it holds a position of equal importance as a forest tree for economic planting. It thrives from Northern Germany to Lombardy, corresponding with a range of climate in this country from New England to Northern Georgia. It needs bright sunshine, however, and perhaps it is for lack of this that so few good specimens are seen in England. It was among the first of our trees to be introduced there, but it has been universally pronounced an indifferent grower. The Forests of the White Mountains. New Hampshire is not a peculiarly wealthy State, but it has some resources scarcely equaled by those of any of its sisters. The White Mountains, though worth little to the farmer, are a piece of real estate which yields a sure and abundant income by attracting tourists and their money; and this revenue is certain to increase, unless blind mismanagement interposes. The White Mountains are at present unique objects of attraction; but they may easily be spoiled, and the yearly tide of tourists will thus be turned towards other points of interest whose owners have had more sense and foresight. These mountains owe three-fourths of their charms to the primeval forest that still covers them. Speculators have their eyes on it, and if they are permitted to work their will the State will find a most productive piece of property sadly fallen in value. If the mountains are robbed of their forests they will become like some parts of the Pyrenees, which, though much higher, are without interest, because they have been stripped bare. The forests of the White Mountains have a considerable commercial value, and this value need not be sacrificed. When lumber speculators get possession of forests they generally cut down all the trees and strip the land at once, with an eye to immediate profit. The more conservative, and, in the end, the more profitable management, consists in selecting and cutting out the valuable timber when it has matured, leaving the younger growth for future use. This process is not very harmful to the landscape. It is practiced extensively in Maine, where the art of managing forests with a view to profit is better understood than elsewhere in this country. A fair amount of good timber may thus be drawn from the White Mountains, without impairing their value as the permanent source of a vastly greater income from the attraction they will offer to an increasing influx of tourists. At the same time the streams flowing from them, and especially the Pemigewasset, a main source of the Merrimac, will be saved from the alternate droughts and freshets to which all streams are exposed that take their rise in mountains denuded of forests. The subject is one of the last importance to the mill owners along these rivers. _F. Parkman._ Landscape Gardening.--A Definition. Some of the Fine Arts appeal to the ear, others to the eye. The latter are the Arts of Design, and they are usually named as three--Architecture, Sculpture and Painting. A man who practices one of these in any of its branches is an artist; other men who work with forms and colors are at the best but artisans. This is the popular belief. But in fact there is a fourth art which has a right to be rated with the others, which is as fine as the finest, and which demands as much of its professors in the way of creative power and executive skill as the most difficult. This is the art whose purpose it is to create beautiful compositions upon the surface of the ground. The mere statement of its purpose is sufficient to establish its rank. It is the effort to produce organic beauty--to compose a beautiful whole with a number of related parts--which makes a man an artist; neither the production of a merely useful organism nor of a single beautiful detail suffices. A clearly told story or a single beautiful word is not a work of art--only a story told in beautifully connected words. A solidly and conveniently built house, if it is nothing more, is not a work of architecture, nor is an isolated stone, however lovely in shape and surface. A delightful tint, a graceful line, does not make a picture; and though the painter may reproduce ugly models he must put some kind of beauty into the reproduction if it is to be esteemed above any other manufactured article--if not beauty of form, then beauty of color or of meaning or at least of execution. Similarly, when a man disposes the surface of the soil with an eye to crops alone he is an agriculturist; when he grows plants for their beauty as isolated objects he is a horticulturist; but when he disposes ground and plants together to produce organic beauty of effect, he is an artist with the best. Yet though all the fine arts are thus akin in general purpose they differ each from each in many ways. And in the radical differences which exist between the landscape-gardener's and all the others we find some reasons why its affinity with them is so commonly ignored. One difference is that it uses the same materials as nature herself. In what is called "natural" gardening it uses them to produce effects which under fortunate conditions nature might produce without man's aid. Then, the better the result, the less likely it is to be recognized as an artificial--artistic--result. The more perfectly the artist attains his aim, the more likely we are to forget that he has been at work. In "formal" gardening, on the other hand, nature's materials are disposed and treated in frankly unnatural ways; and then--as a more or less intelligent love for natural beauty is very common to-day, and an intelligent eye for art is rare--the artist's work is apt to be resented as an impertinence, denied its right to its name, called a mere contorting and disfiguring of his materials. Again, the landscape-gardener's art differs from all others in the unstable character of its productions. When surfaces are modeled and plants arranged, nature and the artist must work a long time together before the true result appears; and when once it has revealed itself, day to day attention will be forever needed to preserve it from the deforming effects of time. It is easy to see how often neglect or interference must work havoc with the best intentions, how often the passage of years must travesty or destroy the best results, how rare must be the cases in which a work of landscape art really does justice to its creator. Still another thing which affects popular recognition of the art as such is our lack of clearly understood terms by which to speak of it and of those who practice it. "Gardens" once meant pleasure-grounds of every kind and "gardener" then had an adequately artistic sound. But as the significance of the one term has been gradually specialized, so the other has gradually come to denote a mere grower of plants. "Landscape gardener" was a title first used by the artists of the eighteenth century to mark the new tendency which they represented--the search for "natural" as opposed to "formal" beauty; and it seemed to them to need an apology as savoring, perhaps, of grandiloquence or conceit. But as taste declined in England it was assumed by men who had not the slightest right, judged either by their aims or by their results, to be considered artists; and to-day it is fallen into such disesteem that it is often replaced by "landscape architect." This title has French usage to support it and is in many respects a good one. But its correlative--"landscape architecture"--is unsatisfactory; and so, on the other hand, is "landscape artist," though "landscape art" is an excellent generic term. Perhaps the best we can do is to keep to "landscape gardener," and try to remember that it ought always to mean an artist and an artist only. _M. G. van Rensselaer._ Floriculture in the United States. At the beginning of the present century, it is not probable that there were 100 florists in the United States, and their combined green-house structures could not have exceeded 50,000 square feet of glass. There are now more than 10,000 florists distributed through every State and Territory in the Union and estimating 5,000 square feet of glass to each, the total area would be 50,000,000 feet, or about 1,000 acres of green-houses. The value of the bare structures, with heating apparatus, at 60 cents per square foot would be $30,000,000, while the stock of plants grown in them would not be less than twice that sum. The present rate of growth in the business is about 25% per annum, which proves that it is keeping well abreast of our most flourishing industries. The business, too, is conducted by a better class of men. No longer than thirty years ago it was rare to find any other than a foreigner engaged in commercial floriculture. These men had usually been private gardeners, who were mostly uneducated, and without business habits. But to-day, the men of this calling compare favorably in intelligence and business capacity with any mercantile class. Floriculture has attained such importance that it has taken its place as a regular branch of study in some of our agricultural colleges. Of late years, too, scores of young men in all parts of the country have been apprenticing themselves to the large establishments near the cities, and already some of these have achieved a high standing; for the training so received by a lad from sixteen to twenty, better fits him for the business here than ten years of European experience, because much of what is learned there would prove worse than useless here. The English or German florist has here to contend with unfamiliar conditions of climate and a manner of doing business that is novel to him. Again he has been trained to more deliberate methods of working, and when I told the story a few years ago of a workman who had potted 10,000 cuttings in two inch pots in ten consecutive hours, it was stigmatized in nearly every horticultural magazine in Europe as a piece of American bragging. As a matter of fact this same workman two years later, potted 11,500 plants in ten hours, and since then several other workmen have potted plants at the rate of a thousand per hour all day long. Old world conservatism is slow to adopt improvements. The practice of heating by low pressure steam will save in labor, coal and construction one-fifth of the expense by old methods, and nearly all the large green-house establishments in this country, whether private or commercial, have been for some years furnished with the best apparatus. But when visiting London, Edinburgh and Paris in 1885, I neither saw nor heard of a single case where steam had been used for green-house heating. The stress of competition here has developed enterprise, encouraged invention and driven us to rapid and prudent practice, so that while labor costs at least twice as much as it does in Europe, our prices both at wholesale and retail, are lower. And yet I am not aware that American florists complain that their profits compare unfavorably with those of their brethren over the sea. Commercial floriculture includes two distinct branches, one for the production of flowers and the other for the production of plants. During the past twenty years the growth in the flower department of the business has outstripped the growth of the plant department. The increase in the sale of Rosebuds in winter is especially noteworthy. At the present time it is safe to say that one-third of the entire glass structures in the United States are used for this purpose; many large growers having from two to three acres in houses devoted to Roses alone, such erections costing from $50,000 to $100,000 each, according to the style in which they are built. More cut flowers are used for decoration in the United States than in any other country, and it is probable that there are more flowers sold in New York than in London with a population four times as great. In London and Paris, however, nearly every door-yard and window of city and suburb show the householder's love for plants, while with us, particularly in the vicinity of New York (Philadelphia and Boston are better), the use of living plants for home decoration is far less general. There are fashions in flowers, and they continually change. Thirty years ago thousands of Camellia flowers were retailed in the holiday season for $1 each, while Rosebuds would not bring a dime. Now, many of the fancy Roses sell at $1 each, while Camellia flowers go begging at ten cents. The Chrysanthemum is now rivaling the Rose, as well it may, and no doubt every decade will see the rise and fall of some floral favorite. But beneath these flitting fancies is the substantial and unchanging love of flowers that seems to be an original instinct in man, and one that grows in strength with growing refinement. Fashion may now and again condemn one flower or another, but the fashion of neglecting flowers altogether will never prevail, and we may safely look forward in the expectation of an ever increasing interest and demand, steady improvement in methods of cultivation, and to new and attractive developments in form, color and fragrance. _Peter Henderson._ How to Make a Lawn. "A smooth, closely shaven surface of grass is by far the most essential element of beauty on the grounds of a suburban home." This is the language of Mr. F. J. Scott, and it is equally true of other than suburban grounds. A good lawn then is worth working for, and if it have a substantial foundation, it will endure for generations, and improve with age. We take it for granted that the drainage is thorough, for no one would build a dwelling on water soaked land. No labor should be spared in making the soil deep, rich and fine in the full import of the words, as this is the stock from which future dividends of joy and satisfaction are to be drawn. Before grading, one should read that chapter of Downing's on "The Beauty in Ground." This will warn against terracing or leveling the whole surface, and insure a contour with "gentle curves and undulations," which is essential to the best effects. If the novice has read much of the conflicting advice in books and catalogues, he is probably in a state of bewilderment as to the kind of seed to sow. And when that point is settled it is really a difficult task to secure pure and living seeds of just such species as one orders. Rarely does either seller or buyer know the grasses called for, especially the finer and rarer sorts; and more rarely still does either know their seeds. The only safe way is to have the seeds tested by an expert. Mr. J. B. Olcott, in a racy article in the "Report of the Connecticut Board of Agriculture for 1886," says, "Fifteen years ago nice people were often sowing timothy, red top and clover for door-yards, and failing wretchedly with lawn-making, while seedsmen and gardeners even disputed the identity of our June grass and Kentucky blue-grass." We have passed beyond that stage of ignorance, however; and to the question what shall we sow, Mr. Olcott replies: "Rhode Island bent and Kentucky blue-grass are their foolish trade names, for they belong no more to Kentucky or Rhode Island than to other Northern States. Two sorts of fine _Agrostis_ are honestly sold under the trade name of Rhode Island bent, and, as trade goes, we may consider ourselves lucky if we get even the coarser one. The finest--a little the finest--_Agrostis canina_--is a rather rare, valuable, and elegant grass, which should be much better known by grass farmers, as well as gardeners, than it is. These are both good lawn as well as pasture grasses." The grass usually sold as Rhode Island bent is _Agrostis vulgaris_, the smaller red top of the East and of Europe. This makes an excellent lawn. _Agrostis canina_ has a short, slender, projecting awn from one of the glumes; _Agrostis vulgaris_ lacks this projecting awn. In neither case have we in mind what Michigan and New York people call red top. This is a tall, coarse native grass often quite abundant on low lands, botanically _Agrostis alba_. Sow small red top or Rhode Island bent, and June grass (Kentucky blue grass, if you prefer that name), _Poa pratensis_. If in the chaff, sow in any proportion you fancy, and in any quantity up to four bushels per acre. If evenly sown, less will answer, but the thicker it is sown the sooner the ground will be covered with fine green grass. We can add nothing else that will improve this mixture, and either alone is about as good as both. A little white clover or sweet vernal grass or sheep's fescue may be added, if you fancy them, but they will not improve the appearance of the lawn. Roll the ground after seeding. Sow the seeds in September or in March or April, and under no circumstance yield to the advice to sow a little oats or rye to "protect the young grass." Instead of protecting, they will rob the slender grasses of what they most need. Now wait a little. Do not be discouraged if some ugly weeds get the start of the numerous green hairs which slowly follow. As soon as there is any thing to be cut, of weeds or grass, mow closely, and mow often, so that nothing need be raked from the ground. As Olcott puts it, "Leave one crop where it belongs for home consumption. The rains will wash the soluble substance of the wilted grass into the earth to feed the growing roots." During succeeding summers as the years roll on, the lawn should be perpetually enriched by the leaching of the short leaves as they are often mown. Neither leave a very short growth nor a very heavy growth for winter. Experience alone must guide the owner. If cut too closely, some of it may be killed or start too late in spring; if left too high during winter, the dead long grass will be hard to cut in spring and leave the stubble unsightly. After passing through one winter the annual weeds will have perished and leave the grass to take the lead. Perennial weeds should be faithfully dug out or destroyed in some way. Every year, add a top dressing of some commercial fertilizer or a little finely pulverized compost which may be brushed in. No one will disfigure his front yard with coarse manure spread on the lawn for five months of the year. If well made, a lawn will be a perpetual delight as long as the proprietor lives, but if the soil is thin and poor, or if the coarser grasses and clovers are sown instead of those named, he will be much perplexed, and will very likely try some expensive experiments, and at last plow up, properly fit the land and begin over again. This will make the cost and annoyance much greater than at first, because the trees and shrubs have already filled many portions of the soil. A small piece, well made and well kept, will give more satisfaction than a larger plot of inferior turf. _W. J. Beal._ Horticultural Exhibitions in London. At a late meeting of the floral committee of the Royal Horticultural Society at South Kensington among many novelties was a group of seedling bulbous Calanthes from the garden of Sir Trevor Lawrence, who has devoted much attention to these plants and has raised some interesting hybrids. About twenty kinds were shown, ranging in color from pure white to deep crimson. The only one selected for a first-class certificate was _C. sanguinaria_, with flowers similar in size and shape to those of _C. Veitchii_, but of an intensely deep crimson. It is the finest yet raised, surpassing _C. Sedeni_, hitherto unequaled for richness of color. The pick of all these seedlings would be _C. sanguinaria_, _C. Veitchii splendens_, _C. lactea_, _C. nivea_, and _C. porphyrea_. The adjectives well describe the different tints of each, and they will be universally popular when once they find their way into commerce. CYPRIPEDIUM LEEANUM MACULATUM, also shown by Sir Trevor Lawrence, is a novelty of sterling merit. The original _C. Leeanum_, which is a cross between _C. Spicerianum_ and _C. insigne Maulei_, is very handsome, but this variety eclipses it, the dorsal sepal of the flower being quite two and one-half inches broad, almost entirely white, heavily and copiously spotted with purple. It surpasses also _C. Leeanum superbum_, which commands such high prices. I saw a small plant sold at auction lately for fifteen guineas and the nursery price is much higher. LÆLIA ANCEPS SCHR[OE]DERÆ, is the latest addition to the now very numerous list of varieties of the popular _L. anceps_. This new form, to which the committee with one accord gave a first class certificate, surpasses in my opinion all the colored varieties, with the possible exception of the true old Barkeri. The flowers are of the average size and ordinary form. The sepals are rose pink, the broad sepals very light, almost white in fact, while the labellum is of the deepest and richest velvety crimson imaginable. The golden tipped crest is a veritable beauty spot, and the pale petals act like a foil to show off the splendor of the lip. TWO NEW FERNS of much promise received first class certificates. One named _Pteris Claphamensis_ is a chance seedling and was found growing among a lot of other sporelings in the garden of a London amateur. As it partakes of the characters of both _P. tremula_ and _P. serrulata_, old and well known ferns, it is supposed to be a natural cross between these. The new plant is of tufted growth, with a dense mass of fronds about six inches long, elegantly cut and gracefully recurved on all sides of the pot. It is looked upon by specialists as just the sort of plant that will take in the market. The other certificated fern, _Adiantum Reginæ_, is a good deal like _A. Victoriæ_ and is supposed to be a sport from it. But _A. Reginæ_, while it has broad pinnæ of a rich emerald green like _A. Victoriæ_, has fronds from nine to twelve inches long, giving it a lighter and more elegant appearance. I don't know that the Victoria Maidenhair is grown in America yet, but I am sure those who do floral decorating will welcome it as well as the newer _A. Reginæ_. A third Maidenhair of a similar character is _A. rhodophyllum_ and these form a trio that will become the standard kinds for decorating. The young fronds of all three are of a beautiful coppery red tint, the contrast of which with the emerald green of the mature fronds is quite charming. They are warm green-house ferns and of easy culture, and are supposed to be hybrid forms of the old _A. scutum_. _Nerine Mansellii_, a new variety of the Guernsey Lily, was one of the loveliest flowers at the show. From the common Guernsey Lily it differs only in color of the flowers. These have crimpled-edged petals of clear rose tints; and the umbel of flowers is fully six inches across, borne on a stalk eighteen inches high. These Guernsey Lilies have of recent years come into prominence in English gardens since so many beautiful varieties have been raised, and as they flower from September onward to Christmas they are found to be indispensable for the green-house, and indoor decoration. The old _N. Fothergillii major_, with vivid scarlet-crimson flowers and crystalline cells in the petals which sparkle in the sunlight like myriads of tiny rubies, remains a favorite among amateurs. Baron Schroeder, who has the finest collection in Europe, grows this one only in quantity. An entire house is filled with them, and when hundreds of spikes are in bloom at once, the display is singularly brilliant. A NEW VEGETABLE, a Japanese plant called Choro-Gi, belonging to the Sage family, was exhibited. Its botanical name is _Stachys tuberifera_ and it was introduced first to Europe by the Vilmorins of Paris under the name of _Crosnes du Japon_. The edible part of the plant is the tubers, which are produced in abundance on the tips of the wiry fibrous roots. These are one and a half inches long, pointed at both ends, and have prominent raised rings. When washed they are as white as celery and when eaten raw taste somewhat like Jerusalem artichokes, but when cooked are quite soft and possess the distinct flavor of boiled chestnuts. A dish of these tubers when cooked look like a mass of large caterpillars, but the Committee pronounced them excellent, and no doubt this vegetable will now receive attention from some of our enterprising seedsmen and may become a fashionable vegetable because new and unlike any common kind. The tubers were shown now for the first time in this country by Sir Henry Thompson, the eminent surgeon. The plant is herbaceous, dying down annually leaving the tubers, which multiply very rapidly. They can be dug at any time of the year, which is an advantage. The plant is perfectly hardy here and would no doubt be so in the United States, as it remains underground in winter. [A figure of this plant with the tubers appeared in the _Gardener's Chronicle_, January 7th, 1888.--ED.] PHALÆNOPSIS F. L. AMES, a hybrid moth orchid, the result of intercrossing _P. grandiflora_ of Lindley with _P. intermedia Portei_ (itself a natural hybrid between the little _P. rosea_ and _P. amabilis_), was shown at a later exhibition. The new hybrid is very beautiful. It has the same purplish green leaves as _P. amabalis_, but much narrower. The flower spikes are produced in the same way as those of _P. grandiflora_, and the flowers in form and size resemble those of that species, but the coloring of the labellum is more like that of its other parent. The sepals and petals are pure white, the latter being broadest at the lips. The labellum resembles that of _P. intermedia_, being three-lobed, the lateral lobes are erect, magenta purple in color and freckled. The middle or triangular lobe is of the same color as the lateral lobes, but pencilled with longitudinal lines of crimson, flushed with orange, and with the terminal cirrhi of a clear magenta. The column is pink, and the crest is adorned with rosy speckles. The Floral Committee unanimously awarded a first-class certificate of merit to the plant. A NEW LÆLIA named _L. Gouldiana_ has had an eventful history. The representative of Messrs. Sander, of St. Albans, the great orchid importers, while traveling in America saw it blooming in New York, in the collection of Messrs. Siebrecht & Wadley, and noting its distinctness and beauty bought the stock of it. The same week another new Lælia flowered in England and was sent up to one of the London auction rooms for sale. As it so answered the description of the American novelty which Messrs. Sander had just secured it was bought for the St. Albans collection, and now it turns out that the English novelty and the American novelty are one and the same thing, and a comparison of dates shows that they flowered on the same day, although in different hemispheres. As, however, it was first discovered in the United States, it is intended to call it an American orchid, and that is why Mr. Jay Gould has his name attached to it, In bulb and leaf the novelty closely resembles _L. albida_, and in flower both _L. anceps_ and _L. autumnalis_. The flowers are as large as those of an average form of _L. anceps_, the sepals are rather narrow, the petals as broad as those of _L._ _anceps Dawsoni_, and both petals and sepals are of a deep rose pink, intensified at the tips as if the color had collected there and was dripping out. The tip is in form between that of _L. anceps_ and _L. autumnalis_ and has the prominent ridges of the latter, while the color is a rich purple crimson. The black viscid pubescence, always seen on the ovary of _L. autumnalis_, is present on that of _L. Gouldiana_. The plants I saw in the orchid nursery at St. Albans lately, bore several spikes, some having three or four flowers. Those who have seen it are puzzled about its origin, some considering it a hybrid between _L. anceps_ and _L. autumnalis_, others consider it a distinct species and to the latter opinion I am inclined. Whatever its origin may be, it is certain we have a charming addition to midwinter flowering orchids. _W. Goldring._ London, February 1st. [Illustration: Fig. 1.--Chrysanthemum--Mrs. Alpheus Hardy.] A New Departure in Chrysanthemums. The Chrysanthemum of which the figure gives a good representation is one of a collection of some thirty varieties lately sent from Japan to the lady for whom it has been named, Mrs. Alpheus Hardy of Boston, by a young Japanese once a protégé of hers, but now returned as a teacher to his native country. As may be seen, it is quite distinct from any variety known in this country or Europe, and the Japanese botanist Miyabe, who saw it at Cambridge, pronounces it a radical departure from any with which he is acquainted. The photograph from which the engraving was made was taken just as the petals had begun to fall back from the centre, showing to good advantage the peculiarities of the variety. The flower is of pure white, with the firm, long and broad petals strongly incurved at the extremities. Upon the back or outer surface of this incurved portion will be found, in the form of quite prominent hairs, the peculiarity which makes this variety unique. [Illustration: Fig. 2.--Hair from Petal of Chrysanthemum, much enlarged. _a_--resin drop. _b_--epidermis of petal with wavy cells.] These hairs upon close examination are found to be a glandular outgrowth of the epidermis of the petals, multi-cellular in structure and with a minute drop of a yellow resinous substance at the tip. The cells at first conform to the wavy character of those of the epidermis, but gradually become prismatic with straight walls, as shown in the engraving of one of the hairs, which was made from a drawing furnished by Miss Grace Cooley, of the Department of Botany at Wellesley College, who made a microscopic investigation of them. This is one of those surprises that occasionally make their appearance from Japan. Possibly it is a chance seedling; but since one or two other specimens in the collection are striking in form, and others are distinguished for depth and purity of color, it is more probable that the best of them have been developed by careful selection. This Chrysanthemum was exhibited at the Boston Chrysanthemum Show last December by Edwin Fewkes & Son of Newton Highlands, Mass. _A. H. Fewkes._ New Plants from Afghanistan. ARNEBIA CORNUTA.--This is a charming novelty, an annual, native of Afghanistan. The little seedling with lancet-like hairy, dark green leaves, becomes presently a widely branching plant two feet in diameter and one and one-half feet high. Each branch and branchlet is terminated by a lengthening raceme of flowers. These are in form somewhat like those of an autumnal Phlox, of a beautiful deep golden yellow color, adorned and brightened up by five velvety black blotches. These blotches soon become coffee brown and lose more and more their color, until after three days they have entirely disappeared. During several months the plant is very showy, the fading flowers being constantly replaced by fresh expanding ones. Sown in April in the open border, it needs no care but to be thinned out and kept free from weeds. It must, however, have some soil which does not contain fresh manure. DELPHINIUM ZALIL.--This, also, is a native of Afghanistan, but its character, whether a biennial or perennial, is not yet ascertained. The Afghans call it Zalil and the plant or root is used for dyeing purposes. Some years ago we only knew blue, white and purple larkspurs, and then California added two species with scarlet flowers. The above is of a beautiful sulphur yellow, and, all in all, it is a plant of remarkable beauty. From a rosette of much and deeply divided leaves, rises a branched flower stem to about two feet; each branch and branchlet ending in a beautiful spike of flowers each of about an inch across and the whole spike showing all its flowers open at once. It is likely to become a first rate standard plant of our gardens. To have it in flower the very first year it must be sown very early, say in January, in seed pans, and transplanted later, when it will flower from the end of May until the end of July. Moreover, it can be sown during spring and summer in the open air to flower the following year. It is quite hardy here. _Max Leichtlin._ Baden-Baden. Iris tenuis.[1] This pretty delicate species of Iris, Fig. 3, is a native of the Cascade Mountains of Northern Oregon. Its long branching rootstocks are scarcely more than a line in thickness, sending up sterile leafy shoots and slender stems about a foot high. The leaves are thin and pale green, rather taller than the stems, sword-shaped and half an inch broad or more. The leaves of the stem are bract-like and distant, the upper one or two subtending slender peduncles. The spathes are short, very thin and scarious, and enclose the bases of their rather small solitary flowers, which are "white, lightly striped and blotched with yellow and purple." The sepals and petals are oblong-spatulate, from a short tube, the sepals spreading, the shorter petals erect and notched. The peculiar habitat of this species doubtless accounts in good measure for its slender habit and mode of growth. Mr. L. F. Henderson, of Portland, Oregon, who discovered it in 1881, near a branch of the Clackamas River called Eagle Creek, about thirty miles from Portland, reports it as growing in the fir forests in broad mats, its very long rootstocks running along near the surface of the ground, just covered by moss or partly decayed fir-needles, with a light addition of soil. This also would indicate the need of special care and treatment in its cultivation. In May, 1884, Mr. Henderson took great pains to procure roots for the Botanic Garden at Cambridge, which were received in good order, but which did not survive the next winter. If taken up, however, later in the season or very early in the spring, it is probable that with due attention to soil and shade there would be little trouble in cultivating it successfully. The accompanying figure is from a drawing by Mr. C. E. Faxon. _Sereno Watson._ [Footnote 1: TENUIS. Watson, _Proc. Amer. Acad._, xvii, 380. Rootstock elongated, very slender (a line thick); leaves thin, ensiform, about equaling the stems, four to eight lines broad; stems scarcely a foot high, 2 or 3-flowered, with two or three bract-like leaves two or three inches long; lateral peduncles very slender, as long as the bracts; spathes scarious, an inch long; pedicels solitary, very short; flowers small, white marked with yellow and purple; tube two or three lines long; segments oblong-spatulate, the sepals spreading, one and one-half inches long, the petals shorter and emarginate; anthers as long as the filaments; styles with narrow entire crests; capsule oblong-ovate, obtuse, nine lines long.] Hardy Shrubs for Forcing. Shrubs for forcing should consist of early blooming kinds only. The plants should be stocky, young and healthy, well-budded and well-ripened, and in order to have first-class stock they should be grown expressly for forcing. For cut flower purposes only, we can lift large plants of Lilacs, Snowballs, Deutzias, Mock oranges and the like with all the ball of roots we can get to them and plant at once in forcing-houses. But this should not be done before New Year's. We should prepare for smaller plants some months ahead of forcing time. say in the preceding April or August, by lifting them and planting in small pots, tubs or boxes as can conveniently contain their roots, and we should encourage them to root well before winter sets in. Keep them out of doors and plunged till after the leaves drop off; then either mulch them where they are or bring them into a pit, shed or cool cellar, where there shall be no fear of their getting dry, or of having the roots fastened in by frost. Introduce them into the green-house in succession; into a cool green-house at first for a few weeks, then as they begin to start, into a warmer one. From the time they are brought into the green-house till the flowers begin to open give a sprinkling overhead twice a day with tepid water. When they have done blooming, if worth keeping over for another time, remove them to a cool house and thus gradually harden them off, then plant them out in the garden in May, and give them two years' rest. Shrubs to be forced for their cut flowers only should consist of such kinds as have flowers that look well and keep well after being cut. Among these are _Deutzia gracilis_, common Lilacs of various colors, _Staphyllea Colchica_, _Spiræa Cantonensis_ (_Reevesii_) single and double, the Guelder Rose, the Japanese Snowball and _Azalea mollis_. To these may be added some of the lovely double-flowering and Chinese apples, whose snowy or crimson-tinted buds and leafy twigs are very pretty. The several double-flowered forms of _Prunus triloba_ are also desirable, but a healthy stock is hard to get. _Andromeda floribunda_ and _A. Japonica_ set their flower buds the previous summer for the next year's flowers, and are, therefore, like the Laurestinus, easily forced into bloom after New Year's. Hardy and half-hardy Rhododendrons with very little forcing may be had in bloom from March. In addition to the above, for conservatory decoration we may introduce all manner of hardy shrubs. Double flowering peach and cherry trees are easily forced and showy while they last. Clumps of _Pyrus arbutifolia_ can easily be had in bloom in March, when their abundance of deep green leaves is an additional charm to their profusion of hawthorn-like flowers. The Chinese _Xanthoceras_ is extremely copious and showy, but of brief duration and ill-fitted for cutting. Bushes of yellow Broom and double-flowering golden Furze can easily be had after January. _Jasminum nudiflorum_ may be had in bloom from November till April, and Forsythia from January. They look well when trained up to pillars. The early-flowering Clematises may be used to capital advantage in the same way, from February onward. Although the Mahonias flower well, their foliage at blooming time is not always comely. Out-of-doors the American Red-bud makes a handsomer tree than does the Japanese one; but the latter is preferable for green-house work, as the flowers are bright and the smallest plants bloom. The Chinese Wistaria blooms as well in the green-house as it does outside; indeed, if we introduce some branches of an out-door plant into the green-house, we can have it in bloom two months ahead of the balance of the vine still left out-of-doors. Hereabout we grow Wistarias as standards, and they bloom magnificently. What a sight a big standard wistaria in the green-house in February would be! Among other shrubs may be mentioned Shadbush, African Tamarix, Daphne of sorts and Exochorda. We have also a good many barely hardy plants that may be wintered well in a cellar or cold pit, and forced into bloom in early spring. Among these are Japanese Privet, Pittosporum, Raphiolepis, Hydrangeas and the like. And for conservatory decoration we can also use with excellent advantage some of our fine-leaved shrubs, for instance our lovely Japanese Maples and variegated Box Elder. _Wm. Falconer._ Glen Cove, N. Y. [Illustration: Fig. 3.--Iris tenuis.--_See page 6._] Plant Notes. A HALF-HARDY BEGONIA.--When botanizing last September upon the Cordilleras of North Mexico some two hundred miles south of the United States Boundary, I found growing in black mould of shaded ledges--even in the thin humus of mossy rocks--at an elevation of 7,000 to 8,000 feet, a plant of striking beauty, which Mr. Sereno Watson identifies as _Begonia gracilis_, _HBK._, _var. Martiana_, _A. DC_. From a small tuberous root it sends up to a height of one to two feet a single crimson-tinted stem, which terminates in a long raceme of scarlet flowers, large for the genus and long enduring. The plant is still further embellished by clusters of Scarlet gemmæ in the axils of its leaves. Mr. Watson writes: "It was in cultivation fifty years and more ago, but has probably been long ago lost. It appears to be the most northern species of the genus, and should be the most hardy." Certainly the earth freezes and snows fall in the high region, where it is at home. NORTHERN LIMIT OF THE DAHLIA.--In the same district, and at the same elevation, I met with a purple flowered variety of _Dahlia coccinea_, _Cav._ It was growing in patches under oaks and pines in thin dry soil of summits of hills. In such exposed situations the roots must be subjected to some frost, as much certainly as under a light covering of leaves in a northern garden. The Dahlia has not before been reported, as I believe, from a latitude nearly so high. _C. G. Pringle._ CEANOTHUS is a North American genus, represented in the Eastern States by New Jersey Tea, and Red Root (_C. Americanus_ and _C. ovalus_), and in the West and South-west by some thirty additional species. Several of these Pacific Coast species are quite handsome and well worthy of cultivation where they will thrive. Some of the more interesting of them are figured in different volumes of the _Botanical Magazine_, from plants grown at Kew, and I believe that the genus is held in considerable repute by French gardeners. In a collection of plants made in Southern Oregon, last spring, by Mr. Thomas Howell, several specimens of _Ceanothus_ occur which are pretty clearly hybrids between _C. cuneatus_ and _C. prostratus_, two common species of the region. Some have the spreading habit of the latter, their flowers are of the bright blue color characteristic of that species, and borne on slender blue pedicels, in an umbel-like cluster. But while many of their leaves have the abrupt three-toothed apex of _C. prostratus_, all gradations can be found from this form to the spatulate, toothless leaves of _C. cuneatus_. Other specimens have the more rigid habit of the latter species, and their flowers are white or nearly so, on shorter pale pedicels, in usually smaller and denser clusters. On these plants the leaves are commonly those of _C. cuneatus_, but they pass into the truncated and toothed form proper to _C. prostratus_. According to Focke (_Pflanzenmischlinge_, 1881, p. 99), the French cross one or more of the blue-flowered Pacific Coast species on the hardier New Jersey Tea, a practice that may perhaps be worthy of trial by American gardeners. Have any of the readers of GARDEN AND FOREST ever met with spontaneous hybrids? _W. Trelease._ WIRE NETTING FOR TREE GUARDS.--On some of the street trees of Washington heavy galvanized wire netting is used to protect the bark from injury by horses. It is the same material that is used for enclosing poultry yards. It comes in strips five or six feet wide, and may be cut to any length required by the size of the tree. The edges are held in place by bending together the cut ends of the wires, and the whole is sustained by staples over the heavy wires at the top and bottom. This guard appears to be an effective protection and is less unsightly than any other of which I know, in fact it can hardly be distinguished at the distance of a few rods. It is certainly an improvement on the plan of white-washing the trunks, which has been extensively practiced here since the old guards were removed. _A. A. Crozier._ Artificial Water. One of the most difficult parts of a landscape gardener's work is the treatment of what our grandfathers called "pieces of water" in scenes where a purely natural effect is desired. The task is especially hard when the stream, pond or lake has been artificially formed; for then Nature's processes must be simulated not only in the planting but in the shaping of the shores. Our illustration partially reveals a successful effort of this sort--a pond on a country-seat near Boston. It was formed by excavating a piece of swamp and damming a small stream which flowed through it. In the distance towards the right the land lies low by the water and gradually rises as it recedes. Opposite us it forms little wooded promontories with grassy stretches between. Where we stand it is higher, and beyond the limits of the picture to the left it forms a high, steep bank rising to the lawn, on the further side of which stands the house. The base of these elevated banks and the promontories opposite are planted with thick masses of rhododendrons, which flourish superbly in the moist, peaty soil, protected, as they are, from drying winds by the trees and high ground. Near the low meadow a long stretch of shore is occupied by thickets of hardy azaleas. Beautiful at all seasons, the pond is most beautiful in June, when the rhododendrons are ablaze with crimson and purple and white, and when the yellow of the azalea-beds--discreetly separated from the rhododendrons by a great clump of low-growing willows--finds delicate continuation in the buttercups which fringe the daisied meadow. The lifted banks then afford particularly fortunate points of view; for as we look down upon the rhododendrons, we see the opposite shore and the water with its rich reflected colors as over the edge of a splendid frame. No accent of artificiality disturbs the eye despite the unwonted profusion of bloom and variety of color. All the plants are suited to their place and in harmony with each other; and all the contours of the shore are gently modulated and softly connected with the water by luxuriant growths of water plants. The witness of the eye alone would persuade us that Nature unassisted had achieved the whole result. But beauty of so suave and perfect a sort as this is never a natural product. Nature's beauty is wilder if only because it includes traces of mutation and decay which here are carefully effaced. Nature suggests the ideal beauty, and the artist realizes it by faithfully working out her suggestions. [Illustration: A Piece of Artificial Water.] Some New Roses. The following list comprises most of the newer Roses that have been on trial to any extent in and about Philadelphia during the present winter: PURITAN (H. T.) is one of Mr. Henry Bennett's seedlings, and perhaps excites more interest than any other. It is a cross between Mabel Morrison and Devoniensis, creamy white in color and a perpetual bloomer. Its flowers have not opened satisfactorily this winter. The general opinion seems to be that it requires more heat than is needed for other forcing varieties. Further trial will be required to establish its merit. METEOR (H. T., BENNETT.)--Some cultivators will not agree with me in classing this among hybrid Teas. In its manner of growth it resembles some Tea Roses, but its coloring and scanty production of buds in winter are indications that there is Hybrid Remontant blood in it. It retains its crimson color after being cut longer than any Rose we have, and rarely shows a tendency to become purple with age, as other varieties of this color are apt to do. For summer blooming under glass it will prove satisfactory. In winter its coloring is a rich velvety crimson, but as the sun gets stronger it assumes a more lively shade. MRS. JOHN LAING (H. R., BENNETT,) is a seedling from Francois Michelon, which it somewhat resembles in habit of growth and color of flower. It is a free bloomer out-of-doors in summer and forces readily in winter. Blooms of it have been offered for sale in the stores here since the first week in December. It is a soft shade of pink in color, with a delicate lilac tint. It promises to become a general favorite, as in addition to the qualities referred to, it is a free autumnal bloomer outside. For forcing it will be tried extensively next winter. PRINCESS BEATRICE (T., BENNETT,) was distributed for the first time in this country last autumn, but has so far been a disappointment in this city. But some lots arrived from Europe too late and misfortunes befell others, so that the trial can hardly be counted decisive, and we should not hastily condemn it. Some have admired it for its resemblance, in form of flower, to a Madame Cuisin, but its color is not just what we need. In shade it somewhat resembles Sunset, but is not so effective. It may, however, improve under cultivation, as some other Roses have done; so far as I know it has not been tried out-of-doors. PAPA GONTIER (H. B., NABONNAUD.)--This, though not properly a new rose, is on trial for the first time in this city. It has become a great favorite with growers, retailers and purchasers. In habit it is robust and free blooming, and in coloring, though similar to Bon Silene, is much deeper or darker. There seems to be a doubt in some quarters as to whether it blooms as freely as Bon Silene; personally, I think there is not much difference between the two. Gontier is a good Rose for outdoor planting. _Edwin Lonsdale._ Two Ferns and their Treatment. ADIANTUM FARLEYENSE.--This beautiful Maidenhair is supposed to be a subfertile, plumose form of _A. tenerum_, which much resembles it, especially in a young state. For decorative purposes it is almost unrivaled, whether used in pots or for trimming baskets of flowers or bouquets. It prefers a warm, moist house and delights in abundant water. We find it does best when potted firmly in a compost of two parts loam to one of peat, and with a good sprinkling of sifted coal ashes. In this compost it grows very strong, the fronds attaining a deeper green and lasting longer than when grown in peat. When the pots are filled with roots give weak liquid manure occasionally. This fern is propagated by dividing the roots and potting in small pots, which should be placed in the warmest house, where they soon make fine plants. Where it is grown expressly for cut fronds the best plan is to plant it out on a bench in about six inches of soil, taking care to give it plenty of water and heat, and it will grow like a weed. ACTINIOPTERIS RADIATA.--A charming little fern standing in a genus by itself. In form it resembles a miniature fan palm, growing about six inches in height. It is generally distributed throughout the East Indies. In cultivation it is generally looked upon as poor grower, but with us it grows as freely as any fern we have. We grow a lot to mix in with Orchids, as they do not crowd at all. We pot in a compost of equal parts loam and peat with a few ashes to keep it open, and grow in the warmest house, giving at all times abundance of water both at root and overhead. It grows very freely from spores, and will make good specimens in less than a year. It is an excellent Fern for small baskets. _F. Goldring._ Timely Hints About Bulbs. Spring flowering bulbs in-doors, such as the Dutch Hyacinths, Tulips and the many varieties of Narcissus, should now be coming rapidly into bloom. Some care is required to get well developed specimens. When first brought in from cold frames or wherever they have been stored to make roots, do not expose them either to direct sunlight or excessive heat. A temperature of not more than fifty-five degrees at night is warm enough for the first ten days, and afterwards, if they show signs of vigorous growth and are required for any particular occasion, they may be kept ten degrees warmer. It is more important that they be not exposed to too much light than to too much heat. Half the short stemmed Tulips, dumpy Hyacinths and blind Narcissus we see in the green-houses and windows of amateurs are the result of excessive light when first brought into warm quarters. Where it is not possible to shade bulbs without interfering with other plants a simple and effective plan is to make funnels of paper large enough to stand inside each pot and six inches high. These may be left on the pots night and day from the time the plants are brought in until the flower spike has grown above the foliage; indeed, some of the very finest Hyacinths cannot be had in perfection without some such treatment. Bulbous plants should never suffer for water when growing rapidly, yet on the other hand, they are easily ruined if allowed to become sodden. When in flower a rather dry and cool temperature will preserve them the longest. Of bulbs which flower in the summer and fall, Gloxinias and tuberous rooted Begonias are great favorites and easily managed. For early summer a few of each should be started at once--using sandy, friable soil. Six-inch pots, well drained, are large enough for the very largest bulbs, while for smaller even three-inch pots will answer. In a green-house there is no difficulty in finding just the place to start them. It must be snug, rather shady and not too warm. They can be well cared for, however, in a hot-bed or even a window, but some experience is necessary to make a success. Lilies, in pots, whether _L. candidum_ or _L. longiflorum_ that are desired to be in flower by Easter, should now receive every attention--their condition should be that the flower buds can be easily felt in the leaf heads. A temperature of fifty-five to sixty-five at night should be maintained, giving abundance of air on bright sunny days to keep them stocky. Green fly is very troublesome at this stage, and nothing is more certain to destroy this pest than to dip the plants in tobacco water which, to be effective, should be the color of strong tea. Occasional waterings of weak liquid manure will be of considerable help if the pots are full of roots. _J. Thorpe._ Entomology. Arsenical Poisons in the Orchard. As is well known, about fifty per cent. of the possible apple crop in the Western states is sacrificed each year to the codling moth, except in sections where orchardists combine to apply bands of straw around the trunks. But as is equally well known this is rather a troublesome remedy. At all events, in Illinois, Professor Forbes, in a bulletin lately issued from the office of the State Entomologist of Illinois, claims that the farmers of that state suffer an annual loss from the attacks of this single kind of insect of some two and three-quarters millions of dollars. As the results of two years' experiments in spraying the trees with a solution of Paris green, only once or twice in early spring, before the young apples had drooped upon their stems, there was a saving of about seventy-five per cent. of the apples. The Paris green mixture consisted of three-fourths of an ounce of the powder by weight, of a strength to contain 15.4 per cent. of metallic arsenic, simply stirred up in two and a half gallons of water. The tree was thoroughly sprayed with a hand force-pump, and with the deflector spray and solid jet-hose nozzle, manufactured in Lowell, Mass. The fluid was thrown in a fine mist-like spray, applied until the leaves began to drip. The trees were sprayed in May and early in June while the apples were still very small. It seems to be of little use to employ this remedy later in the season, when later broods of the moth appear, since the poison takes effect only in case it reaches the surface of the apple between the lobes of the calyx, and it can only reach this place when the apple is very small and stands upright on its stem, It should be added that spraying "after the apples have begun to hang downward is unquestionably dangerous," since even heavy winds and violent rains are not sufficient to remove the poison from the fruit at this season. At the New York Experimental station last year a certain number of trees were sprayed three times with Paris green with the result that sixty-nine per cent. of the apples were saved. It also seems that last year about half the damage that might have been done by the Plum weevil or curculio was prevented by the use of Paris green, which should be sprayed on the trees both early in the season, while the fruit is small, as well as later. The cost of this Paris green application, when made on a large scale, with suitable apparatus, only once or twice a year, must, says Mr. Forbes, fall below an average of ten cents a tree. The use of solutions of Paris green or of London purple in water, applied by spraying machines such as were invented and described in the reports of the national Department of Agriculture by the U. S. Entomologist and his assistants, have effected a revolution in remedies against orchard and forest insects. We expect to see them, in careful hands, tried with equal success in shrubberies, lawns and flower gardens. _A. S. Packard._ The Forest. The White Pine in Europe. The White Pine was among the very first American trees which came to Europe, being planted in the year 1705 by Lord Weymouth on his grounds in Chelsea. From that date, the tree has been cultivated in Europe under the name of Weymouth Pine; in some mountain districts of northern Bavaria, where it has become a real forest tree, it is called Strobe, after the Latin name _Pinus strobus_. After general cultivation as an ornamental tree in parks this Pine began to be used in the forests on account of its hardiness and rapid growth, and it is now not only scattered through most of the forests of Europe, but covers in Germany alone an area of some 300 acres in a dense, pure forest. Some of these are groves 120 years old, and they yield a large proportion of the seed demanded by the increasing cultivation of the tree in Europe. The White Pine has proved so valuable as a forest tree that it has partly overcome the prejudices which every foreign tree has to fight against. The tree is perfectly hardy, is not injured by long and severe freezing in winter, nor by untimely frosts in spring or autumn, which sometimes do great harm to native trees in Europe. On account of the softness of the leaves and the bark, it is much damaged by the nibbling of deer, but it heals quickly and throws up a new leader. The young plant can endure being partly shaded by other trees far better than any other Pine tree, and even seems to enjoy being closely surrounded, a quality that makes it valuable for filling up in young forests where the native trees, on account of their slow growth, could not be brought up at all. The White Pine is not so easily broken by heavy snowfall as the Scotch Pine, on account of the greater elasticity of its wood. The great abundance of soft needles falling from it every year better fits it for improving a worn-out soil than any European Pine, therefore the tree has been tried with success as a nurse for the ground in forest plantations of Oak, when the latter begin to be thinned out by nature, and grass is growing underneath them. And finally, all observations agree that the White Pine is a faster growing tree than any native Conifer in Europe, except, perhaps, the Larch. The exact facts about that point, taken from investigations on good soil in various parts of Germany, are as follows: Years. Height. Annual Growth During Last Decade. The White Pine at 20 reaches 7.5 meters. 37 centimeters " 30 " 12.5 " 50 " " 40 " 18.5 " 60 " " 50 " 22.5 " 40 " " 60 " 26.5 " 40 " " 70 " 28.5 " 20 " " 80 " 30.0 " 15 " " 90 " 32.0 " 20 " For comparison I add here the average growth on good soil, of the Scotch Pine, one of the most valuable and widely distributed timber trees of Europe. Years. Height. Annual Growth During Last Decade. The Scotch Pine at 20 reaches 7.3 meters. 36.5 centimeters " 30 " 11.6 " 43.0 " " 40 " 15.7 " 41.0 " " 50 " 19.4 " 37.0 " " 60 " 22.1 " 27.0 " " 70 " 24.0 " 22.0 " " 80 " 26.0 " 17.0 " " 90 " 27.5 " 15.0 " " 100 " 28.5 " 10.0 " " 120 " 30.0 " 7.5 " That is, the White Pine is ahead of its relative during its entire life and attains at 80 years a height which the Scotch Pine only reaches in 120 years. It appears then that the whole volume of wood formed within a certain period by an acre of White Pine forest is greater than that yielded by a forest of Scotch Pine within the same period. As far as reliable researches show, a forest of White Pine when seventy years old gives an annual increment of 3 cords of wood per acre. On the same area a forest of Scotch Pine increases every year by 2.4 cords on the best soil, 2 cords on medium soil, and 1.5 cords on poor soil. But notwithstanding the splendid qualities which distinguish the White Pine as a forest tree its wood has never been looked upon with favor in Europe. Many of those who are cultivating the White Pine for business seem to expect that they will raise a heavy and durable wood. These are the qualities prized in their own timber trees, and they seem to think that the White Pine must be so highly prized at home for the same qualities, when in fact it is the lightness and softness of the wood which are considered in America. It would seem also that some European planters believe that a Pine tree exists which will yield more and at the same time heavier wood than any other tree on the same area. It is a general rule that the amount of woody substance annually formed on the same soil does not vary in any great degree with the different kinds of trees. For instance, if we have good soil we may raise 2,200 lbs. per acre of woody substance every year, from almost any kind of timber tree. If we plant a tree forming a wood of low specific gravity, we get a large volume of wood, and this is the case with the White Pine. If we plant on the same ground an Oak tree, we will get small volume of wood, but the weight of the woody substance will be the same, that is, 2,200 pounds of absolutely dried wood per acre. It is remarkable that there is hardly any difference in the specific gravity of the wood of the White Pine grown in Europe and in its native country. I collected in Central Wisconsin wood-sections of a tall tree and compared the specific gravity with the wood of a full-grown tree of White Pine from a Bavarian forest. The average specific gravity of the Bavarian tree was 38.3. The average specific gravity of the American tree was 38.9. In both trees the specific gravity slightly increased from the base to the top. Professor Sargent gives 38 as the result of his numerous and careful investigations. I was much surprised that the thickness of the sap-wood varied much in favor of the Bavarian tree. The sap-wood measured in thickness: Of the Bavarian tree. Of the American tree. At the base 2.7 centimeters 9 centimeters. In the middle .4 " 6 " Within the crown .3 " 4 " I am inclined to believe that on account of the generally drier climate of America a greater amount of water, and, therefore, of water-conducting sap-wood, is necessary to keep the balance between the evaporation and transportation of the water. The wood of the White Pine is certainly better fitted for many purposes than any tree with which nature has provided Europe, and yet one can hardly expect it to easily overcome fixed habits and prejudices. It will devolve upon the more intelligent proprietors of wood-land in Europe to begin with the plantation of the White Pine on a large scale. No Conifer in Europe can be cultivated with so little care and risk as the White Pine; the frost does not injure the young plant, and the numerous insects invading the European trees during their whole life-time inflict but little harm. Subterranean parasites are thinning out the plantations to some extent, but in no dangerous way. _H. Mayr._ Tokio, Japan. ABIES AMABILIS.--Professor John Macoun detected this species during the past summer upon many of the mountains of Vancouver's Island where with _Tsuga Pattoniana_ it is common above 3,000 feet over the sea level. The northern distribution of this species as well as some other British Columbia trees is still a matter of conjecture. It has not been noticed north of the Fraser River, but it is not improbable that _Abies amabilis_ will be found to extend far to the north along some of the mountain ranges of the north-west coast. European Larch in Massachusetts. In 1876 the Trustees of the Massachusetts Society for the Promotion of Agriculture offered a premium for the best plantations of not less than five acres of European Larch. The conditions of the competition were that not less than 2,700 trees should be planted to the acre, and that only poor, worn-out land, or that unfit for agricultural purposes, be used in these plantations. The prize was to be awarded at the end of ten years. The committee appointed to award the prize were C. S. Sargent and John Lowell. The ten years having expired, this Committee lately made the following report: Mr. James Lawrence, of Groton, and Mr. J. D. W. French, of North Andover, made plantations during the spring of 1877 in competition for this prize. Mr. Lawrence, however, at the end of one year withdrew from the contest, and Mr. French is the only competitor. Your Committee have visited his plantation at different times during the past ten years, and have now made their final inspection. The plantation occupies a steep slope facing the South and covered with a thin coating of gravelly loam largely mixed towards the bottom of the hill with light sand. This field in 1877 was a fair sample of much of the hillside pasture land of the eastern part of the State. It had been early cleared, no doubt, of trees, and the light surface soil practically exhausted by cultivation. It was then used as a pasture, producing nothing but the scantiest growth of native Grasses and Sedges with a few stunted Pitch Pines. Land of this character has no value for tillage, and has practically little value for pasturage. Upon five acres of this land Mr. French planted fifteen thousand European Larch. The trees were one foot high, and were set in the sod four feet apart each way, except along the boundary of the field, where the plantation was made somewhat thicker. The cost of the plantation, as furnished by Mr. French, has been as follows: 15,000 Larch (imported), $108 50 Fencing, 20 81 Surveying, 6 00 Labor, 104 69 ------- Total, $240 00 This, with compound interest at five per cent. for ten years, makes the entire cost to date of the plantation of five acres, $390.90. The Trees for several years grew slowly and not very satisfactorily. Several lost their leaders, and in various parts of the plantation small blocks failed entirely. The trees, however, have greatly improved during the last four years, and the entire surface of the ground is now, with one or two insignificant exceptions, sufficiently covered. There appear to be from 10,000 to 12,000 larch trees now growing on the five acres. The largest tree measured is 25 feet high, with a trunk 26 inches in circumference at the ground, There are several specimens of this size at least, and it is believed that all the trees, including many which have not yet commenced to grow rapidly or which have been overcrowded and stunted by their more vigorous neighbors, will average 12 feet in height, with trunks 10 to 12 inches in circumference at the ground. Many individuals have increased over four feet in height during the present year. It is interesting to note as an indication of what Massachusetts soil of poor quality is capable of producing, that various native trees have appeared spontaneously in the plantation since animals were excluded from this field. Among these are White Pines 6 to 8 feet high, Pitch Pines 14 feet high, a White Oak 15 feet high and a Gray Birch 17 feet high. The Trustees offered this prize in the belief that it would cause a plantation to be made capable of demonstrating that unproductive lands in this State could be cheaply covered with trees, and the result of Mr. French's experiment seems to be conclusive in this respect. It has shown that the European Larch can be grown rapidly and cheaply in this climate upon very poor soil, but it seems to us to have failed to show that this tree has advantages for general economic planting in this State which are not possessed in an equal degree by some of our native trees. Land which will produce a crop of Larch will produce in the same time at least a crop of white pine. There can be no comparison in the value of these two trees in Massachusetts. The White Pine is more easily transplanted than the Larch, it grows with equal and perhaps greater rapidity, and it produces material for which there is an assured and increasing demand. The White Pine, moreover, has so far escaped serious attacks of insects and dangerous fungoid diseases which now threaten to exterminate in different parts of Europe extensive plantations of Larch. Your Committee find that Mr. French has complied with all the requirements of the competition: they recommend that the premium of one thousand dollars be paid to him. Answers to Correspondents. When the woods are cut clean in Southern New Hampshire White Pine comes in very, very thickly. Is it best to thin out the growth or allow the trees to crowd and shade the feebler ones slowly to death? J. D. L. It is better to thin such over-crowded seedlings early, if serviceable timber is wanted in the shortest time. The statement that close growth is needed to produce long, clean timber, needs some limitation. No plant can develop satisfactorily without sufficient light, air and feeding room. When trees are too thickly crowded the vigor of every one is impaired, and the process of establishing supremacy of individuals is prolonged, to the detriment even of those which are ultimately victorious. The length is drawn out disproportionately to the diameter, and all the trees remain weak. Experience has proved that plantations where space is given for proper growth in their earlier years, yield more and better wood than do Nature's dense sowings. Two records are added in confirmation of this statement, and many others could be given: 1. A pine plantation of twelve acres was made, one half by sowing, the other half by planting at proper distances. In twenty-four years the first section had yielded, including the material obtained in thinnings, 1,998 cubic feet, and the latter, 3,495 cubic feet of wood. The thinnings had been made, when appearing necessary, at ten, fifteen and eighteen years in the planted section, yielding altogether ten and three-quarter cords of round firewood and seven cords of brush; and at eight, ten and twenty years in the sowed section, with a yield of only three and one-fifth cords of round firewood at the last thinning and seven and four-fifths cords of brush wood. 2. A spruce growth seeded after thirty-three years was still so dense as to be impenetrable, with scarcely any increase, and the trees were covered with lichens. It was then thinned out when thirty-five, and again when forty-two years old. The appearance greatly improved, and the accretion in seven years after thinning showed 160 per cent. increase, or more than 26 per cent. every year. The density of growth which will give the best results in all directions depends upon the kind of timber and soil conditions. --_B. E. Fernow._ Washington, D. C. Book Reviews. Gray's Elements of Botany. Fifty-one years ago, Asa Gray, then only twenty-six years of age, published a treatise on botany adapted to the use of schools and colleges. It was entitled "The Elements of Botany." Its method of arrangement was so admirably adapted to its purpose, and the treatment of all the subjects so mature and thorough, that the work served as a model for a large work which soon followed,--the well-known Botanical Text-book, and the same general plan has been followed in all the editions of the latter treatise. About twenty-five years after the appearance of the Elements, Dr. Gray prepared a more elementary work for the use of schools, since the Text-book had become rather too advanced and exhaustive for convenient use. This work was the "Lessons in Botany," a book which has been a great aid throughout the country, in introducing students to a knowledge of the principles of the science. Without referring to other educational works prepared by Dr. Gray, such as "How Plants Grow," etc., it suffices now to say that for two or three years, he had been convinced that there was need of a hand-book, different in essential particulars from any of its predecessors. When we remember that all of these had been very successful from an educational point of view, as well as from the more exacting one of the publishers, we can understand how strong must have been the motive which impelled the venerable but still active botanist to give a portion of his fast-flying time to the preparation of another elementary work. In answer to remonstrances from those who believed that the remnant of his days should be wholly given to the completion of the "Synoptical Flora," he was wont to say pleasantly, "Oh, I give only my _evenings_ to the 'Elements.'" And, so, after a day's work, in which he had utilized every available moment of sunlight, he would turn with the fresh alertness which has ever characterized every motion and every thought, to the preparation of what he called fondly, his "legacy" to young botanists. That precious legacy we have now before us. In form it is much like the Lessons, but more compact and yet much more comprehensive. Its conciseness of expression is a study in itself. To give it the highest praise, it may be said to be French in its clearness and terseness. Not a word is wasted: hence, the author has been able to touch lightly and still with firmness every important line in this sketch of the principles of botany. This work, in the words of its author, "is intended to ground beginners in Structural Botany and the principles of vegetable life, mainly as concerns Flowering or Phanerogamous plants, with which botanical instruction should always begin; also to be a companion and interpreter to the Manuals and Floras by which the student threads his flowery way to a clear knowledge of the surrounding vegetable creation. Such a book, like a grammar, must needs abound in technical words, which thus arrayed may seem formidable; nevertheless, if rightly apprehended, this treatise should teach that the study of botany is not the learning of names and terms, but the acquisition of knowledge and ideas. No effort should be made to commit technical terms to memory. Any term used in describing a plant or explaining its structure can be looked up when it is wanted, and that should suffice. On the other hand, plans of structure, types, adaptations, and modifications, once understood, are not readily forgotten; and they give meaning and interest to the technical terms used in explaining them." The specific directions given for collecting plants, for preparing herbarium specimens, and for investigating the structure of plants make this treatise of great use to those who are obliged to study without a teacher. The very extensive glossary makes the work of value not only to this class of students, but to those, as well, whose pursuits are directed in our schools. The work fills, in short, the very place which Dr. Gray designed it should. _G. L. Goodale._ _The Kansas Forest Trees Identified by Leaves and Fruit_, by W. A. Kellerman, Ph.D., and Mrs. W. A. Kellerman (Manhattan, Kansas). This octavo pamphlet of only a dozen pages contains a convenient artificial key for the rapid determination of seventy-five species of trees. By the use of obvious characters the authors have made the work of identification comparatively easy in nearly every instance, and even in the few doubtful cases, the student will not be allowed to go far astray. The little hand-book ought to be found of use even beyond the limits of the State for which it was designed. _G. L. Goodale._ Public Works. THE FALLS OF MINNEHAHA.--A tract of fifty acres, beautifully located on the Mississippi, opposite the mouth of the Minnehaha, has been acquired by the City of St. Paul, and land will most probably be secured for a drive of several miles along the river. The bank here is more than 100 feet high, often precipitous, clothed with a rich growth of primeval forest, shrubbery and vines. It is hoped that Minneapolis may secure the land immediately opposite, including the Falls of Minnehaha and the valley of the stream to the great river. In this event a great park could be made between the two cities, easily reached from the best part of both, with the Mississippi flowing through it and the Falls as one of its features. This, in connection with the park so beautifully situated on Lake Como, three miles from St. Paul, and the neat parks of Minneapolis and its superbly kept system of lake shore drives, would soon be an object worthy of the civic pride of these enterprising and friendly rivals. A PARK FOR WILMINGTON, DEL.--After many delays and defeats the people of this city have secured a tract of more than 100 acres, mostly of fine rocky woodland, with the classic Brandywine flowing through it, and all within the city limits, together with two smaller tracts, one a high wooded slope, the other lying on tide water, and both convenient to those parts of the city inhabited by workingmen and their families. A topographical survey of these park lands is now in progress as preparation for a general plan of improvement. Of the "Brandywine Glen" Mr. Frederick Law Olmsted once wrote: "It is a passage of natural scenery which, to a larger city, would be of rare value--so rare and desirable that in a number of cities several million dollars have been willingly spent to obtain results of which the best that can said is, that they somewhat distantly approach, in character and expression, such scenery as the people of Wilmington have provided for them without expense." Flower Market. Retail Prices in the Flower Market. NEW YORK, _February 23d._ There is a glut of flowers, particularly of tea roses of an indifferent quality. Bon Silene buds cost from 75 cts. to $1 a dozen, Perle des Jardins, Niphetos, Souvenir d'un Ami, and Papa Gontiers bring $1.50 a dozen. C. Mermets are very fine and from 30 to 35 cts. each. Not more than one in three La France roses is perfect; they bring from 25 cts. to 50 cts. each. Mde. Cuisin and Duke of Connaught are 25 cts. each, Bennets 20 cts. each and Brides 25 cts. each. American Beauties are $1 to $1.50 each, according to the location where they are sold. Puritans cost 75 cts. each, and Jacqueminots 50 cts. Magna Chartas are the most popular of the hybrid roses at present. They, Anna de Diesbach and Mad. Gabriel Luizet bring from $1 to $1.50 each. Mignonette is very plentiful, well grown and of the spiral variety; it brings 75 cts. a dozen spikes retail, very large spikes bring as high as 15 cts. each. Hyacinths, Lilies-of-the-Valley and Tulips bring $1 a dozen. Lilacs cost 25 cts. for a spray of one or two tassels. Violets are abundant, mostly of the Marie Louise variety, and bring $2 a hundred. Fancy long stem red Carnations cost 75 cts. a dozen; short stem Carnations are 50 cts. a dozen; the dyed Carnations, named "Emerald," are in brisk demand and sell for 15 cts. each. Daffodils are $1 a dozen; those dyed bring 20 cts. each. Finely grown Forget-me-not brought in small quantity to retail dealers sells for 10 cts. a spray. Calla Lilies bring $2 and $3 a dozen, and Longiflorum Lilies $4 a dozen. PHILADELPHIA, _February 23d._ Heavy demands for flowers dropped off short on Ash Wednesday, and decreased each day until Saturday, when the regular orders for loose flowers caused the trade to pick up again. The demand for Orchids is steadily growing; a fair quantity is used at balls and parties, but nothing in comparison to Roses, Violets and Lily-of-the-Valley. Violets have been in greater demand, so far, than for several years. Large quantities of Tulips have been used recently for table decorations, especially the pink varieties, the favorite color for dinners and lunches. The American Beauty Rose, when cut with long stems, and really first class in every other respect, has been in great demand, at the best prices. Md. Gabrielle Luizet is scarce, the local growers not having commenced to cut in quantity; it is frequently asked for. Carnation plateaus in solid colors have been used freely. Lilacs are considered choice and have been in good demand. Retail prices rule as follows: Orchids, from 25 cts. to $1 each; La France, Mermet, Bride and Bennet Roses, $3 per dozen; Jacques, $4 to $5; American Beauty, $4 to $9; Puritan, $4; Anna de Diesbach, $5 to $7.50; Papa Gontier, Sunset, Perle des Jardins and Mad. Cuisin, $1.50; Bon Silene, $1.00; Niphetos, $1 to $1.50. Lily-of-the-Valley, and Roman Hyacinths, bring $1 per dozen; Mignonette, 50 cts., and Freesia the same per dozen; Heliotrope, Pansies, Carnations, and Forget-me-nots, 35 cts. per dozen. Violets bring from $1 to $1.50 per hundred; Lilium Harrisii, $3.00 per dozen; Callas $2 per dozen, and Lilacs $2 per bunch of about eight sprays. Daffodils sell briskly at from $1 to $1.50 per dozen. BOSTON, _February 23d._ The season of Lent is always looked forward to by the florists with anxiety, for the rest from receptions, assemblies and balls cuts off one of the chief outlets for the choicest flowers: a few warm days are sufficient to overstock the market, and prices take a fall. Buyers are learning, however, that at no period of the year can cut flowers be had in such perfection and variety as during February and March, and although not much required for party occasions they are bought for other purposes in increasing quantities every year, so that the advent of Lent does not now produce utter stagnation in the flower trade. In Roses there is at present a large assortment offered. From the modest Bon Silene, and its new competitor, Papa Gontier, up to the magnificent American Beauty and Hybrid Perpetuals, may be found every gradation of color, size and fragrance. Retail prices vary from 75 cts. per dozen for Bon Silenes and $1.50 to $2 for Perles, Niphetos, etc., up to $3 and $4 for the best Mermets, Niels and La France; Hybrids and Jacques of best quality bring from $6 to $9 per dozen. In bulbous flowers a large variety is shown. Lily-of-the-Valley sells for $1.50 per dozen sprays; Narcissus of various kinds, Hyacinths and Tulips for $1 per dozen; Violets, 50 cts. per bunch; Pansies, Mignonette, Heliotrope, Forget-me-not and Calendulas, 50 cts. per doz. Long stemmed Carnations are to be had in great variety at 75 cts. per dozen; Callas 25 cts. each, and Smilax 50 cts. a string. At this season Smilax is at its best, being its time of flowering, and the flowers are deliciously fragrant. Publishers' Note. A photogravure of Mr. A. St. Gaudens's bronze medallion of the late Professor Asa Gray will be published as a supplement to the second number of GARDEN AND FOREST. [Illustration: Advertisement - RARE WATER LILIES] [Illustration: Advertisement - TREES Fruit and Ornamental. ROSES] [Illustration: Advertisement - Sibley's Tested Seed] [Illustration: Advertisement - BARR'S PROVEN SEEDS] [Illustration: Advertisement - SEEDS ROSES PLANTS] [Illustration: Advertisement - BEAUTIFUL TREES For lawn and cemetery planting. These can now be furnished in great variety, from our extensive collection, at reduced prices. We have now on hand a large supply of the following rare BEECHES, all of which have been recently transplanted, and are in consequence abundantly furnished with fine roots:-- PURPLE-LEAVED BEECH. From 6 to 10 feet high; elegant specimens. All were grafted from the beautiful "Rivers' variety," so justly celebrated for the intense blood-red color of its foliage. WEEPING BEECH. From 6 to 10 feet high, suitable for immediate effect, and well supplied with decidedly pendulous branches. CRESTED and FERN-LEAVED BEECHES. We offer a superb stock of these, averaging in height from 5 or 6 to 10 feet, all well rooted and nicely furnished. In EVERGREENS We have now in stock a large supply of AMERICAN, SIBERIAN and GOLDEN ARBOR VITÆS, BALSAM FIRS, HEMLOCKS and NORWAY SPRUCE; good, young, healthy plants, especially desirable for screens and hedges. In SHRUBBERY Our assortment is very complete, embracing many rare and elegant species. Our immense stock of some kinds enables us to accept orders at very low rates. HOOPES, BRO. & THOMAS, Maple Avenue Nurseries, WEST CHESTER, PA.] [Illustration: Advertisement - DREER'S GARDEN CALENDAR] [Illustration: Advertisement - H. W. S. Cleveland, Landscape Gardener] [Illustration: Advertisement - CHARLES ELIOTT, Landscape Gardener] [Illustration: Advertisement - BAKER'S BREAKFAST COCOA] [Illustration: J. LAING & SONS, The Nurseries, FOREST HILL, LONDON ENGLAND. LEADING SPECIALTIES.] TUBEROUS BEGONIAS. AWARDED FOUR GOLD MEDALS. Gold Medal Collection, quite unrivaled. _Tubers in a dry state_ can be safely transmitted from England until April. PRICES WHEN SELECTION IS LEFT TO US: _Per Doz._ A Collection, Named, our best collection 42s. B " " very choice selection 36s. C " " choice selection 30s. D " " very good selection 24s. E " " good selection 18s. F " " ordinary selection 12s. G " Unnamed best selections to color 21s. H " " very choice selection 18s. J " " best whites, distinct 15s. K " " choice selection 12s. L " " very good, selected to color for bedding 9s. M " " good best do. per 100, 40s., 6s. DOUBLE VARIETIES. PRICES (OUR SELECTION): P Collection, Named, our best collection, each 7s. 6d. and 13s. 6d. _Per Doz._ R " " very choice ditto 63s. S " " choice ditto 48s. T " " very good ditto 42s. W " Unnamed our very choice, selected, distinct 30s. X " " choice, selected in 6 colors 24s. Z " " mixed ditto 18s. BEGONIA SEED. Gold Medal strain from Prize Plants. New Crop. Sealed packets. Choice mixed, from single varieties. 1s. and 2s. 6d. per packet; 5s. and 10s. extra large packets; double varieties, 1s., 2s. 6d. and 5s. per packet; large packets, 10s. Collections--12 named varieties, single, separate, 5s. 6d.; 6 named varieties, separate, 3s. CALADIUM ROOTS. The Finest Collection in the world. Best named varieties, per doz., 30s., 36s., 42s., 48s. and 60s. GLOXINIA ROOTS. In dormant state till March. Our unequalled collection. Self colors, and spotted. Best sorts to name, 12s., 18s., 24s., 30s., 36s. and 42s. per doz. Unnamed, very choice, 6s., 9s. and 12s. per doz. GLOXINIA SEED. Saved from our Prize Plants; erect flowering, drooping, mixed and spotted, separate, per packet, 1s., 2s. 6d. and 5s. OTHER FLOWER SEEDS. The choicest strains of Primula, Cineraria, Calceolaria, Cyclamen, Hollyhock, Dahlia, Pansies, Asters, Stocks, and every other sort. All kinds of Plants, Roses, Fruit Trees, etc., that can be imported from England, safely transmitted in Wardian cases. --> Remittances or London References must always accompany orders. Flower Seeds by post. Orders should reach us soon as possible. --> CATALOGUES GRATIS AND POST FREE. <-- SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE FOR MARCH CONTAINS BLÜCHER UNHORSED AT LIGNY. Drawn by R. F. Zogbaum. Engraved by Peckwell. THE CAMPAIGN OF WATERLOO. By JOHN C. ROPES. With illustrations by R. F. Zogbaum, and drawings made by W. T. Smedley, especially commissioned by this Magazine to visit the field. A strikingly original history of this greatest of military events. A concluding article, beautifully illustrated, will appear in April. BEGGARS. The third of the series of charming essays by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. The New York _Tribune_ says in referring to this series: "The matter is of itself enough to interest every person in the least interested in literature, and the manner of it is such as to make us ask again of him for the hundredth time, as it was asked of Macaulay, 'Where did he get that style?'" A SHELF OF OLD BOOKS.--LEIGH HUNT. By MRS. JAMES T. FIELDS. Illustrated with drawings, portraits and fac-similes. A charming account of some of the literary treasures owned by the late James T. Fields. THE ELECTRIC MOTOR AND ITS APPLICATIONS. By FRANKLIN LEONARD POPE. With 14 illustrations. Mr. Pope describes the great advances recently made by which electricity takes the place of steam, or supplements it in so many directions. THE NIXIE. A Fantastic Story. By MRS. ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON. MENDELSSOHN'S LETTERS TO MOSCHELES. From the MSS. in the possession of Felix Moscheles. By WILLIAM F. APTHORP. II. (_Conclusion_.) With portraits, reproductions of drawings, musical scores, etc. "The letters are full of interest, especially in their frank observations on musical affairs of Mendelssohn's day."--_Boston Saturday Evening Gazette._ THE DAY OF THE CYCLONE. A stirring Western story, founded on the Grinnell (Ia.) tornado. By OCTAVE THANET. FIRST HARVESTS.--Chapters VII-X. By F. J. STIMSON. (To be continued.) NATURAL SELECTION--A Novelette in Three Parts. By H. C. BUNNER. (_Conclusion_.) With Illustrations. POEMS. By THOMAS NELSON PAGE, C. P. CRANCH, BESSIE CHANDLER, and CHARLES EDWIN MARKHAM. "In its one year of life SCRIBNER'S MAGAZINE has taken not only an exalted and permanent place in periodical literature but one that the world could in no sense spare."--_Boston Traveller._ _A year's subscription, consisting of twelve monthly numbers, gives more than 1,500 pages of the best, most interesting, and valuable literature. More than 700 illustrations from designs by famous artists, reproduced by the best methods._ Price, 25 cents. $3.00 a year. CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 743-745 Broadway, New York. A Brilliant New Novel by the author of "The Story of Margaret Kent." QUEEN MONEY. 1 vol., 12mo, $1.50. "This is _the strongest story that this author has yet told_. It is essentially a novel of character-painting, more even than 'Margaret Kent' or 'Sons and Daughters'. It is superior to either of these. The merits of 'Queen Money' are very great.... Interesting and valuable and remarkably true to life. It is a book to be quoted, to be thought about, to be talked about." LOOKING BACKWARD. 2000-1887. BY EDWARD BELLAMY, author of "Miss Ludington's Sister." $1.50. "'The Duchess Emilia' and 'She' are not more strange than this story." UNDER THE SOUTHERN CROSS. By M. M. BALLOU, author of "Due North," "Edge-Tools of Speech," etc. $1.50. A journey, in 1887, to Australia, Tasmania, Samoa, New Zealand and other South-Sea Islands. _For sale by all booksellers, or will be sent, post free, on receipt of price by_ TICKNOR & CO., Boston. The Sun FOR 1888. The year 1888 promises to be a year of splendid political development, one and all redounding to the glory and triumph of a UNITED DEMOCRACY. In the Front Line will be found THE SUN, Fresh from its magnificent victory over the combined foes of Democracy in its own State, true to its convictions, truthful before all else, and fearless in the cause of truth and right. THE SUN has six, eight, twelve, and sixteen pages, as occasion requires, and is ahead of all competition in everything that makes a newspaper. Daily, $6 00 Daily and Sunday, 7 50 Sunday, 16 and 20 pages, 1 50 Weekly, 1 00 Address THE SUN, New York. THE UNITED STATES MUTUAL ACCIDENT ASSOCIATION is offering the very best accident insurance at cost. $5,000 for death by accident, $25 weekly indemnity, and liberal indemnity for loss of eye or limb. Costs $13 to $15 per year. Membership Fee, $5. 320 & 322 Broadway, New York. Charles B. Peet, President. James R. Pitcher, Secretary and Gen'l Manager. FOR SPRING PLANTING. Rhododendrons, Azaleas, Japanese Maples, And all other hardy Ornamental Trees, Street Trees, Evergreens, Shrubs, Roses and Vines of selected quality, in quantity, at lowest rates; also, all the best Fruits. Priced Catalogue on application. FRED. W. KELSEY, 208 Broadway, NEW YORK. [Illustration: Advertisement - YOUNG AND ELLIOTT'S COLLECTION OF CHOICE FLOWER SEEDS] SOME WORKS ON NATURAL SCIENCE PUBLISHED BY HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK. PACKARD'S (A. S.) WORKS. GUIDE TO THE STUDY OF INSECTS $5 00 OUTLINES OF COMPARATIVE EMBRIOLOGY 2 50 ZOOLOGY--ADVANCED COURSE 3 00 ZOOLOGY--BRIEFER COURSE 1 40 FIRST LESSONS IN ZOOLOGY 1 00 BESSEY'S (C. E.) WORKS. BOTANY--ADVANCED COURSE $2 75 ESSENTIALS OF BOTANY 1 35 SEDGWICK (W. T.) AND WILSON'S (E. B.) GENERAL BIOLOGY--PART I $2 00 ARTHUR (J. C.) BARNES (C. R.) AND COULTER'S (J. M.) PLANT DISSECTION $1 50 Gray's Botanical Text Books. At once the most complete and the best Botanical series published, COMPRISING: Gray's How Plants Grow, Gray's How Plants Behave, Gray's Lessons in Botany, Gray's Field, Forest and Garden Botany, Gray's School and Field Botany, Apgar's Plant Analysis, Gray's Manual of Botany, Gray's Lessons and Manual, Gray's Structural Botany, Goodale's Physiological Botany, Gray's Structural and Systematic Botany, Coulter's Manual of the Rocky Mountains, The same, Tourist's Edition, Gray and Coulter's Manual of Western Botany, Gray's Synoptical Flora--The Gamopetalæ, Chapman's Flora of Southern U.S. Send for our new descriptive pamphlet of Gray's Botanies, containing PORTRAIT AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH of the Author. Books for Introduction or examination furnished on very favorable terms. IVISON, BLAKEMAN & CO., 753-755 Broadway, New York, AND 149 Wabash Ave., Chicago. A Few Flowers Worthy of General Culture. In presenting to our large and growing company of patrons this, the fifth edition of our book, our dominant feeling is one of extreme pleasure at the generous welcome given our preceding efforts. And we offer this edition in the belief and hope that it may suggest ideas that may be of use, and that may be practically carried out in the making of gardens that must be a source of delight. The wide-spread desire for better and more artistic gardening is evidenced by the articles recently published on the subject by the foremost and ablest magazines. An excellent article on "Old Garden Plants," in Harper's Monthly for December, 1887, encourages us greatly in our efforts to popularize the Hardy Flowers so loved by our grandmothers, together with many fine plants of more recent introduction. As we were the first in this country to gather a fine collection of Hardy Plants from all quarters of the earth, and to offer them when there was but small demand for such, we are pleased indeed that so much attention is now being given to them, feeling that our efforts in behalf of the almost FORGOTTEN HARDY PLANTS, will tend to the creation of gardens more permanent and beautiful, and at much smaller outlay than any that can be made with tender plants. The fifth edition of our book is now ready. It is the largest and best work on hardy plants published in this country, and contains many finely illustrated articles, among which are, "A Talk about Roses;" "Hardy Plants and Modes of Arranging Them;" "The Making of the Hardy Border;" "Some Beauties in their Native Wilds;" "Rhododendrons, Kalmias and Hardy Azaleas;" "Hardy Aquatic Plants;" "Tropical Garden Effects with Hardy Plants;" "A Garden Party;" etc., etc. The book is finely printed on the best of paper, is of real merit and rare beauty, and will be sent post-paid, bound in durable flexible covers for 50 cents, or in leather for 75 cents, but the price paid will be allowed on the first order for plants, making the book really free to our customers. Our descriptive catalogue, containing a complete descriptive list of the best and largest collection of Hardy Plants in America, sent on receipt of 10 cents in stamps. Our special list of valuable, low-priced, well-grown plants mailed upon application. B. A. ELLIOTT CO., No. 56 Sixth Street, Pittsburgh, Pa. New Seeds, Bulbs, Plants, Fruits,--Rare Tropical Fruits. GRAND PALMS FROM SEED. We are now able to offer for the first time, both seed and plants of that King of Ornamental plants, the new FILIFERA PALM. Stately and beautiful beyond description, it is the finest addition that can be made to any collection of plants, and can be grown in any window or garden as easy as a geranium. It is of a compact growth with elegant large leaves, from which hang long thread-like filaments, giving the plant a most odd and beautiful appearance. In fact there is nothing like it in cultivation and good specimens sell for enormous prices. Plants are easily raised as the seed are large, germinate quick and grow rapidly. Per packet 25cts. 5 for $1.00. Year old plants 40cts. each, 3 for $1.00, 7 for $2.00 by mail post paid. Will also mail 3 STORM KING FUCHSIAS for 50cts., 12 EXCELSIOR PEARL TUBEROSES for 85cts., 12 CHOICE MIXED GLADIOLAS for 30cts. Our GIANT EXCELSIOR PANSIES, best in the world, 20cts. per packet. NEW PRIMROSE VERBENA, yellow, a sterling novelty. 25cts. per packet. True PYGMAS ASTER, 50cts. per packet. Our Seed Catalogue for 1888 Is the most elegant ever issued. Illustrated with 10 colored plates, stipple-litho. covers and hundreds of fine engravings. In it is offered a great variety of FLOWER AND VEGETABLE SEEDS, BULBS AND PLANTS OF ALL SORTS, NEW FRUITS AND RARE TROPICAL FRUITS suitable for pot culture, such as dwarf Oranges, Pine Apples, Bananas, Figs, Guavas, Sugar Apple, &c. THIS ELEGANT AND EXPENSIVE CATALOGUE will be sent for only 10cts., which is only a part of its cost to us. Or if you order a packet of Palm seed or anything here offered and ask for Catalogue, it will be sent FREE. SPECIAL OFFER. For 50 cts. we will send Palm, Pansy, and Primrose Verbena Seed and Catalogue. Write at once as this offer may not appear again. To every order we will add an elegant Seed or Bulb novelty free. Address, JOHN LEWIS CHILDS, FLORAL PARK, Queens Co., N. Y. [Illustration: FILIFERA PALM.] CHRYSANTHEMUMS A SPECIALTY. Our catalogue for Spring of 1888, contains a select list of New and Old Chrysanthemums, including: "MRS. ALPHEUS HARDY," the beautiful variety figured in this paper. Also a collection of Fine Flowering Cannas. EDWIN FEWKES & SON, NEWTON HIGHLANDS, MASS. A REAL BONANZA IN SEEDS.--Being one of the largest growers of Flower Seeds in America, I want to induce extensive trial, and for 65cts. will send, postpaid, 32 papers Choice New Seeds, growth of '81, 75 to 500 seeds & mixed colors in each. _New Large & Fancy Pansies, the finest ever offered_, (awarded _Special Prize by Mass. Hort'l Society_) 60 distinct sorts and an endless variety of rich colors, all mixed; _Double Asters; Japan Pinks_, 50 vars. mixed; _Large A. D. Phlox; Double Portulaca; New Godelias; New White Mignonette; New Nivaliana; Everlastings; New Giant Candytuft; V. Stocks; New Marigolds; Mottled, Striped and Fringed Petunias; Verbenas, 300 vars. mixed; New Golden Chrysanthemums; Double Larkspurs; Velvet fl.; New Yellow Mignonette; Double Gaillardia; New Double Dwarf Zinnias; Double Salens; New Double White Aster_, the finest white ever offered; _Butterfly fl.; Double Daisies_ & 8 other choice kinds, amounting to $3.75 at regular rates, but to introduce will send the whole 32 papers for only 65 cts. This is an honest, square offer, but if you doubt it, send 15 cts. or 5 letter stamps, and I will send you 7 sample papers, my choice, but including _Pansies, Asters and Improved Prime Sweet Williams_, 50 vars. mixed. Am sure a trial will prove all claims. New Catalogue _free_. L. W. GOODELL, Pansy Park, Dwight P. O. Mass. The Popular Science Monthly, Edited by W. J. YOUMANS, Is filled with scientific articles by well-known writers on subjects of popular and practical interest. Its range of topics, which is widening with the advance of science, comprises: Domestic and Social Economy. Political Science, or the Functions of Government. Psychology and Education. Relations of Science and Religion. Conditions of Health and Prevention of Disease. Art and Architecture in Practical Life. Race Development. Agriculture and Food-Products. Natural History; Exploration; Discovery, etc. It contains Illustrated Articles, Portraits, Biographical Sketches; records the advance made in every branch of science; is not technical; and is intended for non-scientific as well as scientific readers. No magazine in the world contains papers of a more instructive and at the same time of a more interesting character. Single number, 50 cents. Yearly subscription, $5.00. D. APPLETON & CO., Publishers, New York. POINTS TO ADVERTISERS. Nothing is sold without pushing, unless it has a monopoly. No two articles can be pushed in exactly the same way. In advertising you want to reach possible _customers_, not merely people. The best mediums for one line of goods may be the worst for another. Advertising should not be visionary, it should not be attended to as a mere pastime. Success means thought, the day of chance successes is nearly over. It costs no more to publish good matter than it does poor. The preparation of an advertisement is as important as the publishing. An advertiser needs an agent, as a client does a lawyer. The agent, however, asks no retainer and saves his customer money. A merchant cannot study advertising all the time--a good agent studies nothing else. The customer's interests are the agent's. If the agent is to succeed, the business done must be successful. The undersigned want business, but not badly enough to handle what is "questionable." They are honest and capable, their customers say, and they give close personal attention to their business. HERBERT BOOTH KING & BROTHER, ADVERTISING AGENTS, 202 Broadway, N. Y. (Copyright, 1887.) Send for Circulars. A VALUABLE WORK UPON AMERICAN TREES, Which should be in every Library in the United States. Fourth Edition, Just Ready. Price Reduced. EMERSON'S TREES AND SHRUBS. THE TREES AND SHRUBS GROWING NATURALLY in the Forests of Massachusetts. By George B. Emerson. Fourth Edition. Superbly illustrated with nearly 150 plates (46 beautiful heliotypes and 100 lithographs), 2 vols. 8vo. Cloth. Price, $10.00 net; formerly $12.00 net. THE SAME, with 36 of the plates beautifully colored. Price, $16.00 net; formerly $20.00 net. Though this work nominally treats of the trees and shrubs of Massachusetts, it is equally applicable to the flora of many other States; indeed all New England and a greater part of the Middle States. In it is described every important tree or shrub that grows naturally in Massachusetts, and in other States of the same latitude, the descriptions being the result of careful personal observation. It is, indeed, a comprehensive and convenient manual for almost every section of the Union. The illustrations of these volumes constitute one of their most important and attractive features. A large number of the plates are by the eminent authority on this subject, ISAAC SPRAGUE. Volume I. treats of the Pines, Oaks, Beeches, Chestnuts, Hazels, Hornbeams, Walnuts, Hickories, Birches, Alders, Plane Trees, Poplars, and Willows. Volume II. treats of the Elms, Ashes, Locusts, Maples, Lindens, Magnolias, Liriodendrons, and the shrubs. LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY, Publishers, 234 Washington Street, Boston. HOUGHTON MIFFLIN & CO'S Beautiful New Books. BIOGRAPHY. Memoir of Ralph Waldo Emerson. By JAMES ELLIOT CABOT. With a fine new steel Portrait. 2 vols. 12mo, gilt top, $3.50. Henry Clay. Vols. XV. and XVI. in series of American Statesmen. By CARL SCHURZ. 2 vols. 16mo, gilt top, $2.50; half morocco, $5.00. Patrick Henry. Vol. XVII. of American Statesmen. By MOSES COIT TYLER. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. Benjamin Franklin. Vol. X. of American Men of Letters. By JOHN BACH MCMASTER, author of "A History of the People of the United States." With a steel Portrait. 16mo, gilt top, $1.25. NOVELS AND SHORT STORIES. The Second Son. By Mrs. M. O. W. OLIPHANT and THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH. 12mo, $1.50. The Gates Between. By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS, author of "The Gates Ajar," "Beyond the Gates," etc. $1.25. Paul Patoff. By F. MARION CRAWFORD, author of "A Roman Singer," etc. Crown 8vo, $1.50. Jack the Fisherman. A powerful and pathetic temperance story. By ELIZABETH STUART PHELPS. 50 cents. Knitters in the Sun. A book of excellent Short Stories. By OCTAVE THANET. 16mo, $1.25. A Princess of Java. A novel of life, character and customs in Java. By Mrs. S. J. HIGGINSON, 12mo, $1.50. The Story of Keedon Bluffs. By CHARLES EGBERT CRADDOCK. A story for Young Folks, and Older Ones. $1.00. A New Book by Bret Harte. "A Phyllis of the Sierras," and "A Drift from Redwood Camp," $1.00. *.* _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on receipt of price by the Publishers_, HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON. 11 EAST 17TH STREET, NEW YORK. Shady Hill Nurseries, Cambridge, Mass. THE SOURCE OF NOVELTIES IN ORNAMENTALS! The New TREE LILAC (SYRINGA JAPONICA) was first grown commercially, and first sold from SHADY HILL NURSERIES. The Beautiful WEEPING LILAC (SYRINGA LIGUSTRINA PEKINENSIS PENDULA), called by Mr. Samuel B. Parsons, at the American Pomological Convention, at Boston (where it was first exhibited and received a first-class Certificate of Merit from the Mass. Hort. Society), "the most beautiful of all our small Weeping Trees." This also will be sent out in the autumn of this year. Here also is grown, in large numbers, the lovely little flowering tree, called the "TEA ROSE CRAB," the most exquisite of all our flowering trees. Ten thousand of this tree have been ordered by Messrs. V. H. Hallock & Son. Here originated the HARDY PERENNIAL GAILLARDIA (G. Aristata Templeana of Peter Henderson's new catalogue), the most showy and only hardy Gaillardia of this latitude. A full descriptive catalogue, of all the things grown at Shady Hill, will be issued in February, fully illustrated with engravings and containing four full page lithographs, in eight colors, of the four new trees, viz.: "Tea Rose Crab," Tree Lilac, Weeping Lilac, and the Fastigiate Maiden Hair Tree. This will be sent free to all who will send address. F. L. TEMPLE, Cambridge, Mass. JOHN SAUL'S WASHINGTON NURSERIES. Our Catalogue of new, rare and beautiful Plants for 1888 will be ready in February. It contains list of all the most beautiful and rare Green-house and Hot-house Plants in cultivation, as well as all novelties of merit. Well grown and at very low prices. Every Plant lover should have a copy. ORCHIDS.--A very large stock of choice East Indian, American, etc. Also, Catalogues of Roses, Orchids, Seeds, Trees, etc. All free. JOHN SAUL, Washington, D. C. WESTERN N. C. ORNAMENTAL SHRUBS AND TREES. Descriptive Price List sent on application. Detailed description of the _new_ Rhododendron Vaseyi, with each List. Azalea arborescens is one of our specialties. Correspondence solicited. KELSEY BROS., Highlands Nursery, Highlands, N. C. GARDENERS.--Thorough, practical man, wants situation to take charge of a good private place or institution; 19 years' experience in Europe and U. S.; English, age 35, married, one of family; first-class reference. Address J. S., care H. A. Dreer, 714 Chestnut St. Philadelphia, Pa. GOLD STRAWBERRY, a New Berry of very fine quality, now offered for the first time. Also, JEWELL, JESSIE, BELMONT, and other varieties. Address. P. M. AUGUR & SONS, Originators, MIDDLEFIELD, CONN. NEW PLANTS. Our illustrated Floral Catalogue of new, rare and beautiful Plants, Orchids, Palms, Roses, Bulbs, Vines, Trees, Shrubs and Seeds, also, all the Novelties of the season, NOW READY. Every lover of plants should have a copy. _Prices low._ Send for it; FREE _to all_. PAUL BUTZ & SON. New Castle, Pa. [Illustration: VAUGHAN'S CHICAGO PARKS FLOWERS] You are about to write for a catalogue. No doubt you want the best--the truest descriptions, the clearest notes on plant culture, plainest type and most beautiful illustrations. We have put forth every effort to make ours such. Those who have seen it, say it is. It tells many reasons why you can buy SEEDS and Plants--so many of which are grown on the Western prairies--BETTER AND CHEAPER AT CHICAGO than you can elsewhere. Then why not do so? Our Chicago Parks FLOWERS AND PLANTS; our MARKET VEGETABLES and our GARDENING IMPLEMENTS make up a book that TELLS THE WHOLE STORY, and is a work of art which will please you. Send 15 cents and receive the catalogue and a paper of the above seeds free. J. C. VAUGHAN, 88 STATE STREET, CHICAGO. [Illustration: Japan Snowball] MEEHAN'S NURSERIES Though with the usual assortment of Fruits and Flowers found in all leading Nurseries, we pay especial attention to Ornamental Trees. We have nearly fifty acres of these alone, and well on to a thousand varieties. JAPAN MAPLES . and . JAPAN SNOWBALL --A SPECIALTY-- SEND SIX CENTS IN STAMPS FOR DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE. THOMAS MEEHAN & SON, Germantown, Philadelphia, Pa. ORCHIDS Palms and Fine Tropical Plants. We have the most complete collection of fine plants in the country. Descriptions of specimens and a general catalogue of stock can be had on application either at 409 5th Avenue, New York City, OR AT THE ROSE HILL NURSERIES, NEW ROCHELLE, N. Y. SIEBRECHT & WADLEY. [Illustration: CHRYSANTHEMUMS] [Illustration: LAWSON 1838 POMONA NURSERIES 1888] [Illustration: FARQUHARS' BOSTON SEEDS] [Illustration: THE NEW MODEL--OUR--LATEST AND BEST MOWER.] TRIED BY TIME PRACTICAL people are well pleased with the recent development in horticultural journalism by which the young AMERICAN GARDEN absorbed the old _Gardener's Monthly_, which included the _Horticulturist_, started by Andrew Jackson Downing, over forty-two years ago. I told our local society just what I really think the other day, that you come the nearest my ideal of a Horticultural Monthly for popular circulation of any of the makers of such literature.--CHAS. W. GARFIELD, _Sec'y Michigan Horticultural Society_. The magazine in now clearly the best horticultural publication in America, and soon I trust I can say the best extant.--DR. E. LEWIS STURTEVANT. As much as I regret the melting away of that old landmark, the _Gardener's Monthly_, of which I was a reader since 1867, as glad I feel that the transfer has been made into good hands.--R. MAITRE. _Florist, New Orleans._ I have been a subscriber to the _Gardener's Monthly_ from its first number. I feel sorry that the journal is going away from Philadelphia, but am glad it has gone into such good hands.--CHAS. H. MILLER. _Landscape Gardener, Fairmount Park._ Indispensable to the fruit growers, horticulturists, gardeners and florists (both practical and amateur) of this country.--CYRUS T. FOX, _State Pomologist of Pennsylvania._ It is a lamentable failing of horticultural educators in making the work intricate and apparently hard of execution. Your new cover is in perfect accord with the contents, viz.: It expresses and teaches horticulture pure and simple.--GEO. R. KNAPP, _Rahway, N. J._ Adapted to the wants of Amateurs, Country Dwellers, Practical Gardeners and Fruit Growers, THE AMERICAN GARDEN has stood the test of Time, the great leveler, and receives the endorsements and support of all these classes in every section and many lands. The equal in cost and value of many $2, and $4 publications, this handsome and practical illustrated magazine of horticulture costs only $1.00 a year. In Club with Garden and Forest for $4.50. Address: E. H. LIBBY, Publisher, 751 Broadway, N. Y. The American Florist, A SEMI-MONTHLY JOURNAL For florists, and all who grow plants or flowers under glass. It prints nothing but hard common-sense matter, the experience of practical men who have been there themselves and know what they are talking about. _Liberally Illustrated. Price, $1.00 a Year of 24 Numbers._ SAMPLE COPY 6 CENTS IN STAMPS. American Florist Co., 54 La Salle St., Chicago. [Illustration: FOREST TREES] [Illustration: TREES ROCHESTER - COMMERCIAL NURSERIES.] [Illustration: New and Rare Trees and Shrubs] RED FLOWERING DOGWOOD, EXOCHORDA GRANDIFLORA, WEEPING DOGWOOD, EUONYMUS LATIFOLIUS, WEEPING BEECH, BERBERIS THUNBERGII, PURPLE BEECH, MAGNOLIAS, GOLDEN SYRINGO, CHINESE CYPRESS, NEW CONIFERS, JAPAN QUINCE, YELLOW WOOD, HYDRANGEAS, JAPAN GINGKO JAPANESE MAPLES, SPIREAS, GOLDEN -<JAPANESE UMBRELLA AND SUNRAY PINES>- GOLDEN OAK. ALDER. -------------------------------------------- --> New and Rare Trees and Shrubs, <-- -------------------------------------------- FRUIT RHODODENDRONS YEWS, TREES, JUNIPERS, SMALL FRUITS, CHINESE AZALEAS HEMLOCKS, TREE PÆONIES, ARBOR VITÆ, ROSES IN VARIETY, HARDY AZALEAS RETINOSPORAS, AMERICAN HOLLY, CAMELLIAS DWARF, BLUE, CONICAL, HERBACEOUS PÆONIES, WEEPING AND OTHER SPRUCES, SHADE TREES & HEDGE PLANTS. ASSORTMENT OF PINES. ------------------------------- Plans Made, Estimates Furnished, Grounds Laid Out, Catalogues on Application. PARSONS & SONS COMPANY, Limited, Kissena Nurseries, ESTABLISHED 1839. FLUSHING, N. Y. Seeds, Seeds, Seeds. To our friends who have not already received it, we are ready to mail our NEW CATALOGUE OF HIGH CLASS SEEDS FOR 1888, Containing all the Novelties of the Season, both in VEGETABLE, FLOWER and TREE Seeds. J. M. Thorburn & Co., 15 JOHN STREET, NEW YORK. OUR MANUAL OF EVERYTHING FOR THE GARDEN is this season the grandest ever issued, containing three colored plates and superb illustrations of everything that is new, useful and rare in Seeds and Plants, together with plain directions of "How to grow them," by PETER HENDERSON. This Manual, which is a book of 140 pages, we mail to any address on receipt of 25 cents (in stamps.) To all so remitting 25 cents for the Manual, we will, at the same time, send free by mail, in addition, their choice of any one of the the following novelties, the price of either of which is 25 cents: One packet of the new Green and Gold Watermelon or one packet of new Succession Cabbage, or one packet of new Zebra Zinnia, or one packet of Butterfly Pansy (see illustration), or one packet of new Mammoth Verbena, or one plant of the beautiful Moonflower, on the distinct understanding, however, that those ordering will state in what paper they saw this advertisement. PETER HENDERSON & CO 35 & 37 Cortlandt St., New York. [Illustration: W. W. RAWSON & CO.] BOTANY CLASSES furnished with fresh plants and flowers from the Southern Mountains, including all the AZALEAS and RHODODENDRONS found east of the Rockies, I can furnish Rhododendron Vastyi and Shortii galacifolia, and other rare plants. Order Shortii early, as it blooms in March and April. T. G. HARBISON, Principal of Highlands Academy, Highlands, N. C. * * * * * Transcriber's Note: Missing and/or damaged punctuation has been repaired. Errata: p. 3: (Floriculture) 'county' probably error for 'country'. "... scores of young men in all parts of the country have..." p. 4: (Lawn) 'whch' corrected to 'which' "... finely pulverized compost which may be brushed in." p. vi: (WESTERN N. C. ORNAMENTAL SHRUBS AND TREES). 'Rhodendron' corrected to 'Rhododendron' "Descriptive Price List sent on application. Detailed description of the _new_ Rhododendron Vaseyi, with each List." 
62686	----	Transcriber Note: Text emphasis denoted as _Italics_. U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE. ---------- FARMERS' BULLETIN No. 67. ---------- FORESTRY FOR FARMERS. BY B. E. FERNOW, _Chief of the Division of Forestry._ ---------- [Reprinted from the Yearbooks of the U. S. Department of Agriculture for 1894 and 1895.] [Illustration] WASHINGTON: GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE. 1898. ---------- LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL. U. S. Department of Agriculture, Division of Forestry, _Washington, D. C., December 4, 1897._ Sir: I have the honor to recommend that the two articles contributed by me to the Yearbooks for 1894 and for 1895 on forestry for farmers be reprinted as a Farmers' Bulletin. The articles contain information in popular form regarding the growth of trees, the planting of a forest, treatment of the wood lot, the cultivation of the wood crop, influence of trees, etc. A wider distribution of this information, for which there is still considerable demand, would, I believe, result in acquainting farmers with a subject the importance of which has not always been duly recognized. Very respectfully, B. E. Fernow, _Chief_. Approved: James Wilson, _Secretary_. --------------- CONTENTS. ---------- Page. How trees grow 3 Food materials and conditions of growth 3 Soil conditions 4 Light conditions 6 Physiology of tree growth 9 "Sap up and sap down" 10 Progress of development 11 Growth in length and ramification 11 Growth in thickness 14 Form development 17 Rate of growth 19 Reproduction 21 How to plant a forest 22 What trees to plant 23 Methods of planting 26 How to treat the wood lot 28 Improvement cuttings 29 Methods of reproducing the wood crop 31 Size of openings 34 Wind mantle 34 Coppice 35 Plan of management 37 How to cultivate the wood crop 37 Effect of light on wood production 38 Number of trees per acre 38 Weeding and cleaning the crop 40 Methods of thinning 40 What trees to remove 41 The relation of forests to farms 42 The forest waters the farm 44 The forest tempers the farm 45 The forest protects the farm 45 The forest supplies the farm with useful material 46 FORESTRY FOR FARMERS. The following five chapters have been written with the view of aiding farmers who own small timber tracts or wood lots, or who wish to plant some part of their land to forest. This country varies so greatly in soil, climate, and flora that it is only possible, within the limits assigned for the present discussion, to outline general principles everywhere applicable. Nevertheless, wherever suggestions have approximated the laying down of rules of practice, the writer has had mainly in mind the conditions prevalent in our northeastern States. Moreover, for the reason already referred to, limitation of space, it has not been possible to give more than a comprehensive view, without much detail. The succeeding chapters should be read connectedly, as they are more or less interdependent. The first treats of the behavior of a forest plant; the second, of the principles which should guide the planter in setting a crop; the third, of the manner in which a natural forest crop should be produced; the fourth points out how the crop should be managed afterwards in order to secure the best results in quantity and quality of material; while the fifth chapter is devoted to a consideration of the relation of forests to farms. 1. HOW TREES GROW. Trees, like most other plants, originate from seed, build up a body of cell tissues, form foliage, flower, and fruit, and take up food material from the soil and air, which they convert into cellulose and other compounds, from which all their parts are formed. They rely, like other plants, upon moisture, heat, and light as the means of performing the functions of growth. Yet there are some peculiarities in their behavior, their life and growth, which require special attention on the part of a tree grower or forest planter, and these we shall briefly discuss. FOOD MATERIALS AND CONDITIONS OF GROWTH. Trees derive their food and solid substance in part from the air and in part from the soil. The solid part of their bodies is made up of cellulose, which consists largely of carbon (44 per cent of its weight), with hydrogen and oxygen added in almost the same proportions as in water. The carbon is derived from the carbonic acid of the air, which enters into the leaves and, under the influence of light, air, and water, is there decomposed; the oxygen is exhaled; the carbon is retained and combined with elements derived from the water, forming compounds, such as starch, sugar, etc., which are used as food materials, passing down the tree through its outer layers to the very tips of the roots, making new wood all along the branches, trunk, and roots. This process of food preparation, called "assimilation," can be carried on only in the green parts, and in these only when exposed to light and air; hence foliage, air, and light at the top are essential prerequisites for tree growth, and hence, other conditions being favorable, the more foliage and the better developed it is, and the more light this foliage has at its disposal for its work, the more vigorously will the tree grow. In general, therefore, pruning, since it reduces the amount of foliage, reduces also, for the time, the amount of wood formed; and just so shading, reducing the activity of foliage, reduces the growth of wood. SOIL CONDITIONS. From the soil trees take mainly water, which enters through the roots and is carried through the younger part of the tree to the leaves, to be used in part on its passage for food and wood formation and in part to be given up to the air by transpiration. In a vigorously growing tree the solid wood substance itself will contain half its weight in the form of water chemically combined, and the tree, in addition, will contain from 40 to 65 per cent and more of its dry weight in water mechanically or "hygroscopically" held. This last, when the tree is cut, very largely evaporates; yet well-seasoned wood still contains 10 to 12 per cent of such water. The weight of a green tree, a pine, for instance, is made up, in round numbers, of about 30 per cent of carbon and 70 per cent or water, either chemically or hygroscopically held, while a birch contains a still larger percentage of water. The largest part of the water which passes through the tree is transpired--i. e., given off to the air in vapor. The amounts thus transpired during the season vary greatly with the species of tree, its age, the amount of foliage at work, the amount of light at its disposal, the climatic conditions (rain, temperature, winds, relative humidity), and the season. These amounts are, however, very large when compared with the quantity retained; so that while an acre of forest may store in its trees, say, 1,000 pounds of carbon, 15 to 20 pounds of mineral substances, and 5,000 pounds of water in a year, it will have transpired--taken up from, the soil and returned to the air--from 500,000 to 1,500,000 pounds of water (one-quarter to one-half as much as agricultural crops). Mineral substances are taken up only in very small quantities, and these are mostly the commoner sorts, such as lime, potash, magnesia, and nitrogen. These are carried in solution to the leaves, where they are used (as perhaps also on their passage through the tree), with a part of the water, in food preparation. The main part of the mineral substances taken up remains, however, as the water transpires, in the leaves and young twigs, and is returned to the soil when the leaves are shed or when the tree is cut and the brush left to decompose and make humus. Hence the improvement of the fertility of the soil by wood crops is explained, the minerals being returned in more soluble form to the soil; as also the fact that wood crops do not exhaust the soil of its minerals, provided the leaves and litter are allowed to remain on the ground. For this reason there is no necessity of alternating wood crops, as far as their mineral needs are concerned; the same kind of trees can be grown on the same soil continuously, provided the soil is not allowed to deteriorate from other causes. As the foliage can perform its work of food assimilation only when sufficient water is at its disposal, the amount of growth is also dependent not only on the presence of sufficient sources of supply, but also on the opportunity had by the roots to utilize the supply, and this opportunity is dependent upon the condition of the soil. If the soil is compact, so that the rain water can not penetrate readily, and runs off superficially, or if it is of coarse grain and so deep that the water rapidly sinks out of reach of the roots and can not be drawn up by capillary action, the water supply is of no avail to the plants; but if the soil is porous and moderately deep (depth being the distance from the surface to the impenetrable subsoil, rock, or ground water) the water not only can penetrate but also can readily be reached and taken up by the roots. The moisture of the soil being the most important element in it for tree growth, the greatest attention must be given to its conservation and most advantageous distribution through the soil. No trees grow to the best advantage in very dry or very wet soil, although some can live and almost thrive in such unfavorable situations. A moderately but evenly moist soil, porous and deep enough or fissured enough to be well drained, and yet of such a structure that the water supplies from the depths can readily be drawn up and become available to the roots--that is the soil on which all trees grow most thriftily. The agriculturist procures this condition of the soil as far as possible by plowing, drainage, and irrigation, and he tries by cultivating to keep the soil from compacting again, as it does under the influence of the beating rain and of the drying out of the upper layers by sun and wind. The forest grower can not rely upon such methods, because they are either too expensive or entirely impracticable. He may, indeed, plow for his first planting, and cultivate the young trees, but in a few years this last operation will become impossible and the effects of the first operation will be lost. He must, therefore, attain his object in another manner, namely, by shading and mulching the soil. The shading is done at first by planting very closely, so that the ground may be protected as soon as possible from sun and wind, and by maintaining the shade well throughout the period of growth. This shade is maintained, if necessary, by more planting, and in case the main crop in later life thins out inordinately in the crowns or tops, or by the accidental death of trees, it may even become desirable to introduce an underbrush. The mulching is done by allowing the fallen leaves and twigs to remain and decay, and form a cover of rich mold or humus. This protective cover permits the rain and snow waters to penetrate without at the same time compacting the soil, keeping it granular and in best condition for conducting water, and at the same time preventing evaporation at the surface. The soil moisture, therefore, is best maintained by proper soil cover, which, however, is needful only in naturally dry soils. Wet soils, although supporting tree growth, do not, if constantly wet, produce satisfactory wood crops, the growth being very slow. Hence they must be drained and their water level sunk below the depth of the root system. Irrigation is generally too expensive to be applied to wood crops, except perhaps in the arid regions, where the benefit of the shelter belt may warrant the expense. Attention to favorable moisture conditions in the soil requires the selection of such kinds of trees as shade well for a long time, to plant closely, to protect the woody undergrowth (but not weeds), and to leave the litter on the ground as a mulch. Different species, to be sure, adapt themselves to different degrees of soil moisture, and the crop should therefore be selected with reference to its adaptation to available moisture supplies. While, as stated, all trees thrive best with a moderate and even supply of moisture, some can get along with very little, like the conifers, especially pines; others can exist even with an excessive supply, as the bald cypress, honey locust, some oaks, etc. The climate, however, must also be considered in this connection, for a tree species, although succeeding well enough on a dry soil in an atmosphere which does not require much transpiration, may not do so in a drier climate on the same soil. In the selection of different kinds of trees for different soils, the water conditions of the soil should, therefore, determine the choice. LIGHT CONDITIONS. To insure the largest amount of growth, full enjoyment of sunlight is needed. But as light is almost always accompanied by heat and relative dryness of air, which demands water from the plant, and may increase transpiration from the leaves inordinately, making them pump too hard, as it were, young seedlings of tree species whose foliage is not built for such strains require partial shading for the first year or two. The conifers belong to this class. In later life the light conditions exert a threefold influence on the development of the tree, namely, with reference to soil conditions, with reference to form development, and with reference to amount of growth. The art of the forester consists in regulating the light conditions so as to secure the full benefit of the stimulating effect of light on growth, without its deteriorating influences on the soil and on form development. As we have seen, shade is desirable in order to preserve soil moisture. Now, while young trees of all kinds, during the "brush" stage of development, have a rather dense foliage, as they grow older they vary in habit, especially when growing in the forest. Some, like the beech, the sugar maple, the hemlock, and the spruce, keep up a dense crown; others, like the chestnut, the oaks, the walnut, the tulip tree, and the white pine, thin out more and more, and when fully grown have a much less dense foliage; Anally, there are some which do not keep up a dense shade for any length of time, like the black and honey locust, with their small, thin leaves; the catalpa, with its large but few leaves at the end of the branchlets only, and the larch, with its short, scattered bunches of needles. So we can establish a comparative scale of trees with reference to the amount of shade which they can give continuously, as densely foliaged and thinly foliaged, in various gradations. If we planted all beech or sugar maple, the desirable shading of the soil would never be lacking, while if we planted all locust or catalpa the sun would soon reach the soil and dry it out, or permit a growth of grass or weeds, which is worse, because those transpire still larger quantities of water than the bare ground evaporates or an undergrowth of woody plants would transpire. Of course, a densely foliaged tree has many more leaves to shed than a thinly foliaged one, and therefore makes more litter, which increases the favorable mulch cover of the soil. Another reason for keeping the ground well shaded is that the litter then decomposes slowly, but into a desirable humus, which acts favorably upon the soil, while if the litter is exposed to light, an undesirable, partly decomposed "raw" humus is apt to be formed. Favorable soil conditions, then, require shade, while wood growth is increased by full enjoyment of light; to satisfy both requirements, mixed planting, with proper selection of shade-enduring and light-needing species, is resorted to. As the different species afford shade in different degrees, so they require for their development different degrees of light. The dense foliage of the beech, with a large number of leaves in the interior of the crown, proves that the leaves can exist and perform their work with a small amount of light; the beech is a shade-enduring tree. The scanty foliage of the birches, poplars, or pines shows that these are light-needing trees; hence they are never found under the dense shade of the former, while the shade-enduring can develop satisfactorily under the light shade of the thin-foliaged kinds. Very favorable soil conditions increase the shade endurance of the latter, and climatic conditions also modify their relative position in the scale. All trees ultimately thrive best--i. e., grow most vigorously--in the full enjoyment of light, but their energy then goes into branching. Crowded together, with the side light cut off, the lower lateral branches soon die and fall, while the main energy of growth is put into the shaft and the height growth is stimulated. The denser shade of the shade-enduring kinds, if placed as neighbors to light-needing ones, is most effective in producing this result, provided that the light is not cut off at the top; and thus, in practice, advantage is taken of the relative requirements for light of the various species.[1] [1] This relation of the different species to varying light conditions; their comparative shading value and shade endurance, is one of the most important facts to be observed and utilized by the forester. European foresters have done this, but since they had to deal with only a few species and over a limited territory, they could quite readily classify their trees with reference to their shade endurance, and take it for granted that shade endurance and density of foliage or shading value were more or less identical. With our great wealth of useful species it will be necessary and profitable to be more exact in the classification. The forester finds in close planting and in mixed growth a means of securing tall, clear trunks, free from knots, and he is able, moreover, by proper regulation of light conditions, to influence the form development, and also the quality of his crop, since slow growth and rapid growth produce wood of different character. There are some species which, although light-foliaged and giving comparatively little shade, are yet shade-enduring--i. e., can subsist, although not develop favorably, under shade; the oaks are examples of this kind. Others, like the black cherry, bear a dense crown for the first twenty years, perhaps, seemingly indicating great shade endurance; but the fact that the species named soon clears itself of its branches and finally has a thin crown, indicates that it is light-needing, though a good shader for the first period of its life. Others, again, like the catalpa, which is shady and shade-enduring, as the difficulty with which it clears itself indicates, leaf out so late and lose their foliage so early that their shading value is thereby impaired. Black locust and honey locust, on the other hand, leave no doubt either as to their light-needing or their inferior shading quality. That soil conditions and climatic conditions also modify crown development and shade endurance has been well recognized abroad, but in our country this influence is of much more importance on account of the great variation in those conditions. Thus the box elder, an excellent shader in certain portions of the West, is a failure as soil cover in others where it nevertheless will grow. We see, then, that in determining the shading value as well as the shade endurance of one species in comparison with another, with reference to forestry purposes, not only soil and climate but also the character of foliage and its length of season must be considered. PHYSIOLOGY OF TREE GROWTH. As we have seen, root and foliage are the main life organs of the tree. The trunk and branches serve to carry the crown upward and expose it to the light, which is necessary in order to prepare the food and increase the volume of the tree, and also as conductors of food materials up and down between root and foliage. A large part of the roots, too, aside from giving stability to the tree, serve only as conductors of water and food material; only the youngest parts, the fibrous roots, beset with innumerable fine hairs, serve to take up the water and minerals from the soil. These fine roots, root hairs, and young parts are therefore the essential portion of the root system. A tree may have a fine, vigorous-looking root system, yet if the young parts and fibrous roots are cut off or allowed to dry out, which they readily do--some kinds more so than others--thereby losing their power to take up water, such a tree is apt to die. Under very favorable moisture and temperature conditions, however, the old roots may throw out now sprouts and replace the fibrous roots. Some species, like the willows, poplars, locusts, and others, are especially capable of doing so. All trees that "transplant easily" probably possess this capacity of renewing the fibrous roots readily, or else are less subject to drying out. But it may be stated as a probable fact that most transplanted trees which die soon after the planting do so because the fibrous roots have been curtailed too much in taking up, or else have been allowed to dry out on the way from the nursery or forest to the place of planting; they were really dead before being set. Conifers--pines, spruces, etc.--are especially sensitive; maples, oaks, catalpas, and apples will, in this respect, stand a good deal of abuse. Hence, in transplanting, the first and foremost care of the forest, grower, besides taking the sapling up with least injury, is the proper protection of its root fibers against drying out. The water, with the minerals in solution, is taken up by the roots when the soil is warm enough, but to enable the roots to act they must be closely packed with the soil. It is conveyed mostly through the outer, which are the younger, layers of the wood of root, trunk, and branches to the leaves. Here, as we have seen, under the influence of light and heat it is in large part transpired and in part combined with the carbon into organic compounds, sugar, etc., which serve as food materials. These travel from the leaf into the branchlet, and down through the outer layers of the trunk to the very tips of the root, forming new wood all the way, new buds, which lengthen into shoots, leaves, and flowers, and also new rootlets. To live and grow, therefore, the roots need the food elaborated in the leaves, just as the leaves need the water sent up from the roots. Hence the interdependence of root system and crown, which must be kept in proportion when transplanting. At least, the root system must be sufficient to supply the needs of the crown. "SAP UP AND SAP DOWN." The growing tree, in all its parts, is more or less saturated with water, and as the leaves, under the influence of sun and wind and atmospheric conditions generally transpire, new supplies are taken in through the roots and conveyed to the crown. This movement takes place even in winter, in a slight degree, to supply the loss of water by evaporation from the branches. In the growing season it is so active as to become noticeable; hence the saying that the sap is "up," or "rising," and when, toward the end of the season, the movement becomes less, the sap is said to be "down." But this movement of water is always upward; hence the notion that there is a stream upward at one season and in one part of the tree, and a stream downward at another season and perhaps in another part of the tree, is erroneous. The downward movement is of food materials, and the two movements of water upward and food downward take place simultaneously, and depend, in part at least, one upon the other, the food being carried to the young parts, wherever required, by a process of diffusion from cell to cell known as "osmosis." [Illustration: Fig. 1.--Physiological importance of different parts of the tree; pathways of water and food materials. (Schematic.)] These food materials are, by the life processes of the active cells, changed in chemical composition as need be, from sugar, which is soluble, into starch, which is insoluble, and back into sugar, and combined with nitrogenous substances to make the cell-forming material, protoplasm (fig. 1). In the fall, when the leaves cease to elaborate food, both the upward and the downward movement, more or less simultaneously, come to rest (the surplus of food materials, as starch, and sometimes as sugar, being stored for the winter in certain cell tissues), to begin again simultaneously when in spring the temperature is high enough to reawaken activity, when the stored food of last year is dissolved and started on its voyage. The exact manner in which this movement of water upward and food materials downward takes place, and the forces at work, are not yet fully understood, nor is there absolute certainty as to the parts of the tree in which the movement takes place. It appears, however, that while all the so-called "sapwood" is capable of conducting water (the heartwood is probably not), the most active movement of both water and food materials takes place in the cambium (the growing cells immediately beneath the bark) and youngest parts of the bark. The deductions from these processes important to the planter are: That injury to the living bark or bast means injury to growth, if not destruction to life; that during the period of vegetation transplanting can be done only with great caution; that the best time to move trees is in the fall, when the leaves have dropped and the movement of water and food materials has mostly ceased, or in spring, before the movement begins again, the winter being objectionable only because of the difficulty of working the soil and of keeping the roots protected against frost. All things considered, spring planting, before activity in the tree has begun, is the best, although it is not impossible to plant at other times. PROGRESS OF DEVELOPMENT. Like the wheat or corn plant, the tree seed require as conditions for sprouting sufficient moisture, warmth, and air. Tree seeds, however, differ from grain in that most of the kinds lose their power of germination easily; with few exceptions (locust, pine, spruce), they can not be kept for any length of time. The first leaves formed often differ essentially in shape from those of the mature tree, which may cause their being confounded with other plants, weeds, etc. The little seedlings of many, especially the conifers, are quite delicate, and remain very small the first season; they need, therefore, the protecting shade of mother trees, or artificial shading, and also protection against weeds. The amount of light or shade given requires careful regulation for some of them; too much light and heat will kill them, and so will too much shade. This accounts for the failure of many seedlings that spring up in the virgin forest. The planter, then, is required to know the nature and the needs of the various kinds of seeds and seedlings, so as to provide favorable conditions, when he will avoid sowing in the open field such as require the care which it is impracticable to give outside of the nursery. [Illustration: Fig. 2.--Bud development of beech. _B_, as it would be if all formed buds were to live; _A_, as it is, many buds failing to develop.] GROWTH IN LENGTH AND RAMIFICATION. While the stalk of wheat or corn grows for one season, exhausts itself in seed production, and then dies, the tree continues to grow from season to season, in length as well as in thickness. The growth in length of shaft and branches proceeds from buds, made up of cell tissues, which can subdivide and lengthen into shoots, as well as make leaves. These buds are formed during summer, and when winter begins contain embryo leaves, more or less developed, under the protecting cover of scales (fig. 3). When spring stimulates the young plant to new activity, the buds swell, shed their scales, distend their cells, increasing their number by subdivision, and thus the leaves expand, and the bud lengthens into a shoot and twig. During the season new buds are formed, and the whole process repeats itself from year to year, giving rise to the ramification and height growth of the tree. The end buds being mostly stronger and better developed, the main axis of tree or branch increases more rapidly than the rest. All these buds originate from the youngest, central part of the shoot, the pith, and hence when the tree grows in thickness, enveloping the base of the limbs, their connection with the pith can always be traced. This is the usual manner of bud formation; in addition, so-called "adventitious" buds maybe formed from the young living wood in later life, which are not connected with the pith. Such buds are those which develop into sprouts from the stump when the tree is cut; also those which give rise to what are known as "water sprouts." Many buds, although formed, are, however, not developed at once, and perhaps not at all, especially as the tree grows older; these either die or remain "dormant," often for a hundred years, to spring into life when necessary (fig. 4). [Illustration: Fig. 3.--Buds of maple. _A_, longitudinal section through tip of a maple twig; _g_, end bud; _s_, lateral buds; _l_, scars of leaves of last season. _B_, cross-section through end bud, showing folded leaves in center and scales surrounding them.] The fact that each ordinary limb starts as a bud from the pith is an important one to the timber grower; it explains knotty timber and gives him the hint that in order to obtain clear timber the branches first formed must be soon removed, either by the knife or by proper shading, which kills the branches and thus "clears" the shaft. [Illustration: Fig. 4.--Dormant bud, _K_, on a 12-year old branch of beech. The bud is still capable of development and is connected with the pith, _mm_, of the stem by a line trace of pith, _S_.] [Illustration: Fig. 5.--Section through a 12-year old stem of beech, showing manner of bud and limb formation, _a_, dormant buds; _b_, their trace of pith extending to the pith of the stem; _c_, a limb which started two years ago from a dormant bud; _d_, normal limb; _e_, a limb dead for four years; _f_, adventitious buds.] The planter has it also in his power to influence the form development of the tree by removing some of the buds, giving thereby better chance to the remaining ones. This pruning of buds is, where practicable, often better practice than the pruning of limbs. Since the tree does not grow in length except by its buds it is evident that a limb which started to grow at the height of 6 feet has its base always 6 feet from the ground, and if allowed to grow to size, must be surrounded by the wood which accumulates on the main stem or trunk. If a limb is killed and broken off early, only a slender stub composed entirely of rapidly decaying sapwood, is left, occasioning, therefore, only a small defect in the heart of the tree; but if left to grow to considerable age, the base of the limb is encased by the wood of the stem, which, when the tree is cut into lumber, appears as a knot. The longer the limb has been allowed to grow, the farther out is the timber knotty and the thicker is the knot. If the limb remained alive, the knot is "sound," closely grown together with the fibers of the tree. If the limb died off, the remaining stub may behave in different ways. In pines it will be largely composed of heartwood, very resinous and durable; separated from the fibers of the overgrowing wood, it forms a "loose" knot, which is apt to fall out of a board, leaving a hole. In broad-leaved trees, where no resin assists in the process of healing, the stub is apt to decay, and this decay, caused by the growth of fungi, is apt to penetrate into the tree (fig. 6). In parks and orchards, pruning is resorted to, and the cuts are painted or tarred to avoid the decay. In well-managed forests and dense woods in general, the light is cut off, the limb is killed when young and breaks away, the shaft "clears itself," and the sound trunk furnishes a good grade of material. The difference in development of the branch system, whether in full enjoyment of light, in open stand, or with the side light cut off, in dense position, is shown in the accompanying illustration (fig. 7). [Illustration: Fig. 6.--Section through partly decayed knot in oak wood. _a_, wood of knot; _b_ and _c_, wood callus of the stem covering the wound; shaded portion, decayed wood, black part, a cavity remaining.] Both trees start alike; the one retains its branches, the other loses them gradually, the stubs being in time overgrown; finally the second has a clear shaft, with a crown concentrated at the top, while the first is beset with branches and branch stubs for its whole length (fig. 8). When ripped open lengthwise, the interior exhibits the condition shown in figure 9, the dead parts of the knot being indicated in heavier shading. Since the brandies grow in more or less regular whorls, several knots, stumps, or limbs are met every 6 to 24 inches through the entire stem. Hence, in forest planting, trees are placed and kept for some time close together, in order to decrease the branching in the lower part of the tree and thus produce a clean bole and clear lumber. GROWTH IN THICKNESS. The young seedling and the young shoot of the older tree much resemble in interior structure that of any herbaceous plant, being composed of a large amount of pith, loose squarish cells, and a few bundles of long fibers symmetrically distributed about the center, the whole covered with a thin skin or epidermis. Each strand or bundle of fibers, called fibro-vascular (fiber-vessel) bundles, consists of two kinds, namely, wood fibers on the inner side and bast fibers of different structure on the outer side. Between these two sets of fibers, the bast and the wood, there is a row of cells which form the really active, growing part of the plantlet, the cambium. The cambium cells are actively subdividing and expanding, giving off wood cells to the interior and bast cells to the exterior, and extending at the same time side-wise, until at the end of the season not only are the wood and bast portions increased in lines radiating from the center, but the cambium layer, the wood cells, and the bast cells of all the bundles (scattered at the beginning) join at the sides to form a complete ring, or rather hollow cylinder, around the central pith. Only here and there the pith cells remain, interrupting the wood cylinder and giving rise to the system of cells known as medullary rays. The cross-section now shows a comparatively small amount of pith and bast or bark and a larger body of strong wood fibers. The new shoot at the end, to be sure, has the same appearance and arrangement as the young plantlet had, the pith preponderating, and the continuous cylinder of cambium, bast, and wood being separated into strands or bundles. [Illustration: Fig. 7.--Development in and out of the forest. _A_, young tree alike. In both cases; _B_ and _C_, successive stages of tree grown in the open; _B´_ and _C´_, corresponding stages of the tree grown in the forest. Numbers refer to annual growth in height.] During the season, through the activity of the cambial part of the bundles, the same changes take place in the new shoot as did the previous year in the young seedling, while at the same time the cambium in the yearling part also actively subdivides, forming new wood and bast cells, and thus a second ring, or rather cylinder, is formed. The cambium of the young shoot is always a continuation of that of the ring or cylinder formed the year before, and this cambium cylinder always keeps moving outward, so that at the end of the season, when activity ceases, it is always the last minute layer of cells on the outside of the wood, between wood proper and bark. It is here, therefore, that the life of the tree lies, and any injury to the cambium must interfere with the growth and life of the tree. [Illustration: Fig. 8.--Tree in and out of the forest. _D_, tree grown in the open; _D´_, tree grown in the forest.] The first wood cells which the cambium forms in the spring are usually or always of a more open structure, thin-walled, and with a large opening or "lumen," comparable to a blown-up paper bag; so large, in fact, sometimes, is the "lumen" that the width of the cells can be seen on a cross-section with the naked eye, as, for instance, in oak, ash, elm, the so-called "pores" are this open wood formed in spring. The cells, which are formed later in summer, have mostly thick walls, are closely crowded and compressed, and show a very small opening or "lumen," being comparable, perhaps, to a very thick wooden box. They appear in the cross-section not only denser but of a deeper color, on account of their crowded, compressed condition and thicker walls. Since at the beginning of the next season again thin-walled cells with wide openings or lumina are formed, this difference in the appearance of "spring wood" and "summer wood" enables us to distinguish the layer of wood formed each year. This "annual ring" is more conspicuous in Some kinds than in others. In the so-called "ring porous" woods, like oak, ash, elm, the rings are easily distinguished by the open spring wood; in the conifers, especially pines, by the dark-colored summer wood; while in maple, birch, tulip, etc., only a thin line of flattened, hence darker and regularly aligned, summer cells, often hardly recognizable, distinguishes The rings from each other. Cutting through a tree, therefore, we can not only ascertain its age by counting its annual layers in the cross-section, but also determine how much wood is formed each year (fig. 10). We can, in fact, retrace the history of its growth, the vicissitudes through which it has passed, by the record preserved in its ring growth. To ascertain the age of a tree correctly, however, we must cut so near to the ground as to include the growth of the first year's little plantlet; any section higher up shows as many years too few as it took the tree to reach that height. [Illustration: Fig. 9.--Sections of logs showing the relative development of knots. _E_, from tree grown in the open; _E´_, from tree grown in a dense forest; _a_ and _c_, whorls of knots; _b_, dead limb; _sk_, "sound knot;" _dk_, "dead knot."] This annual-ring formation is the rule in all countries which have distinct seasons of summer and winter and temporary cessation of growth. Only exceptionally a tree may fail to make its growth throughout its whole length on account of loss of foliage or other causes; and occasionally, when its growth has been disturbed during the season, a "secondary" ring, resembling the annual ring, and distinguishable only by the expert, may appear and mar the record. To the forest planter this chapter on ring growth is of great importance, because not only does this feature of tree life afford the means of watching the progress of his crop, calculating the amount of wood formed, and therefrom determining when it is most profitable for him to harvest (namely, when the annual or periodic wood growth falls below a certain amount), but since the proportion of summer wood and spring wood determines largely the quality of the timber, and since he has it in his power to influence the preponderance of the one or other by adaptation of species to soils and by their management, ring growth furnishes an index for regulating the quality of his crop. FORM DEVELOPMENT. If a tree is allowed to grow in the open, it has a tendency to branch, and makes a low and spreading crown. In order to lengthen its shaft and to reduce the number of branches it is necessary to narrow its growing space, to shade its sides so that the lower branches and their foliage do not receive light enough to perform their functions. When the side shade is dense enough, these branches die and finally break off under the influence of winds and fungous growth; wood then forms over the scars and we get a clean shaft which carries a crown high up beyond the reach of shade from neighbors. [Illustration: Fig. 10.--Scheme to Illustrate the arrangement of annual growth. 1, 2, 3, etc., represent the parts of the stem grown during the first, second, third, etc., twenty years of the life of the tree, _k_, knots; the shaded part of each is the "dead knot" of lumber.] The branches being prevented from spreading out, the shaft is forced to grow upward, and hence, when crowded by others, trees become taller and more cylindrical in form, while in the open, where they can spread, they remain lower and more conical in form (figs. 11, 12). There are, to be sure, different natural types of development, some, like the walnuts, oaks, beeches, and the broad-leaved trees generally, having greater tendency to spread than others, like spruces, firs, and conifers in general, which lengthen their shaft in preference to spreading, even in the open. This tendency to spreading is also influenced by soil conditions and climate, as well as by the age of the tree. When the trees cease to grow in height, their crowns broaden, and this takes place sooner in shallow soils than in deep, moist ones; but the tendency can be checked and all can be made to develop the shaft at the expense of the branches by proper shading from the sides. It follows that the forest planter, who desires to produce long and clean shafts and best working quality of timber, must secure and maintain side shade by a close stand, while the landscape gardener, who desires characteristic form, must maintain an open stand and full enjoyment of light for his trees. Now, as we have seen, different species afford different amounts of shade, and in proportion to the shade which they afford can they endure shade. The beech or sugar maple or spruce, which maintain a large amount of foliage under the dense shade of their own crown, show that their leaves can live and functionate with a small amount of light. They are shade-enduring trees. On the other hand, the black walnut, the locust, the catalpa, the poplars, and the larch show by the manner in which their crowns thin out, the foliage being confined to the ends of the branches, that their leaves require more light--they are light-needing trees; so that the scale which arranges the trees according to the amount of shade they exert serves also to measure their shade endurance. In making, therefore, mixed plantations, the different kinds must be so grouped and managed that the shady trees will not outgrow and overtop the light-needing; the latter must either have the start of the former or must be quicker growers. [Illustration: Fig. 11.--Oak tree grown in the open.] [Illustration: Fig. 12.--Maple tree grown in the forest.] RATE OF GROWTH. Not only do different species grow more or less rapidly in height and girth, but there is in each species a difference in the rate of growth during different periods of life, and a difference in the persistence of growth. It stands to reason that trees grow differently in different soils and situations, and hence we can not compare different species with respect to their rate of growth except as they grow under the same conditions. Thus the black walnut may grow as fast as or faster than the ash on a rich, deep, moist, warm soil, but will soon fall to the rear in a wetter, colder, and shallower soil. Given the same conditions, some species will start on a rapid upward growth at once, like the poplars, aspen, locust, and silver maple, making rapid progress (the most rapid from their tenth to their fifteenth year), but decreasing soon in rate and reaching their maximum height early. Others, like the spruce, beech, and sugar maple, will begin slowly, often occupying several, sometimes as many as 10 to 15, years before they appear to grow at all, their energy all going into root growth. Then comes a period of more and more accelerated growth, which reaches its maximum rate at 25 or 30 years; and when the cottonwood or aspen has reached the end of its growth in height the spruce or pine is still at its best rate, and continues to grow for a long time at that rate; in later life the rate decreases, yet height growth sometimes does not cease altogether for centuries. As a rule, the light-needing species are the ones which show the rapid height growth at the start, while the shade-enduring are slow at the start, but persistent growers. This fact is important in explaining the alternations of forest growth in nature; the persistent shade-enduring species crowd out the light-needing, and the latter rapidly take possession of any openings that fire or storm has made. It is also important with reference to the management of wood crops and starting of mixed plantations; the light-needing species must be mixed only with such shade-enduring species as are slower growers than themselves. The diameter growth shows also periodic changes in its rate, and is, of course, influenced in the same way by soil, climate, and light conditions, as the height growth. In the juvenile or brush stage, lasting 6 to 10 years in light-needing and 20 to 40 years in shade-enduring species, the diameter grows comparatively little, all energy being directed to height growth and root growth. When the crown has been definitely formed, more food material is available for wood formation, and the increase in foliage is accompanied by a more rapid increase of trunk diameter; in favorable situations, the highest rate occurs between the fortieth and sixtieth years; in the poorer situations, between the fiftieth and eightieth years, which rate continues for some time. Then comes a period of slower rate, which finally in old age dwindles down almost to zero. But neither the diameter growth nor the width of the annual rings alone tells us directly what amount of wood is forming. The outer rings, being laid over a larger circumference, although thinner than the preceding rings, may yet have greater cubic contents. The statements of diameter growth are, therefore, misleading if we are interested in knowing how much wood is forming. Accordingly the growth in volume must be considered separately, as determined by the enlargement of the cross-section area and the height. The growth in volume or mass accretion is quite small in young trees, so that when wood is cut young the smallest amount of crop per year is harvested, while, if it is allowed to grow, an increase more than proportionate to the number of years may be obtained. Only when the tree has a fully developed crown does it begin to make much wood. Its volume growth progresses then at a uniform rate, and continues to do so for decades, and sometimes for a century or more. On poorer sites the rate is slower, but remains longer on the increase, while on good sites the maximum rate is soon reached. Of course, in a forest, where light conditions are not most favorable, because form development and soil conditions require shade, the total wood formation is less than in an isolated tree, favorably placed. Just so the dominant trees in a forest--i. e., those which have their crowns above all others--show, of course, the advantage they have over the inferior trees which are suffering from the shade of their neighbors. Finally, if we would take into consideration an entire forest growth, and determine, for instance, how much wood an acre of such forest produces at different periods, we must not overlook the fact that the number of trees per acre changes as the trees grow older. Some of them are overshaded and crowded out by the others, so that a young growth of spruce might start with 100,000 little seedlings to the acre, of which in the twentieth year only 10,000 would be alive, while in the fortieth year the number would be reduced to 1,200, and in the hundredth year to 280. Hence the rate of growth of any single tree gives no idea of what the acre of forest will do. Tims, while a single good white pine might grow the fastest in volume when about one hundred years old, then making wood at the rate of, say, 1.5 cubic feet per year, an acre of pine on good soil, containing about 1,600 trees, may make the most wood in the thirtieth year, then growing at the rate of 170 cubic feet per acre, while in the hundredth year the rate would not exceed 70 cubic feet; and an acre of pine in a poorer location, with about 1,400 trees, may make the most wood in the fortieth year, at the rate of 100 cubic feet per acre. From the consideration of the relation of light conditions to soil conditions, to form development, and to rate of growth, we may make the following deductions of interest to the forest planter: In order to secure the best results in wood production, in quantity and quality, at the same time preserving favorable soil conditions, the forest should be composed of various species, a mixture of light-needing and shade-enduring kinds. The light-needing ones should be of quicker growth; the shady ones, in larger numbers, should be slower growers. For the first fifteen to twenty-five years the plantation should be kept as dense as possible, to secure clear shafts and good growth in height; then it should be thinned, to increase crown development and diameter growth; the thinning, however, is not to be so severe that the crowns can not close up again in two or three years; the thinning is to be repeated again and again, always favoring the best developed trees. REPRODUCTION. All trees reproduce themselves naturally from seed. Man can secure their reproduction also from cuttings or layers; and some kinds can reproduce themselves by shoots from the stump when the parent tree has been cut. This latter capacity is possessed in a varying degree by different species; chestnuts, oaks, elms, maples, poplars, and willows are most excellent sprouters; most conifers do not sprout at all, and the shoots of those that do sprout soon die (Sequoia or California redwood seems to be an exception). Sprouts of broad-leaved trees develop differently from seedlings, growing very rapidly at first, but soon lessening in the rate of growth and never attaining the height and perhaps not the diameter of trees grown from the seed; they are also shorter lived. With age the stumps lose their capacity for sprouting. To secure best results, the parent tree should be cut close to the ground in early spring, avoiding severe frost, and a sharp cut should be made which will not sever the bark from the trunk. Not all trees bear seed every year, and plentiful seed production, especially in a forest, occurs, as a rule, periodically. The periods differ with species, climate, and season. Not all seeds can germinate, and in some species the number of seeds that can germinate is very small, and they lose their power of germination when kept a few hours, like the willows. Others, if kept till they have become dry, will "lie over" in the soil a year or more before germinating. The same thing will occur if they are covered too deep in the soil, provided they germinate at all under such conditions. In order to germinate, seeds must have warmth, air, and moisture. The preparation of a seed bed is, therefore, necessary in order to supply these conditions in most favorable combination. In the natural forest millions of seeds rot or dry without sprouting, and millions of seedlings sprout, but soon perish under the too dense shade of the mother trees. Man, desiring to reproduce a valuable wood crop, cannot afford to be as lavish as nature, and must therefore improve upon nature's methods, making more careful preparation for the production of his crop, either by growing the seedlings in nurseries and transplanting them, or else by cutting away the old growth in such a manner as to secure to the young self-grown crop better chances for life and development. 2. HOW TO PLANT A FOREST. Forest planting and tree planting are two different things. The orchardist, who plants for fruit; the landscape gardener, who plants for form; the roadside planter, who plants for shade, all have objects in view different from that of the forest planter, and therefore select and use their plant material differently. They deal with single individual trees, each one by itself destined for a definite purpose. The forester, on the other hand, plants a crop like the farmer; he deals not with the single seed or plant, but with masses of trees; the individual tree has value to him only as apart of the whole. It may come to harvest for its timber, or it may not come to harvest, and yet have answered its purpose as a part of the whole in shading the ground, or acting as nurse or "forwarder" as long as it was necessary. His object is not to grow trees, but to produce wood, the largest amount of the best quality per acre, whether it be stored in one tree or in many, and his methods must be directed to that end. As far as the manner of setting out plants or sowing seeds is concerned, the same general principles and the same care in manipulation are applicable as in any other planting, except as the coat of operating on so Large a scale may necessitate less careful methods than the gardener or nurseryman can afford to apply; the nearer, however, the performance of planting can be brought to the careful manner of the gardener, the surer the success. The principles underlying such methods have been discussed in the chapter "How trees grow;" in the present chapter it is proposed to point out briefly the special considerations which should guide the forest planter in particular. WHAT TREES TO PLANT. _Adaptability to climate_ is the first requisite in the species to be planted. It is best to choose from the native growth of the region which is known to be adapted to it. With regard to species not native, the reliance must be placed upon the experience of neighboring planters and upon experiment (at first on a small scale), after study of the requirements of the kinds proposed for trial. Adaptation must be studied, not only with reference to temperature ranges and rainfall, but especially with reference to atmospheric humidity and requirements of transpiration. Many species have a wide range of natural distribution, and hence of climatic adaptation. If such are to be used, it is important to secure seeds from that part of the range of natural distribution where the plants must be hardiest, i. e., the coldest and driest region in which it occurs, which insures hardy qualities in the offspring. For instance, the Douglas spruce from the humid and evenly tempered Pacific Slope will not be as hardy as that grown from seed collected on the dry and frigid slopes of the Rockies. Lack of attention to this requisite accounts for many failures. It must also be kept in mind that, while a species may be able to grow in another than its native climate, its wood may not there have the same valuable qualities which it develops in its native habitat. _Adaptability to soil_ must be studied less with reference to mineral constituents than to physical condition. Depth and moisture conditions, and the structure of the soil, which influences the movement of water in it, are the most important elements. While all trees thrive best in a moist to "fresh" soil of moderate depth (from 2 to 4 feet) and granular structure, some can adapt themselves to drier or wetter, shallow, and compact soils. Fissures in rocks into which the roots can penetrate often stand for depth of soil, and usually aid in maintaining favorable moisture conditions. In soils of great depth (i. e., from the surface to the impenetrable subsoil) and of coarse structure water may drain away so fast as not to be available to the roots. Soil moisture must always be studied in conjunction with atmospheric moisture; for, while a species may thrive in an arid soil, when the demands of transpiration are not great, it may not do so when aridity of atmosphere is added. Trees of the swamp are apt to be indifferent to soil moisture and to thrive quite well, if not better, in drier soils. _Adaptability to site._--While a species may be well adapted to the general climatic conditions of a region, and in general to the soil, there still remains to be considered its adaptability to the particular "site," under which term we may comprise the total effect of general climate, local climate, and soil. The general climatic conditions are locally influenced, especially by the slope, exposure, or aspect, and the surroundings. Thus we know that eastern exposures are more liable to frost, western exposures more liable to damage from winds, southern more apt to be hot and to dry out, and northern to be cooler and damper, having in consequence a shorter period of vegetation. Hollows and lowlands are more exposed to frosts and more subject to variations in soil moisture, etc. Hence for these various situations it is advisable to select species which can best withstand such local dangers. _The use value, or utility_, of the species is next to be considered. This must be done with reference to the commercial and domestic demand, and the length of time it takes the species to attain its value. The greater variety of purposes a wood may serve--i. e., the greater its general utility--and the sooner it attains its use value the better. White pine for the northeastern States as a wood is like the apple among fruits, making an all-round useful material in large quantities per acre in short time. Tulip poplar, applicable to a wider climatic range, is almost as valuable, while oak, ash, and hickory are standard woods in the market. Other woods are of limited application. Thus the black locust, which grows most quickly into useful posts, has only a limited market, much more limited than it should have; hickory soon furnishes valuable hoop poles from the thinnings, and later the best wagon material, not, however, large quantities in a short time; while black walnut of good quality is very high in price, the market is also limited, and the dark color of the heartwood, for which it is prized, is attained only by old trees. The black cherry, used for similar purposes, attains its value much sooner. By planting various species together, variety of usefulness may be secured and the certainty of a market increased. _The forest value_ of the species is only in part expressed by its use value. As has been shown in another place, the composition of the crop must be such as to insure maintenance of favorable soil conditions, as well as satisfactory development of the crop itself. Some species, although of high use value, like ash, oak, etc, are poor preservers of soil conditions, allowing grass and weeds to enter the plantation and to deteriorate the soil under their thin foliage. Others, like beech, sugar maple, box elder, etc., although of less use value, being dense foliaged and preserving a shady crown for a long time, are of great forest value as soil improvers. Again, as the value of logs depends largely on their freedom from knots, straightness, and length, it is of importance to secure these qualities. Some valuable species, if grown by themselves, make crooked trunks, do not clean their shafts of branches, and are apt to spread rather than lengthen. If planted in close companionship with others, they are forced by these "nurses or forwarders" to make better growths and clean their shafts of branches. Furthermore, from financial considerations, it is well to know that some species develop more rapidly and produce larger quantities of useful material per acre than others; thus the white pine is a "big cropper," and, combining with this a tolerably good shading quality, and being in addition capable of easy reproduction, it is of highest "forest value." Hence, as the object of forestry is to make money from continued wood crops, use value and forest value must both be considered in The selection of materials for forest planting. _Mutual relationship of different species_, with reference especially to their relative height growth and their relative light requirements, must be considered in starting a mixed plantation. Mixed forest plantations (made of several kinds) have so many advantages over pure plantations (made of one kind) that they should be preferred, except for very particular reasons. Mixed plantations are capable of producing larger quantities of better and more varied material, preserve soil conditions hotter, are less liable to damage from winds, fires, and insects, and can be more readily reproduced. The following general rules should guide in making up the composition of a mixed plantation: _a._ Shade-enduring kinds should form the bulk (five-eighths to seven-eighths) of the plantation, except on specially favored soils where no deterioration is to be feared from planting only light-needing kinds, and in which case those may even be planted by themselves. _b._ The light-needing trees should be surrounded by shade-enduring of slower growth, so that the former may not be overtopped, but have the necessary light and be forced by side shade to straight growth. _c._ Shade-enduring species may be grown in admixture with each other when their rate of height growth is about equal, or when the slower-growing kind can be protected against the quicker-growing (for instance, by planting a larger proportion of the former in groups or by cutting back the latter). _d._ The more valuable timber trees which are to form the main crop should be so disposed individually, and planted in such numbers among the secondary crop or nurse crop, that the latter can be thinned out first without disturbing the former. Where a plantation of light-foliaged trees has been made (black walnut, for instance), it can be greatly improved by "under-planting" densely with a shade-enduring kind, which will choke out weed growth, improve the soil, and thereby advance the growth of the plantation. The selection and proper combination of species with reference to this mutual relationship to each other and to the soil are the most important elements of success. _Availability_ of the species also still needs consideration in this country; for, although a species may be very well adapted to the purpose in hand, it may be too difficult to obtain material for planting in quantity or at reasonable prices. While the beech is one of the best species for shade endurance, and hence for soil cover, seedlings can not be had as yet in quantity. Western conifers, although promising good material for forest planting, are at present too high priced for general use. Some eastern trees can be secured readily--either their seed or seedlings--from the native woods; others must be grown in nurseries before they can be placed in the field. _Whether to procure seeds or plants_, and if the latter, what kind, depends upon a number of considerations. The main crop, that which is to furnish the better timber, had best be planted with nursery-grown plants, if of slow-growing kinds, perhaps once transplanted, with well-developed root systems, the plants in no case to be more than 2 to 3 years old. The secondary or nurse crop may then be sown or planted with younger and less costly material taken from the woods or grown in seed beds, or else cuttings may be used. In some localities--for instance, the Western plains--the germinating of seeds in the open field is so uncertain, and the life of the young seedlings for the first year or two so precarious, that the use of seeds in the field can not be recommended. In such locations careful selection and treatment of the planting material according to the hardships which it must encounter can alone insure success. Seedlings from 6 to 12 inches high furnish the best material. The planting of large-sized trees is not excluded, but is expensive and hence often impracticable, besides being less sure of success, since the larger-sized tree is apt to lose a greater proportion of its roots in transplanting. METHODS OF PLANTING. _Preparation of soil_ is for the purpose of securing a favorable start for the young crop; its effects are lost after the first few years. Most land that is to be devoted to forest planting does not admit of as careful preparation as for agricultural crops, nor is it necessary where the climate is hot too severe and the soil not too compact to prevent the young crop from establishing itself. Thousands of acres in Germany are planted annually without any soil preparation, yearling pine seedlings being set with a dibble in the unprepared ground. This absence of preparation is even necessary in sandy soils, like that encountered in the sand-hills of Nebraska, which may, if disturbed, be blown out and shifted. In other cases a partial removal of a too rank undergrowth or soil cover and a shallow scarifying or hoeing is resorted to, or else furrows are thrown up and the trees set out in them. In land that has been tilled, deep plowing (10 to 12 inches) and thorough pulverizing give the best chances for the young crop to start. For special conditions, very dry or very moist situations, special methods are required. The best methods for planting in the semiarid regions of the far West have not yet been developed. Thorough cultivation, as for agricultural crops, with subsequent culture, is successful, but expensive. A plan which might be tried would consist in breaking the raw prairie in June and turning over a shallow sod, sowing a crop of oats or alfalfa, harvesting it with a high stubble, then opening furrows for planting and leaving the ground between furrows undisturbed, so as to secure the largest amount of drainage into the furrows and a mulch between the rows. _The time for planting_ depends on climatic and soil conditions and the convenience of the planter. Spring planting is preferable except in southern latitudes, especially in the West, where the winters are severe and the fall apt to be dry, the soil therefore not in favorable condition for planting. The time for fall planting is after the leaves have fallen; for spring planting, before or just when life begins anew. In order to be ready in time for spring planting, it is a good practice to take up the plants in the fall and "heel them in" over winter (covering them, closely packed, in a dry trench of soil). Conifers can be planted later in spring and earlier in fall than broad-leaved trees. _The density_ of the trees is a matter in which most planters fail. The advantages of close planting lie in the quicker shading of the soil, hence the better preservation of its moisture and improved growth and form development of the crop. These advantages must be balanced against the increased cost of close planting. The closer the planting, the sooner will the plantation be self-sustaining and the surer the success. If planted in squares, or, better still, in quincunx order (the trees in every other row alternating at equal distances), which is most desirable on account of the more systematic work possible and the more complete cover which it makes, the distance should not be more than 4 feet, unless for special reasons and conditions, while 2 feet apart is not too close, and still closer planting is done by nature with the best success. The following numbers of trees per acre are required when planting at distances as indicated: 1½ by 1½ feet 19,360 | 2 by 4 feet 6,445 1½ by 2 feet 14,520 | 3 by 3 feet 4,840 2 by 2 foot 10,890 | 3 by 4 feet 3,630 2 by 3 feet 7,260 | 4 by 4 feet 2,722 To decrease expense, the bulk of the plantation may be made of the cheapest kinds of trees that may serve as soil cover and secondary or nurse crop, the main crop of from 300 to 600 trees to consist of better kinds, and with better planting material, mainly of light-needing species. These should be evenly disposed through the plantation, each closely surrounded by the nurse crop. It is, of course, understood that not all trees grow up; a constant change in numbers by the death (or else timely removal) of the overshaded takes place, so that the final crop shows at 100 years a close cover, with hardly 300 trees to the acre. _After-culture_ is not entirely avoidable, especially under unfavorable climatic conditions, and if the planting was not close enough. Shallow cultivation between the rows is needed to prevent weed growth and to keep the soil open, until it is shaded by the young trees, which may take a year with close planting and two or three years with rows 4 by 4 feet apart, the time varying also with the species. It is rare that a plantation succeeds in all its parts; gaps or fail places occur, as a rule, and must be filled in by additional planting as soon as possible, if of larger extent than can be closed up in a few years by the neighboring growth. When the soil is protected by a complete leaf canopy, the forest crop may be considered as established, and the after-treatment will consist of judicious thinning. 3. HOW TO TREAT THE WOOD LOT. In the northeastern States it is the custom to have connected with the farm apiece of virgin woodland, commonly called the wood lot. Its object primarily is to supply the farmer with the firewood, fence material, and such dimension timbers as he may need from time to time for repairs on buildings, wagons, etc. As a rule, the wood lot occupies, as it ought to, the poorer part of the farm, the rocky or stony, the dry or the wet portions, which are not well fitted for agricultural crops. As a rule, it is treated as it ought not to be, if the intention is to have it serve its purpose continuously; it is cut and culled without regard to its reproduction. As far as firewood supplies go, the careful farmer will first use the dead and dying trees, broken limbs, and leavings, which is quite proper. The careless man avoids the extra labor which such material requires, and takes whatever splits best, no matter whether the material could be used for better purposes or not. When it comes to the cutting of other material, fence rails, posts, or dimension timber, the general rule is to go into the lot and select the best trees of the best kind for the purpose. This looks at first sight like the natural, most practical way of doing. It is the method which the lumberman pursues when he "culls" the forest, and is, from his point of view perhaps, justifiable, for he only desires to secure at once what is most profitable in the forest. But for the farmer, who proposes to use his wood lot continuously for supplies of this kind, it is a method detrimental to his object, and in time it leaves him with a lot of poor, useless timber which encumbers the ground and prevents the growth of a better crop. Our woods are mostly composed of many species of trees; they are mixed woods. Some of the species are valuable for some special purposes, others are applicable to a variety of purposes, and again others furnish but poor material for anything but firewood, and even for that use they may not be of the best. Among the most valuable in the northeastern woods we should mention the white pine--king of all--the white ash, white and chestnut oak, hickories, tulip tree, black walnut, and black cherry, the last three being now nearly exhausted; next, spruce and hemlock, red pine, sugar maple, chestnut, various oaks of the black or red oak tribe, several species of ash and birch, black locust; lastly, elms and soft maples, basswood, poplars, and sycamore. Now, by the common practice of culling the best it is evident that gradually all the best trees of the best kinds are taken out, leaving only inferior trees or inferior kinds--the weeds among trees, if one may call them such--and thus the wood lot becomes well-nigh useless. It does not supply that for which it was intended; the soil, which was of little use for anything but a timber crop before, is still further deteriorated under this treatment, and being compacted by the constant running of cattle, the starting of a crop of seedlings is made nearly impossible. It would not pay to turn it into tillage ground or pasture; the farm has by so much lost in value. In other words, instead of using the interest on his capital, interest and capital have been used up together; the goose that laid the golden egg has been killed. This is not necessary if only a little system is brought into the management of the wood lot and the smallest care is taken to avoid deterioration and secure reproduction. IMPROVEMENT CUTTINGS. The first care should be to improve the crop in its composition. Instead of culling it of its best material, it should be culled of its weeds, the poor kinds, which we do not care to reproduce, and which, like all other weeds, propagate themselves only too readily. This weeding must not, however, be done all sit once, as it could be in a field crop, for in a full-grown piece of woodland each tree has a value, even the weed trees, as soil cover. The great secret of success in all crop production lies in the regulating of water supplies; the manuring in part and the cultivating entirely, as well as drainage and irrigation, are means to this end. In forestry these means are usually not practicable, and hence other means are resorted to. The principal of these is to keep the soil as much as possible under cover, either by the shade which the foliage of the tall trees furnishes, or by that from the underbrush, or by the litter which accumulates and in decaying forms a humus cover, a most excellent mulch. A combination of these three conditions, viz, a dense crown cover, woody underbrush where the crown cover is interrupted, and a heavy layer of well-decomposed humus, gives the best result. Under such conditions, first of all, the rain, being intercepted by the foliage and litter, reaches the ground only gradually, and therefore does not compact the soil as it does in the open field, but leaves it granular and open, so that the water can readily penetrate and move in the soil. Secondly, the surface evaporation is considerably reduced by the shade and lack of air circulation in the dense woods, be that more moisture remains for the use of the trees. When the shade of the crowns overhead (the so-called "crown cover," or "canopy,") is perfect, but little undergrowth will be seen; but where the crown cover is interrupted or imperfect, an undergrowth will appear. If this is composed of young trees, or even shrubs, it is an advantage, but if of weeds, and especially grass, it is a misfortune, because these transpire a great deal more water than the woody plants and allow the soil to deteriorate in structure and therefore in water capacity. Some weeds and grasses, to be sure, are capable of existing where but little light reaches the soil. When they appear it is a sign to the forester that he must be careful not to thin out the crown cover any more. When the more light-needing weeds and grasses appear it is a sign that too much light reaches the ground, and that the soil is already deteriorated. If this state continues, the heavy drain which the transpiration of these weeds makes upon the soil moisture, without any appreciable conservative action by their shade, will injure the soil still further. The overhead shade or crown cover may be imperfect because there are not enough trees on the ground to close up the interspaces with their crowns, or else because the kinds of trees which make up the forest do not yield much shade; thus it can easily be observed that a beech, a sugar maple, a hemlock, is so densely foliaged that but little light reaches the soil through its crown canopy, while an ash, an oak, a larch, when full grown, in the forest, allows a good deal of light to penetrate. Hence, in our weeding process for the improvement of the wood crop, we must be careful not to interrupt the crown cover too much, and thereby deteriorate the soil conditions. And for the same reason, in the selection of the kinds that are to be left or to be taken out, we shall not only consider their use value but also their shading value, trying to bring about such a mixture of shady and less shady kinds as will insure a continuously satisfactory crown cover, the shade-enduring kinds to occupy the lower stratum in the crown canopy, and to be more numerous than the light-needing. The forester, therefore, watches first the conditions of his soil cover, and his next care is for the condition of the overhead shade, the "crown cover;" for a change in the condition of the latter brings change into his soil conditions, and, inversely, from the changes in the plant cover of the soil he judges whether he may or may not change the light conditions. The changes of the soil cover teach him more often when "to let alone" than when to go on with his operations of thinning out; that is to say, he can rarely stop short of that condition which is most favorable. Hence the improvement cuttings must be made with caution and only very gradually, so that no deterioration of the soil conditions be invited. We have repeated this injunction again and again, because all success in the management of future wood crops depends upon the care bestowed upon the maintenance of favorable soil conditions. As the object of this weeding is not only to remove the undesirable kinds from the present crop, but to prevent as much as possible their reappearance in subsequent crops, it maybe advisable to cut such kinds as sprout readily from the stump in summer time--June or July--when the stumps are, likely to die without sprouting. It may take several years' cutting to bring the composition of the main crop into such a condition as to satisfy us. METHODS OF REPRODUCING THE WOOD CROP. Then comes the period of utilizing the main crop. As we propose to keep the wood lot as such, and desire to reproduce a satisfactory wood crop in place of the old one, this latter must be cut always with a view to that reproduction. There are various methods pursued for this purpose in large forestry operations which are not practicable on small areas, especially when these are expected to yield only small amounts of timber, and these little by little as required. It is possible, to be sure, to cut the entire crop and replant a new one, or else to use the ax skillfully and bring about a natural reproduction in a few years; but we want in the present case to lengthen out the period during which the old crop is cut, and hence must resort to other methods. There are three methods practicable. We may clear narrow strips or bands entirely, expecting the neighboring growth to furnish the seed for covering the strip with a new crop--"the strip method;" or we can take out single trees here and there, relying again on an after growth from seed shed by the surrounding trees--the "selection method;" or, finally, instead of single trees, we may cut entire groups of trees hero and there in the same manner, the gaps to be filled, as in the other cases, with a young crop from the seed of the surrounding trees, and this we may call the "group method." In _the strip method_, in order to secure sufficient seeding of the cleared strip, the latter must not be so broad that the seed from the neighboring growth can not be carried over it by the wind. In order to get the best results from the carrying power of the wind (as well as to avoid windfalls when the old growth is suddenly opened on the windward side) the strips should be located on the side opposite the prevailing winds. Oaks, beech, hickory, and nut trees in general with heavy seeds will not seed over any considerable breadth of strip, while with maple and ash the breadth may be made twice as great as the height of the timber, and the mother trees with lighter seeds, like spruce and pine, or birch and elm, maybe able to cover strips of a breadth of 3 or 4 and even 8 times their height. But such broad strips are hazardous, since with insufficient seed fall, or fail years in the seed, the strip may remain exposed to sun and wind for several years without a good cover and deteriorate. It is safer, therefore, to make the strips no broader than just the height of the neighboring timber, in which case not only has the seed better chance of covering the ground, but the soil and seedlings have more protection from the mother crop. In hilly country the strips must not be made in the direction of the slope, for the water would wash out soil and seed. Every year, then, or from time to time, a new strip is to be cleared and "regenerated." But if the first strip failed to cover itself satisfactorily, the operation is stopped, for it would be unwise to remove the seed trees further by an additional clearing. Accordingly, this method should be used only where the kinds composing the mother crop are frequent and abundant seeders and give assurance of reseeding the strips quickly and successfully. [Illustration: Fig. 13.--Showing plan of group system in regenerating a forest crop. 1, 2, 3, 4, successive groups of young timber, 1 being the oldest, 4 the youngest, 5 old timber; _a_, wind mantle, specially managed to secure protection.] The other two methods have greater chances of success in that they preserve the soil conditions more surely, and there is more assurance of seeding from the neighboring trees on all sides. _The selection method_, by which single trees are taken out all over the forest, is the same as has been practiced by the farmer and lumberman hitherto, only they have forgotten to look after the young crop. Millions of seed may fall to the ground and germinate, but perish from the excessive shade of the mother trees. If we wish to be successful in establishing a new crop, it will be necessary to be ready with the ax all the time and give light as needed by the young crop. The openings made by taking out single trees are so small that there is great danger of the young crop being lost, or at least impeded in its development, because it is impracticable to come in time to its relief with the ax. The best method, therefore, in all respects, is the "_group method_" which not only secures continuous soil cover, chances for full seeding, and more satisfactory light conditions, but requires loss careful attention, or at least permits more freedom of movement and adaptation to local conditions (fig. 13). It is especially adapted to mixed woods, as it permits securing for each species the most desirable light conditions by making the openings larger or smaller, according as the species we wish to favor in a particular group demand more or less shade. Further, when different species are ripe for regeneration at different times, this plan makes it possible to take them in hand as needed. Again, we can begin with one group or we can take in hand several groups simultaneously, as may be desirable and practicable. We start our groups of new crop either where a young growth is already on the ground, enlarging around it, or where old timber has reached its highest usefulness and should be cut in order that we may not lose the larger growth which young trees would make; or else we choose a place which is but poorly stocked, where, if it is not regenerated, the soil is likely to deteriorate further. The choice is affected further by the consideration that dry situations should be taken in hand earlier than those in which the soil and site are more favorable, and that some species reach maturity and highest use value earlier than others and should therefore be reproduced earlier. In short, we begin the regeneration when and where the necessity for it exists, or where the young crop has the best chance to start most satisfactorily with the least artificial aid. Of course, advantage should betaken of the occurrence of seed years, which come at different intervals with different species. If we begin with a group of young growth already on the ground, our plan is to remove gradually the old trees standing over them when no longer required for shade, and then to cut away the adjoining old growth and enlarge the opening in successive narrow bands around the young growth. When the first band has seeded itself satisfactorily, and the young growth has come to require more light (which may take several years), we remove another band around it, and thus the regeneration progresses. Where no young growth already exists, of course the first opening is made to afford a start, and afterwards the enlargement follows as occasion requires. SIZE OF OPENINGS. The size of the openings and the rapidity with which they should be enlarged vary, of course, with local conditions and the species which is to 'be favored, the light-needing species requiring larger openings and quicker light additions than the shade-enduring. It is difficult to give any rules, since the modifications due to local conditions are so manifold, requiring observation and judgment. Caution in not opening too much at a time and too quickly may avoid failure in securing good stands. In general, the first openings may contain from one-fourth to one-half an acre or more, and the gradual enlarging may progress by clearing bands of a breadth not to exceed the height of the surrounding timber. The time of the year when the cutting is to be done is naturally in winter, when the farmer has the most leisure, and when the wood seasons best after felling and is also most readily moved. Since it is expected that the seed fallen in the autumn will sprout in the spring, all wood should, of course, be removed from the seed ground. The first opening, as well as the enlargement of the groups, should not be made at once, but by gradual thinning out, if the soil is not in good condition to receive and germinate the seed and it is impracticable to put it in such condition by artificial means--hoeing or plowing. It is, of course, quite practicable--nay, sometimes very desirable--to prepare the soil for the reception and germination of the seed. Where undesirable undergrowth has started, it should be cut out, and where the soil is deteriorated with weed growth or compacted by the tramping of cattle, it should be hoed or otherwise scarified, so that the seed may find favorable conditions. To let pigs do the plowing and the covering of acorns is not an uncommon practice abroad. It is also quite proper, if the reproduction from the seed of the surrounding mother trees does not progress satisfactorily, to assist, when an opportunity is afforded, by planting such desirable species as were or were not in the composition of the original crop. It may require ten, twenty, or forty years or more to secure the reproduction of a wood lot in this way. A new growth, denser and better than the old, with timber of varying age, will be the result. The progress of the regeneration in groups is shown on the accompanying plan, the different shadings showing the successive additions of young crop, the darkest denoting the oldest parts, first regenerated. If we should make a section through any one of the groups, this, ideally represented, would be like figure 14, the old growth on the outside, the youngest new crop adjoining it, and tiers of older growths of varying height toward the center of the group. WIND MANTLE. On the plan there will be noted a strip specially shaded, surrounding the entire plat (fig. 13, _a_), representing a strip of timber which should surround the farmer's wood lot, and which he should keep as dense as possible, especially favoring undergrowth. This part, if practicable, should be kept reproduced as coppice or by the method of selection, i. e., by taking out trees hero and there. When gaps are made, they should be filled, if possible, by introducing shade-enduring kinds, which, like the spruces and firs and beech, retain their branches down to the foot for a long time. This mantle is intended to protect the interior against the drying influence of winds, which are bound to enter the small wood lot and deteriorate the soil. The smaller the lot, the more necessary and desirable it is to maintain such a protective cover or wind-break. [Illustration: Fig. 14.--Appearance of regeneration by group method.] COPPICE. Besides reproducing a wood crop from the seed of mother trees or by planting, there is another reproduction possible by sprouts from the stump. This, to be sure, can be done only with broad-leaved species, since conifers, with but few exceptions, do not sprout from the stump. When a wood lot is cut over and over again, the reproduction taking place by such sprouts we call coppice. Most wooded areas in the Eastern States have been so cut that reproduction from seed could not take place, and hence we have large areas of coppice, with very few seedling trees interspersed. As we have seen in the chapter on "How trees grow," the sprouts do not develop into as good trees as the seedlings. They grow faster, to be sure, in the beginning, but do not grow as tall and are apt to be shorter lived. For the production of firewood, fence, and post material, coppice management may suffice, but not for dimension timber. And even to keep the coppice in good reproductive condition, care should be taken to secure a certain proportion of seedling trees, since the old stumps, after repeated cutting, tail to sprout and die out. Soil and climate influence the success of the coppice; shallow soils produce weaker but more numerous sprouts and are more readily deteriorated by the repeated laying bare of the soil; a mild climate is most favorable to a continuance of the reproductive power of the stump. Some species sprout more readily than others; hence the composition of the crop will change, unless attention is paid to it. In the coppice, as in any other management of a natural wood crop, a desirable composition must first be secured, which is done by timely improvement cuttings, as described in a previous section. The best trees for coppice in the northeastern States are the chestnut, various oaks, hickory, ash, elm, maples, basswood, and black locust, which are all good sprouters. When cutting is done for reproduction, the time and manner are the main care. The best results are probably obtained, both financially and with regard to satisfactory reproduction, when the coppice is cut between the twentieth and thirtieth years. All cutting must be done in early spring or in winter, avoiding, however, days of severe frost, which is apt to sever the bark from the trunk and to kill the cambium. Cutting in summer kills the stump, as a rule. The cut should be made slanting downward, and as smooth as possible, to prevent collection of moisture on the stump and the resulting decay, and as close as possible to the ground, where the stump is less exposed to injuries, and the new sprouts, starting close to the ground, may strike independent roots. Fail places or gaps should be filled by planting. This can be readily done by bending to the ground some of the neighboring sprouts, when 2 to 3 years old, notching, fastening them down with a wooden hook or a stone, and covering them with soil a short distance (4 to 6 inches) from the end. The sprout will then strike root, and after a year or so may be severed from the mother stock by a sharp cut (fig. 15). For the recuperation of the crop, it is desirable to maintain a supply of seedling trees, which may be secured either by the natural seeding of a few mother trees of the old crop which are left, or by planting. This kind of management, coppice with seedling or standard trees intermixed, if the latter are left regularly and well distributed over the wood lot, leads to a management called "standard coppice." In this it is attempted to avoid the drawbacks of the coppice, viz, failure to produce dimension material and running out of the stocks. The former object is, however, only partially accomplished, as the trees grown without sufficient side shading are apt to produce branchy boles and hence knotty timber, besides injuring the coppice by their shade. PLAN OF MANAGEMENT. In order to harmonize the requirements of the wood lot from a sylvicultural point of view, and the needs of the farmer for wood supplies, the cutting must follow some systematic plan. The improvement cuttings need not, in point of time, have been made all over the lot before beginning the cuttings for regeneration, provided they have been made in those parts which are to be regenerated. Both the cuttings may go on simultaneously, and this enables the farmer to gauge the amount of cutting to his consumption. According to the amount of wood needed, one or more groups may be started at the same time. It is, however, desirable, for the sake of renewing the crop systematically, to arrange the groups in a regular order over the lot. [Illustration: Fig. 15.--Method of layering to produce new stocks in coppice wood.] 4. HOW TO CULTIVATE THE WOOD CROP. Where only firewood is desired, i. e., wood without special form, size, or quality, no attention to the crop is necessary, except to insure that it covers the ground completely. Nevertheless, even in such a crop, which is usually managed as coppice,[2] some of the operations described in this chapter may prove advantageous. Where, however, not only quantity but useful quality of the crop is also to be secured, the development of the wood crop may be advantageously influenced by controlling the supply of light available to the individual trees. [2] See page 35 for description of coppice. It may be proper to repeat here briefly what has been explained in previous pages regarding the influence of light on tree development. EFFECT OF LIGHT ON WOOD PRODUCTION. Dense shade preserves soil moisture, the most essential element for wood production; a close stand of suitable kinds of trees secures this shading and prevents the surface evaporation of soil moisture, making it available for wood production. But a close stand also cuts off side light and confines the lateral growing space, and hence prevents the development of side branches and forces the growth energy of the soil to expend itself in height growth; the crown is carried up, and long, cylindrical shafts, clear of branches, are developed; a close stand thus secures desirable form and quality. Yet, since the quality of wood production or accretion (other things being equal) is in direct proportion to the amount of foliage and the available light, and since an open position promotes the development of a larger crown and of more foliage, an open stand tends to secure a larger amount of wood accretion on each tree. On the other hand, a tree grown in the open, besides producing more branches, deposits a larger proportion of wood at The base, so that the shape of the bole becomes more conical, a form which in sawing proves unprofitable; whereas a tree grown in the dense forest both lengthens its shaft at the expense of branch growth and makes a more even deposit of wood over the whole trunk, thus attaining a more cylindrical form. While, then, the total amount of wood production per acre may be as large in a close stand of trees as in an open one (within limits), the distribution of this amount among a larger or smaller number of individual trees produces different results in the quality of the crop. And since the size of a tree or log is important in determining its usefulness and value, the sooner the individual trees reach useful size, without suffering in other points of quality, the more profitable the whole crop. NUMBER OF TREES PER ACRE. The care of the forester, then, should be to maintain the smallest number of individuals on the ground which will secure the greatest amount of wood growth in the most desirable form of which the soil and climate are capable, without deteriorating the soil conditions. He tries to secure the most advantageous individual development of single trees without suffering the disadvantages resulting from too open stand. The solution of this problem requires the greatest skill and judgment, and rules can hardly be formulated with precision, since for every species or combination of species and conditions these rules must be modified. In a well-established young crop the number of seedlings per acre varies greatly, from 3,000 to 100,000, according to soil, species, and the manner in which it originated, whether planted, sown, or seeded naturally.[3] Left to themselves, the seedlings, as they develop, begin to crowd each other. At first this crowding results only in increasing the height growth and in preventing the spread and full development of side branches; by and by the lower branches failing to receive sufficient light finally die and break off--the shaft "clears itself." Then a distinct development of definite crowns takes place, and after some years a difference of height growth in different individuals becomes marked. Not a few trees fail to reach the general upper crown surface, and, being more or less overtopped, we can readily classify them according to height and development of crown, the superior or "dominating" ones growing more and more vigorously, the inferior or "dominated" trees falling more and more behind, and finally dying for lack of light, and thus a natural reduction in numbers, or thinning, takes place. This natural thinning goes on with varying rates at different ages continuing through the entire life of the crop, so that, while only 4,000 trees per acre may be required in the tenth year to make a dense crown cover or normally close stand, untouched by man, in the fortieth year 1,200 would suffice to make the same dense cover, in the eightieth year 350 would be a full stand, and in the one hundredth not more than 250, according to soil and species, more or less. As we can discern three stages in the development of a single tree--the juvenile, adolescent, and mature--so, in the development of a forest growth, we may distinguish three corresponding stages, namely, the "thicket" or brushwood, the "pole-wood" or sapling, and the "timber" stage. During The thicket stage, in which the trees have a bushy appearance, allowing hardly any distinction of stem and crown, the height growth is most rapid. This period may last, according to conditions and species, from 5 or 10 to 30 and even 40 years--longer on poor soils and with shade-enduring species, shorter with light-needing species on good soils--and, while it lasts, it is in the interest of the wood grower to maintain the close stand, which produces the long shaft, clear of branches, on which at a later period the wood that makes valuable, clear timber, may accumulate. Form development is now most important. The lower branches are to die and break off before they become too large. (See illustrations of the progress of "clearing," on pp. 15 and 16.) With light-needing species and with deciduous trees generally this dying off is accomplished more easily than with conifers. The spruces and even the white pine require very dense shading to "clear" the shaft. During this period it is only necessary to weed out the undesirable kinds, such as trees infested by insect and fungus, shrubs, sickly, stunted, or bushy trees which are apt to overtop and prevent the development of their better neighbors. In short, our attention is now devoted mainly to improving the composition of the crop. [3] If the crop does not, at 3 to 5 years of age, shade the ground well, with a complete crown cover, or canopy, it can not be said to be well established and should be filled out by planting. WEEDING AND CLEANING THE CROP. This weeding or cleaning is easily done with shears when the crop is from 3 to 5 years old. Later, mere cutting back of the undesirable trees with a knife or hatchet maybe practiced. In well-made artificial plantations this weeding is rarely needed until about the eighth or tenth year. But in natural growths the young crop is sometimes so dense as to inordinately interfere with the development of the individual trees. The stems then remain so slender that there is danger of their being bent or broken by storm or snow when the growth is thinned out later. In such cases timely thinning is indicated to stimulate more rapid development of the rest of the crop. This can be done most cheaply by cutting swaths or lanes one yard wide and us far apart through the crop, leaving strips standing. The outer trees of the strip, at least, will then shoot ahead and become the main crop. These weeding or improvement cuttings, which must be made gradually and be repeated every two or three years, are best performed during the summer months, or in August and September, when it is easy to judge what should be taken out. METHODS OF THINNING. During the "thicket" stage, then, which may last from 10 to 25 and more years, the crop is gradually brought into proper composition and condition. When the "pole-wood" stage is reached, most of the saplings being now from 3 to 6 inches in diameter and from 15 to 25 feet in height, the variation in sizes and in appearance becomes more and more marked. Some of the taller trees begin to show a long, clear shaft and a definite crown. The trees can be more or less readily classified into height and size classes. The rate at which the height growth has progressed begins to fall off and diameter growth increases. Now comes the time when attention must be given to increasing this diameter growth by reducing the number of individuals and thus having all the wood which the soil can produce deposited on fewer individuals. This is done by judicious and often repeated thinning, taking out some of the trees and thereby giving more light and increasing the foliage of those remaining; and as the crowns expand, so do the trunks increase their diameter in direct proportion. These thinnings must, however, be made cautiously lest at the same time the soil is exposed too much, or the branch growth of those trees which are to become timber wood is too much stimulated. So varying are the conditions to be considered, according to soil, site, species, and development of the crop, that it is well-nigh impossible, without a long and detailed discussion, to lay down rules for the proper procedure. In addition the opinions of authorities differ largely both as to manner and degree of thinning, the old school advising moderate, and the new school severer thinnings. For the farmer, who can give personal attention to detail and whose object is to grow a variety of sizes and kinds of wood, the following general method may perhaps be most useful: First determine which trees are to be treated as the main crop or "final harvest" crop. For this 300 to 500 trees per acre of the best grown and most useful kinds may be selected, which should be distributed as uniformly as possible over the acre. These, then--or as many as may live till the final harvest--are destined to grow into timber and are to form the special favorites as much as possible. They may at first be marked to insure recognition; later on they will be readily distinguished by their superior development The rest, which we will call the "subordinate" crop, is then to serve merely as filler, nurse, and soil cover. WHAT TREES TO REMOVE. It is now necessary, by careful observation of the surroundings of each of the "final harvest" crop trees, or "superiors," as we may call them, to determine what trees of the "subordinate" crop trees, or "inferiors," must be removed. All nurse trees that threaten to overtop the superiors must either be cut out or cut back and topped, if that is practicable, so that the crown of the superiors can develop freely. Those that are only narrowing in the superiors from the side, without preventing their free top development, need not be interfered with, especially while they are still useful in preventing the formation and spreading of side branches on the superiors. As soon as the latter have fully cleared their shafts, these crowding inferiors must be removed. Care must be taken, however, not to remove too many at a time, thus opening the crown cover too severely and thereby exposing the soil to the drying influence of the sun. Gradually, as the crowns of inferiors standing farther away begin to interfere with those of the superiors, the inferiors are removed, and thus the full effect of the light is secured in the accretion of the main harvest crop; at the same time the branch growth has been prevented and the soil has been kept shaded. Meanwhile thinnings may also be made in the subordinate crop, in order to secure also the most material from this part of the crop. This is done by cutting out all trees that threaten to be killed by their neighbors. In this way many a useful stick is saved and the dead material, only good for firewood, lessened. It is evident that trees which in the struggle for existence have fallen behind, so as to be overtopped by their neighbors, can not, either by their presence or by their removal, influence the remaining growth. They are removed only in order to utilize their wood before it decays. It may be well to remark again that an undergrowth of woody plants interferes in no way with the development of the main crop, but, on the contrary, aids by its shade in preserving favorable moisture conditions. Its existence, however, shows in most cases that the crown cover is not as dense as it should be, and hence that thinning is not required. Grass and weed growth, on the other hand, is emphatically disadvantageous and shows that the crown cover is dangerously open. The answer to the three questions, When to begin the thinnings, How severely to thin, and How often to repeat the operation, must always depend upon the varying appearance of the growth and the necessities in each case. The first necessity for interference may arise with light-needing species as early as the twelfth or fifteenth year; with shade-enduring, not before the twentieth or twenty-fifth year. The necessary severity of the thinning and the repetition are somewhat interdependent. It is better to thin carefully and repeat the operation oftener than to open up so severely at once as to jeopardize the soil conditions. Especially in younger growths and on poorer soil, it is best never to open a continuous crown cover so that it could not close up again within 3 to 5 years; rather repeat the operation oftener. Later, when the trees have attained heights of 50 to 60 feet and clear boles (which may be in 40 to 50 years, according to soil and kind) the thinning may be more severe, so as to require repetition only every 6 to 10 years. The condition of the crown cover, then, is the criterion which directs the ax. As soon as the crowns again touch or interlace, the time has arrived to thin again. In mixed growths it must not be overlooked that light-needing species must be specially protected against shadier neighbors. Shade-enduring trees, such as the spruces, beech, sugar maple, and hickories, bear overtopping for a time and will then grow vigorously when more light is given, while light-needing species, like the pines, larch, oaks, and ash, when once suppressed, may never be able to recover. Particular attention is called to the necessity of leaving a rather denser "wind mantle" all around small groves. In this part of the grove the thinning must be less severe, unless coniferous trees on the outside can be encouraged by severe thinning to hold their branches low down, thus increasing their value as wind-breaks. The thinnings, then, while giving to the "final harvest" crop all the advantage of light for promoting its rapid development into serviceable timber size, furnish also better material from the subordinate crop. At 60 to 70 years of age the latter may have been entirely removed and only the originally selected "superiors" remain on the ground, or as many of them as have not died and been removed; 250 to 400 of these per acre will make a perfect stand of most valuable form and size, ready for the final harvest, which should be made as indicated in the preceding chapter. 5.--THE RELATION OF FORESTS TO FARMS. That all things in nature are related to each other and interdependent is a common saying, a fact doubted by nobody, yet often forgotten or neglected in practical life. The reason is partly indifference and partly ignorance as to the actual nature of the relationship; hence we suffer, deservedly or not. The farmer's business, more than any other, perhaps, depends for its success upon a true estimate of and careful regard for this inter-relation, he adapts his crop to the nature of the soil, the manner of its cultivation to the changes of the seasons, and altogether he shapes conditions and places them in their proper relations to each other and adapts himself to them. Soil, moisture, and heat are the three factors which, if properly related and utilized, combine to produce his crops. In some directions he can control these factors more or less readily; in others they are withdrawn from his immediate influence, and he is seemingly helpless. He can maintain the fertility of the soil by manuring, by proper rotation of crops, and by deep culture; he can remove surplus moisture by ditching and draining; he can, by irrigation systems, bring water to his crops, and by timely cultivation prevent excessive evaporation, thereby rendering more water available to the crop; but he can not control the rainfall nor the temperature changes of the seasons. Recent attempts to control the rainfall by direct means exhibit one of the greatest follies and misconceptions of natural forces we have witnessed during this age. Nevertheless, by indirect means the farmer has it in his power to exercise much greater control over these forces than he has attempted hitherto. He can prevent or reduce the unfavorable effects of temperature changes; he can increase the available water supplies, and prevent the evil effects of excessive rainfall; he can so manage the waters which fall as to get the most benefit from them and avoid the harm which they are able to inflict. Before attempting to control the rainfall itself by artifice, we should study how to secure the best use of that which falls, as it comes within reach of human agencies and becomes available by natural causes. How poorly we understand the use of these water supplies is evidenced yearly by destructive freshets and floods, with the accompanying washing of soil, followed by droughts, low waters, and deterioration of agricultural lands. It is claimed that annually in the United States about 200 square miles of fertile soil are washed into brooks and rivers, a loss of soil capital which can not be repaired for centuries. At the same time millions of dollars are appropriated yearly in the river and harbor bills to dig out the lost farms from the rivers, and many thousands of dollars' worth of crops and other property are destroyed by floods and overflows; not to count the large loss from droughts which this country suffers yearly in one part or the other, and which, undoubtedly, could be largely avoided, if we knew how to manage the available water supplies. The regulation, proper distribution, and utilization of the rain waters in humid as well as in arid regions--water management--is to be the great problem of successful-agriculture in the future. One of the most powerful means for such water management lies in the proper distribution and maintenance of forest areas. Nay, we can say that the most successful water management is not possible without forest management. THE FOREST WATERS THE FARM. Whether forests increase the amount of precipitation within or near their limits is still an open question, although there are indications that under certain conditions large, dense forest areas may have such an effect. At any rate, the water transpired by the foliage is certain, in some degree, to increase the relative humidity near the forest, and thereby increase directly or indirectly the water supplies in its neighborhood. This much we can assert, also, that while extended plains and fields, heated by the sun, and hence giving rise to warm currents of air, have the tendency to prevent condensation of the passing moisture-bearing currents, forest areas, with their cooler, moister air strata, do not have such a tendency, and local showers may therefore become more frequent in their neighborhood. But, though no increase in the amount of rainfall may be secured by forest areas, the availability of whatever falls is increased for the locality by a well-kept and properly located forest growth. The foliage, twigs, and branches break the fall of the raindrops, and so does the litter of the forest floor, hence the soil under this cover is not compacted as in the open field, but kept loose and granular, so that the water can readily penetrate and percolate; the water thus reaches the ground more slowly, dripping gradually from the leaves, branches, and trunks, and allowing more time for it to sink into the soil. This percolation is also made easier by the channels along the many roots. Similarly, on account of the open structure of the soil and the slower melting of the snow under a forest cover in spring, where it lies a fortnight to a month longer than in exposed positions and melts with less waste from evaporation, the snow waters more fully penetrate the ground. Again, more snow is caught and preserved under the forest cover than on the wind-swept fields and prairies. All these conditions operate together, with the result that larger amounts of the water sink into the forest soil and to greater depths than in open fields. This moisture is conserved because of the reduced evaporation in the cool and still forest air, being protected from the two great moisture-dissipating agents, sun and wind. By these conditions alone the water supplies available in the soil are increased from 50 to 60 per cent over those available on the open field. Owing to those two causes, then--increased percolation and decreased evaporation--larger amounts of moisture become available to feed the springs and subsoil waters, and these become finally available to the farm, if the forest is located at a higher elevation than the field. The great importance of the subsoil water especially and the influence of forest areas upon it has so far received too little attention and appreciation. It is the subsoil water that is capable of supplying the needed moisture in times of drought. THE FOREST TEMPERS THE FARM. Another method by which a forest belt becomes a conservator of moisture lies in its wind-breaking capacity, by which both velocity and temperature of winds are modified and evaporation from the fields to the leeward is reduced. On the prairie, wind-swept every day and every hour, the farmer has learned to plant a wind-break around his buildings and orchards, often only a single-row of trees, and finds even that a desirable shelter, tempering both the hot winds of summer and the cold blasts of winter. The fields he usually leaves unprotected; yet a wind-break around his crops to the windward would bring him increased yield, and a timber belt would act still more effectively. Says a farmer from Illinois: My experience is that now in cold and stormy winters fields protected by timber belts yield full crops, while fields not protected yield only one-third of a crop. Twenty-five or thirty years ago we never had any wheat killed by winter frost, and every year we had a full crop of peaches, which is now very rare. At that time we had plenty of timber around our fields and orchards, now cleared away. Not only is the temperature of the winds modified by passing over and through the shaded and cooler spaces of protecting timber bolts disposed toward the windward and alternating with the fields, but their velocity is broken and moderated, and since with reduced velocity the evaporative power of the winds is very greatly reduced, so more water is left available for crops. Every foot in height of a forest growth will protect 1 rod in distance, and several bolts in succession would probably greatly increase the effective distance. By preventing deep freezing of the soil the winter cold is not so much prolonged, and the frequent fogs and mists that hover near forest areas prevent many frosts. That stock will thrive better where it can find protection from the cold blasts of winter and from the heat of the sun in summer is a well-established fact. THE FOREST PROTECTS THE FARM. On the sandy plains, where the winds are apt to blow the sand, shifting it hither and thither, a forest belt to the windward is the only means to keep the farm protected. In the mountain and hill country the farms are apt to suffer from heavy rains washing away the soil. Where the tops and slopes are bared of their forest cover, the litter of the forest floor burnt up, the soil trampled and compacted by cattle and by the patter of the raindrops, the water can not penetrate the soil readily, but is earned off superficially, especially when the soil is of, day and naturally compact. As a result the waters, rushing over the surface down the hill, run together in rivulets and streams and acquire such a force as to be able to move loose particles and even stones; the ground becomes furrowed with gullies and runs; the fertile soil is washed away; the fields below are covered with silt; the roads are damaged; the water courses tear their banks, and later run dry because the waters that should feed them by subterranean channels have been carried away in the flood. The forest cover on the hilltops and steep hillsides which are not fit for cultivation prevents this erosive action of the waters by the same influence by which it increases available water supplies. The important effects of a forest cover, then, are retention of larger quantities of water and carrying them off under ground and giving them up gradually, thus extending the time of their usefulness and preventing their destructive action. In order to be thoroughly effective, the forest growth must be dense, and, especially, the forest floor must not be robbed of its accumulations of foliage, surface mulch and litter, or its underbrush by fire, nor must it be compacted by the trampling of cattle. On the gentler slopes, which are devoted to cultivation, methods of underdraining, such as horizontal ditches partly filled with stones and covered with soil, terracing, and contour plowing, deep cultivation, sodding, and proper rotation of crops, must be employed to prevent damage from surface waters. THE FOREST SUPPLIES THE FARM WITH USEFUL MATERIAL. All the benefits derived from the favorable influence of forest bolts upon water conditions can be had without losing any of the useful material that the forest produces. The forest grows to be cut and to be utilized; it is a crop to be harvested. It is a crop which, if properly managed, does not need to be replanted; it reproduces itself. When once established, the ax, if properly guided by skillful hands, is the only tool necessary to cultivate it and to reproduce it. There is no necessity of planting unless the wood lot has been mismanaged. The wood lot, then, if properly managed, is not only the guardian of the farm, but it is the savings bank from which fair interest can be annually drawn, utilizing for the purpose the poorest part of the farm. Nor does the wood lot require much attention; it is to the farm what the workbasket is to the good housewife--a means with which improve the odds and ends of time, especially during the winter, when other farm business is at a standstill. It may be added that the material which the farmer can secure from the wood lot, besides the other advantages recited above, is of far greater importance and value than is generally admitted. On a well-regulated farm of 160 acres, with its 4 miles and more of fencing and with its wood fires in range and stove, at least 25 cords of wood are required annually, besides material for repair of buildings, or altogether the annual product of probably 40 to 50 acres of well-stocked forest is needed. The product may represent, according to location, an actual stumpage value of from $1 to $3 per acre, a sure crop coming every year without regard to weather, without trouble and work, and raised on the poorest part of the farm. It is questionable whether such net results could be secured with the same steadiness from any other crop. Nor must it be overlooked that the work in harvesting this crop falls into a time when little else could be done. Wire fences and coal fires are, no doubt, good substitutes, but they require ready cash, and often the distance of haulage makes them rather expensive. Presently, too, when the virgin woods have been still further culled of their valuable stores, the farmer who has preserved a sufficiently large and well-tended wood lot will be able to derive a comfortable money revenue from it by supplying the market with wood of various kinds and sizes. The German State forests, with their complicated administrations, which eat up 4 per cent of the gross income, yield, with prices of wood about the same as in our country, an annual net revenue of from $1 to $4 and more per acre. Why should not the farmer, who does not pay salaries to managers, overseers, and forest guards, make at least as much money out of this crop when he is within reach of a market? With varying conditions the methods would of course vary. In a general way, if he happens to have a virgin growth of mixed woods, the first care would be to improve the composition of the wood lot by cutting out the less desirable kinds, the weeds of tree growth, and the poorly grown trees which impede the development of more deserving neighbors. The wood thus cut he will use as firewood or in any other way, and, even if he could not use it at all, and had to burn it up, the operation would pay indirectly by leaving him a better crop. Then he may use the rest of the crop, gradually cutting the trees as needed, but he must take care that the openings are not made too large, so that they can readily fill out with young growth from the seed of the remaining trees, and he must also pay attention to the young aftergrowth, giving it light as needed. Thus without ever resorting to planting he may harvest the old timber and have a now crop taking its place and perpetuate the wood lot without in any way curtailing his use of the same. FARMERS' BULLETINS. These bulletins are sent free of charge to any address upon application to the Secretary of Agriculture. Washington, D. C. Only the following are available for distribution: No. 15. Some Destructive Potato Diseases: What They Are and How to Prevent Thorn. Pp. 8. No. 16. Leguminous Plants for Green Manuring and for Feeding. Pp. 24. No. 18. Forage Plants for the South. Pp. 30. No. 19. Important Insecticides: Directions For Their Preparation and Use. Pp. 20. No. 21. Barnyard Manure. Pp. 32. No. 22. Feeding Farm Animals. Pp. 32. No. 23. Foods: Nutritive Value and Cost. Pp. 32. No. 24. Hog Cholera and Swine Plague. Pp. 16. No. 25. Peanuts: Culture and Uses. Pp. 24. No. 26. Sweet Potatoes: Culture and Uses. Pp. 30. No. 27. Flax for Seed and Fiber. Pp. 16. No. 28. Weeds; and How to Kill Them. Pp. 30. No. 29. Souring of Milk, and Other Changes in Milk Products. Pp. 28. No. 30. Grape Diseases on the Pacific Coast. Pp. 16. No. 31. Alfalfa, or Lucern. Pp. 23. No. 32. Silos and Silage. Pp. 31. No. 33. Peach Growing for Market. Pp. 24. No. 34. Meats: Composition and Cooking. Pp. 29. No. 35. Potato Culture. Pp. 23. No. 36. Cotton Seed and Its Products. Pp. 10. No. 37. Katir Corn: Characteristics, Culture, and Uses. Pp. 12. No. 38. Spraying for Fruit Diseases. Pp. 12. No. 39. Onion Culture. Pp. 31. No. 40. Farm Drainage. Pp. 24. No. 41. Fowls: Care and Feeding. Pp. 24. No. 42. Facts About Milk. Pp. 29. No. 43. Sewage Disposal on the Farm. Pp. 22. No. 44. Commercial Fertilizers. Pp. 24. No. 45. Some Insects Injurious to Stored Grain. Pp. 32. No. 46. Irrigation in Humid Climates. Pp. 27. No. 47. Insects Affecting the Cotton Plant. Pp. 32. No. 48. The Manuring of Cotton. Pp. 10. No. 49. Sheep Feeding. Pp. 24. No. 50. Sorghum as a Forage Crop. Pp. 24. No. 51. Standard Varieties of Chickens. Pp. 48. No. 52. The Sugar Beet. Pp. 48. No. 53. How to Grow Mushrooms. Pp. 20. No. 54. Some Common Birds in Their Relation to Agriculture. Pp. 40. No. 55. The Dairy Herd: Its Formation and Management. Pp. 24. No. 56. Experiment Station Work--I. Pp. 30. No. 57. Butter Making on the Farm. Pp. 15. No. 58. The Soy Bean as a Forage Crop. Pp. 24. No. 59. Bee Keeping. Pp. 32. No. 60. Methods of Curing Tobacco. Pp. 10. No. 61. Asparagus Culture. Pp. 40. No. 62. Marketing Farm Produce. Pp. 28. No. 63. Care of Milk on the Farm. Pp. 40. No. 64. Ducks and Geese. Pp. 48. No. 65. Experiment Station Work--II. Pp. 32. No. 66. Meadows and Pastures. Pp. 24. No. 67. Forestry for Farmers. Pp. 48. No. 68. The Black Rot of the Cabbage. Pp. 22. No. 69. Experiment Station Work--III. Pp. 32. No. 70. The Principal Insect Enemies of the Grape. Pp. 24. No. 71. Some Essentials of Beef Production. Pp. 24. No. 72. Cattle Ranges of the Southwest. Pp. 32. No. 73. Experiment Station Work--IV. Pp. 32. No. 74. Milk as Food. Pp. 39. No. 75. The Grain Smuts. Pp. 20. No. 76. Tomato Growing. Pp. 30. No. 77. The Liming of Soils. Pp. 19. No. 78. Experiment Station Work--V. Pp. 32. No. 79. Experiment Station Work--VI. Pp. 28. No. 80. The Peach Twig-borer--an Important Enemy of Stone Fruits. Pp. 10. No. 81. Corn Culture in the South. Pp. 24. No. 82. The Culture of Tobacco. Pp. 23. No. 83. Tobacco Soils. Pp. 23. No. 84. Experiment Station Work--VII. Pp. 82. No. 85. Fish as Food. Pp. 30. No. 86. Thirty Poisonous Plants. Pp. 32. No. 87. Experiment Station Work--VIII. (In press.) No. 88. Alkali Lands. Pp. 23. No. 89. Cowpeas. (In press.) * * * * * Transcriber Note Illustrations were move so a to prevent splitting paragraphs. Minor typos corrected. Illustrations were obtained from the The Internet Archive and the University of North Texas' USDA Farmers' Bulletins Digital Library. 
42391	----	[Illustration: Figure 1. An observation point for finding forest fires. Vigilance is the watchword on the National Forests. During 1916 forest officers extinguished 5,655 forest fires. Photo by the author] OUR NATIONAL FORESTS A SHORT POPULAR ACCOUNT OF THE WORK OF THE UNITED STATES FOREST SERVICE ON THE NATIONAL FORESTS BY RICHARD H. DOUAI BOERKER, M.S.F., PH.D. Arboriculturist, Department of Parks, City of New York. With the United States Forest Service from 1910 to 1917. NEW YORK THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 1918 _All rights reserved_ COPYRIGHT, 1918 BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY Set up and electrotyped. Published, September, 1918 _Whom should this humble volume seek to honor but the father and mother whose unselfish devotion made possible both my education and my profession?_ The highest type of scientific writing is that which sets forth useful scientific facts in language which is interesting and easily understood by the millions who read. L. A. MANN. PREFACE Forestry is a vast subject. It has to do with farm and forest, soil and climate, man and beast. It affects hill and valley, mountain and plain. It influences the life of cities, states, and nations. It deals not only with the manifold problems of growing timber and forest by-products, such as forage, naval stores, tanbark, and maple sugar, but it is intimately related to the navigability of rivers and harbors, the flow of streams, the erosion of hillsides, the destruction of fertile farm lands, the devastation wrought by floods, the game and birds of the forest, the public health, and national prosperity. The practice of forestry has, therefore, become an important part in the household economy of civilized nations. Every nation has learned, through the misuse of its forest resources, that forest destruction is followed by timber famines, floods, and erosion. Mills and factories depending upon a regular stream flow must close down, or use other means for securing their power, which usually are more expensive. Floods, besides doing enormous damage, cover fertile bottom-lands with gravel, bowlders, and débris, which ruins these lands beyond redemption. The birds, fish, and game, which dwell in the forests, disappear with them. Springs dry up and a luxurious, well-watered country becomes a veritable desert. In short, the disappearance of the forests means the disappearance of everything in civilization that is worth while. These are the lessons that some of the world's greatest nations have learned, in some cases through sad experience. The French people, after neglecting their forests, following the French Revolution, paid the penalty. France, through her reckless cutting in the mountain forests, has suffered and is still suffering from devastating floods on the Seine and other streams. Over one million acres were cut over in the mountains, and the slash and young growth that was left was destroyed by fire. As a result of this forest destruction the fertility of over 8,000,000 acres of tillable land was destroyed and the population of eighteen departments was impoverished or driven out. Now, although over $40,000,000 has been expended, only a very small part of the damage has been repaired. Our own country has learned from its own experiences and from the experiences of nations like France. On a small scale we have endured the same devastating floods. Forest fires in the United States have caused an average annual loss of seventy human lives and from $25,000,000 to $50,000,000 worth of timber. The indirect losses run close to a half a billion a year. Like other nations, we have come to the conclusion that forest conservation can be assured only through the public ownership of forest resources. Other nations have bought or otherwise acquired national, state, and municipal forests, to assure the people a never-failing supply of timber. For this reason, mainly, our own National Forests have been created and maintained. The ever-increasing importance of the forestry movement in this country, which brings with it an ever-increasing desire for information along forestry lines, has led me to prepare this volume dealing with our National Forests. To a large extent I write from my own experience, having come in contact with the federal forestry movement for more than ten years. My connection with the United States Forest Service in various parts of the West has given me ample opportunity to study every phase of the problem. I am attempting to chronicle a wonderful accomplishment by a wonderful organization of altruistic Americans,--an accomplishment of which every American has reason to feel proud. Few people realize that the bringing under administration and protection of these vast forests is one of the greatest achievements in the history of forest conservation. To place 155,000,000 acres of inaccessible, mountainous, forest land, scattered through our great western mountain ranges and in eighteen Western States, under administration, to manage these forests according to scientific forestry principles, to make them yield a revenue of almost $3,500,000 annually, and to protect them from the ravages of forest fires and reducing the huge annual loss to but a small fraction of what it was before--these are some of the things that have been accomplished by the United States Forest Service within the last twenty years. Not only is this a great achievement in itself, but few people realize what the solution of the National Forest problem has meant to the millions of people who live near them; what it has meant to bring civilization to the great forested empire of Uncle Sam; what it has meant to change from a condition of unrestricted, unregulated misuse with respect to the public domain, to a policy of wise, regulated use, based upon the principle of the greatest good to the greatest number in the long run. In the early days before the Forest Service organization became established, the people were said to have "shot-gun titles" to timber or grazing lands on the public domain, and "might made right" in the truest sense of the word. This crude condition of affairs gave way to wise, conservative use under government control. Just as the farmer each year sets aside a certain amount of his seed for next year's planting, just so the stockman saves his calves and cows and lambs for greater growth and each year sees a part of his herd maturing for market, and just so the forester, under the new system, cuts only the mature trees and allows the young timber to remain for greater growth and greater value in the future, or, in the absence of young trees, plants small trees to replace those removed. The people of the West are convinced that a great work has been done well and wisely. The people of the Eastern States will soon realize that a similar forest policy, already inaugurated in the Appalachian and White Mountains, will mean every bit as much to them. If I succeed only in a small degree to make my reader appreciate the great significance of the National Forest movement to our national economy, I will feel amply repaid for the time spent in preparing this brief statement. I am indebted to the Forest Service for many valuable illustrations used with the text, and for data and other valuable assistance. To all those who have aided in the preparation of this volume, by reading the manuscript or otherwise, I extend my sincere thanks. I am especially grateful to Mr. Herbert A. Smith and others of the Washington office of the Forest Service for having critically read the manuscript and for having offered valuable suggestions. RICHARD H. DOUAI BOERKER. New York, N. Y., July 7, 1918. INTRODUCTION FORESTRY AS A NATIONAL PROBLEM The forest problem is, both locally and nationally, of vital internal importance. Not only is wood--the chief product of the forest--indispensable to our daily life, but the forest plays an important rôle in regulating stream flow, thereby reducing the severity of floods and preventing erosion. For these reasons the preservation of forests ceases to be a problem of private or individual concern, but forthwith becomes a governmental problem, or, at best, an enterprise which should be jointly controlled by the National Government and the individual States. _Our Consumption of Wood._ It is often said that wood enters into our daily life from the time we are born until we die--from the cradle to the coffin. It is difficult to imagine a civilization without wood. In our country in a single year we use 90,000,000 cords of firewood, nearly 40,000,000,000 feet of lumber, 150,000,000 railroad ties, nearly 1,700,000,000 barrel staves, 445,000,000 board feet of veneer, over 135,000,000 sets of barrel headings, over 350,000,000 barrel hoops, over 3,300,000 cords of native pulp wood, 170,000,000 cubic feet of round mine timbers, nearly 1,500,000 cords of wood for distillation, over 140,000 cords for excelsior, and nearly 3,500,000 telephone and telegraph poles. In short, we take from our forests yearly, including waste in logging and manufacture, more than twenty-two billion cubic feet of wood valued at about $1,375,000,000. This is enough lumber to construct seven board walks twenty-five feet wide from the earth to the moon, a distance of about 240,000 miles, or a board walk one-third of a mile wide completely around the earth at the equator. These figures give a little idea of the enormous annual drainage upon the forests of the United States and immediately suggest an important reason that led to the establishment of our National Forests. _The Lumber Industry._ Measured by the number of persons employed, lumbering is the country's largest manufacturing industry. In its 48,000 saw mills it employs more than 600,000 men. Its investment in these plants is over $1,000,000,000, and the investment in standing timber is $1,500,000,000 more. This industry furnishes the railroads a traffic income of over $200,000,000 annually. If we include in these statistics also the derived wood products, we find that over 1,000,000 wage earners are employed, and that the products and derived products are valued at over $2,000,000,000 annually. Most certainly we are dealing with a very large business enterprise. _Our Future Lumber Supply._ You may ask, "What effect have the great annual consumption of wood and these large business interests upon the future supply of wood?" The most reliable statistics show that out of 5,200 billion feet of merchantable timber which we once possessed, only 2,900 billion feet are left. In other words, almost half of our original supply of timber has been used. Besides, the present rate of cutting for all purposes exceeds the annual growth of the forests. Even the annual growth is considered by many experts of unknown quantity and quality, to some extent offset by decay in virgin forests. The only logical conclusion to draw from this condition of affairs, if the present rate of consumption continues, is a timber shortage in so far as our most valuable woods are concerned. In view of this it is fortunate that the National Government began to control the lumber and forest situation by the creation of National Forests and the institution of scientific forestry practice. _Forests and Stream Flow._ But the forests not only supply us with wood. For other reasons they deserve governmental consideration. The forests in the mountains control our streams, vitally affect the industries depending upon water power, reduce the severity of floods and erosion, and in this way are intimately wrapped up with our great agricultural interests. For this reason forestry is by nature less suited for private enterprise. In agriculture and horticulture the influence of the farm or the fruit crop rarely extends beyond the owner's fence. What I plant in my field does not affect my neighbors; they share neither in my success or failure. If by the use of poor methods I ruin the fertility of my farm, this fact does not influence the fertility of my neighbor's fields. But in forestry it is different. Unfortunately, just as the sins of the fathers are visited upon their children, so the sins of the mountains are visited upon the valleys. [Illustration: Map showing the National Forest areas in the West, the location of the proposed National Forests in the East, and the area which the present National Forests would occupy if they were all consolidated into one body in some of the well-known Eastern States.] The mountainous slopes of the Appalachian ranges and the steep, broken, granite ridges of the Rockies, the Sierras, and the Cascades are the sites most suited in our country for forestry purposes. The Appalachian ranges have been affected most by the reckless cutting of forests. When these mountains were clothed with forests, the rivers ran bank full, ships came to the harbors at low tide with ease, and factories and cotton-mills ran steadily all year long. Since the destruction of these forests the surrounding country has suffered from alternate floods and droughts; great manufacturing centers have lost their steady supply of water; harbors are filled with silt from the mountain sides; and fields, once fertile, are covered with sand, gravel, and débris, deposited by the ungovernable stream. These forests belonged to private individuals who disposed of the timber and pocketed all the profits, while the community below suffered all the loss. In other words, private ownership is inadequate since private interest and private responsibility are not sufficiently far-reaching and far-sighted. _Forests and Erosion._ Erosion is one of the most serious dangers that threaten our farms both by transporting fertile soil and by covering the bottom-lands with sand, gravel, and débris. Since we are largely an agricultural people, the importance of this problem will be readily appreciated. Over 50 per cent. of our population is rural, and the annual production of farm crops has a value of over $5,500,000,000. Farm uplands are washed away or eroded by high water, and high water is largely caused by the destruction of the forests on the mountain slopes. With the forest cover removed, there is nothing to obstruct the flow of water down the mountain sides. Raindrops beating on the bare soil make it hard and compact so that most of the water runs off instead of being absorbed by the subsoil, with the result that a heavy rain storm rushes down through the valleys in a few days instead of a few weeks, tears out the river banks, floods the lowlands, and deposits upon them the rocks and gravel carried down from the mountains. The most effective means for preventing the erosion and destruction of our farmlands is by the wise use of the forests at the headwaters of the rivers. [Illustration: Figure 2. A typical National Forest landscape in the high mountains. Potosi Peak, 13,763 feet, from Yankee Boy Basin, Uncampahgre National Forest, Ouray County, Colorado.] _Forestry a Public Enterprise._ From what has been said it will be seen that forestry is a national business rather than an individual's. Moreover, it is of such a protracted nature, reaching continuously into such long periods of time, demanding so many years of time and patience to see the expected and promised results, that an individual would not live to see the success of his labors. The individual becomes easily discouraged and is especially affected by financial conditions. The Government, on the other hand, having unlimited resources at its command can more readily afford to wait for results. In fact every consideration of national welfare urges the Government to carry it on; it is a sure source of revenue, there is none less fluctuating, and it is closely connected with the manifold industries of life. Its chief product is wood, without which the human race, so far, has not succeeded in managing its affairs, and which will therefore always have a sale value. THE EXTENT AND CHARACTER OF OUR NATIONAL FORESTS _How the Government Obtained the National Forest Lands._ Probably the first question that will occur to my reader concerning the National Forests is, How did the Government acquire them? To answer this question we have but to turn back the pages of history to the close of the Revolutionary War. Following this war, our country started on its career of continental conquest. This conquest was largely a peaceful one because most of the western country was acquired by treaty or purchase, thus: Louisiana Territory was purchased from France in 1803; Texas applied for admission into the Union in 1845; Oregon Territory was acquired by treaty from Great Britain in 1846; the present states of California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, and Arizona were ceded to us as a result of the Mexican War in 1848; and the Gadsden Purchase was obtained from Mexico in 1853 and added to the territory of New Mexico. Then also Alaska was finally purchased from Russia in 1867. These large acquisitions, comprising together the western two thirds of the United States, were gradually divided into territories. Later they became States, and were opened up to settlement and development by means of various land and mining laws and large railroad grants. The National Forests are composed of the land most valuable for growing timber, that has not been acquired in some way by private individuals, in the western part of the United States. _The Romance of the National Forest Region._ This vast expanse west of the Mississippi River boasts of some of the wildest and most romantic scenery on the North American continent, and it is in the heart of this picturesque country that the National Forests are located. This is the country in which Owen Wister, Harold Bell Wright, Stewart Edward White, Jack London, Theodore Roosevelt, and other authors have gotten their inspirations and laid their plots. To one who knows "The Virginian," or "When a Man's a Man," or "The Winning of Barbara Worth," or "The Valley of the Moon," nothing more need be said. To others I might say that my pen picture of that country is a very poor and very inadequate method of description. It is the land of the cow-puncher, the sheep-herder, and the lumber-jack; a land of crude customs and manners, but, withal, generous hospitality. It is the country of the elk and the mule-tail deer, the mountain lion and the rattlesnake. Its grandeur makes you love it; its vastness makes you fear it; yet there is an irresistible charm, a magic lure, an indescribable something that stamps an indelible impression upon the mind and that makes you want to go back there after you have sworn an oath never to return. This National Forest empire presents a great variety of scenery, of forest, and of topography. The beautiful white pine forests of Idaho and Montana, the steep pine- and spruce-clad granite slopes of the Colorado Rockies, and the sun-parched mesas of the Southwest, with their open park-like forests of yellow pine, all have their individual charm. And after crossing the well-watered Cascades and Sierra Nevadas we find forest scenery entirely different. The dense, luxuriant, giant-forests of the coast region of Oregon and Washington, bathed in an almost continual fog and rain, are without doubt the most wonderful forests in the world. And lastly, California, so far as variety of forest scenery is concerned, has absolutely no rival. The open oak groves of the great valleys, the arid pine- and oak-covered foothills, the valuable sugar pine and "big-tree" groves of the moist mountain slopes, and the dwarfed pine and hemlock forests near the serrated crest of the Sierras, all occur within a comparatively short distance of each other, and, in fact, may be seen in less than a day on any one of the many National Forests in these mountains. _Famous Scenic Wonders Near the Forests._ Many of the beautiful National Parks that have been created by Congress are either entirely or partly surrounded by one or more of the National Forests. These parks are a Mecca to which hundreds of thousands of our people make their annual pilgrimage. Most of these parks are already famous for their scenery, and, in consequence, the National Forests surrounding them have received greater patronage and fame. The Glacier National Park in Montana, the Yellowstone in Wyoming, the Rocky Mountain in Colorado, the Mount Rainier in Washington, the Crater Lake in Oregon, the Wind Cave in South Dakota, and the Lassen Peak Volcanic Park, the Yosemite, General Grant, and Sequoia parks in California, are all situated in the heart of the National Forest region. The highest and best-known mountain peaks in the United States are either located within or situated near the National Forests, as, for example, Rainier and Olympus in Washington; Hood, Baker, St. Helens, Jefferson, and Adams in Oregon; Shasta, Lassen, and Whitney in California; and Pikes Peak in Colorado. Then there are the National Monuments, of which there are eleven, all situated within one or more of the National Forests. These were created under an act of Congress for the preservation of objects of historic or scientific interest. The largest monument, and no doubt the most famous, is the Grand Canyon National Monument located in the Tusayan and Kaibab National Forests in Arizona, comprising over 800,000 acres. The next largest is the Mount Olympus Monument on the Olympic National Forest in Washington, comprising almost 300,000 acres. Other well-known monuments are the Cinder Cone and the Lassen Peak Monuments on the Lassen National Forest in California, and the Cliff Dwellings on the Gila National Forest in New Mexico. _The Size and Extent of the National Forests._ With this brief introduction of the nature of the country in which the National Forests are located, the reader will be interested to know something of the size of the Forests and their total area. The total area varies slightly from time to time, due to the addition of lands that have been found to have value for forestry purposes, or to the elimination of lands found to be chiefly valuable for agricultural use. On June 30, 1917, there were 147 National Forests with a total of 155,166,619 acres. Thus the average National Forest comprises about one million acres of government lands. The many private holdings scattered through the Forests make the average gross area of each Forest much greater. These Forests are located in Alaska, Arizona, Arkansas, California, Colorado, Florida, Idaho, Michigan, Minnesota, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New Mexico, North Dakota, Oklahoma, Oregon, Porto Rico, South Dakota, Utah, Washington, and Wyoming. Besides these Forests there have been acquired or approved for purchase under the Weeks Law over 1,500,000 acres in the States of Georgia, Maine, New Hampshire, North Carolina, South Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, and West Virginia. These lands are now under protection and will gradually be consolidated into National Forests. More lands are constantly being acquired in the Eastern States in accordance with the Weeks Law. Few people have any conception of what a gigantic empire the National Forest domain is. If consolidated into one large compact area, the 155 million acres of National Forests would cover an area larger than the combined areas of thirteen well-known Eastern States, viz.: Maine, Vermont, New Hampshire, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Rhode Island, New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Delaware, Virginia, and West Virginia (see map). This area is also one fifth larger than the entire area of France. We marvel sometimes at the ability of a ruler to rule a country as large as France or Germany; why should we Americans not marvel at the ability of the man who practically rules over our National Forests, who keeps in perfect working order the great organization which protects and administrates the Forests? _The Topography and Climate of the National Forest Region._ The difficulty of the work of this organization is at once apparent when we find that these Forests are located in wild, rugged, mountainous country, in most cases many miles from the railroad and human habitations, such as towns and cities. This country is usually far above sea level--the average being between 3,000 and 8,000 feet in altitude. But there are large areas in the National Forests of Colorado that lie above 10,000 feet elevation. Such country as this has a very severe climate. The climate is usually too cold and the growing seasons too short for the production of crops such as wheat, corn, oats, potatoes, etc. Therefore, practically all of this land is what the forester calls "absolute forest land," that is, it is better adapted for growing timber crops than any other. Another important fact about the National Forests is that they are located, for the most part, on steep mountain slopes and at the headwaters of mountain streams. This makes them of vital importance in regulating the stream flow of our western rivers. In fact it is no exaggeration to say that all our large western rivers have their origin on National Forest land. WHY THE NATIONAL FORESTS WERE CREATED Aside from the great economic reasons why a nation should possess National Forests, there are local reasons which pertain to the welfare of the home builder and home industries which are often of paramount importance. The timber, the water, the pasture, the minerals, and all other resources on the government lands in the West are for the use of all the people. And only by a well-regulated policy of sale or rental can these resources be disposed so as to give all individuals an equal opportunity to enjoy them. These vast resources have been estimated to have a value of over $2,000,000,000. But their value to the local communities can hardly be overestimated. The welfare of every community is dependent upon a cheap and plentiful supply of timber. If lumber, fence posts, mine props, telephone poles, firewood, etc., must be brought in from distant markets, the prices are usually very much higher. The regulation of the cut on each National Forest assures a never-failing supply of timber to the home builder and to home industries. Then also the permanence of the great live stock industry is dependent upon a conservative use of vast areas of government range. Local residents are protected from unfair competition. Lastly, the protection by the Forest Service of the forest cover in the western mountains assures a regular stream flow which is of vital importance for power, irrigation, and domestic purposes. [Illustration: Figure 3. The climate of most of the National Forests is severe. This view was taken in the early summer and shows the high mountains still covered with snow. Most of the National Forest lands are therefore of small value for agriculture. Photo by Abbey.] [Illustration: Figure 4. On many high mountains on the National Forests snow banks persist throughout the summer. This view was taken in the latter part of August. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] Perhaps the most comprehensive statement upon the purposes of the National Forests and the methods and general policy of administering them is to be found in a letter by the Secretary of Agriculture to the Forester, dated February 1, 1905, when the Forests were turned over to the Department of Agriculture: "In the administration of the forest reserves it must be clearly borne in mind that all land is to be devoted to its most productive use for the permanent good of the whole people, and not for the temporary benefit of individuals or companies. All the resources of the forest reserves are for _use_, and this use must be brought about in a thoroughly prompt and businesslike manner, under such restrictions only as will insure the permanence of these resources. The vital importance of forest reserves to the great industries of the Western States will be largely increased in the near future by the continued steady advance in settlement and development. The permanence of the resources of the reserves is therefore indispensable to continued prosperity, and the policy of this Department for their protection and use will invariably be guided by this fact, bearing in mind that the _conservative use_ of these resources in no way conflicts with their permanent value. "You will see to it that the water, wood, and forage of the reserves are conserved and wisely used for the benefit of the home builder first of all, upon whom depends the best permanent use of lands and resources alike. The continued prosperity of the agricultural, lumbering, mining, and live-stock interests is directly dependent upon a permanent and accessible supply of water, wood, and forage, as well as upon the present and future use of these resources under businesslike regulations, enforced with promptness, effectiveness, and common sense. In the management of each reserve local questions will be decided upon local grounds; the dominant industry will be considered first, but with as little restriction to minor industries as may be possible; sudden changes in industrial conditions will be avoided by gradual adjustment after due notice, and where conflicting interests must be reconciled the question will always be decided from the standpoint of the greatest good of the greatest number in the long run." HOW THE NATIONAL FOREST POLICY HAS BENEFITED THE PEOPLE This general policy, which was laid down by the Secretary of Agriculture, has been followed out, with the result that a great many benefits have been derived by the nation as a whole, by the individual States in which the National Forests are located, and, lastly, by the local communities and users of the Forests. _The Remaining Timber Resources Were Saved._ First of all the timber, the forage, and the water-power on the public domain has been reserved for the whole people and not for a privileged few. Before the Forest Reserve policy went into effect, the most valuable timber was being withdrawn from government ownership by the misuse of the public land laws, whose purpose and intent were fraudulently evaded. Many claims were initiated apparently for the purpose of establishing a homestead but in reality for the purposes of securing the timber on the land and later to dispose of it to some large timber holder. Every citizen is allowed to exercise his homestead right. Big timber operators would secure the services of many dummy locators, pay the expenses of locating, improving, and perfecting the patent, and then buy the claim from these dummies for small sums. A large timber holder in California secured his hundreds of thousands of acres of timber land in this way. By instructing these men where to locate their claims he was able to secure more or less solid blocks of timber made up originally of 160 acre patches. These patches, which originally were bought by the lumber barons for from $500 to $800 a claim, now have a value of from $8,000 to as high as $20,000. The people of the United States have lost the difference. It is difficult to say where or how this wholesale misuse of the public land laws would have ended if it had not been for the inauguration of the National Forest policy. Since the Government has taken full charge of its forest domain, this misuse has stopped. In fact many of the fraudulent claims located years ago are being investigated, and if they are found to have been initiated with intent to defraud the Government, the land and the timber is returned to the National Forest in which it is located. To-day the National Forests contain about one fifth of the standing timber in the United States, an amount which will undoubtedly have a great effect upon the supply of timber available for future generations, especially since under present lumbering methods the privately owned timber lands are being practically destroyed, while the National Forests are actually being improved by scientific management. Four fifths of the standing timber is privately owned, and this is usually of much higher quality than the publicly owned timber. [Illustration: Figure 5. The Big Trees. "Mother of the Forest" in the background. North Calaveras Grove, California.] _The Use of Forage and Water Resources Was Regulated._ The forage and water resources of the public domain have been subject to similar abuse. Before the National Forest policy was put into effect the large ranges of the West were used indiscriminately by all. The range was subject to considerable abuse because it was used very early in the spring before the forage was mature, or too late in the fall, which prevented the forage from ripening its seed and reproducing for the next season. Not the small, local stockmen, however, but the large sheep and cattle companies, many controlled by foreign capital, benefited by this condition of affairs. These "big men," as they were called, illegally fenced and monopolized large areas, varying in size from townships to entire counties. What chance would a local rancher with fifty or sixty cattle have against a million-dollar outfit with perhaps 40,000 to 50,000 cattle? He was merely swallowed up, so to speak, and had no chance whatever to get his small share. "Might made right" in those days, and it is said that if a man held any title or equity on the range it was a "shotgun" title. Also, the sheep and cattle men had innumerable disputes about the use of the range which in many cases resulted in bloodshed. If a sheep man arrived first on the range in the spring with his large bands of sheep, he simply took the feed. The Government owned the land and the forage but it had no organization in the field to regulate the use of it. It was indeed a chaotic condition of affairs and ended only after the inauguration of the present policy of leasing the lands under the permit system. These permits are issued and charged for upon a per capita basis. The conservative and regulated use of the grazing lands under Forest Service supervision has resulted in better growth and better weights on stock and more actual profit. There are ample data that show that the National Forests produce some of the best lambs that are put upon the market. Data secured from the Modoc National Forest, California, in 1910, show that lambs brought 50 cents per head more and weighed an average of 10 pounds more than lambs produced outside the Forest. Weights taken of 10,000 head showed an average of 72 pounds for National Forest lambs, while outside the Forest average weights on 3,000 lambs showed only 62 pounds. The regulation of the length of the grazing season, the introduction of better methods of handling sheep, and the prevention of over-grazing are some of the Forest Service methods that produce better lambs. Then also under the old system the valuable water-power sites were being rapidly eliminated from government ownership by large corporations who secured valuable property for a song. The National Forests, however, still contain about one-third of the potential water-power resources of the United States and over 40 per cent. of the estimated power resources of the Western States. And this vast wealth will not pass from the ownership of the United States but will be leased under long-term leases from which the Government will receive yearly a fair rental. _The Forests Were Protected from Fire and Trespass._ But not only have these large timber, forage, and power resources been put under administration for the use of the people. The protection of the National Forests, which goes hand in hand with their administration, means a great deal to the local communities, the States, and the nation as a whole. Until about twenty years ago the forests upon our public lands--the timber of the Rocky Mountains from Montana to New Mexico and of the Pacific Coast ranges from northern Washington to southern California--seemed destined to be destroyed by fire and reckless, illegal cutting. Nothing whatever was being done to protect them from fire or trespass. They were simply left to burn. When the people living near the public domain wanted any house logs, fence posts, or firewood, they went into the public domain and took them. The best trees were usually taken first. In California, especially, there was a common practice of cutting down the finest sugar pine trees and cutting and splitting them into shakes to make a roof covering. Then, too, much government timber was stolen by lumber companies operating in the vicinity of valuable government timber. After the land had been stripped of everything of value a fire was started in the slashing, which among other things burned the stumps and thus practically obliterated all evidence of trespass. Had this destruction continued there would to-day have been little timber left in the West, and the development of the country which demands timber all the time, and not only at certain intervals, would have been retarded, if not stopped altogether. [Illustration: Figure 6. A scene on one of the famous National Parks. Upper Lake, Glacier National Park, Northern Rockies, Montana.] How terrible the forest fires were in this western country is well illustrated by what an old California settler once told me, and what I have heard repeatedly in many Western States. He said: "In the years before the Forest Service took over the care and protection of the forests around here, the mountains within view of my ranch were not visible for many months at a time, being almost continually enveloped in smoke from the big forest fires that were raging in the forests all summer without ever being under control. They started in the spring as soon as it became dry and were not suppressed until the late fall rains and snows put them out." But he added with great enthusiasm, "Since the Service has taken charge the sky around here is as clear as crystal all summer. I never see any forest fires, not even smoke, because the Rangers seem to get to them before they get to be of any size." Such testimony as this speaks volumes for the efficiency of the present system of protecting the Forests from fire. _The Watershed Cover Was Preserved._ The destruction of the forest cover on the watersheds feeding thousands of streams which rise in the western mountains would have had its bad effect on stream flow--low water during the long dry periods, and destructive floods after heavy rains. This condition of affairs would have meant disaster to the systems of irrigation by which most of the western farmers raise their crops. It would also have seriously impeded and in many cases prevented electric power development, to say nothing of affecting the domestic water of many of our large western cities whose drinking water comes from the streams rising in the National Forests. The protection of these valuable watersheds by the Forest Service from fire and destructive lumbering is of such vital importance to the welfare of the nation that it has been made one of the main reasons for establishing National Forests. _Civilization Brought to the Mountains._ What the National Forest movement has done for settling and building up the Western States can hardly be overestimated. It has brought civilization into the wilderness. Roads, trails, telephone lines, and other modern conveniences have been brought to remote corners of the mountains. It has encouraged the settlement of the country by calling attention to the agricultural lands within the National Forests. More important than that, it has assured the West permanent towns, permanent civilization, and not a temporary, careless, shiftless civilization which vanishes with the exploitation of resources, as it did under the old régime. The improvements on the National Forests have benefited not only the Forest officers for the administration of the Forests. They have helped immensely the local population. The pleasure resorts as well as the business of the Forests have been made more accessible. New trails have opened up new and hitherto inaccessible country, where fishing, hunting, and trapping are ideal. All the old and new roads and trails have been well marked with sign boards giving the tourist detailed information about distances between the various points of interest. Roads have opened up new regions to automobiles and to the horse and wagon. In 1916 it was estimated that more than 2,000,000 people visited the National Forests for recreation and pleasure. They came in automobiles, in horse and wagon, on horseback, on mules, on burros, and in all sorts of made-to-order contrivances, and the writer has even seen those that could not afford anything better, pack their camp outfits in a wheelbarrow and push it before them in their effort to leave the hot, dusty valleys below, and go to the refreshing and invigorating Forests of Uncle Sam. In addition to the large numbers of tourists that visit the National Forests every year, over 100,000 persons or companies use the National Forests. Of these a little more than half are paid users, who are charged a fair fee for timber, grazing, or other privileges and a little less than half enjoy free use privileges. _Agricultural Lands Opened to Settlement._ The settlement of the agricultural lands in the National Forests is a matter that has received special attention at the hands of the Forest Service in late years. Land more valuable for agriculture than for timber growing was excluded from the National Forests before the boundaries were drawn, so far as this was possible. Small tracts of agricultural land within the Forests which could not be excluded are opened to settlement under the Forest Homestead Act of June 11, 1906. The amount of land, however, that is more valuable for agriculture than for timber is trifling, because the greater part of the valuable land was already settled before the Forests were created. The few small patches that are left inside of the National Forest boundaries are rapidly being classified and opened to entry for homesteads. Much of the land apparently adapted for agricultural purposes has a severe climate because it lies at high altitudes and it is often remote from roads, schools, villages, and markets. Therefore the chance offered the prospective settler in the immediate vicinity of the Forests is far better than in the Forests themselves. The Forest Service is doing everything it can to encourage homesteaders on the National Forests; it wants them because they help to report fires, help to fight fires, and in many other ways assist the Forest officers. _Permanent and Not Temporary Civilization Resulted._ Only those people who have been brought up near a large lumbering center can appreciate what it means when a town vanishes; when all that is left of a thriving town of 5,000 or more souls is empty streets, empty houses, and heaps of tin cans. In the days of the Golden Age of lumbering in Michigan many towns flourished in the midst of the forests. These towns had thrifty, busy people, with schools, churches, banks, and other conveniences. These people were engaged in exploiting the forests. The beautiful white pine forests were converted into boards at the rate of thousands of feet every day. When these magnificent forests were laid low, the lumbermen left to seek virgin timber elsewhere. They left behind them empty towns and barren lands; only a few charred stumps remained to show where the forests once stood. But this is not an incident peculiar to the Golden Age of lumbering in Michigan. Even to-day this very thing is happening. The town of Crossfork, Potter County, Pennsylvania, had a population of over 2,500 souls in 1909. When the nearby timber was exhausted, practically the whole town was abandoned. In 1913 it had a population of 50. In direct contrast to this short-sighted policy of the State of Michigan (and many others also) is the National Forest policy, which provides for a future supply of forest products as well as a present supply; which provides for work and homes and schools and churches for future generations as well as for the present; which provides for a permanent industry and not one that vanishes with the exploitation of the resources of a region as snow vanishes under the warm rays of a spring day. Lumbering even to-day is merely the removal of every vestige of timber that has any sale value. But forestry, which is practiced on the National Forests, removes only the mature trees, leaving the young growth to be cut at some future time. Lumbering has been and is to-day forest destruction; forestry is forest conservation under a system of wise use. Lumbering is followed usually by fire, and often by an entire impoverishment of the region in which it is carried on because it destroys both the mature tree and the young growth; under a system of forestry, cutting is followed by young, green forests which are protected from fire for the benefit of future generations. Such a system leaves the region and the industry in a permanent, good condition. The county under the old system receives no more taxes after its wealth is gone; but each county will receive taxes or money in lieu of taxes every year as long as the National Forests shall endure. [Illustration: Figure 7. The remains of the old boiler house. The town once had a sawmill, planning mill, lath mill, besides modern conveniences. All these are now gone after the forests have been cut. Lemiston, Montmorency County, Michigan.] [Illustration: Figure 8. Deserted houses, abandoned after the sawmill left. These are the remains of what was once a prosperous town. Lemiston, Montmorency County, Michigan.] _Financial Returns._ All the benefits of which I have spoken are without doubt great assets to the local community, to the State, and to the nation as a whole. They are great contributions to the welfare of our country even though they cannot be measured in dollars and cents. This brings us then to the financial aspect of the National Forest movement. Even though the fundamental purpose of the National Forests was in no sense a financial one, it is interesting to look into the finances of this great forestry enterprise. The total regular appropriation for salaries, general expenses, and improvements for the fiscal year 1918 is $5,712,275. For 1917 it was slightly less than this: $5,574,735. The receipts from the sale or rental of National Forest resources in the fiscal year 1917 reached $3,457,028.41. From these figures it will be seen that the expenditures exceed the receipts by between $2,000,000 and $3,000,000 a year, depending partly on the severity of the fire season and partly on the activity of the general lumber market. When we consider that this is really a newly established business scarcely twenty years old; that large expenditure have been made and must necessarily be made every year for equipment and improvements before the resources could even be used; and that an efficient organization had to be built up to handle the business, we must confess that the receipts are really a wonderful showing. When the Forest Reserves were taken over by the Government it could not be expected that they would yield a revenue at the very outset, nor could it be expected that even in the long space of twenty-five years they could be made self-supporting. The reasons for this are many. They are located for the most part in rugged, inaccessible mountains. In the case of almost every Forest a great deal of money had to be expended for roads, trails, telephone lines, fences, bridges, ranger stations and other cabins, lookout structures, fire lines, and many other improvements before the resources could even be used. Many of the resources were practically locked up; there were no roads by which to get them out of the wilderness. During the fiscal year 1916 alone there were built 227 miles of roads, 1,975 miles of trails, 2,124 miles of telephone lines, 89 miles of fire lines, 81 lookout structures, 40 bridges, 222 miles of fences, 545 dwellings, barns, and other structures, and many other improvements. Up to date there have been constructed over 3,000 miles of roads, over 25,000 miles of trails, about 23,000 miles of telephone lines, 860 miles of firebreaks, about 360 forest fire lookout cabins and towers, and many other improvements. Their total value is estimated at $7,000,000. And these vast improvements are but a small percentage of the improvements which will be necessary to be able to put these Forests to their highest use. Not only must enormous sums be spent for improvements. The huge sums which are spent for the protection of the great resources bring no tangible return in dollars and cents; yet the fire protection system prevents the destruction of millions of dollars' worth of timber every year. Then again, when government timber lands are cut over, only the mature trees are taken; the smaller trees, although they have a commercial value, are left on the ground to mature because they will have a still greater value in from forty to fifty years. This is merely foregoing a small present revenue for a larger future one. Also many National Forests have on them large areas of steep mountain slopes where not a stick of timber is allowed to be cut. These areas are maintained intact for watershed protection. In fact many of the Forests of southern California are maintained solely for this purpose. These Forests are covered almost entirely by a low bush-like growth called "chaparral," which has no value either as timber or as browse, but which has great value to preserve an equable stream flow for domestic use, irrigation, and water power. But there are still other reasons why the cash receipts from the National Forests are not as large as they might be. In addition to the cash receipts the equivalent of a large revenue is foregone every year through the various forms of free use and the sale of timber to settlers at cost instead of at its actual cash value. During the fiscal year 1917 approximately $150,000 worth of timber was given to settlers free of cost. About 40,000 people were served under this policy. Also much timber is sold at cost to settlers for domestic use. In this way over 4,400 persons received many millions of feet of timber whose cost value was about $20,000, but whose sale value was much greater. The privilege of grazing a small number of stock free of charge is granted to settlers living on or near the Forests. The stock thus grazed amounts to about 125,000 animals every year. The Forests are also put to many special uses for which no charge is made although their administration involves some expense. Strict accounting should credit the fair value of such uses to the receipts from the National Forests, for it is in effect income which instead of being put into the treasury is made available for the benefit of the people. From what has been said it will be seen that a large part of the benefits derived from the systematic administration of the National Forests cannot be measured in dollars and cents. These benefits are in effect privileges extended to the people who in return assist in the protection of the Forests from fire and thus more than repay the Government for what they receive. Even under the rather unfavorable revenue producing conditions mentioned above, it is interesting to note that in 1917 the receipts of thirty-two National Forests exceeded their total expenditures. On fifteen others the receipts exceeded the cost of protection and administration. In other words, one-third of the National Forests are practically self-supporting. _The New Eastern National Forests._ The great success with which the National Forest policy was launched in the Western States was largely responsible for the inauguration of a similar policy in the Appalachian and White Mountains. The main purpose for which these forests are to be acquired is to preserve a steady stream flow for water-power navigation and domestic use, and to lessen the damage caused by floods and erosion. These forests are of vital influence in controlling the flow of the Merrimac, Connecticut, Androscoggin, Potomac, James, Santee, Savannah, Tennessee, and Monongahela rivers. Some years ago the Merrimac drove mills worth over $100,000,000, which employed over 80,000 people. Upon these, it is said, 350,000 were dependent for support. In the Carolinas and Georgia alone the cotton mills operated by water-power turn out an annual product valued at almost $100,000,000. In these mills 60,000 people are employed, upon whom 250,000 are dependent for support. These mills utilize 106,000 horsepower. The forests which control these waters are therefore of great pecuniary value. The Act of March 1, 1911, commonly known as the Weeks Law, made the acquisition of forest lands in the Appalachian and White Mountains possible. Up to June 30, 1917, over 1,500,000 acres have been approved for purchase by the National Forest Reservation Commission. The Forest Service has been designated as the bureau to examine and value such lands as may be offered for purchase. The original appropriation was $2,000,000 per year for five and one-half years, beginning the last half of the fiscal year 1911. The Agricultural Appropriation Bill for the fiscal year 1913 made the appropriation for 1912 and subsequent years available until expended. A further appropriation of $3,000,000 was provided later for the same purpose, to be expended during the fiscal years 1917 and 1918. Under Section 2 of the same law coöperative fire protection with the States was provided for. This section of the law provided that the Forest Service should maintain a coöperative system of forest fire protection with those States which have a law providing for a system of fire protection for state and private forest lands upon the watersheds of navigable streams. In no case was the amount to be expended by the Forest Service to exceed the amount appropriated by the State for the same purpose in any given fiscal year. The original appropriation was $200,000 and subsequent appropriations have been for $100,000 annually. Twenty-one States are coöperating with the Forest Service in this way. By the passage of the Weeks Bill, Congress has voiced the sentiment that the forest fire problem, _even on private land_, is not only no longer a private problem, is not even exclusively a state problem, but a joint problem and duty to be borne by the State and nation. Forest fires are now rightfully looked upon as a public enemy rather than a private menace. This is a big step in the right direction, and it is hoped that this same principle will be applied in the not too distant future to all other matters dealing with private timber lands. If the protection of these private timber lands is a public and not a private problem, then certainly their management for continuity is a public problem. A timber owner should not be allowed to cut his timber without the consent of the Government, and the Government should see to it that he leaves the young growth as a basis for a future crop or provides a new growth of timber by planting young trees. TABLE OF CONTENTS PAGE PREFACE vii INTRODUCTION xiii Forestry as a National Problem xiii Our consumption of wood xiii The lumber industry xiv Our future lumber supply xv Forests and stream flow xvi Forests and erosion xvii Forestry a public enterprise xviii The Extent and Character of Our National Forests xix How the Government obtained the National Forest lands xix The romance of the National Forest region xx Famous scenic wonders near the Forests xxii The size and extent of the National Forests xxiv The topography and climate of the National Forest region xxvi Why the National Forests were Created xxvii How the National Forest Policy has Benefited the People xxx The remaining timber resources were saved xxx The use of forage and water resources was regulated xxxii The Forests were protected from fire and trespass xxxv The watershed cover was preserved xxxvii Civilization brought to the mountains xxxviii Agricultural lands opened to settlement xxxix Permanent and not temporary civilization resulted xl Financial returns xliii The new eastern National Forests xlvii I THE CREATION AND ORGANIZATION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS 1 Economic Conditions Which Led to Forest Conservation 1 Prodigality leads finally to conservation 1 The march of forest destruction 2 Our lumber and water supply imperiled 5 The First Steps in Federal Forest Conservation 6 The upbuilding of the West 6 The Lake States first to act 7 The first federal steps 8 The Act of August 16, 1876 9 Further work under the Act 11 The First Forest Reserves Established March 30, 1891 12 The situation before 1891 12 The need of the forest policy 13 The Act of March 3, 1891 14 An Anomalous Condition--Forest Reserves Without Forest Administration 14 The Need of Administration on the Reserves 14 More Reserves created 16 The Administration of the Reserves Under the General Land Office 16 The Act of June 4, 1897 16 The Division of Forestry in 1898 18 The Bureau of Forestry 19 The Consolidation of the Forestry Work in the Department of Agriculture in 1905 19 The Act of February 1, 1905 19 Early forestry education and literature 20 Changes in the Forest Service personnel 21 More National Forests created 21 The growth of the Forest Service 22 Recent modifications in the organization 23 The Present Organization of the Forest Service 24 The administrative districts 24 The Washington office 26 The district offices 28 II THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS 30 Personnel 31 Duties of forest officers 31 The Forest Supervisor 32 The Forest Assistant 34 The Forest Ranger 35 The Forest Clerk 38 Forest Service Meetings 39 How the Forest Service Appropriation is Allotted to the National Forests 40 Forest Service expenses 40 The agricultural appropriation bill 42 The ranger's protection and improvement plans 42 The Supervisor's plans 43 Approval of plans by the District Forester 44 The district fiscal agent 45 Tax money paid to the states 46 The Equipment and Supplies for the National Forests 47 The property auditor and property clerk 47 Blank forms 48 Supplies 48 National Forest Improvements 49 The need of improvements 49 Transportation facilities 50 Communication facilities 53 Grazing improvements 56 Protection improvements 57 Appropriations for improvement work 58 The Classification and Consolidation of National Forest Lands 61 Land classification 61 The consolidation of National Forest lands 63 How Young Forests are Planted to Replace Those Destroyed by Fire 64 Reforestation and the timber supply 64 Reforestation and water supply 65 Government reforestation policy 67 Methods of reforestation 70 Direct seeding work on the National Forests 72 Planting on the National Forests 78 The Organization and Scope of Forest Experiments and Investigations 83 The need of scientific experiments 83 The science of growing timber 84 Dendrological studies 86 Seed studies 87 Nursery studies 88 Forestation experiments 89 Studies of forest influences 89 Meteorological observations 91 Forest management studies 92 Forest protection studies 94 Protection from grazing damage 95 Protection from insects and diseases 96 Tree studies 97 Grazing investigations 98 Investigations dealing with poisonous plants and predatory animals 102 National Forest utilization experiments 104 Forest Products Laboratory experiments 108 Industrial investigations 116 III THE PROTECTION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS 120 Protection from Fire 120 Forest Fire danger on the National Forests 120 Importance of fire protection 121 Causes of forest fires on the National Forests 124 Behavior of forest fires 126 Losses by forest fires on the National Forests 126 The forest fire problem stated 128 Fire prevention 129 Fire suppression 133 How forest fire funds are distributed 134 Forest fire history 136 Relation of forest fires to the weather 137 Improvements and equipment for protection 138 Forest fire maps and charts 139 Forest fire organization 140 How fires are located 142 The fire fighting organization 144 Forest fire coöperation 146 Fighting forest fires 147 Protection Against Trespass, Forest Insects, Erosion, and Other Agencies 150 Trespass 150 Forest insects 154 Tree diseases 159 Water supply 162 Public health 167 Violation of game laws 168 IV THE SALE AND RENTAL OF NATIONAL FOREST RESOURCES 170 The Sale and Disposal of National Forest Timber 170 Government Timber Sale Policy 171 Annual yield and cut 172 Timber reconnoissance 174 Logging the timber 176 The first step in purchasing government timber 180 Procedure in an advertised sale 180 Timber sale contract clauses 182 Special contract clauses 184 When the operation may begin 186 Marking the timber for cutting 186 Scaling, measuring, and stamping 188 Disposal of slash 190 Payment for timber 192 Stumpage rates 193 Cutting period 194 Readjustment of Stumpage rates 194 Refunds 194 The Disposal of timber to Homestead Settlers and Under Free Use 195 Sales to homestead settlers and farmers 195 Free Use 195 Timber Settlement and Administrative Use 198 The Rental of National Forest Range Lands 200 Importance of the live-stock industry 200 Permits issued in 1917 201 Kinds of range, grazing seasons, and methods handling stock 202 Grazing districts and grazing units 205 Who are entitled to grazing privileges 207 Grazing permits 211 Grazing fees 214 Stock associations 215 Protective and maximum limits 216 Prohibition of grazing 218 Protection of grazing interests 219 Special Uses 220 Claims and Settlement 223 The National Forest Homestead Act 224 The mining laws 229 Coal-land laws 230 Administrative Use of National Forest Lands 230 Water Power, Telephone, Telegraph, and Power Transmission Lines 230 APPENDIX 233 ILLUSTRATIONS Figure 1. An observation point for finding forest fires. Vigilance is the watchword on the National Forests. During During 1916 forest officers extinguished 5,655 forest fires. Photo by the author _Frontispiece_ FACING PAGE Figure 2. A typical National Forest landscape in the high mountains. Potosi Peak, 13,763 feet, from Yankee Boy Basin, Uncompahgre National Forest, Ouray County, Colorado xviii Figure 3. The climate of most of the National Forests is severe. This view was taken in the early summer and shows the high mountains still covered with snow. Most of the National Forest lands are therefore of small value for agriculture. Photo by Abbey xxviii Figure 4. On many high mountains on the National Forests snow banks persist throughout the summer. This view was taken in the latter part of August. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author xxviii Figure 5. The Big Trees. "Mother of the Forest" in the background. North Calaveras Grove, California xxxii Figure 6. A scene on one of the famous National Parks. Upper Lake, Glacier National Park, Northern Rockies, Montana xxxvi Figure 7. The remains of the old boiler house. The town once had a sawmill, planing mill, lath mill, besides modern conveniences. All these are now gone after the forests have been cut. Lemiston, Montmorency County, Michigan xlii Figure 8. Deserted houses, abandoned after the sawmill left. These are the remains of what was once a prosperous town. Lemiston, Montmorency County, Michigan xlii Figure 9. Forest officers in front of the Forest Supervisor's summer headquarters. Note the many telephone wires that lead from the office. This is 50 miles from the railroad. Lassen National Forest, California 32 Figure 10. Scene in front of the Forest Supervisor's headquarters. Sheep leaving the National Forest summer range in the fall to go to winter range in the valley. Lassen National Forest, California 32 Figure 11. Forest officers and lumberjacks burning the slash resulting from a timber sale. The snow on the ground makes the burning less dangerous. Washakie National Forest, Wyoming. Photo by the author 38 Figure 12. Forest officers at a winter timber-cruising camp repairing snow shoes. Besides cruising the timber, these men make a logging map of the government lands, to show how the timber can best be taken out. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 38 Figure 13. A forest fire lookout tower on Leek Springs Mountain, Eldorado National Forest, California 50 Figure 14. A typical Forest Ranger's headquarters. Idlewood Ranger Station, Arapaho National Forest, Colorado 52 Figure 15. A typical view of the National Forest country in Montana. Forest Service trail up Squaw Peak Patrol Station, Cabinet National Forest 54 Figure 16. Forest Rangers repairing a bridge over a mountain stream. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado 56 Figure 17. A forest fire lookout station on the top of Lassen Peak, elevation 10,400 feet, Lassen National Forest, California. The cabin was first erected complete in a carpenter's shop in Red Bluff, about 50 miles away. It was then taken to pieces and packed to the foot of Lassen Peak. On the last two miles of its journey it was packed piece by piece on forest officers' backs and finally reassembled on the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. Photo by the author 58 Figure 18. Forest officers and laborers building a wagon road through trap rock. Payette National Forest, Idaho 58 Figure 19. Drying pine cones preparatory to extracting the seed. Near Plumas National Forest, California 66 Figure 20. Extracting tree seed from the cones. The dried cones are shaken around until the seeds drop out through the wire mesh which forms the sides of the machine 66 Figure 21. Preparing the ground with a spring-tooth harrow for the broadcast sowing of tree seeds. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. This view was taken at approximately 10,000 feet elevation. Photo by the author 70 Figure 22. A local settler delivering a load of Lodgepole pine cones at the seed extractory, for which he receives 45 cents per bushel. Forest officers receiving them, Arapaho National Forest, Colorado 70 Figure 23. In a forest nursery a trough is often used for sowing seeds in drills. The seed scattered along the sides of the trough rattles into position at the bottom and is more even than when distributed by the ordinary worker at the bottom of the trough. Pike National Forest, Colorado 72 Figure 24. Uncle Sam grows the little trees by the millions. These will soon cover some of the bare hillsides on the National Forests of the West 72 Figure 25. One of the largest Forest Service nurseries where the young trees are given the utmost care before they are large and strong enough to endure the rigorous climate of the National Forests. McCloud Nursery, Shasta National Forest, California 76 Figure 26. A view of seed sowing with a corn planter. San Isabel National Forest, Colorado 78 Figure 27. Sowing seed along contour lines on the slopes. Pike National Forest, Colorado 78 Figure 28. A planting crew at work setting out small trees. The man ahead digs the hole, and the man behind plants the tree. Wasatch National Forest, Utah 82 Figure 29. At the Fort Valley Forest Experiment Station, Coconino National Forest, Arizona. A typical meteorological station. Forest officer measuring precipitation. Note the shelter which contains thermometers and also the electrically equipped instruments to record the direction and velocity of the wind 90 Figure 30. Forest officer ascertaining the amount of evaporation from a free water surface. Fort Valley Forest Experiment Station, Flagstaff, Arizona 90 Figure 31. Forest Ranger with his pack horses traveling over his district. Meadow Creek, foot of Mt. Wilson, Montezuma National Forest, Colorado 102 Figure 32. A plank of Incense cedar affected by a disease known as "pin rot." By cutting the cedar timber when it is mature this can be largely avoided. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 114 Figure 33. The western pine forests will some day be a great source for naval stores. By distilling the crude resin of the Jeffrey pine a light volatile oil--abietene--is secured which has great healing and curative properties. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 114 Figure 34. A forest fire lookout station at the summit of Mt. Eddy. Mt. Shasta in the background. California 124 Figure 35. A forest fire lookout station on the summit of Brokeoff Mountain, elevation 9,500 feet. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 128 Figure 36. Turner Mountain lookout station, Lassen National Forest, California. This is a 10 ft. by 10 ft. cabin with a stove and with folding bed, table, and chairs. The forest officer stationed here watches for forest fires day and night throughout the fire season. Photo by the author 128 Figure 37. A fire line cut through the low bush-like growth of "Chaparral" on the Angeles National Forest, California. This "Chaparral" is of great value for regulating stream flow. The streams are used for water power, domestic purposes, and for irrigating many of the largest lemon and orange groves of southern California 132 Figure 38. A forest officers' temporary camp while fighting forest fires. Near Oregon National Forest, Oregon 132 Figure 39. Putting out a ground fire. Even if the fire does not burn the standing timber, it kills the young trees and so weakens the larger ones that they are easily blown over. Wallowa National Forest, Oregon 136 Figure 40. Forest officers ready to leave a tool box for a forest fire in the vicinity. Such tool boxes as these are stationed at convenient places on National Forests ready for any emergency. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado 136 Figure 41. A forest fire on the Wasatch National Forest, Utah. Forest officers trying to stop a forest fire by cutting a fire line. Note the valuable growth of young trees which they are trying to save at the right 140 Figure 42. A forest fire running in dense underbrush on one of the National Forests in Oregon 144 Figure 43. Men in a dense forest with heavy undergrowth clearing away brush to stop the fire as it is running down hill. Crater National Forest, Oregon 144 Figure 44. Fire in a Lodgepole pine forest in Colorado. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado 148 Figure 45. A mountain fire in "Chaparral" five hours after it started. Pasadena, California 148 Figure 46. A few years ago this was a green, luxuriant forest. Picture taken after the great fires of August 20, 1910, on the Coeur d'Alene National Forest near Wallace, Idaho 152 Figure 47. The first evidence of insect attack are the reddish brown pitch tubes on the bark. Lodgepole pine infested by the mountain pine beetle. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 156 Figure 48. The last stage of an insect-attacked tree. The tree is dead and the dry bark is falling off. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 156 Figure 49. Wrecked farm buildings due to flood of May 21, 1901, Nolichucky River, near Erwin, Tenn. This is one result of denuding the Appalachian Mountains of their forest cover 162 Figure 50. When steep hillsides are stripped of their forest growth, erosion results. Erosion has been especially serious in the Appalachian Mountains. View taken in Madison County, North Carolina 162 Figure 51. A fertile corn-field covered with sand, gravel and débris brought down from the mountains by floods. These farm lands are ruined beyond redemption. This could have been prevented by preserving the forests on the watershed of this river 166 Figure 52. A view towards Mt. Adams and the headwaters of Lewis River. Council Lake in the foreground. National forest lands lie at the headwaters of practically every large western river. This means that the water supply for the western people used for domestic use, water power, and irrigation is being protected from pollution and destruction. View taken on the Rainier National Forest, Washington 172 Figure 53. A large storage reservoir used to irrigate the ranches in the valley below. Elevation 10,500 feet. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. Photo by the author 176 Figure 54. A sheep herder's camp used temporarily by Forest Service timber cruisers. Elevation about 10,000 feet. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. Photo by author. 176 Figure 55. View taken in the Coast Range mountains of California where Sugar pine and Douglas fir and the principal trees. Klamath National Forest, California. Photo by the author 180 Figure 56. A typical mountain scene in the California Coast Range. On these steep slopes a forest cover is of vital importance. Klamath National Forest, California. Photo by the author 180 Figure 57. A forest officer at work on a high mountain peak making a plane-table survey and timber estimate of National Forest lands. Photo by the author 182 Figure 58. A government timber cruiser's summer camp. These cruisers get a fairly accurate estimate of Uncle Sam's timber resources at a cost of from 2 to 5 cents an acre. Photo by the author 182 Figure 59. Forest officers moving camp while engaged in winter reconnoissance work. All food, beds, and clothing are packed on "Alaska" sleds and drawn by the men themselves. Photo by the author 184 Figure 60. A winter reconnoissance camp showing snow-shoes, skis, "Alaska" sleds, and bull hide used to repair the webbing on the snow-shoes. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author 184 Figure 61. A group of giant redwoods. Santa Cruz County, California 186 Figure 62. A big Sugar pine tree about six feet in diameter. This is the most valuable timber species in California. Photo by the author 188 Figure 63. A Western Yellow pine forest in California. These trees are from four to six feet in diameter and from 150 to 200 feet high. Note the Forest Service timber cruiser measuring the tree at the left. Photo by the author. 188 Figure 64. Logging in California. Powerful steam engines pull the logs from the woods to the railroad and load them on flat cars. Photo by the author 190 Figure 65. The loaded flat cars reach the sawmill where the logs are unloaded and sawn into lumber. During the fiscal year 1917 timber sales on the National Forests brought into the National Treasury almost $1,700,000.00. Photo by the author 190 Figure 66. Scene in Montana. Forest officers constructing a telephone line through the Flathead National Forest 192 Figure 67. Forest Ranger, accompanied by a lumberman, marking National Forest timber for cutting in a timber sale. Coconino National Forest, Arizona 192 Figure 68. An excellent illustration showing the difference between unrestricted logging as practiced by lumbermen, and conservative logging as practiced by the Forest Service. In the foreground is the unrestricted logging which strips the soil of every stick of timber both large and small; in the background is the Forest Service logging area which preserves the young growth to insure a future supply of timber for the West. Bitterroot National Forest, Montana 194 Figure 69. View showing the Forest Service method of piling the brush and débris after logging, and also how stump heights are kept down to prevent waste. New Mexico 196 Figure 70. A tie-cutting operation on a National Forest. These piles of railroad ties are being inspected, stamped, and counted by Forest rangers. From this point the ties are "skidded" to the banks of a stream to be floated to the shipping point. Near Evanston, Wyoming 196 Figure 71. Brush piles on a cut-over area before burning. Forest Service methods aim to clean up the forest after logging so that forest fires have less inflammable material to feed on. Bitterroot National Forest, Montana 198 Figure 72. At a time of the year when there is least danger from fire the brush piles are burned. Missoula National Forest, Montana 198 Figure 73. Counting sheep as they leave the corral. Sheep and cattle are pastured on the National Forests at so many cents per head, hence they must be counted before they enter in the spring. Wasatch National Forest, Utah 208 Figure 74. Logging National Forest timber. Santa Fe National Forest, New Mexico 208 Figure 75. Sheep grazing on the Montezuma National Forest at the foot of Mt. Wilson, Colorado. Over 7,500,000 sheep and goats grazed on the National Forests during the fiscal year 1917 216 Figure 76. Grazing cattle on a National Forest in Colorado. Permits were issued during 1917 to graze over 2,000,000 cattle, horses, and swine on the National Forests 216 Figure 77. North Clear Creek Falls, Rio Grande National Forest, Colorado. The National Forests contain about one-third of all the potential water-power resources of the United States 230 Figure 78. The power plant of the Colorado Power Company, on the Grand River, Holy Cross National Forest, Colorado. Every fiscal year there is a substantial increase in water power development on the National Forests 230 Figure 79. This is only one of the thousands of streams in the National Forests of the West capable of generating electric power. It has been estimated that over 40 per cent. of the water resources of the Western States are included in the National Forests. Photo by the author 232 Figure 80. View in the famous orange belt of San Bernardino County, California. These orchards depend absolutely upon irrigation. The watersheds from which the necessary water comes are in the National Forests and are protected by the Forest Service. Some of the smaller watersheds in these mountains are said to irrigate orchards valued at $10,000,000 232 OUR NATIONAL FORESTS CHAPTER I THE CREATION AND ORGANIZATION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS ECONOMIC CONDITIONS WHICH LED TO FOREST CONSERVATION In order that the reader may fully appreciate the gigantic task that has been accomplished in bringing the National Forest administration and organization to its present state of development, it is necessary to briefly sketch the conditions that led up to the inauguration of the Federal Forest Policy before we stop to consider that policy and the establishment and organization of National Forests. _Prodigality Leads Finally to Conservation._ Every great movement, which has for its object the betterment of the lot of mankind, lags far behind the times. There must be an actual economic need before a new movement can be expected to take root and flourish. Forest conservation had no place in the household economy of nations that had forests in superabundance. Their forests were used with prodigality. It seems to be a great human failing to use natural resources lavishly when the supply is apparently unlimited, and to practice frugality only when the end of a resource is in sight. Thus we find in the pages of forestry history that all nations have begun to husband their forest resources only after having felt the pinch of want. In our country history repeats itself and our federal policy of forest conservation properly begins at the time that the national conscience was awakened to the realization that if we did not practice economy with our forest resources we would some day be without an adequate supply of timber and forage, and be confronted with other dangers and calamities that follow the destruction of forests. _The March of Forest Destruction._ When the London Company settled at Jamestown, Virginia, in 1607 it found that unlimited pine and hardwood forests confronted it on every side. Nor did these early settlers ever find a way out of this forested wilderness except by clearings made with the ax. When the Pilgrim Fathers landed at Cape Cod in 1620 they found similar forests stretching in all directions from their town-site. After the Atlantic seaboard became pretty well settled the home-builders began moving westward through New York, Pennsylvania, and what is now Ohio. Still nothing but unbroken, virgin forests were encountered. Westward to the Mississippi civilization advanced and still forests reigned supreme. Then the Middle West, the Rocky Mountain region, and finally the Pacific Coast regions were settled. During 140 years civilization has spread from coast to coast and of that vast wilderness of forest there is left only a remnant here and there. The giant pines that sheltered De Soto and his thousand followers on their ill-fated expedition in 1541 to the Mississippi River have long since disappeared. Along the Allegheny and Appalachian ranges the vast forests that once harbored the hostile Narragansetts and Iroquois are now but a memory. The giant oak, ash, and cypress forests of the Mississippi Valley are rapidly being decimated by the big sawmills that work night and day to outdo each other. In the north the dense and magnificent forests of white pine that greeted Father Marquette, when he planted his missionary station at Sault Ste. Marie in 1668, have been laid low. Unproductive wastes, sandy barrens, and useless underbrush now greet the eye. In fact the pine forests which covered the greater part of Michigan, Wisconsin, and Minnesota have been leveled by the woodman's ax. The army of lumbermen has moved now to the Coast to again turn virgin timberlands into unproductive wastes. Thus forest destruction has followed civilization. Statistics show very vividly how gradually one large lumbering center after another has become exhausted, often leaving behind desolation and business depression. In these large centers thriving towns sprang up only to disappear again after the removal of the forest wealth. In 1850 about 55 per cent, of the annual cut of lumber came from the New England States; even as late as 1865 New York furnished more lumber than any State in the Union. By 1890 Michigan had reached the zenith of its production and in that year the Lake States furnished 36 per cent. of the lumber cut. By 1909 the Southern States had increased their cut to over 50 per cent. of the total of the country. In 1913 the cut of the State of Washington was the largest ever recorded for that State or for any other State, even outdoing Michigan during its Golden Age. In 1915 about 20 per cent. of the cut came from the Coast but the South still furnished almost 50 per cent. _Our Lumber and Water Supply Imperiled._ In our prodigal use of our forest resources we have become the most lavish users of wood in the world. While the annual consumption per capita for France is about 25 cubic feet, and that of Germany about 40 cubic feet, our per capita consumption is in the neighborhood of 250 cubic feet. And the most terrible thing about our reckless methods has been that we have wasted by crude lumbering methods and we have let great forest fires consume many times as much lumber as we have used. There have been vast public and private losses through unnecessary forest fires which not only consumed millions of dollars' worth of timber every year, but which also cost the lives of thousands of settlers. Then, as every one knows, by being grossly negligent with our forests, our rivers have visited their wrath upon the unfortunate people in the valleys. Many streams have become raging torrents in the spring and only chains of stagnant pools in the summer, thus destroying their value for water power and irrigation. Cotton mills, which formerly used water power all the year round, now must depend upon more expensive steam power generated by coal to keep their mills running in times of water shortage, while during high water there is the great danger that the entire factory might be swept away. THE FIRST STEPS IN FEDERAL FOREST CONSERVATION. Gradually the national conscience became awakened to the need of a more rational use of our forest resources. But it was not until after the Civil War that the first steps were taken. As was to be expected, the States in which forest destruction had reached its worst stages were the first to attempt to mend their ways, thus leading the way along which the Federal Government was soon to follow. _The Upbuilding of the West._ The decade following the Civil War is marked by the construction of some of our great trans-continental railroads and the consequent development of the great western country. In fact between 1865 and 1875 the railroad mileage of the United States doubled. The first trans-continental railroad, the Union Pacific, was completed in 1869. Others soon followed. To encourage construction and settlement vast tracts of land were granted to the railroad companies by the Government, and with the land much valuable timber passed from government ownership. After the construction of the railroads towns and villages sprang up like mushrooms. As was to be expected with this increased development the destruction of our forests received an added impetus. The Lake States, then the center of the lumber industry, began to take alarm at the rapidity with which their hillsides were being denuded. Destructive lumbering, usually followed by devastating forest fires, was fast decimating the virgin pine forests. The young growth that had escaped the lumberman's ax fell a prey to forest fires which soon took the form of annual conflagrations. As the population increased the new sections of the country were settled, and as manufacturing operations were extended timber was getting higher in price. _The Lake States First to Act._ The first attempt to remedy the situation was made by the State of Wisconsin. In 1867 the Wisconsin legislature suggested a committee who should report upon the destruction of Wisconsin's forests. The next year Michigan took a similar step and in 1869 the Maine legislature began to look into their waning supply by appointing a committee to estimate the standing timber of the State. As early as this observations and calculations upon the rate of consumption of lumber pointed to a not far distant wood famine. _The First Federal Steps._ The first step taken by the federal authorities was at the urgent request of the Statistician of the Department of Agriculture in 1870. At that time lands were recognized as being either "improved" or "unimproved" farm lands. He recommended that the category of "unimproved farm lands" be subdivided into "woodlands" and "other unimproved lands." By thus dividing off woodlands from other unimproved farm lands more attention was concentrated upon the former. This attention was manifested in the investigations that followed shortly in which it was estimated that 39 per cent. of the area of the country was in woodland. This was the first and most logical step toward taking an inventory of our forest resources. Another early attempt to assist in forest conservation was an attempt to reforest the treeless plains of our Western States. On March 3, 1873, the Timber Culture Act was passed by Congress by which the planting to timber of 40 acres of land in the treeless territories conferred the title to 160 acres of public domain. At first this act seemed to work out as intended but it did not take very many years before it proved a dismal failure. Settlers had no knowledge of planting trees; the restrictions of the act could not be enforced, and the act was open to other abuses. The act was finally repealed in 1891. Many similar laws for encouraging the planting of timber were passed by the legislatures of some of the Middle Western States, but all met with little success. In 1874 Nebraska inaugurated Arbor Day. By this act of the legislature the second Wednesday in April of each year was set aside for planting trees. Other States have followed the example of Nebraska, so that to-day almost every State provides one day in the year for planting trees. Thus Arbor Day has become practically a national institution. _The Act of August 16, 1876._ The first constructive piece of legislation enacted by the Congress of the United States was the Act of August 16, 1876. This was the first of a series of Acts passed by Congress which, although occurring many years apart in some cases, put forest conservation upon a firm basis. Under the first act the Commissioner of Agriculture was directed: "To appoint some man of approved attainments who is practically well acquainted with methods of statistical inquiry and who has evinced an intimate acquaintance with questions relating to the national wants in regard to timber, to prosecute investigations and inquiries with the view of ascertaining the annual amount of consumption, importation, and exportation of timber and other forest products; the probable supply for future wants; the means best adapted to their preservation and renewal; the influence of forests upon climate and the means that have been successfully applied in foreign countries, or that may be deemed applicable in this country for the preservation and restoration or planting of forests, and to report upon the same to the Commissioner of Agriculture, to be by him in a separate report transmitted to Congress." Dr. Franklin B. Hough, an active, untiring, and intelligent scholar, was the first man to be appointed by this act. As Commissioner of Forestry he prepared the first report and submitted it to Congress. The next year, in 1877, Congress granted its first appropriation of $6,000, "for the purpose of obtaining other facts and information preparatory to establishing a Division of Forestry." _Further Work Under the Act._ The office of Commissioner of Forestry gradually enlarged the scope of its duties and functions. Five years later, due to the ever-increasing importance of the subject, a distinct division, the Division of Forestry, was established in the Department of Agriculture. The duties and powers of this Division were "to devote itself exclusively to such investigations of the subject as would tend to the fullest development of the resources of the country in that respect, to discover the best methods of managing and preserving our waning forests and to maintain in all its bearings the universal interest involved in that industry." In 1881 an agent of the Department was sent to Europe to study the work of forestry there. In 1882 the American Forestry Congress was organized. This organization had for its object the discussion and dissemination of the important facts of forestry, and while strictly a private body, had a considerable influence in later years in educating the people to the needs of forestry and in helping to establish a rational forest policy in the United States. Its first meeting took place in Cincinnati. At a second meeting held the same year in Montreal the name was changed to the American Forestry Association and since then has been the center of all private efforts to advance the forestry movement. In 1898 this association began the publication of a propagandist journal which is now called _American Forestry_. In 1884 the duty of making experiments with timber was added to the functions of the Division. The next year the collecting and distribution of valuable economic tree seeds was begun. In 1886 the study of the biology of some of our important timber trees was taken up, while in the following year silvicultural problems first engaged the attention of the Division. THE FIRST FOREST RESERVES ESTABLISHED MARCH 30, 1891 _The Situation Before 1891._ Before 1891 the Division of Forestry was simply a bureau of information. In general the information supplied was of a twofold nature. It was technical in so far as it related to the management of private woodlands and statistical in so far as the knowledge of the conditions of our forest resources induced the application of forestry principles. Up to that date Congress had neither appropriated enough money for efficient outdoor work nor did she attempt to put any government woodlands under the control of the Division. Therefore there had been no management because there were no forests to manage. This one-sided development of the forestry work of the Division was greatly impeding a rational development of the forest conservation movement. _The Need of a Forest Policy._ The need for a well-defined forest policy with respect to the government forest lands now began to be felt. Railroad land grants, the Homestead Act, Preëmption claims, and the Timber and Stone Act were taking much valuable timberland out of government ownership. People secured claims under these acts merely for the timber that was on them. The purposes of the laws and acts of Congress were being fraudulently evaded. Also the Government had restrictive and protective laws in regard to its lands, but it could not enforce them on account of lack of appropriations with which to maintain an administrative and protective organization. The time was now ripe for an executive policy to manage the woodlands that still remained in the possession of the Government before it was too late to save what was left. _The Act of March 3, 1891._ The Division of Forestry was designed by the nature of its duties to be more than a bureau of information. The existence of a governmental department to promulgate forestry principles while the Government itself had made no provision to apply such principles to its own permanent timberlands was an incongruity that suggested further legislative action. This was in part supplied by the law of March 3, 1891, which conferred upon the President the power to establish Forest Reservations. The first exercise of power under this act was the presidential proclamation creating the Yellowstone Park Timber Land Reserve under President Harrison on March 30, 1891. This was probably the wisest step yet taken in the development of a National Forest policy; but, unfortunately, the act left the Division simply a bureau of information as it was before. AN ANOMALOUS CONDITION--FOREST RESERVES WITHOUT FOREST ADMINISTRATION _The Need of Administration on the Reserves._ At first thought it will be seen that this piece of legislation must necessarily remain inoperative unless it were followed by the establishment of a proper administration of the Reserves based upon sound forestry principles. Furthermore, the law withdrew from public use all such lands that might be acquired under it. It was now easy for the Government to acquire lands; the question that next presented itself was how to protect and regulate the use of these new acquisitions. Forest protection cannot be secured without forest rangers and forest guards; nor forest management without technical foresters. The very reasons for establishing the Reserves would point to the absolute need of a system of managing them. These reasons were briefly: "to prevent annual conflagrations; to prevent useless destruction of life and property by fires, etc.; to provide benefit and revenue from the sale of forest products, fuels, and timbers; to administer this resource for future benefit; to increase the stock of game; to promote the development of the country; to give regular employment to a professional staff; to secure continuous supplies of wood and to get the maximum amount of good from each acre." Such arguments as these assume the presence of a force of men to protect and administrate these Reserves. _More Reserves Created._ In spite of this serious fault in the Act of March 3, 1891, more Forest Reservations were created. By 1894 Presidents Harrison and Cleveland had created about 17,500,000 acres and on a single day, February 22, 1897, President Cleveland proclaimed over 20,000,000 acres. By the close of 1897 a total of almost 40,000,000 acres of Forest Reserves had been established. During the six years following the law giving the President power to establish Reserves, the Reserves were under the jurisdiction of the General Land Office. The appropriations of Congress were small, amounting to less than $30,000 annually. Such appropriations were used mainly for testing timber strength and the conditions affecting quality. THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE RESERVES UNDER THE GENERAL LAND OFFICE _The Act of June 4, 1897._ The Secretary of the Interior in 1896 requested the National Academy of Sciences, the legally constituted advisor of the Government in scientific matters, to investigate, report upon, and recommend a National Forest policy. This resulted in the Act of June 4, 1897, under which, with subsequent amendments, the National Forests are now being administered. Under this act the Reserves remained in the hands of the General Land Office, Department of the Interior. It charged this office with the administration and protection of the Forest Reservations. Later the Geological Survey was charged with surveying and mapping them, and the Division of Forestry was asked to give technical advice. It is very evident that the Division of Forestry containing all the trained scientific staff had no relation to the government forestry work except as the offices of the Department of the Interior might apply for assistance or advice. It is true that an important step had been taken, but the complete separation of the administration by the General Land Office and the force of trained men in the Division of Forestry was a serious defect. The Act of June 4 might be called the Magna Charta of national forestry. The U. S. Geological Survey undertook the task of surveying, classifying, and describing the Forest Reservations. At a cost of about one and one-half million dollars over 70,000,000 acres of Forest Reserves were mapped and described. The General Land Office undertook the administration and Forest Superintendents and Rangers were appointed to take charge of the Reservations. The rules and regulations for administering the Reserves were formulated by the Commissioner of the General Land Office. _The Division of Forestry in 1898._ On July 1, 1898, the Division of Forestry employed 11 persons, 6 clerical and 5 scientific. There were also some collaborators and student assistants. There was no field equipment and no field work. But in the fall of 1898 an important step was taken. From that time on the Division of Forestry offered practical assistance to forest owners and thus it shifted its field of activity from the desk to the woods. The lumbermen were met on their own grounds and actual forest management for purely commercial ends was undertaken by well known lumbermen. From that time dates the solution of specific problems of forest management and the development of efficient methods of attacking them. The work of the Division at this time, therefore, consisted of activities along 4 distinct lines: (1) that of working plans, (2) that of economic tree planting, (3) that of special investigations, and (4) that of office work. Thus it will be seen, even at this late date the Division had practically nothing to say about the scientific forestry methods which should be used on the Reservations. _The Bureau of Forestry._ In 1901 the Division of Forestry was raised to the rank of a Bureau, but this was a change in name only and carried with it no change in the handling of the Government's vast forest resources. THE CONSOLIDATION OF THE FORESTRY WORK IN THE DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE IN 1905 _The Act of February 1, 1905._ The necessity of consolidating the various branches of government forest work became apparent and was urged upon Congress by President Roosevelt and by the executive officers concerned. This was finally accomplished by the act of February 1, 1905, by which entire jurisdiction over the Forest Reserves was transferred to the Secretary of Agriculture. Matters of surveying and passage of title, however, were still kept under the jurisdiction of the General Land Office. By this act the Division of Forestry for the first time in its career became an administrative organization. On July 1 of the same year the Bureau of Forestry became the Forest Service and in 1907 the change of name from "Forest Reserves" to "National Forests" was made to correct the impression that the forests were like reserves which had been withdrawn from use. _Early Forestry Education and Literature._ The Act of February 1, 1905, was the final step which established the federal policy with regard to our National Forests. At this stage it will be interesting to note briefly the status of the science of American Forestry and of forestry education. As late as the spring of 1898 there was no science or literature on American Forestry, nor could education in the subject be procured in the country. But soon thereafter several forestry schools were established, namely, Cornell Forestry School in 1898, Yale School of Forestry and Biltmore Forest School in 1899, and the University of Michigan Forestry School in 1903. The beginning of the twentieth century saw the first professional foresters graduated and taking upon themselves the task of applying scientific forestry methods to the National Forests. Further evidence of the growth of the profession of forestry was the organization of the Society of American Foresters in 1900. The first professional journal was started in 1902 as the _Forestry Quarterly_, and other scientific forestry literature was issued by the Government. The scientific knowledge gathered in the field work since 1898 has taken the form of a rapidly growing literature on the subject which has formed the basis of the science of American Forestry. _Changes in the Forest Service Personnel._ By 1905 the work of the Forest Service had increased to such an extent that the number of employees was increased to 821. With the opening of the forestry schools, professional foresters became available and the National Forests then began to be put into the hands of expert scientific men. Gradually the old type of untrained, non-scientific woodsman is being replaced by the trained forester. In addition, the entire force was made a part of the classified Civil Service and the plan of political appointees was banished forever. _More National Forests Created._ While the administration of the National Forests was being adjusted the area of National Forests was constantly being increased. To the 40,000,000 acres of Reserves set aside by Presidents Harrison and Cleveland before 1897, President McKinley added over 7,000,000 acres until 1901. When Roosevelt became President the National Forest policy received an added impetus and vigor. Being a great lover of the out-of-door-life and being especially well acquainted, on account of his extensive travels, with the great western country, President Roosevelt threw his powerful influence into the balance. With the close coöperation of Mr. Gifford Pinchot, his warm personal friend, and at that time the Chief Forester, Mr. Roosevelt set aside between 1901 and 1909 over 148,000,000 acres of National Forests, more than three times as much as had been set aside by all his predecessors together. Since 1909 a careful adjustment of the boundaries has been going on, both Presidents Taft and Wilson adding small areas here and there, which were found valuable for forestry purposes, or eliminating small areas found to have no value. Acts of Congress passed since 1907 prohibit the addition by the President to the National Forests already established in Washington, Oregon, California, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming, and Colorado. Additions can be made in these States only by special act of Congress. A number of such acts have been passed; some of them upon petitions of the people in these States. _The Growth of the Forest Service._ The growth of the Forest Service between 1897 and 1917 is little short of marvelous. The number of its employees has increased from 61 in 1898 to 3,544 on June 30, 1917. The annual appropriations have increased from less than $30,000 in 1897 to $5,712,275 for the fiscal year 1918. But besides this appropriation for 1918 the Weeks Law calls for an expenditure of $2,100,000 and the Federal Aid Road Act for $1,000,000 more. The receipts of the National Forests have also increased by leaps and bounds. In 1897 the receipts were practically negligible in amount but by 1906 they had reached approximately $800,000. In the fiscal year 1917 they were more than $3,457,000. _Recent Modifications in the Organization._ Further slight modifications in the organization, as established in 1905, were made since that date. Before 1908 all the work of the Forests was supervised from the main office in Washington and this arrangement caused much delay and inconvenience in carrying on the business of the Forests. In the fall of 1908 six administrative districts were established, to which another was added in 1914. By this arrangement the National Forests are divided into 7 groups and each group has a district headquarters in a large city or town centrally located in the group. The District Office acts as sort of clearing house for all National Forest business. All matters in the administration and protection of the National Forests that cannot be settled on the Forest or appear to be of general importance to the district are taken to the District Office, which is in charge of a District Forester and several assistants. Beginning in 1909 Forest Experiment Stations were established in each district and in 1910 the Forest Products Laboratory, the first one of its kind in the world, was formally opened at Madison, Wisconsin. The Weeks Law, passed on March 1, 1911, provides for the acquisition of forest lands on the watersheds of navigable streams in the Appalachian and White Mountains. Up to June 30, 1917, over 1,500,000 acres have been approved for purchase in these mountains. The Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina was recently organized from purchased lands. THE PRESENT ORGANIZATION OF THE FOREST SERVICE _The Administrative Districts._ The administration of the National Forests and the conduct of all matters relating to forestry which have been placed upon the Department of Agriculture are in charge of the Forester whose office is in Washington, D. C. To facilitate the administration of the Forests 7 districts have been established with headquarters in the following places: District 1. (Montana, northeastern Washington, northern Idaho, and northwestern South Dakota) Missoula, Montana. District 2. (Colorado, Wyoming, the remainder of South Dakota, Nebraska, northern Michigan, and northern Minnesota) Denver, Colorado. District 3. (Most of Arizona and New Mexico) Albuquerque, New Mexico. District 4. (Utah, southern Idaho, western Wyoming, eastern and central Nevada, and northwestern Arizona) Ogden, Utah. District 5. (California and western Nevada) San Francisco, California. District 6. (Washington, Oregon, and Alaska) Portland, Oregon. District 7. (Arkansas, Florida, Oklahoma, and the newly purchased areas in South Carolina, Georgia, North Carolina, Tennessee, Virginia, West Virginia, New Hampshire, Maine, and Alabama,) Washington, D. C. Each administrative district embraces a number of National Forests and is in charge of a Forest officer known as the District Forester who is responsible to the Forester for all administrative and technical work performed within the district. Each District Forester is aided by several assistants and by specialists in various lines of work. Each National Forest is in charge of a Forest Supervisor who may have a Deputy and a Forest Assistant or Forest Examiner to assist him if the amount of business on a National Forest warrants it. Each National Forest is subdivided into Ranger districts for the purpose of facilitating the protection work. Each Ranger district is in charge of a Ranger who may be assisted by other Rangers or Forest Guards. _The Washington Office._ The work of the Forest Service in Washington is organized under the Office of Forester and the Branches of Operation, Lands, Silviculture, Research, Grazing, Engineering, and Acquisition of lands under the Weeks Law. The Office of Forester includes the Associate Forester, the Editor, the Dendrologist, the Chief of Accounts, besides Inspectors and Lumbermen. The Branch of Operation administers and supervises the business organization of the Forest Service and has general supervision of the personnel, quarters, equipment, and supplies of the Service and all the fire protection and permanent improvement work on the National Forests. The Branch of Lands examines and classifies lands in the Forests to determine their value for forest purposes, conducts the work in connection with claims on the Forests prior to proceedings before United States registers and receivers, and assists the Chief Engineer of the Service in handling matters in connection with the occupation and use of the National Forest lands for hydro-electric power purposes. The Branch of Silviculture supervises the sale and cutting of timber on the National Forests and coöperates with States in protecting forest lands under Section 2 of the Weeks Law. The Branch of Research has supervision over the investigative work of the Service, including silvicultural studies, studies of state forest conditions, investigations of the lumber and wood-using industries and lumber prices, and the investigative work carried on at the Forest Products Laboratory and the Forest Experiment Stations. The Branch of Grazing supervises the grazing of live stock upon the National Forests, allotting grazing privileges and dividing the ranges between different owners and classes of stock. It is also charged with the work of improving depleted grazing lands and of coöperating with the Federal and state authorities in the enforcement of stock quarantine regulations. The Branch of Engineering has to do with the proper designing and planning of roads, trails, and bridges; with the engineering problems involved in granting permits to hydro-electric plants in the Forests; and with the making of forest maps, surveys, improving the forest atlas, and other drafting work. The Branch of Acquisition of Lands under the Weeks Law has charge of examining and evaluating such lands which are offered for purchase and recommending suitable lands for purchase under the act. _The District Offices._ Each District Office (of which there are 7) is organized in the main along the same lines as the Washington office. Each Branch in the Washington office is represented in the District Office by an Assistant District Forester or some similar official. The Office of the District Forester has in addition the Office of Solicitor (Forest Service Branch), which is in charge of an assistant to the Solicitor of the Department of Agriculture. He is the advisor to the District Forester in all matters of law which arise in the administration of the National Forests. His opinions are usually binding except that, in urgent cases, appeal may be taken to the Solicitor of the Department at Washington through the Forester. Many cases of law arise on the National Forests such as cases of timber, fire, and grazing trespass. All these are handled in the Office of the District Forester. The Office of Accounts in the districts is in charge of the District Fiscal Agent who is an assistant to the Chief of Accounts in the Washington Office. Three of the districts have a Branch of Products. The Experiment Stations in the districts are under the supervision of the District Forester and the men in charge of them bear the same relation to the District Office as the Supervisor of a National Forest. Most of the districts also have in the Office of Silviculture a Consulting Pathologist who has charge of all problems relating to tree diseases. The following scheme will illustrate in a general way the organization of the Forest Service and show how the National Forests are administered at the present time: CHAPTER II THE ADMINISTRATION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS Under the head of administration we must necessarily understand those factors which are essential to carry on the business of the National Forests. First of all we must consider the personnel, that is, the men that make up the organization by means of which the work on the Forests is done. Next we must learn how the money for this large enterprise is appropriated each year to carry on the work, and how it is divided up so that each National Forest gets an amount each year in proportion to its needs. Then again men and money are of little avail without tools, equipment, and supplies. The proper distribution of these to the 147 National Forests is no small business organization in itself. Lastly we must learn of the many permanent improvements which are made on the National Forests which are absolutely necessary for their proper administration, protection and use. No large constructive forestry enterprise is complete without these. They consist of the construction of means of transportation, means of communication, and living quarters for the personnel; of extensive planting of young trees to reëstablish forests which have been destroyed by fires; the carrying on of research and experiments to aid in the development of the best methods of forestry; and the classification and segregation of agricultural lands and the establishment of permanent boundaries. All these matters must necessarily be considered before we attempt to learn about the protection and the utilization of the National Forests. PERSONNEL _Duties of Forest Officers._ Forest officers are the servants of the people and they are expected to assist in every way possible those who wish to use the resources of the Forests. Their first duty is to enforce the regulations under which all permits, leases, sales, and rentals are made. These regulations cover every phase of National Forest activity and in conducting business under them they must not let personal or other interests weigh against the good of the Forests. For the good of the Forest Service their conduct must be prompt and courteous and their business methods sensible and effective. They make it their business to prevent misunderstandings and violations of forest regulations rather than to correct mistakes after they have been made. On the National Forests there are permanent employees and temporary employees. Under the former heading come the Forest Supervisor, the Deputy Supervisor, the Forest Assistant, the Forest Ranger, Lumbermen, Sealers, Planting Assistants, and Forest Clerks. Under the latter category come the Forest Guards, the Field Assistants, and the Temporary Laborers. All permanent positions are in the classified Civil Service. Vacancies are filled from a certified list of those who have passed a Civil Service examination or by promotion from the lower ranks. [Illustration: Figure 9. Forest officers in front of the Forest Supervisor's summer headquarters. Note the many telephone wires that lead from the office. This is 50 miles from the railroad. Lassen National Forest, California.] [Illustration: Figure 10. Scene in front of the Forest Supervisor's headquarters. Sheep leaving the National Forest summer range in the fall to go to winter range in the valley. Lassen National Forest, California.] _The Forest Supervisor._ A Forest Supervisor is in charge of each National Forest and he plans the work of the Forest and supervises its execution. He works, of course, under direct instruction from the District Forester and is responsible to him. When the amount of business on the Forest warrants it he is assisted by a Deputy Supervisor. Both these positions are filled by the promotion of experienced men in the classified Civil Service. The Forest Supervisor's headquarters are located in towns conveniently situated with regard to the most important points in his Forest. The town is usually located on a railroad and centrally located with regard to the various Ranger districts of his Forest. His headquarters are usually the center of the system of roads and trails which covers his entire Forest. From his office also the telephone system radiates in all directions to his various District Rangers. In short, the Forest Supervisor's office is so situated that he has at all times full knowledge of all the activities of his Forest; he is therefore in a position to give advice and directions by telephone to his Rangers and other subordinates almost at any time of the day or night. Such intimate communication is of especial importance during the fire season. Some Forests have two headquarters, one that is occupied in the winter and the other that is occupied in the summer. The summer quarters is usually most advantageously situated as far as the business of the Forest is concerned, but owing to deep snow, which seriously interferes with mail and telephone connections, a more accessible winter quarters is occupied from October to May. The force of men the Forest Supervisor has working under him varies of course with the amount of work to be performed. The permanent force is usually from 10 to 15 men, which during the fire season may be increased to from 25 to 40 and in cases of great fire emergency sometimes to several hundred men, by the addition of temporary employees. _The Forest Assistant._ The other permanent men on a National Forest are the Forest Assistant or Forest Examiner, Forest Rangers, and a Forest clerk with his assistant, the Stenographer and Typewriter. The Forest Assistant or Examiner ranks next to the Deputy and his work is directed by the Forest Supervisor, to whom he makes his reports. The Forest Assistant is the technical man of the Forest force, who upon making good is promoted to Forest Examiner. He is employed upon such technical lines of work as the examination and mapping of forest areas; reports on applications for the purchase of timber; marking, scaling, and managing timber sales; the survey of boundaries; and nursery and planting work. Not only is a Forest Assistant called upon to perform these various lines of technical work. The very nature of the country he is in indicates that he must be an all-round practical man. He must be able to ride, pack, and drive. He must often live alone and therefore must do his own cooking, washing, and take care of other personal needs. He must be strong and healthy and capable of undergoing hardships, at least be able to stand long days of walking, climbing, and horseback riding. His various duties and the different situations that arise often call for knowledge and practical ability as a carpenter, a mechanic, a plumber, an engineer, a surveyor, and many other lines of work. Perhaps more important than his education and ability are his personal qualifications. His temperament must be such that he must feel satisfied and contented under the most trying conditions. He must be able to do without most of the comforts of modern civilization for most of the time. For these reasons the country-bred western youths are more liable to make a success of the work than the city-bred easterner. _The Forest Ranger._ The Forest Ranger's position is one of the most important and at the same time the most difficult positions on our National Forests. The Forest Ranger's headquarters are usually at the nearest business center to his district and if that is not practicable permanent headquarters are provided on the Forest. In any case his station is located as near to the center of the business activity of his district as possible. If his headquarters are centrally located in his district, trails, roads, and telephone lines lead out from his cabin to all parts of his district. His station is built and maintained at government expense and usually has, besides his living quarters, a barn, tool-house, pasture, corral, and other necessary improvements. The Forest Ranger performs such routine work as the supervision of timber sales, grazing, free use, special use, and other contracts and permits, the carrying out of the protection and improvement plans for his district, and other administrative duties. The average Forest Ranger has a territory of from 75,000 to 150,000 acres to take care of. On June 30, 1917, there were about 1,100 Forest Rangers employed on the National Forests who were assisted by over 900 Assistant Forest Rangers and Forest Guards. The protective force was therefore about one man for every 77,800 acres or about 121 square miles. The Forest Ranger must be a man who is physically sound and capable of enduring great hardships. He is often required to do heavy manual labor in fighting fire under the most trying conditions. For this reason he must have great endurance. They are usually men who have been brought up in timber work, on ranches or farms, or with the stock business. They are therefore thoroughly familiar with the region in which they are to be employed and especially acquainted with the rough, semi-primitive life which is characteristic of remote places in the West. He must be able to take care of himself and his horses in regions remote from settlement and supplies. He must be able to build trails, roads and cabins; he must be able to ride, pack, and drive and deal tactfully with all classes of people. He must know something about land surveying, estimating, and scaling timber; of logging, mining laws, and the live stock business. His duties include patrol to prevent fire and trespass; estimating, surveying, and marking timber; the supervision of cutting and similar work. He is authorized to issue permits, build cabins and trails, oversee grazing business, investigate mining and agricultural claims, report upon applications, and report upon and arrest for the violation of Forest laws and regulations. _The Forest Clerk._ The Forest Clerk performs the clerical work and the book-keeping in the Forest Supervisor's office. He sometimes has a Stenographer and Typewriter to assist him and to do the mechanical work of correspondence. Lumbermen are specialists who are thoroughly well versed in all that pertains to logging, milling, scaling, and cruising timber. They are assigned temporarily to Forests where need for their work arises. Scalers are men thoroughly familiar with the art of scaling or measuring logs, ties, poles, cord wood and other forest products. Planting Assistants are specialists in nursery and planting work. Their duties include the preparation of seed beds, seed sowing, transplanting and care of seedlings, and field planting. They are assigned to the Forest Service nurseries. [Illustration: THE WORK OF FOREST OFFICERS IN THE WINTER Figure 11. Forest officers and lumberjacks burning the slash resulting from a timber sale. The snow on the ground makes the burning less dangerous. Washakie National Forest, Wyoming. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 12. Forest officers at a winter timber-cruising camp repairing snow shoes. Besides cruising the timber, these men make a logging map of the government lands, to show how the timber can best be taken out. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] Temporary Laborers, Forest Guards, and Field Assistants are employed during the field season when additional work on the National Forests warrants it. Forest Guards perform temporary protection, administrative, and improvement work; Field Assistants, usually students of forestry serving their apprenticeships, are usually employed at minor technical work and timber cruising; Temporary Laborers are employed by the day or month at any kind of improvement or maintenance work. _Forest Service Meetings._ A general meeting of the Forest force is usually held annually to give the Forest officers the benefit of each other's experience, to keep in touch with the entire work of the Forest, and to promote "esprit-de-corps." The time and place of the meeting depends upon circumstances, but it is usually held at a time of the year when there is least danger from fire. Often joint meetings are held with the forces of adjacent Forests. This annual meeting idea is carried through the entire Forest Service. The Forest Supervisors in each administrative district usually meet at the district headquarters once a year and the District Foresters of all the districts together with representative officers from the Washington office usually meet annually at some centrally located district office such as the one at Ogden, Utah. These meetings assist greatly in keeping all the work in the various branches of the Service up to the same standard of efficiency, in avoiding mistakes by learning the experience of others, and in correlating and summarizing work done on similar problems in widely different regions. HOW THE FOREST SERVICE APPROPRIATION IS ALLOTTED TO THE NATIONAL FORESTS It is, indeed, a great task to distribute the money that is each year appropriated by Congress for the Forest Service so that the Washington Office, the District Offices, and the 147 National Forests each get their just share and so that each dollar buys the greatest amount of good for the whole people without extravagance or waste. To do this a large organization has been built up composed of business men who have absolutely no selfish interest at heart and among whom graft or favoritism is unknown and unheard of. It may be said without exaggeration that the business of the National Forests is on a thoroughly sound and efficient basis. _Forest Service Expenses._ While for reasons already spoken of, the cash receipts are considerably below the expenses for running the Forests, the rapidly increasing system of roads, trails and telephone lines points not only to a constantly increasing use and service to the public but also as a consequence to increased financial returns. The expenses of the Forest Service on the National Forests are of a two-fold character. There are costs of administration and protection on the one hand which might be called ordinary running expenses, and the costs of improvements, reforestation, and forest investigations on the other. The latter are really in the nature of investments, and do not properly fall into the category of operating costs. Yet they are absolutely necessary to the welfare of the Forests. They comprise expenditures for roads, trails, telephone lines, and similar improvements, the establishment of forests by the planting of young trees which have been destroyed by past fires, the carrying on of research and experiments to aid in the development of the best methods of forestry, and expenses connected with the classification and segregation of agricultural lands in the Forests. The establishment of permanent boundaries and the cost of making homestead and other surveys are also in the nature of investments. Such expenditures may be looked upon as money deposited in the bank to bear interest; they will not bring direct financial returns now but will produce great revenue many years hence. _The Agricultural Appropriation Bill._ The fiscal year in the Forest Service extends from July 1 of one year to June 30 of the next. Every year, in the Agricultural Appropriation Bill that comes before Congress, there is an appropriation for the Forest Service for its work. This appropriation is not in a lump sum but by allotments or funds. There is the fund for Fire Fighting, one for General Expenses, another for Statutory Salaries, another for Improvements, another for Emergency Fire conditions, and usually there are special appropriations for various purposes. For the fiscal year 1918 (extending from July 1, 1917, to June 30, 1918) there are special appropriations for Land Classification, for purchasing land under the Weeks Law, for coöperative fire protection under the Weeks Law, and for the Federal Aid Road Act. _The Ranger's Protection and Improvement Plans._ Long before this bill reaches Congress every Forest Ranger on every National Forest, every Forest Supervisor, and every Branch of the Washington and the District Offices have been estimating how much money they will need to carry out the plans proposed for the next fiscal year. Each Forest Ranger works and studies over his plans for the next year with which he hopes to protect his district from fire. He plans and figures out what improvements are urgently necessary to make the remote parts of his district more accessible. He tries to arrive at a safe estimate of the cost of so many miles of trails, roads, and telephone lines, so many cabins, barns, corrals, etc., which he thinks are absolutely essential to the proper administration of his district, and he estimates the number of Forest Guards, lookout men, and patrol men he will need for the protection of his territory. Usually these items are summed up under his annual Improvement Plan and his Protection Plan respectively. _The Supervisor's Plans._ When the Forest Supervisor receives such estimates and plans from each of his Forest Rangers he studies them over carefully and tries to decide in an impartial way what improvements are most necessary in each Ranger district and what additional men are necessary for the adequate protection of the region in question. He carefully weighs the arguments for and against each expenditure and decides what improvements must be made now and which ones it would be possible to postpone for one or more years without detriment to the work of his Forest as a whole. For in most cases the amount of necessary work to be done on each Ranger district is far in excess of the amount which the Forest Supervisor could approve owing to the inadequacy of the Forest Service funds. So, for the Forest Supervisor, it is merely a question of how low he can keep his estimates for money for the ensuing year until such a time when Congress will appropriate more money so that all the important and necessary work can be done. In most cases therefore the major part of all the expenditures recommended by the Forest Ranger is warranted, but the Forest Supervisor knows that he must cut all the estimates down considerably in order to bring the total Forest estimate reasonably near the amount he is likely to get, basing his judgment upon what he got the year before. _Approval of Plans by the District Forester._ The District Forester then gets the National Forest estimate from every one of his 25 or 30 Forest Supervisors and he in turn must decide what projects on each Forest are immediately necessary and which ones can be postponed. The same process is repeated in the Washington office when all the estimates from the District Foresters are received, and the Forester in turn sends to the Secretary of Agriculture his estimates by allotments or funds, which in turn are put before Congress. While Congress sometimes makes minor changes in the Forest Service appropriation, in most cases the bill is passed as it stands. _The District Fiscal Agent._ The money appropriated by Congress is allotted to each district, and in turn to each National Forest and finally to each Ranger district by funds, such as General Expenses, Fire Fighting, Improvements, etc. In each district the financial matters are taken care of in the Office of Accounts by the District Fiscal Agent. He is the Assistant of the Chief of the Forest Service Branch of the Division of Accounts of the Department of Agriculture and pays all the bills incurred by the district and receives all the money which comes in from the sale of National Forest resources. The amount of money appropriated for the district is credited to him and he disburses this appropriation in accordance with the Fiscal Regulations of the Department of Agriculture. No other officer is allowed to receive money for the sale of timber, forage, or other resources; in fact no other official in the District handles any of the Forest Service funds whatsoever. All remittances by users of the National Forests are made to the U. S. District Depository. If a rancher has bought some timber from a Forest Ranger, he is given a letter of transmittal showing the amount of the purchase which he must send to the District Fiscal Agent with the amount necessary to pay for the timber. The letter of transmittal explains the purpose of the remittance. _Tax Money Paid to the States._ Another interesting feature of the National Forest business is the money paid each State out of the annual receipts in lieu of taxes. It must be remembered that National Forests do not pay taxes to the States in which they are located. On the other hand, if the National Forests were private property they would bring into the county and state treasuries yearly taxes. To compensate the State for the taxes lost in this way each National Forest pays to each county in proportion to the area of the National Forest lands located in that county a sum of money equal to 25 per cent, of the total gross receipts each fiscal year. From the receipts of the fiscal year 1917 this amounts to about $850,000. It is provided that this money is to be expended for schools and roads in the county in which the National Forests lie. Recently a law was passed giving the Secretary of Agriculture authority to expend an additional 10 per cent. of the National Forest receipts for the construction of roads and trails for the benefit of local communities. From the fiscal year 1917 this amounts to about $340,000. These moneys for roads, trails, and schools are of course a great benefit to the mountain communities, since usually the amount of taxable property in such remote localities is small and hence the amount of taxes received is small. These allotments to the counties have helped to develop the communication systems of local communities and have also made the National Forests more accessible and useful. THE EQUIPMENT AND SUPPLIES FOR THE NATIONAL FORESTS _The Property Auditor and Property Clerk._ The depot for equipment, supplies, and blank forms is located at Ogden, Utah, and this office furnishes all the Forests in all the districts with most of the equipment necessary. The record of the property of the United States in the custody of the Forest Service is kept by a man called the Property Auditor. Requisitions for supplies and equipment are made by the Forest Supervisor to the Property Clerk. Government property is considered expendable or non-expendable depending upon its character. Each Forest has a Property Custodian who has charge of all the property assigned to the Forest. When property is received from the Property Clerk or if property is transferred from one forest officer to another, the Property Custodian must note the change on his records. _Blank Forms._ The blank forms which are supplied by the Property Clerk are printed standard forms used in issuing permits, making contracts, reports, examinations, timber sale agreements, in short, those used in almost every business transaction of the Forest Service. Even timber estimates, tree measurements, and other similar public records are kept on standard printed forms for permanent uniform record. _Supplies._ Supplies such as stationery, typewriters, pencils, ink, notebooks, paper for map work, compasses, measuring tapes, and a host of other articles are furnished upon requisition by the Property Clerk. Equipment such as filing cases, tables, chairs, typewriters, tree-measuring instruments, tents, cooking utensils, surveying instruments, snow shoes, skiis, knapsacks, water buckets, canteens, kodaks, and many other forms of equipment are furnished by the Property Clerk, although in cases of emergency some of these things may be purchased locally by Forest officers by the authority of the Forest Supervisor. NATIONAL FOREST IMPROVEMENTS _The Need of Improvements._ It is but natural, from their situation, that the National Forests represent pioneer conditions; conditions that one might expect to find in a wild, rugged, mountainous country. This was true to an extreme degree when the National Forests were first established and it is true in a very large degree even to-day, since the amount of time and money which it will be necessary to expend on the construction of improvements on the 155,000,000 acres of National Forests is something enormous. For a long time to come, then, the National Forests will need improvements in order to make them secure against fire and in order to make the resources, now locked up, available. Proper protection and the fullest use of National Forest resources depend mainly upon facilities for transportation, communication, and control. All parts of the National Forests should be accessible by roads and trails; there should be telephone communication between settlements and Forest officers' headquarters and with the lookout stations; and in most cases suitable living accommodations must be provided for the field force. For the fullest use of the forage resources, water for the live stock must be developed and range fences constructed; to reduce the hazard and the cost and difficulty of controlling forest fires, firebreaks and other works must be constructed. _Transportation Facilities._ Adequate facilities for travel and transportation are of first importance. Steam roads, electric roads, and boat lines are utilized in the National Forest transportation system as well as the existing roads and trails. Added to this, new roads and trails are being constructed every year to complete the already existing network. [Illustration: Figure 13. A forest fire lookout tower on Leek Springs Mountain. Eldorado National Forest, California.] The need for new roads and trails depends upon the number of them already existing, the value of the resources that it is necessary to make accessible, the fire liability, and the amount of unrealized revenues due to lack of transportation facilities. If valuable grazing land or timber land can be made accessible there is good reason for building a new road. In many cases roads and trails are built to facilitate the protection of large remote areas from fire. Such areas may have large bodies of valuable timber which if destroyed by forest fires would involve a heavy loss. Even aside from valuable timber on an area, it is absolutely necessary when a forest fire breaks out to get to it with men and fire-fighting equipment in the shortest possible time before it spreads. If the fire gets to be a large one, many men with provisions, tents, fire-fighting tools, and other equipment must be transported to the scene of the fire. Any delay in the transportation of these things may prove fatal and may result in an uncontrollable conflagration. The transportation system that is proposed for a National Forest, if the one that exists is inadequate, is usually planned many years ahead. The ultimate or ideal system is always kept in mind so that every mile of road or trail that is constructed is made a part of it. If not enough money is available for a good road, a trail is built along the line of the proposed road. Later this trail is widened into a permanent road. The Engineer connected with each District Office usually has charge of laying out big road projects. A few miles of permanent, good, dirt road with good grade is always preferred to many miles of poor road with heavy grade and improper drainage. A road and trail system is planned for each National Forest which will eventually place every portion of the Forest within a distance of at least 7-1/2 miles of a wagon road. A pack-train can then transport supplies from the point to which they are delivered on the wagon road to any field camp and return in a single day. In trail and road construction it is very often necessary to build bridges. Sometimes a very simple log bridge meets the need, but in bridging many large mountain torrents, which become very high and dangerous in the spring, large bridges are necessary. Cable suspension bridges and queen and king truss bridges are built where occasion arises for them, but only after being planned in detail and after the District Forester has approved their design and method of construction. [Illustration: Figure 14. A typical Forest ranger's headquarters. Idlewood Ranger Station, Arapaho National Forest, Colorado] Very often navigable streams and lakes are used as a part of the transportation system on a National Forest. On the Tahoe National Forest in California launches are operated by the Forest Service on Lake Tahoe to patrol the region around the lake for forest fires. Ferries, boats, and launches belonging to private companies or individuals are used by agreement or if necessary are bought by the Service from the Improvement funds. Speeders, motor cars, and hand cars on railroads or logging roads are often used when an agreement has been made with the company. In this way railroads are made a part of the transportation system of the Forest. _Communication Facilities._ The system of communication on the National Forests is scarcely less important than the system of transportation. This system includes telephone lines, signal systems, and mail service. The telephone system, as can be readily seen, is of the utmost importance for the transaction of all kinds of National Forest business. In case a Forest Ranger wishes to speak to his Supervisor about controlling a large fire, it makes a great difference whether he can talk to him over the telephone or whether he must send a messenger on horseback perhaps 60 or 70 miles. In the former case practically no time is lost, in the latter it would take at least two days for the messenger to reach the Forest Ranger, and in the meantime the fire would continue to rage and spread. In the absence of a telephone system a signal system is used. The one probably used the most in forest fire protection work is the heliograph, by which code messages are sent from one point to another by means of a series of light flashes on a mirror. The light of the sun is used and the flashes are made by the opening and closing of a shutter in front of the mirror. Very often these heliograph stations are located on mountain tops in the midst of extremely inaccessible country. Where there are a number of these stations at least one is connected by telephone to the Forest Supervisor's office. When the Forest officer at the telephone gets a heliograph message about a certain fire he immediately telephones the news directly to the Forest Ranger in whose district the fire is located, or if he does not happen to be in direct communication with the Forest Ranger he notifies the Forest Supervisor, who then notifies the officer concerned. Of course it is all prearranged who should be notified in case a fire is reported to the heliograph man. [Illustration: Figure 15. A typical view of the National Forest country in Montana. Forest Service trail up Squaw Peak Patrol Station, Cabinet National Forest.] Unfortunately it has been found that this system of communication is not satisfactory even under favorable conditions. This system depends upon direct sunlight; without it is useless. When there is much smoke in the air it is also of uncertain value. The heliograph system has perhaps reached its greatest development upon the California National Forest, but even here experience has shown that it is only a temporary makeshift and the plan is to replace it by a telephone system as soon as possible. The Forest Supervisor, especially in his summer headquarters, depends directly upon the mail service for communication with the District Forester and the outside world. In many cases the fact that the Forest Supervisor has his headquarters in a small mountain community in the summer has made it possible for that community to receive a daily mail service or mail at least three times a week. When the Forest Supervisor becomes satisfied that mail service is desirable in certain mountain communities he investigates local settlers' needs for mail facilities; or he may coöperate with the people in the nearest village who are petitioning for mail service. Often his influence proves the deciding factor in getting it. As I have said before, telephone communication is indispensable to fire protection and to quick and efficient methods of conducting National Forest business. Not only do Forest Service lines enter into the National Forest telephone system but all private lines are also made use of. By coöperative agreements with private companies the National Forest lines are used by private companies, in return for which private lines are used by the Forest Service. In this way a complete network of telephone lines is established connecting not only the Forest Supervisor with all his Rangers and his forest fire lookout stations, but also connecting each one of these with local communities and the large towns at a distance. Thus, when a forest fire occurs and the available local help is not sufficient to control the fire the telephone system is put to use to call help from the nearest villages and towns. [Illustration: Figure 16. Forest Rangers repairing a bridge over a mountain stream. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado] _Grazing Improvements._ It is often necessary for the complete and economical use of the forage on a National Forest to coöperate with the local stockmen to develop range by constructing improvements. Water may have to be developed; fences, corrals, bridges, trails, and other works may have to be constructed. Often cattle belonging to different stockmen are grazed on adjacent areas which are not separated by natural boundaries such as rivers, ridges, or swamps. If there is no obstacle to prevent the cattle from drifting from one range into another, a drift fence is built, thus definitely separating one stockman's range from the other. Often good range would remain unused on account of lack of water altogether or on account of lack of water during the dry season only. In this case the Forest Service usually coöperates with the stockmen to provide water. Roads, trails, and bridges are often necessary to enable sheep and cattle to reach range lands. _Protective Improvements._ Ranger stations, cabins, lookout stations, firebreaks and similar works are required to protect the forests from fire and are known as protective improvements. Buildings are constructed for the field force to afford necessary shelter and to furnish an office for the efficient transaction of business. Land is often cultivated for the production of forage crops and fences are built to insure necessary pasturage for live stock used by the Forest officers in their work. The buildings may be substantial houses to be used throughout the year or they may be merely such structures as will afford the necessary shelter and domestic conveniences for Forest officers in the summer. These summer camps are constructed where needed for the use of patrolmen, officers engaged in timber sale work or at such points as will serve the needs of officers traveling through the forest. Barns, sheds, and other small structures are constructed at the Ranger's headquarters when they are needed. Office buildings are also constructed for the use of Forest Rangers or for summer headquarters of the Forest Supervisor. [Illustration: Figure 17. A forest fire lookout station on the top of Lassen Peak, elevation 10,400 feet, Lassen National Forest, California. This cabin was first erected complete in a carpenter's shop in Red Bluff, about 50 miles away. It was then taken to pieces and packed to the foot of Lassen Peak. On the last two miles of its journey it was packed piece by piece on forest officers' backs and finally reassembled on the topmost pinnacle of the mountain. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 18. Forest officers and laborers building a wagon road through trap rock. Payette National Forest, Idaho.] _Appropriations for Improvement Work._ The money for the construction of National Forest improvements is secured from various sources. The annual Forest Service appropriation usually carries a considerable sum for this purpose. In the fiscal year 1918 $450,000 has been appropriated for this work, which divided among the 147 National Forests gives an average only of about $3,000 per Forest. This is really a very small sum considering the size of the average National Forest. Fortunately there are other appropriations and funds and each year sees more money available for this most important work. Under the law 25 per cent. of the receipts are paid to the States in which the National Forests are located to be expended for roads and schools. The amount to be paid to the States in this way from the receipts in 1917 is about $848,874.00. By the acts of Congress organizing them as States, Arizona and New Mexico also receive for their schools funds an additional share of the receipts based on the proportion that their school lands within the National Forests bear to the total National Forest area in the States. The approximate amounts due on account of the receipts for 1917 are $42,844.80 to Arizona and $18,687.56 to New Mexico. Congress has also provided that 10 per cent, of the receipts shall be set aside as an appropriation to be used under the direction of the Secretary of Agriculture for road and trail building in National Forests in coöperation with state authorities or otherwise. The amount thus appropriated on account of the fiscal year 1917 receipts is $339,549.61. This added to the amount carried over from the 1916 receipts fund, $136,981.23, and the amount appropriated for improvements, in the regular Agricultural Appropriation Bill, $450,000.00, brings the total available for the construction of roads, trails, cabins, bridges, telephone lines, etc., on the National Forests for the fiscal year 1918 to $926,530.84. There is still another fund recently appropriated which will enable roads and trails to be built on a very much larger scale than hitherto has been possible and will result in the rapid opening of forest regions at present practically inaccessible. The Federal Aid Road Act, passed by Congress in 1916, appropriated ten million dollars for the construction and maintenance of roads and trails within or partly within National Forests. This money becomes available at the rate of a million dollars a year until 1927. In general, the States and counties are required to furnish coöperation in an amount at least equal to 50 per cent. of the estimated cost of the surveys and construction of projects approved by the Secretary of Agriculture. The apportionment among the States is based on the area of National Forest lands in each State and the estimated value of the timber and forage resources which the Forests contain. The total amount from all sources available for roads, trails, and other improvements on the National Forests during the fiscal year 1918 is therefore $1,926,530.84. THE CLASSIFICATION AND CONSOLIDATION OF NATIONAL FOREST LANDS The classification and consolidation of National Forest lands is a matter of great importance to their proper administration and protection. If all the lands within the Forests are to be put to their highest use for the permanent good of the whole people the lands inside of their boundaries must be classified and permanent boundaries established for each Forest. Through this kind of work the National Forests gain in stability. The classification and segregation of the agricultural lands is most important, for these lands are open to entry under the Forest Homestead Act. _Land Classification._ The land classification work is organized in the Washington and District Offices under the Branch of Lands. Crews of men are sent out from the District Offices and the work of classification, carefully planned ahead, is done by projects, that is, large contiguous areas are examined together. For instance, the Hat Creek Project on the Lassen National Forest consisted of a number of large areas containing scattered parcels of agricultural lands along the Hat Creek valley in that Forest. For the classification of the lands on a big project a surveyor and a lineman, one or more timber cruisers, and an expert from the Bureau of Soils constitute the crew. As a result of this work over 1,100 individual tracts within the Forests were made available for entry under the Forest Homestead Act during the fiscal year 1916, because this land was found to have a greater value for growing agricultural crops than for growing timber. Under this same policy since 1912 about 12,000,000 acres were eliminated from the Forests, partly because they were of greater value for agricultural use, or because they were not suited for the purposes for which the National Forests were created. Up to June 30, 1917, 127,156,610 acres of National Forest land have been examined and classified. Such work as this, once and for all time, will settle the controversy now and then waged in Congress by certain Congressmen that the National Forests have large and valuable tracts of agricultural lands locked up within their boundaries and therefore should be abolished, or turned over to the States, or equally radical disposition made of them. Such Congressmen usually are working for some predatory private interests who want to secure the great wealth in the National Forests that is being wisely conserved for the people. _The Consolidation of National Forest Lands._ There has also been a great need for consolidating the National Forest lands where these were interspersed with private or state lands. Congress has recognized this need and from time to time has granted authority to exchange lands with private owners or States where such an exchange would be advantageous to the Government through the resulting consolidation of holdings. Thus by getting the government lands into a more compact body their administration and protection are materially facilitated in many ways. Before any exchange is made it must be ascertained that the land which the Government is to receive has equal value with that relinquished, also that the land is chiefly valuable for the production of timber and the protection of stream flow. Recent additions to the Whitman National Forest in Oregon consisted of privately owned cut-over timberland rapidly reproducing to valuable timber trees. Title to this will be secured by exchange for government owned lands. HOW YOUNG FORESTS ARE PLANTED TO REPLACE THOSE DESTROYED BY FIRE _Reforestation and the Timber Supply._ More than 15,000,000 acres of National Forest lands which are capable of producing timber and valuable chiefly for that purpose have been denuded of their original tree growth. These lands are not adapted to agriculture and possess but a small value for grazing. In their present condition they are practically unproductive barrens. It is probable that one-half of this area will reforest itself naturally through the reseeding of burns, and the encroachment of tree growth upon natural openings, parks, grass lands, and brush lands. This natural extension of the forest on such areas is progressing at the estimated rate of 150,000 acres annually. The remaining half of the denuded area, 7,500,000 acres, must be reforested by artificial means. This land is unquestionably adapted to growing timber and useful to the nation primarily for that purpose. Every year that it lies idle the country suffers a great financial loss, for such an immense area is capable of growing at least three-quarters of a billion feet of timber annually. It was recently estimated that the timberlands on the National Forests are producing between five and six billion feet of lumber annually by growth. The complete restocking of the areas now denuded or sparsely timbered will increase the annual production of wood at least 25 per cent., an item certainly worth considering. _Reforestation and Water Supply._ Even more important than the value of the timber which is lost annually is the part which these large areas play in the conservation of water supply. Most of this area is on the watersheds of western streams and rivers and the fact that it is denuded is a dangerous menace to the equable flow of the rivers which drain those areas. The National Forests contain over 1,175 watersheds which supply many municipalities, 324 water-power projects, and 1,266 irrigation projects, aside from many other outside power and irrigation projects which are fed by watersheds within the Forests. The cities of Salt Lake City, Utah; Denver and Colorado Springs, Colorado; Portland, Oregon, and Seattle, Washington, all derive their municipal water supply from streams arising in the National Forests. The proposed water system for the city of San Francisco, California, is also to be taken from the National Forest streams. A few years ago planting was undertaken on the watershed of the Colorado Springs, Colorado, reservoir. This water supply is worth annually from $80,000 to $100,000. Besides this the 2,000 horsepower hydro-electric plants are valued at $40,000 and the 40,000 undeveloped horsepower are said to have an additional value of $400,000, making the total value of the watershed more than $500,000, with the probability that a greater water supply having a far greater value will be needed as the city grows. [Illustration: Figure 19. Drying pine cones preparatory to extracting the seed. Near Plumas National Forest, California.] [Illustration: Figure 20. Extracting tree seed from the cones. The dried cones are shaken around until the seeds drop out through the wire mesh which forms the sides of the machine.] And there are many evidences that the people of the West have begun to realize that the National Forests are the key to the entire water-supply situation in the West no matter for what purpose the water is used. The public consideration now being given to flood control, the requests from many western cities for special measures to protect their municipal water supply, the concern expressed by irrigation associations in Colorado and elsewhere, lest even the regulated cutting on the National Forests may reduce stream flow, and the rapid rate at which unused reservoir and power sites in the Forests are being developed, all are evidences of the importance of Forests in protecting water supplies. Reforestation is essential so that the National Forests can effectively discharge this function. _Government Reforestation Policy._ The duty of the Forest Service to put the denuded areas which will not be reforested naturally into a condition of productivity admits of no further argument. But the problem is not so easily solved as it is made clear. Under the semi-arid conditions prevailing on many National Forests this work involves uncertainties and unsolved problems. On the National Forests artificial reforestation was an untried field when the Forest Service entered it. The Government therefore had to develop its own practice in the face of a great variety of conditions, largely unfavorable. The situation still calls for intensive experiments to develop the best methods from the standpoint of both cost and results. More than that, it calls for a different set of methods for each forest region of the West which has its peculiar trees, climate, and soils. Then, lastly, when the proper methods have been demonstrated by experiment, the new methods can be applied on a large scale with a very good chance for success. Therefore intensive experiments must come first. Business prudence requires the development of all methods in detail and reasonable certainty as to their results before large sums are expended upon field operations. In the least favorable regions like the semi-arid mesas of the Southwest, the work is restricted for the present to small, carefully conducted experiments, the result sought being reliable information upon how to proceed rather than the reforestation of many acres. In the most favorable regions, as the western slopes of the Rocky Mountains and the Cascade Ranges, the results already obtained have been so excellent, due to an unusual combination of good growing conditions, that operations upon a larger scale have been justified simultaneously with continued intensive investigations. As the work is extended into each new region or new National Forest, the most favorable sites are always chosen first. After the possibilities and limitations of each method have been ascertained by experience under the best conditions of each locality the work can either be intelligently extended or restricted. But the work is always conducted from the standpoint of the maximum return for each dollar expended. In accordance with the policy outlined by the Forest Service watersheds used for municipal supply or irrigation continue to receive first consideration. Large sums are not, however, being spent on such watersheds where any uncertainty as to the outcome exists; that is before successful methods have been perfected by experiment. In addition to watersheds, reforestation work is being conducted for the primary object of producing timber only where climatic conditions and other factors are extremely favorable. As far as possible these areas are being selected with reference to the low cost of the work, natural conditions which insure rapid tree growth, and urgent local need for additional timber supplies. These favorable conditions generally obtain in Washington, Oregon, Idaho, Montana, Minnesota, and Michigan and it is in these States that the best results have been obtained. In California, Utah, Nevada, Colorado, and the Southwest the work is restricted to intensive experiments on a small scale, until successful methods of meeting the adverse local conditions have been perfected. [Illustration: Figure 21. Preparing the ground with a spring-tooth harrow for the broadcast sowing of tree seeds. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. This view was taken at approximately 10,000 feet elevation. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 22. A local settler delivering a load of Lodgepole pine cones at the seed extractors, for which he receives 45 cents per bushel. Forest officers receiving them. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado.] _Methods of Reforestation._ Two general methods of reforestation have been developed. The first is called the direct seeding method, in which tree seed is sown upon the ground with or without simple forms of cultivation. The other method is the planting method by which seedlings are grown in nurseries under ideal conditions of soil, light, and moisture until they are large enough to be transplanted and stand the rigors of the open field. Direct seeding, where successful, is the cheaper method, but is necessarily limited to sites whose soil and moisture conditions are exceptionally favorable to tree growth. The inability of the newly germinated seedling to establish itself except in comparatively moist soil makes the success of this method on the semi-arid mesas of the Southwest, for example, very problematical, especially since these localities are subject to long dry seasons. In such localities the use of the direct seeding method must be restricted to experiments designed to determine the exact range of conditions under which it is feasible. The main effort, however, of the Forest Service has been given to direct seeding on areas where reasonable success appears to be assured. The planting of 2 or 3 year old seedlings or transplants largely overcomes the adverse soil and moisture factors which appear to have made direct seeding unsuccessful in many localities. This method, which is the general practice in European forestry, must without doubt be employed to reforest a considerable portion of the denuded lands. The growing and planting of nursery stock is carried on simultaneously with direct seeding. The object of this is to ascertain the comparative results of the two methods, the sites on which the greater success will be obtained from each, and the proper relation of the two methods in the future development of reforestation work. Since reforestation work was begun on the National Forests about 135,500 acres have been sowed or planted. The larger part of this acreage was reforested by direct seeding. Until only a few years ago larger areas were direct seeded each year than were planted to nursery stock, but at the present time more planting is being done. During the fiscal year 1916 about 7,600 acres were planted and about 2,800 acres were seeded. The average cost in that year of planting was about $10.00 per acre, that of the seeding was about $4.50 per acre. The 1917 costs were slightly higher, due to the increased cost of labor and supplies. The reforesting methods of the Forest Service mean the collection of large quantities of seeds and the growing of large quantities of small trees for planting. Since 1911 the Forest Service has collected over 175,000 pounds of seeds for its direct seeding and planting work. During the fiscal year 1916 the Forest Service had 14 large tree-nurseries and 7 small ones, which had in them over 37 million young trees which would, in a short time, be planted in the field. From these figures it is readily seen that the reforestation work on the National Forests is conducted on a large scale. _Direct Seeding Work on the National Forests._ The direct seeding work on the National Forests involves many more problems than one would at first thought suppose. Seed must be collected and extracted; it must be stored, if it is not used immediately; if the seed is sown it must be protected from rodents and very often the ground must be prepared before the seed is sown. [Illustration: Figure 23. In the forest nursery a trough is often used for sowing seed in drills. The seed scattered along the sides of the trough rattles into position at the bottom and is more even than when distributed by the ordinary worker at the bottom of the trough. Pike National Forest, Colorado.] [Illustration: Figure 24. Uncle Sam grows the little trees by the millions. These will soon cover some of the bare hillsides on the National Forests of the West.] Seeds are collected in various ways. Often cones are purchased at advertised rates from persons who make a business of seed collecting. The collectors deliver the cones to a specified Ranger station or to some seed extracting plant. But such collectors are not always available. Seed is collected by Forest officers by stripping cones directly from standing trees or from those felled in logging operations. Large quantities are also gathered from the vast stores or caches assembled by squirrels. Seed extraction is usually done most economically by experienced Forest officers. It requires drying by exposure to natural or artificial heat to open the cones; threshing to separate the seed from the scales and woody portions of the cone; and cleaning or fanning to remove chaff and dirt. Much of the extraction has hitherto been done in small quantities at a large number of stations and with very simple home-made appliances. In view of the large amount of seed which must be handled each year the cost of extraction has been materially reduced and seed of higher average fertility has been obtained by concentrating the major part of the work at central seed-extracting plants equipped with improved machinery. A problem of great importance from the standpoint of final results is that of having seed available at the season of the year when it is needed. Past experiments have shown that fall sowing is essential to success in most parts of the West where extensive seeding projects will be conducted. Experience has also shown that seed on a large scale cannot be extracted in time for use in the same season. Moreover, every year is not a good seed year, so that Forest officers must take advantage of the good years to collect large quantities and store them for use during years of seed shortage. Purchased domestic or foreign seed cannot be used to advantage to make up these deficiencies because it is sometimes of poor quality and not adapted to the climatic conditions in which it must be sown. For these reasons methods had to be devised for storing large quantities of seeds for several years at a time and in such a manner that their vitality would not be impaired. Many storage tests have been made by the Forest Service to determine the best way of storing seeds. The tests showed that the sealed glass jar is the best container and that seed must be stored either in air-tight receptacles or at low temperatures to be kept for any considerable period without loss of fertility. Probably the greatest obstacle encountered in reforestation by direct seeding is the destruction of the seeds by rodents. The failure of many direct seeding projects has been due primarily to loss from this cause. Failure has occurred on areas of practically every character regardless of the time of the year the seed was sown. Success has been encountered only where recent burns had largely eliminated the animals either by outright destruction or by the loss of food supply. The rodents which are most destructive to tree seeds are the ground squirrels, the chipmunks, the mice, and the gophers. It is not strange that they should seek out the seed that has been carefully sown by the Forest officers. In many cases these seeds are their natural food and they are wonderfully diligent and expert in searching it out. In coöperation with the Biological Survey, the Forest Service has worked on the problem of destroying the rodents. Many methods have been tried out in the field. The free use of grain poisoned with strychnine has thus far produced the best results and has reduced the loss from rodents sufficiently to secure satisfactory germination. The successful elimination of such injury appears to lie in the thorough poisoning by this method of areas to be seeded, once or oftener in advance of sowing. With successful germination assured by the collection of good seed and the protection of it after it has been sowed from rodents, the next problem lies in cheap methods of cultivation and sowing. This will enable the young seedling to develop its root system early enough and rapidly enough to withstand the first annual drought, the dominant feature of the climate of all the western National Forests. [Illustration: Figure 25. One of the large Forest Service nurseries where the young trees are given the utmost care before they are large and strong enough to endure the rigorous climate of the National Forests. McCloud Nursery, Shasta National Forest, California.] There are numerous methods used in sowing tree seed on the National Forests. Three general methods are used in most of the work. Broadcast sowing is practiced in the fall and spring or upon the snow in the winter, both on ground that has not been prepared and on soil that has been scarified by rough brush drags, harrowing, disking, or partial or complete plowing. In seed-spot sowing the seed is planted at regular intervals in small spots where the soil is cleared of vegetation and worked up loose to a depth of from 5 to 6 inches. When corn planting or dibbling is practiced the seed is thrust into the soil by a hand corn-planter, or, in the case of large nuts, pressed into holes made with a pointed stick. The corn-planter method is often combined with the preparation of seed spots or the plowing of single furrows, in order to plant the seed in loose soil free from vegetation. On a large majority of the Forests broadcast seeding on unprepared ground has not succeeded. As a rule satisfactory stands have been secured from broadcasting only after an expensive preliminary cultivation which would be impracticable in extended operations and which would exceed the cost of planting with nursery stock. But broadcasting on prepared strips and upon recent burns has given some success. The seed-spot method has been most successful if done at the proper season. Late summer and early fall sowing has produced better results than sowing in spring or winter. As a whole direct seeding has not succeeded, especially when the results and costs of the work are compared with the planting of nursery stock. Planting has thus far yielded better results, especially on the less favorable areas. Furthermore, from the standpoint of final results attained, planting has actually been cheaper than seeding, in spite of the greater initial cost of planting. While the major emphasis in reforestation work is placed upon planting, considerable seeding is being done, but it is confined to the most favorable localities and sites. _Planting on the National Forests._ Reforestation by planting young trees has received much attention during the last few years principally because it has produced better results. Much still remains to be said for both methods and future experiments alone can decide which method to use in a specified region and under given conditions of climate and soil. Usually direct seeding has been tried first in any given locality where reforestation work was to be done. In fact the policy of the Forest Service in artificial reforestation on the National Forests has been, first, to conduct experiments to find out what can be done and what is the best way to do it; second, to reforest by direct seeding wherever this is feasible; and third, to plant nursery seedlings where direct seeding has been found too uncertain. [Illustration: Figure 26. A view of seed sowing with a corn planter. San Isabel National Forest, Colorado] [Illustration: Figure 27. Sowing seed along contour lines on the slopes. Pike National Forest, Colorado] In selecting areas for planting, preference is usually given to the watersheds of streams important for irrigation and municipal water supply and to land which is capable of producing heavy stands of a quick-growing species or of a specially valuable species. Next in importance are areas which offer good opportunities for object lessons to the public in the practice of forestry. Some areas offer combinations of advantages. For instance, a burned-over tract may be suitable for planting to some rapid-growing species which is also valuable for timber and at the same time may be situated so that it will serve as an object lesson also. It is on such areas in general that reforestation by planting is being concentrated. While the reforestation of the watersheds of streams important for irrigation and municipal water supply has a large financial value, this value is hard to estimate because it involves not actual cash profit but loss prevented. But when a favorable site is planted to a quick-growing, valuable, species, it is comparatively easy to arrive at a fair estimate of the possible profit on money invested. It has been estimated that under many conditions it is highly profitable to reforest waste lands on the National Forests by planting. From certain experiments made it is estimated that a white pine forest artificially established on a second-class forest soil in Minnesota, will yield about 46,500 board feet per acre in 50 years, worth at least $10 per thousand feet, or $465 per acre. Figuring the cost of planting and the cost of care and protection per acre per year at 3 per cent. compound interest gives a total cost of $34.07 per acre at the time the timber is cut and a net profit of $8.62 per acre per year. Douglas fir in the Northwest will produce 81,000 board feet in 80 years, worth at least $8.50 per thousand feet. After deducting all expenses this would leave a net profit of $555.30 in 80 years or about $6.94 per acre per year. These profits are indeed large, considering that the land is not capable of producing cereal or vegetable crops profitably. And it must be remembered that in all the above calculations all the money invested is earning 3 per cent. compound interest and that the net profits are the earnings in excess of this 3 per cent. interest. The little trees that are set out on the National Forests every year are produced in large nurseries, where they are grown by the millions. In these nurseries the little trees receive the most expert care from the time the seeds germinate until the time they are large enough to withstand the rigors of wind and weather on the barren hillsides of Uncle Sam's Forests. The seeds are first carefully sown in seed beds and left to develop in these from one to three years. At the end of one year they may be transplanted in nursery rows where they will have more room to develop. Rapidly growing species like yellow pine are kept only a year in the seed bed and perhaps one or two years in the transplant beds; but slow growing species, like cedar, must remain in the seed beds two years and usually two years in the transplant beds. All this depends upon the species and the site upon which it is to be planted. If my reader were to visit the Pikes Peak region during spring or fall he would doubtless encounter large gangs of men planting young trees on the barren mountain slopes. Under the proper supervision of Forest officers some of the men will be seen digging holes with a mattock while others are coming directly behind them with bags or boxes with wet moss or burlap, containing small trees. These men are called respectively the diggers and planters. Two men will plant from 500 to 1,000 trees a day, depending upon how deep the holes must be dug to accommodate the roots, whether the ground is bare or covered with sod, whether the land is mountainous or level, and many other factors. In this way Uncle Sam plants his denuded areas in the Forests, so that they will be producing _timber_ for future generations instead of useless _brush_ or _tree weeds_. The great variety of climatic and topographic conditions included in the National Forest area makes the problem of tree planting infinitely complex. Nursery stock must be raised in each region having similar climatic conditions, and in each of these regions different methods of planting must be used, depending upon local conditions. The semi-arid mesas of Arizona and New Mexico present different planting problems from the humid forest regions of Oregon and Washington; the methods used in the sandhills of Nebraska and the sand plains of Michigan cannot be applied in full on the high mountain slopes of Colorado; nor are the planting problems in the vast chaparral areas of northern California anything like those encountered in the mountains of Idaho, or in the prairie States of the Middle West, or in the Black Hills. Then, again, the reforestation problems of the chaparral fields of southern California are more perplexing than any I have mentioned above. [Illustration: Figure 28. A planting crew at work setting out small trees. The man ahead digs the hole, and the man behind plants the tree. Wasatch National Forest, Utah] THE ORGANIZATION AND SCOPE OF FOREST EXPERIMENTS AND INVESTIGATIONS _The Need of Scientific Experiments._ No science can make progress without intensive experiments and investigations, least of all a new science like forestry. The science of forestry as it has developed in Europe is several hundred years old, but the science of forestry as applied to American conditions is still in the infancy of its development--probably not over 20 years old. Therefore we know very little about our trees, our forests, and the wood which they produce, and the professional foresters who handle the scientific work on our National Forests are very much handicapped. To supply the needed information about the requirements of many of our tree species, the uses to which their wood can be put, and many other related subjects, the Forest Service has established 8 Forest Experiment Stations (recently reduced to 6) and one Forest Products Laboratory. It has become the business of these institutions to study the laws governing the life of the tree and the forest and their effect upon the final product--wood. The Experiment Stations are working on the solution of the many problems which confront the Forest officers in the management and the protection of the National Forests; while the Forest Products Laboratory was organized to promote the most profitable utilization and the most economical disposition of the forest products of the National Forests. Both sets of institutions, in doing this, are helping materially to build up the science of American Forestry, which even to-day can hardly be said to exist. _The Science of Growing Timber._ In order to better understand the many diversified problems which are being studied at the Forest Experiment Stations, it is necessary to give the reader a few ideas concerning the science of forest ecology. This science is the basis of all problems dealing with the growing of timber and is therefore a study of the utmost importance to forestry. Forest ecology is the study of the relations of trees and forests to their surroundings. By surroundings (or environment) we mean all the factors which influence their growth and reproduction, such as soil temperature, soil moisture, soil texture, rainfall, light, wind, air temperature, relative humidity, altitude, slope, exposure, and surface. Forests, we must remember, are not warehouses of standing logs; they are not merely aggregations of individual trees; but they are complex communities of living organisms, which are affected in many ways by climate and soil and which, in turn, affect in no small degree the climatic and soil conditions in their immediate vicinity. The forester cannot treat the forest as an aggregation of individuals, for forests have laws which govern their behavior which are entirely different from those that govern the individual tree. Some foresters and botanists prefer to call this science by the name of "tree sociology," and they compare it with human sociology. Individuals, as we well know, are governed by different natural laws than communities. Just so with trees and forests. In order, therefore, to grow a never-failing supply of timber intelligently and economically we must understand these complex organisms and communities, we must study their behavior under different soil and climatic conditions and ascertain the conditions under which they grow best. Only by doing this can the forester achieve all the objects of forestry, namely, to help Nature to produce more and better timber, in a shorter length of time and at the smallest possible cost. The experimental work of the Forest Experiment Stations is grouped under such categories as these: dendrological studies, forestation studies, studies in forest influences, studies relating to forest management, studies in forest protection, commercial tree studies, and grazing studies. _Dendrological Studies._ Dendrological studies include studies in tree distribution and wood identification. For each tree species growing in the United States (and there are about 500 of them) it is desirable to know its geographical distribution, its commercial distribution, and its local distribution. The first of these deals with the entire range of the tree by geographical divisions; the second of these with the distribution of those bodies of timber that are of commercial quantity or size; and the last deals with the distribution of the tree by local divisions, such as lowlands, slopes, ridges, valleys, plateaus, etc. This information is usually placed on maps for permanent record. Observations by Forest officers on the many National Forests are recorded by them and at the first opportunity sent to Washington. Very often it happens that the range of a species of tree is considerably extended and that a tree is found growing in a locality where it was never reported from before. The identification of woods is done at the Forest Products Laboratory. The distinguishing characteristics of the woods of many American tree species have been determined. The wood of different trees is studied under the microscope to discover in what way it differs from other woods closely related. Many such results are published for the benefit of both the lumber dealer and the general public in the form of bulletins. Both the subject of dyewoods and that of the many woods now sold as mahogany have been investigated in this way. The resulting data have been used by many companies and have helped to protect the public from frauds. _Seed Studies._ Experiments in reforestation are grouped under seed studies, nursery studies, and sowing and planting. Considerable work has been done in developing the best methods of seed-extraction. Much valuable information has been gathered on the largest amount of seed that may be extracted from pine cones of different species per unit of time at different degrees of temperature; the maximum temperature which may be applied to seeds of different species without impairing their vitality; the germinating power of seed extracted at different temperatures; the comparative length of time required for the germination of seed extracted with or without artificial heat; and the most economical type of seed-extracting plant. Studies have been made upon the comparative germination of tree seeds in the field and the greenhouse. The ultimate success of the plantations being established on the National Forests in a large degree depends upon the character of the seed used. Hence studies are being conducted of the effect of altitude, soil, age of the tree, density of stand, insect damage and disease infection, and other factors that affect the mother tree, upon the character of the seed collected from those trees, and the growth and form of the resulting seedling. Also tests to show the effect of the source of seed on the form and growth of young seedlings have indicated very clearly that with all species the seed grown in the locality where the trees are to be planted give as a rule better results than seed imported from another region. _Nursery Studies._ Nursery studies endeavor to show the most efficient methods for growing young trees for field planting for each species of trees. It is of great importance to know how much seed to sow per foot in the nursery beds; what is the best time (spring or fall) for sowing; to what depth the seed should be covered in order to give the highest germination; whether better results are obtained by drill sowing or by broadcast sowing; the best methods of shading, fertilizing, watering, and cultivating the seed beds; the methods of securing the best root development of the young seedlings; the best time and method of transplanting from the nursery beds to the transplant beds; the best methods for retarding spring growth in seedlings to be used at high altitudes; and other problems of similar nature. _Forestation Experiments._ Experiments in forestation have, year after year, proven that planting is much safer than direct seeding and ultimately less expensive. For this reason a greater emphasis has been placed upon planting studies. These studies have attempted to show the best season for planting each species; the best methods of planting; the most advantageous classes of stock to use; and what the most suitable sites are for each species of tree. _Studies of Forest Influences._ Studies on the influence of forests upon stream flow and erosion are attempting to furnish important data for American conditions upon this subject. At the Wagon Wheel Gap Forest Experiment Station in Colorado such a study is being carried on. The purpose of the study for the first two or three years has been to determine the character of the two streams which are to be measured. The forest cover on the two watersheds is practically identical. The results so far obtained indicate that the influence upon the stream flow must be about the same in both cases, and, consequently, a comparison of these streams after the denudation of one watershed will be a very fair test of the influence of the forest cover upon the relative height of the flood stage and low-water stage, the amount of erosion, and the rate of melting of the snow. [Illustration: Figure 29. At the Fort Valley Forest Experiment Station, Coconino National Forest, Arizona. A typical meteorological station Forest officer measuring precipitation. Note the shelter which contains thermometers and also the electrically equipped instruments to record the direction and velocity of the wind.] [Illustration: Figure 30. Forest officer ascertaining the amount of evaporation from a free water surface. Fort Valley Forest Experiment Station, Flagstaff, Arizona.] Experimental observations which have been conducted since 1908 at the various Forest Experiment Stations have shown that the forest exercises a decided moderating influence upon temperature extremes, wind motion, and evaporation. Likewise, the presence of a forest cover retards the melting of snow in the spring, and in this way huge snowbanks in the forests feed the nearby streams until late in the summer. Forests therefore have been shown to conserve the water supply and also causing this water to run off slowly rather than in sudden floods. Studies have also been conducted on determining the effect of cutting timber upon the climate within the forest. _Meteorological Observations._ The climatic requirements of forest types have been studied at the Fremont Experiment Station since January 1, 1910, through experimental observations, and other stations have taken up the same problem since that date. The first step in this work at the Fremont has been to obtain a complete meteorological record as a basis for determining what climatic conditions are most important in limiting the natural range of such important species as Yellow pine, Douglas fir, and Engelmann spruce. The data collected so far have shown that soil moisture and soil temperature are the controlling factors in determining the existence of the three forest types. It has also been shown what climatic conditions each of the three types of forest must have in order to succeed. This work has since been extended to include other types of forest and a meteorological station has been established at timber line on Pikes Peak. This station, which is at approximately 11,500 feet, is equipped with self-recording instruments to measure the climatic factors which obtain at that elevation and which mark the uppermost altitudinal limit of tree growth in that locality. Such studies as these, based upon systematic meteorological observations, have an important bearing on all other forest problems. The data secured in this way especially assist the technical foresters in solving the various problems in forest management, reforestation, fire protection, and land classification, besides giving positive knowledge of the environment in which our trees live and of the factors affecting their growth and reproduction. These systematic observations are of prime importance if we ever hope to have a science of American Forestry. _Forest Management Studies._ Experiments in forest management are carried on to determine the best methods of cutting National Forest timber to secure natural reproduction and at the same time to improve the quality and productivity of the remaining stand. These studies are carried on by means of permanent sample plots, on which all the trees are carefully measured and recorded. First the timber is cut on the plots under different systems of management, or thinnings or improvement cuttings are made. An exact record is kept of the amount of timber removed and of the size and distribution of the remaining trees. Measurements taken at regular intervals show the precise effect of the method used on each plot. Close observations of the reproduction which takes place, brush and other forms of cover which may establish themselves, and changes in soil conditions are recorded. On similar sample plots methods of brush disposal, methods of marking timber for cutting, and thinning methods are studied. After logging there are several ways in which the resulting slash may be disposed, depending upon surrounding conditions. In some localities the brush must be burned immediately on account of the fire danger which its presence involves; in other places it must be removed because it interferes with reproduction; in still other places the brush may be scattered over the area because there is little fire danger and, in fact, the brush has been found to assist and protect reproduction. All these possibilities must be determined by experiments. Likewise in marking timber for cutting and in thinning practice various methods are possible, depending upon circumstances, the most important of which are the requirements of the species and the density of the forest. Other management studies deal with the determination by actual measurement of the volumes of trees and stands, and the growth of trees and the yields of whole forests. Reliable growth and yield data for the different species and types are necessary to properly handle timber sales as well as for forest management. They are also essential for determining damages caused by fires and trespass. _Forest Protection Studies._ Studies in forest protection endeavor to find the best methods of protecting the National Forests from fire, grazing, disease, insects, wind, snow, hail, and animals. The most efficient protection of the National Forests from fire calls for an accurate, scientific knowledge of all the factors that enter into the problem. Comprehensive studies are undertaken to secure the basis for a more scientific method of distributing National Forest fire-protecting funds. The aim has been to find the degree of intensiveness in fire protection warranted by timber, forage, and watershed values, as modified by their susceptibility to damage by fire. Under the ideal system of allotting fire-protecting funds, the most valuable resources, which at the same time are most in danger of destruction by fire, should receive the largest amount of funds and therefore the greatest amount of protection. Less valuable resources, less susceptible to fire danger, should receive protection in proportion. Other classes of fire protection studies have to do with the various phases of fire prevention, fire detection, and fire control. Studies have also been carried on to determine the rapidity with which fire spreads in different forest types, and under a given set of climatic conditions. _Protection from Grazing Damage._ Studies of the effects of grazing upon the natural reproduction of forests are conducted with a view to devising a system of range control which would minimize such injury without requiring the total exclusion of the stock from the range. Studies have shown that serious damage occurs to seedlings under four feet in height during the dry season, on areas containing poor forage, or which have been overgrazed, or where there was little or no underbrush. It was found that sheep do twice as much damage as cattle. Some of the measures that have been adopted to lessen the injury to reproduction by sheep and cattle are: the revegetation of overgrazed areas, reductions in the amount of stock, provisions for the better distribution of stock by the regulation of watering places, and the exclusion of sheep from cut-over areas on which reproduction is deficient until the seedlings reach a sufficient height to be out of the reach of the animals. _Protection from Insects and Diseases._ In coöperation with the Bureau of Entomology and the Bureau of Plant Industry the Forest Service is conducting a large number of studies and investigations dealing with the insects and diseases that do destructive damage to forests. The direct result of these studies will be the gradual eradication of predaceous insects and dangerous tree diseases from the valuable timber forests of the Government. Control measures already taken have shown the value of exact scientific information. On the Klamath National Forest some years ago about 900 acres were treated for insect infestation. The cost was about $3,000 and the amount of timber saved by the eradication of the insects was worth over $600,000. Other studies are carried on to identify and describe certain classes of insects, such, for instance, as those that destroy the seeds of trees in the cones. The various families, genera, and species of forest insects are studied and described, and the results are published in the form of monographs. Many of these insects are difficult to identify and concerning others very little is known. Investigations on tree diseases have not made such good progress, because tree diseases are much more difficult to control. Tree diseases, like human diseases, must be prevented instead of controlled. A general survey of the tree diseases prevalent in the National Forests has been made, especially in California. Further studies have brought to light little known or even unknown diseases. In California, studies have shown that a certain relation exists between old age and disease. Incense cedar, for example, seems to become infested after it reaches maturity at an age of about 150 years. _Tree Studies._ Commercial tree studies are made of important tree species. The results are published in the form of monographs dealing with the range, silvicultural characteristics, growth, yield and management of each tree. These studies bring together all the important facts known about the tree described, such as: the industrial uses of the wood, the conditions under which the tree succeeds, the rate of growth in different situations, and the most suitable methods of management to secure the highest returns. Tables are included to show the volume of the trees at different ages and sizes, in cubic feet, in cords, in board feet, etc. Studies are also made of the life history and requirements of important forest trees, often in connection with commercial studies. Such studies cover: local, geographical, and commercial occurrence of the species, the species which are associated with it, the habit of the tree, its soil and climatic requirements for germination and growth, and the various matters connected with its reproduction. Such publications as these give the Forest officers much valuable information about the trees with which they are dealing, and also furnish the only sources of information to students in forest schools on the characteristics and requirements of the trees important in forestry in this country. _Grazing Investigations._ Grazing investigations, being intimately connected with a great national industry, have received a considerable amount of attention. These studies are confined at present to grazing reconnoissance, the reseeding of depleted mountain grazing lands, studies in the best methods of handling sheep on the range, studies of the effect of grazing on the forest, identification of range plants, and the systematic elimination of poisonous range plants and predatory animals. Grazing reconnoissance is a stock taking of the forage possibilities of a certain piece of range land. This work is usually done by organized parties, but a small amount is done also by Forest officers in spare time. This study aims to collect all the important grazing information, such as: the area of grazing lands, the kind of forage, the species of forage plants, the location of streams, springs, and other watering places for stock, the location of stock driveways, drift fences, and cabins, the location of timber lands that do and those that do not contain forage, and many other matters pertaining to the grazing of stock. The maps and field data secured furnish the basis for range improvement and more intensive range management. Up to date, over 12,288,885 acres of range lands have been covered in this way. All intensive forage and range experiments are conducted at the Great Basin Experiment Station on the Manti National Forest. Here intensive problems are carried on under controlled conditions and under constant and careful observation and the necessary care and thoroughness is given to them which could only be given them at a fully equipped experiment station. All grazing investigations on the National Forests are carried on under the direct supervision of this station. The seeding of depleted grazing lands is accomplished either by direct artificial seeding or through rotation grazing. Under the former method the seed of native or foreign grasses and other range plants are sown on the range, in the attempt to increase the forage crop. By rotation grazing, that is, permitting the stock to feed first on one area and then on another, the grasses and forage plants are allowed to recuperate from the effect of grazing and allowed to reproduce. The stock is excluded from one area while the seed is maturing, and after the seed has matured and become scattered on the area the stock is allowed to graze on it. As the stock feeds on the plants it tramples the seed into the ground and thereby furnishes favorable conditions for the germination of the seed. There are few parts of the National Forests that cannot be completely regenerated by the adoption of either one or the other of these two methods. To reduce interference with the natural processes of reforestation, damage to tree growth and watersheds, depletion of grazing lands, and the waste of valuable forest resources, it is important to develop improved methods of managing different kinds of live stock on different types of land. These new methods of handling stock have been applied only to sheep. The lambing of sheep in small inclosures on the open range has resulted in the saving of a large percentage of the lambs. The new method of bedding sheep where they happen to be at nightfall has been found to have many advantages over the old system of returning them to an established bedding ground a number of nights in succession. The results have been better sheep, less damage to range, and more feed. It was not so many years ago that practically nothing was known about the various plants which make up the forage crop on the National Forests. Forest officers could not identify the plants or say whether they were of value for forage or not. This made it difficult to secure the use of each range by the class of stock to which it was best adapted, to apply deferred and rotation grazing and to eliminate losses from poisonous plants. This obstacle to efficient range management was overcome when a system of plant collection and identification was started by the Forest Service. Some 23,000 specimens of about 3,000 different species have been collected on the National Forests, identified by specialists and the collector informed as to the value of each species. The identification of range plants is the first step toward securing an intimate knowledge of the life history of the plant. Such information as the soil and moisture requirements, date of flowering and seeding, requirements for reproduction, and its relation to other range plants is of the utmost importance if the maximum forage crop is to be produced on the range each year. This constitutes the latest stage in the development of grazing studies. [Illustration: Figure 31. Forest Ranger with his pack horses travelling over his district. Meadow Creek, foot of Mt. Wilson, Montezuma National Forest, Colorado] _Investigations Dealing with Poisonous Plants and Predatory Animals._ In coöperation with the Bureau of Plant Industry the study of poisonous plants and the means for reducing the losses from them has been undertaken. The death camas, the lupines, the larkspurs, some of the wild cherries, locoweed, and practically all species of zygadenus are plants that have been found to cause death among stock. While the handling of stock to avoid the poison areas can eliminate the losses to a small extent, it has been found that the most expeditious remedy is in digging out and destroying the poisonous plants. On the Stanislaus National Forest in California, a cattle range of about 14,000 acres, containing about 67 acres of larkspur, was cleared of this weed at a cost of about $695. The average loss of cattle in previous years had been about 34 head. Following the eradication of the larkspur the loss was 4 head. The net saving was valued at $1,800. Similar operations are conducted on other Forests. The work of the destruction of predatory animals has been transferred to the hands of the Bureau of Biological Survey. Formerly special Forest Service hunters were detailed to hunt the animals, and these men used to kill about 4,000 a year. The Biological Survey, however, still furnishes traps, ammunition and poison for the destruction of predatory animals to Forest officers, who do this work in connection with their regular duties. Bears, coyotes, mountain lions, lynxes, wildcats, and wolves are the animals that do the most of the damage. What makes the problem a difficult one is that the wolf and the coyote, the two species which do the greatest damage to game and domestic stock, are transient visitors on the Forests which frequent the Forests only when game and stock is most abundant. They are bred, born, and spend the greater portion of their lives in the foothills outside of the National Forests. Under these conditions the animals killed on the Forests are quickly replaced by others from outside. For this reason the matter was handed over to the Biological Survey, which will destroy these animals throughout the public domain and the results will be much more permanent and effective. Besides the investigations carried on by the Forest Experiment Stations many studies are carried on dealing with forest products. The purpose of the Branch of Forest Research of the Forest Service is to promote the most profitable and economical utilization of forest products by means of experiments and investigations. The work of the Branch falls into three divisions: National Forest utilization, the work of the Forest Products Laboratory, and industrial investigations. _National Forest Utilization Experiments._ The work of the proper utilization of the products of the National Forests is under the supervision of the District Forester and the Assistant District Forester in charge of Forest Products in the districts. Only three out of the seven districts have such an organization. These men have charge of all problems connected with the use and marketing of National Forest timber, the construction of improvements on the Forests, and related administrative questions. The following problems are included: studies of existing industries, covering methods and costs of manufacture, grades, and other specifications of manufactured products and the prices obtained for such products; the collection of market prices, mill scale studies to determine grades and overrun, and investigations in kiln drying; waste in existing industries and closer utilization possible through improved methods; new uses for National Forest species through wood preservation; introduction of industries which will result in closer or more profitable utilization, as the manufacture of pulp and paper, wood distillation, turpentining, and the manufacture of secondary wood products; overcoming prejudices against particular species or classes of material; general questions of timber supply and demand, markets and freight rates; advice and assistance in the construction of National Forest improvements, particularly in the use of wood preservatives; advice and assistance to persons on any matter connected with the utilization of National Forest timber; the preparation of publications upon subjects covered by investigations which have practical or scientific value; and demonstrations of methods or processes developed by the Forest Service for the benefit of local communities. The presence on a Forest of large quantities of unmarketable timber, or dead timber, or of material not used in current sales would mean an investigation of methods for its utilization. Local problems affecting wood-using industries in manufacturing or marketing timber, such as sap stain in lumber, difficulties in seasoning lumber, and the effect of different silvicultural methods upon the average grades of lumber manufactured, are also taken up with the Products experts at the District Office. Also in the construction of National Forest improvements the Forest Supervisor may need assistance in applying wood preservatives to telephone poles, fence posts, and other material. Sometimes timber treating plants are erected, if necessary, to treat not only material used on the National Forests, but also material used by local residents near a Forest. One of the important problems which confronts the Office of Products in the various National Forest districts is the utilization of the so-called low grade or inferior tree species. The terms "high grade" and "low grade" or "inferior," as used at present, merely indicate the lumberman's valuation of the timber from his point of view and according to his standards of value. If a certain species will not produce clear lumber, which is straight-grained, easily worked, and not subject to splitting or warping, it is at once classed as inferior. But the Forest Products specialists each year are making progress in demonstrating that wood, in order to be of marketable value, does not necessarily need to be cut in the form of lumber. It is also being shown that proper methods of drying lumber make possible the use of inferior woods for lumber and manufacturing purposes. The Office of Forest Products in California has made considerable progress in overcoming the lumberman's prejudices against the inferior species in the California National Forests and the species are beginning to find wider use and to command better prices. The discovery that Incense cedar was valuable for making lead pencils caused the price of this so-called "inferior" species to jump from an average of $10 per thousand feet in logs f. o. b. cars to as high as $16. White fir, a species religiously avoided by lumbermen in the woods, was found to have special properties which make it very valuable as a pulpwood. One mill in California now uses annually upwards of 30,000 cords of it for making paper. Lodgepole pine has been shown to have a great value for telephone and telegraph poles when treated with preservatives. It was found to be 12 per cent. stronger than Western Red cedar, the standard pole timber, has a more desirable taper and can be shipped for less money. Many other cases could be cited from this and other National Forest Districts. _Forest Products Laboratory Experiments._ The work of the Forest Products Laboratory includes investigations on the mechanical properties of wood; the physical and chemical characteristics and properties of wood; air seasoning and artificial drying of wood; agencies destructive to wood; wood preservation; wood distillation; production of naval stores; and the production of pulp and paper and other chemical products of wood. This work is carried on at the Laboratory and sometimes in coöperation with the National Forests and district experts. At the Laboratory there is a director and a large staff of technical and scientific men, such as chemists, physicists, and engineers, each of whom is an expert in his particular line of work. A good deal of attention is given to testing the strength of woods grown in the United States, as a means of assisting users to select the species best adapted to a given purpose, or to find substitutes for species which are becoming difficult to obtain. The strength of a good many species used for structural timbers has been tested. The species most used for this class of timber are the Southern pines, Douglas fir, Norway pine, Tamarack, and Red spruce. An important discovery was made several years ago that Western hemlock, generally considered an inferior timber, showed an average strength 88 per cent. as great as that of Douglas fir, one of the best construction timbers in the United States. Strength tests have also been made on fire-killed timber and these have shown that timber killed by fire is almost as strong as green timber. Other tests have been made to determine the effect of preservative treatment upon the strength of timber. As a result of the large number and variety of strength tests carried on by this Laboratory the United States Government now has a more thorough and comprehensive collection of data on the mechanical properties of wood than any other nation. Many studies are also conducted to determine the physical properties and the structure of the different kinds of wood grown in this country. The minute structure of the wood of many of our native species has been studied by means of microscopic slides. A study has also been made of a large number of species to determine the specific gravity of the actual wood substance. Other tests are made to determine the specific heat of woods. The drying or seasoning of woods, more especially of certain species which have been found difficult to season, has received a good deal of attention. A new type of kiln, invented by a Forest Service man, has been devised to season such woods as the eucalyptus, which has always been very difficult to handle in drying. Western larch has been seasoned with a loss of only 5 per cent., whereas the loss in ordinary commercial kilns usually ran between 60 and 70 per cent. As a result, many manufacturers have remodeled their old kilns to embody the new Forest Service methods. A new method has also been developed for the rapid dry-kilning of Eastern hemlock, which has great commercial possibilities. Experiments in wood preservation have to do with the kind of preservatives it is best to use, the character of the wood to be treated, and the methods of injection. Experiments have developed the best methods for treating railroad ties, mine timbers, fence posts, wood paving blocks, telephone and telegraph poles, and wharf piling. Untreated mine timbers have been found to last only from 1 to 2 years, while treated ones are usually entirely sound at the end of 4 years. Untreated railroad ties last from 5 to 10 years, while treated ones will last over 15. Such experiments as these have shown the advisability of treating all kinds of timbers with creosote or zinc chloride, or some other preservative. Many new preservatives are being proposed or marketed each year by various companies or individuals. These are all tested to determine their value to prevent the growth of fungi in the wood. Their efficiency varies greatly and many of them have been shown to have very small value. Studies in wood distillation seek to find new woods which can be used for this industry, new and more efficient methods which can be employed, and new uses for wood waste and stumps. Charcoal, wood alcohol, acetate of lime, and tar are derived from the distillation of such woods as beech, birch, and maple, to which tar oils and turpentine are added for the pines and other resinous woods. These by-products of wood distillation have many uses, as well as the many products which are, in turn, made from these by-products. Charcoal is used in the manufacture of black powder, acetic acid is used in the manufacture of explosives, and wood alcohol is converted into formaldehyde for disinfection against contagious diseases. By means of temperature control methods developed at the Laboratory in the destructive distillation of hardwoods, the net gain per annum of one company's plant was over $17,000. About one-half of the plants of the country have adopted the new method developed by the Forest Products Laboratory. Experiments have been conducted by the Laboratory in the distillation of the needles of coniferous trees and the distillation of the crude gum of some of the important timber trees of the South and West. The oils distilled from many trees in this way have found great use for various purposes. Shoeblacking owes its peculiar aromatic odor, faintly suggestive of the deep spruce and hemlock woods, to an oil which is distilled from these same kind of needles. Evergreen tree leaf oils are used for the perfume of soap, and in the manufacture of liniments, insecticides, and medicinal preparations. Investigations have been carried on at the Forest Products Laboratory in making artificial silk from sawdust. The industry has already attained considerable proportions. It consists principally of converting cellulose into viscose, which, in turn, is manufactured into an almost endless number and variety of silk and other goods varying from sausage casings to silk hose and tapestries. Sawdust is used also in the manufacture of inlaid linoleum and dynamite. Experiments in naval stores are attempting to improve the old methods of harvesting turpentine, which have proven very destructive to the forests. With the approaching exhaustion of the Southern Pinery as a field for the naval stores industry, it has become more and more important to find other species for this purpose. Consequently the Laboratory has conducted experiments with the various pines on the National Forests in California, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico. [Illustration: Figure 32. A plank of Incense cedar affected by a disease known as "pin rot." By cutting the cedar timber when it is mature this can be largely avoided. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 33. The western pine forests will some day be a great source for naval stores. By distilling the crude resin of the Jeffrey pine a light volatile oil--abietene--is secured which has great healing and curative properties. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] A great many pulp and paper investigations are also conducted by this Laboratory. The large size of the industry and the threatened exhaustion of the native spruce forests which furnish the principal supply are circumstances which call for intensive investigations. About nine-tenths of the paper which we use is made from wood, and the amount of wood which is converted into paper annually has reached almost 5,000,000 cords. There are over 2,500 newspapers in the United States, and it is said that a single issue of a New York Sunday paper consumes the trees on about 15 acres of forest. The main object of the work at the Laboratory has been to use other species of wood for the manufacture of paper to offset the fast waning supplies of spruce. Poplar, hemlock, pine and balsam are now being used in considerable quantities. News and wrapping paper has also been successfully made from many National Forest species, including Sitka spruce, Western hemlock, Engelmann spruce, Red fir, White fir, and Lodgepole pine. Kraft paper has been made and manufactured into suitcases, bags, wall coverings, twine, and similar articles. Not only has the Forest Products Laboratory brought into use species of trees never before tried for paper making, but it has also improved some of the old methods of paper making to such an extent that the results have been adopted by various large paper mills. Many strength tests are conducted with packing boxes. The railroad companies of the United States are paying annually claims amounting to many millions of dollars because of goods damaged in shipment. Much of the damage is preventable through properly constructed boxes. Tests conducted at the Laboratory have shown for canned-food boxes an increase in strength of 300 per cent, by the use of four additional nails in each end of the box. The results of these tests are being rapidly adopted by manufacturers and canners. The dyeing principle of the Osage orange wood was not used prior to the investigations conducted by the Laboratory. The value of this material has been so conclusively shown that about one million dollars' worth of the dye is now being manufactured annually in the United States and practically all from material which was formerly wasted. The discovery that sodium fluoride is superior to sodium carbonate in preventing sap stain in lumber promises to reduce materially the present estimated loss of $7,000,000 from this cause. _Industrial Investigations._ The function of the Office of Industrial Investigations of the Branch of Forest Research is to conduct statistical and industrial studies of uses of wood in the United States. The aim of these investigations is to determine methods and conditions under which wood is now used; the marketable products obtained from it; tendencies in methods of manufacture; and improved methods possible, especially in the utilization of waste. When practicable, such investigations are followed by the commercial application of their results. This office also conducts all statistical investigations of the production and use of forest products. The work of industrial investigations includes the following: collection and compilation of statistics on the production and consumption of forest products, prevailing market and stumpage prices, imports and exports, and transportation rates; the compilation and study of specifications of rough and manufactured forest products; studies of lumber manufacture and wood-using industries as to methods, forms of material, waste, costs, equipment, substitution of one species for another, and improvements through a more conservative use of raw material; studies of special problems or features of wood-using industries; advice and assistance to States, industries and individuals along such lines of work; and the dissemination of results by publications. Many studies in wood utilization are made not only of certain industries like the shingle, or the lumber industry, but also dealing with the industries of particular sections of the country and with the various States. These investigations in the States show the kinds and amounts of woods required by the various industries, the purposes for which the various species are employed, and the extent of their use. So far the wood-using industries of 35 States have been studied and the results published. Records of lumber prices for important woods are compiled quarterly. These figures are useful in establishing timber sale prices on the National Forests. Statistics as to the annual consumption of lumber in the country are also compiled by this office. The wood waste exchange was established in 1914 by the Forest Service. It consists of two lists of manufacturers, which are sent out quarterly to persons desiring them. One of these is of "Opportunities to Sell Waste" and contains the names of firms which use sawdust and small pieces of wood. This list is sent to people having waste for sale. The other list is of "Opportunities to Buy Waste," and gives the names of concerns which have waste to dispose of. This list is sent to people who wish to buy material. No charge is made for this service, and at the present time over 500 coöperators are using this exchange. By the use of this exchange, makers of wooden novelties have been successful in finding supplies of material near their plants. Other wood-working industries have been able to dispose of their waste at higher prices than they could otherwise have obtained. Many firms were located within short distances of each other, but until recently have had no way of getting together. A Philadelphia firm, engaged in the manufacture of composition flooring, has been able to obtain a portion of its sawdust from a New York lumber company. A New York woodworking establishment disposed of its waste pieces of white oak and sugar maple to a maker of wooden novelties in Connecticut for use in the manufacture of furniture knobs. A clock maker of Connecticut secured waste material for making clock boxes from the planing mill of a New York lumber company. CHAPTER III THE PROTECTION OF THE NATIONAL FORESTS The resources of the National Forests may be injured or destroyed in many ways. Fire may burn the timber and young growth; insects and tree diseases may damage or kill timber, and certain persons may innocently or willfully commit trespass on National Forest land and use the resources without permit. Then also, the fish and game of the Forests must be protected from unlawful shooting and trapping, and the water issuing from National Forest streams must be kept free from pollution, to protect the public health. PROTECTION FROM FIRE _Forest Fire Danger on the National Forests._ Practically all the resources of the National Forests are subject to severe injury or even to entire destruction by fire. It is an ever-present danger on the National Forests, due to their great inaccessibility, their dry climate, and to other unfavorable conditions. There are probably few forest regions in the world where the danger of fire is greater than on the National Forests. The great size of the individual Forests, as compared with the size of the available patrolling force, the difficulty of reaching remote areas across miles of wilderness, the dry air and light rainfall in most parts of the western United States, the prevalence of lightning storms in the mountains, the sparseness of the population, and the constant use of fire in the industries and the daily life of the people, all combine to make the hazard exceptional. _Importance of Fire Protection._ Forest fires when uncontrolled mean the loss of human lives, the destruction of homes, live stock, forage, timber and watershed cover. Besides the direct damage to the National Forest resources it defeats all attempts to practice forestry; it nullifies all efforts of forest management, such as regulation of cutting to insure a second crop of timber, the planting of denuded areas, and the restriction of grazing to assist reproduction. Fire destroys the very improvements which are constructed annually at great expense. In other words, protection from fire is the first and most important problem on the National Forests without which no operation or transaction, however small, can be undertaken. If the problem of fire protection is the most important task confronting a Forest officer on the National Forests, then certainly fire prevention is next in importance. Obviously it is easier to prevent fires than to fight them. All large conflagrations have their origin in small fires which if they could be reached in time could probably be put out by one man. But in regions remote from water and supplies fires may start and reach vast proportions before a party of fire fighters can get to the scene, no matter how promptly the start is made. By far the best plan, therefore, is to prevent fires rather than to depend upon fighting them after they get started. To this end the Forest Service has given the most earnest consideration. During the dangerous season the main attention of Forest Supervisors and Forest Rangers is devoted to preventing fire. Extra men are employed, the Forests are systematically patrolled, and a careful lookout is maintained from high points. Roads and trails are so built that every part of the Forests may be quickly reached with pack animals. Tools and food for fire fighters are stored at convenient places. The Ranger stations and lookout houses are connected with the office of the Forest Supervisor by telephone, so that men may be quickly assembled to fight a dangerous fire which the patrolman cannot subdue alone. Each Forest Supervisor endeavors to secure the coöperation of all forest users in the work of preventing fires and in reporting and helping to fight them in case they get started. Probably the beginning point of any discussion of forest fires is a consideration of their causes. The Forest Service has kept careful records year after year (by calendar and not fiscal years) concerning the cause, the damage, the area burned over, the cost of fighting and many other matters. During the calendar year 1917 there were 7,814 forest fires on the National Forests. Of these the National Forests of California had to contend with 1,862. Of the total number of forest fires 40 per cent. were confined to less than 1/4 of an acre, 28 per cent. to less than 10 acres, while 32 per cent. spread over areas greater than 10 acres. The large percentage of small fires shows how efficiently the National Forest fire protection organization works in keeping the area burned over to the lowest possible acreage. _Causes of Forest Fires on the National Forests._ Forest fires on the National Forests originate in many different ways. In 1917, lightning caused 27 per cent.; unknown agencies, 17 per cent.; campers, 17 per cent.; incendiaries, 12 per cent.; railroads, 13 per cent.; brush burning, 7 per cent.; saw mills, 3 per cent., and all other causes, 4 per cent. Thus it will be seen that a very large percentage, at least 60 per cent., of the fires are attributable to human agencies and are therefore preventable. At least 27 per cent, of the fires, those attributed to lightning, are not preventable, and the only way to combat those is for the Forest officer to get to them as soon as possible after they get started. The preventable fires, however, may be arrested at their source, that is, by popular education dealing with the use of fire in the woods these causes can be greatly reduced and, in time, no doubt, eliminated. Therefore, the fire protection problem immediately resolves itself into two almost distinct phases of action--fire prevention and fire control. [Illustration: Figure 34. A forest fire lookout station at the summit of Mt. Eddy. Mt. Shasta in the background, California] Just how these various agencies start fires may be of interest. Railroads cause fires by their locomotives sending out sparks through the smokestack or dropping hot ashes along the right-of-way. These sparks alight in inflammable material, such as dry grass and leaves, and start a fire. Lightning sets fire to trees, especially dead and dry ones. In the California mountains, lightning storms without rain are frequent and these do great damage. The author has seen as many as nine forest fires started by a single lightning storm inside of half an hour. Incendiary fires are set by people with varying intent. How many are set with malicious intent, just to see the forests burn, is not known, but many fires are started by people setting fires to drive game, to improve the pasture, to make traveling through the woods easier, or for other reasons. Brush burning includes those fires which start from settlers clearing land and burning the brush and thickets. Campers cause a large percentage of the fires by leaving their camp fires burning. Instead of extinguishing them before they leave camp, careless people let them burn; a wind blows a few sparks into some dry leaves or grass nearby, and the fire is started. Many forest fires also start around logging camps by sparks escaping from logging engines, or by setting fire to the slash that is left after logging and allowing these fires to get beyond control. _Behavior of Forest Fires._ Fires behave differently, once they get started, depending upon the character of the timber, the amount of wind, and the degree of inflammability of the forest cover. Ground fires burn the inflammable dry grass, needles, dead twigs, etc., on the ground; crown fires are much more severe and, being usually fanned by a heavy wind, run through the tops or crowns of the trees; brush fires burn the bushes and dry shrubs from 5 to 10 feet high; timber fires consume the entire forest--crown, stem, ground cover, and undergrowth--and usually occur in timber that stands close together. _Losses by Forest Fires on the National Forests._ The results of forest fires naturally vary with the kind and intensity of the fire. Crown and timber fires do the most damage, and ground and brush fires do less. While the ground fires and brush fires seem to do very little damage to the valuable timber, still they may greatly reduce the productive power of the soil and destroy the watershed cover. Severe ground fires may kill valuable timber by girdling the trees. The great fires of August, 1910, which swept northern Idaho and western Montana destroyed millions of dollars' worth of timber and 85 human lives, and cost the United States $839,000 for fire fighting. These were timber fires and they occurred for the most part in valuable stands of dense timber. The forest fire losses on the National Forests for the last 9 years show a very great and gradual reduction of losses due to forest fires. In 1908, the total loss through fires was $451,188 and in 1909 it was $297,275. In 1910, the year of the great fires in Montana and Idaho, there were very heavy losses in timber and human lives, due to an unusual combination of dry weather and high winds. But in that year the fire organization was not complete; it had never really been tried out. In this year the organization received its first severe test, and while it did the best it could with the available men and equipment, the situation in Idaho pointed out conclusively the weak points and the short-comings. The proof of these statements is found in the statistics of the next 5 years, when the average total loss for 1911 to 1915, inclusive, was $293,000, and, it must be remembered, several of these years were equally as unfavorable, so far as dry weather and high winds were concerned, as the year 1910. During these years, however, the fire fighting organization had a good chance to be tried out thoroughly; for, as is quite evident, experience is the greatest teacher in this kind of work. During the calendar year 1916 the fire losses reached a new low level, compared to other years, the losses amounting to only $198,599. In 1917 they were higher. [Illustration: Figure 35. A forest fire lookout station on the summit of Brokeoff Mountain, elevation 9,500 feet. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 36. Turner Mountain lookout station, Lassen National Forest, California. This is a 10 ft. by 10 ft. cabin with a stove and with folding bed, table, and chairs. The forest officer stationed here watches for forest fires day and night throughout the fire season. Photo by the author.] _The Forest Fire Problem Stated._ Having seen a little of the causes, behavior and results of forest fires on the National Forests, it is comparatively easy to state the forest fire problem as it occurs on the National Forests. Briefly stated, it is this: With the funds, organization and equipment that are available, the aim of the Forest Service is to keep the area burned over each year (and therefore the damage done) down to an accepted reasonable minimum. But the problem is not as easily worked out as it is stated, due, largely, to a great many uncontrollable and variable factors which cannot be foreseen in advance, the most important of which are the weather conditions. As has been said before, there are two general ways of keeping the area burned over down to an accepted reasonable minimum: either prevent the fires from getting started (as in the case of those started by human agencies) or, after they get started, to get to them with men and fire fighting implements in the shortest possible time after they are found. The former is called fire prevention, and the latter fire suppression or control. How the organization of the National Forests solves these two problems is of the greatest interest. _Fire Prevention._ The measures employed for fire prevention may be either administrative, legislative or educative in nature. The most important administrative measures employed to prevent fire are those that aim to reduce the amount of inflammable material in the National Forests. This is done in many different ways. The free use timber policy enables Rangers to give away much dead timber, both standing and down. Timber operators cutting on the National Forests are required by the Forest Service contract to remove dead snags, which are a fire menace, from the timber sale area. Where there is fire danger, all slashing resulting from such sales must be burned or otherwise disposed of. While grazing is usually not considered a measure to prevent fires, still grass lands that have not been grazed over become very dry in the fall and are a dangerous fire menace. Wherever it is feasible, old slash left by lumbermen on private lands adjacent or near to the National Forests are burned, when the fire can be confined to a small area. Another administrative measure is the reduction of the causes of fires by a patrol force. Forest Guards travel along the highways where there is most traffic and most danger. Their presence often is enough to remind campers, hunters and fishermen to put their camp fires out before leaving them. These patrolmen mix with the people and, if necessary, remind them in a courteous way to be careful to extinguish their camp fires before breaking camp. Most of the necessary legislative measures for preventing forest fires already exist. The National Forest force is seeking merely to obtain a strict enforcement of existing laws. Railroads are required to use spark-arresters on their locomotives and to provide for keeping their rights-of-way free from inflammable material. Logging camps must also prevent the destruction of National Forest timber by fire by using spark-arresters on all logging engines. The Forest officers are ever on the alert for the detection and apprehension of campers for leaving fires unextinguished and incendiaries for starting fires willfully. These careless individuals are arrested by them without warrant, either under the Federal laws, if the fire occurred on National Forest lands, or under the State law, if it occurred outside of government lands. Educational measures are for the purpose of educating both the local forest-using public and the general public who may travel through the Forests in the careful use of fires in the forests. Forest officers, especially Rangers, come into personal touch with local residents and users, that is, the ranchers, stockmen, business men, loggers, campers, hunters, fishermen and others. Such people are often reminded by personal appeals by the Forest officers. Most of them have learned by this time, because of having been called upon to help fight fires at one time or another, and having gotten a taste of the result of other people's carelessness. Many written appeals are also sent out by the Supervisor and are slipped into the envelopes when grazing permits and other official documents are mailed. One of these written appeals, and probably the one that has been used most widely, is known as the six rules for the prevention of fires in the mountains: 1. Matches.--Be sure your match is out. Break it in two before you throw it away. 2. Tobacco.--Throw pipe ashes and cigar or cigarette stumps in the dust of the road and stamp or pinch out the fire before leaving them. Don't throw them into the brush, leaves, or needles. 3. Making camp.--Build a small camp fire. Build it in the open, not against a tree or log, or near brush. Scrape away the trash from all around it. 4. Leaving camp.--Never leave a camp fire, even for a short time, without quenching it with water or earth. 5. Bonfires.--Never build bonfires in windy weather or where there is the slightest danger of their escaping from control. Don't make them larger than you need. 6. Fighting fires.--If you find a fire try to put it out. If you can't, get word of it to the nearest United States forest ranger or State fire warden at once. Keep in touch with the rangers. Besides these kinds of appeals, many kinds of fire warnings are posted at conspicuous places along roads and trails to remind the public to be careful with fire in the Forests. [Illustration: Figure 37. A fire line cut through the low bush-like growth of "Chaparral" on the Angeles National Forest, California. This "Chaparral" is of great value for regulating stream flow. The streams are used for water power, domestic purposes, and for irrigating many of the largest lemon and orange groves of southern California.] [Illustration: Figure 38. A forest officers' temporary camp while fighting forest fires. Near Oregon National Forest, Oregon.] An attempt is also made to reach the general public, that is, those living outside the local communities, but who occasionally travel through and use the National Forests. Many hundreds of thousands travel through the Forests every year by automobile or by other conveyances. These people camp in the Forests, fish, hunt, and enjoy the cool climate and beautiful scenery. Before they start on their trips, that is, while they are still in their home towns, and also while they are on their way, many means have been devised to reach them. They are confronted with newspaper advertisements, folders, booklets, and other printed matter. In towns and cities, public meetings, lectures, exhibits, expositions, county fairs, commercial clubs, and the chambers of commerce, all help, either directly or indirectly, by one means or another, to inform the people of the great fire danger on the National Forests. Even the letters sent out by the District Forester and the Supervisors have written appeals affixed to the outside of the envelopes by means of a rubber stamp. In short, every possible means is used to educate the public that uses the National Forests and in whose interest, in fact, the Forests are being maintained and protected. _Fire Suppression._ So much for the problem of fire prevention. In case a fire does get started, and there are thousands of them on the National Forests every year, the problem, as has been said before, consists of getting men and tools to it in the shortest possible time, in order to keep the damage down to the lowest possible point. To do this, a vast organization has been formed by the Forest Service, which is not unlike the Minute Man organization of Revolutionary days. A brief outline of this organization and how it works when a fire starts will give my reader a still better idea of what the Forest Service is doing in forest fire protection. But before speaking of this organization, a few preliminary matters are of interest; they deal with the manner of distributing fire protection funds, forest fire history, and the study of weather conditions. _How Forest Fire Funds Are Distributed._ It devolves upon the Forest Supervisor and also the District Forester to apportion the appropriation allotted for fire protection in the most economical and efficient manner. First of all, the money is allotted to the various Forests in proportion to their needs. These needs are measured by the size of the Forest, the value of its resources, the length of the dangerous dry season, the fire liability or the amount of money loss in case of fire, the fire hazard or the degree to which an area is subject to fire danger, the difficulty of prevention and control and many other factors. These same factors are employed to apportion the Supervisor's allotment of money to the various Ranger districts on his Forest. Probably the most difficult factors for the Forest Supervisor to appraise on each Ranger district are the fire liability and the fire hazard. Fire liability has to do with the amount of damage a fire could do if it got started. Valuable timber needs protection most of all, and the value of the forest is determined by the kind of trees in it and the density of the stand. Fire hazard is usually expressed in terms of risk. The Supervisor asks his Ranger if the risk on a certain area in his district is high, low, or medium. Risk depends, of course, largely upon the character and inflammability of the forest cover and the presence of human causes. Dense forests involve greater risk than open, scattering trees; government forests interspersed with private holdings containing much old slash have a high risk factor; and government forests near sawmills, large towns, and along railroad rights-of-way also have high risk factors. All these matters must be considered, in order that each area on each Ranger district gets just enough money for fire protection and not a bit more. [Illustration: Figure 39. Putting out a ground fire. Even if the fire does not burn the standing timber, it kills the young trees and so weakens the larger ones that they are easily blown over. Wallowa National Forest, Oregon.] [Illustration: Figure 40. Forest officers ready to leave a tool box for a forest fire in the vicinity. Such tool boxes as these are stationed at convenient places on National Forests ready for any emergency. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado.] _Forest Fire History._ Very important also in fire protection are the studies which the Forest Service is carrying on, dealing with forest fire history. For many years back, records have been kept on all fires: their causes, area burned over, date of the fire, damage caused, the exact location of each fire, the cost of fighting it, the total number each month and each calendar year, and many other data. More recently records have been kept upon still further details connected with each fire, such as: the time elapsed between the start and the discovery of a fire, between the discovery and the report to the proper official, between the report and the beginning of the actual work of fighting, and the time required to put the fire out. Intensive studies have been made also upon the length and character of the fire season on each Forest, for it is important to know the maximum length, the minimum length and the average length of the fire season. These data show how much extra help must be hired for fire patrol and fire fighting, and during what periods the greatest damage is done, based both on acreage burned over and by the number of fires. Studies of this kind yield positive information on what areas of each Forest are particularly liable to lightning fires, to camp fires, and to incendiary fires. With this knowledge the Forest Supervisor can plan and distribute his men and funds more intelligently; they tell him during what period he can expect the most trouble, and therefore must have the greatest number of fire fighters at his command. It is scientific study like this that is doing more than anything else to solve the fire protection problem in the Western States. _Relation of Forest Fires to the Weather._ In coöperation with the United States Weather Bureau, the Forest Service studies weather conditions in relation to forest fires. Weather forecasts have been sent to each Forest Supervisor throughout the fire season, informing him of the probable weather conditions. The velocity and duration of the wind, the temperature, the precipitation, and the relative humidity are all factors which greatly affect the inflammability of the forest. Forest Supervisors have been informed in these forecasts of what are known as emergency conditions, that is, an unusual and abnormal combination of weather conditions which make fire danger very great. These conditions may be a high wind, low relative humidity, high temperatures, or a combination of the three. When a Forest Supervisor is informed by the District Forester that emergency conditions are likely to exist during the next ten days or so, he immediately sends an alarm to all his Rangers to be especially watchful. _Improvements and Equipment for Protection._ After the preliminaries of fire protection finance, forest fire history, and the study of weather and emergency conditions have been worked out, probably the first and most important prerequisite to forest fire protection is a matter already spoken of, namely, the improvements and the equipment. The construction and maintenance of improvements and the possession of suitable equipment is second in importance only to the organization which is to do the actual fire suppression. Roads, trails, telephone lines, fire lines, lookout stations, Ranger stations, tool and food caches, a central supply depot, and many other things are necessary before men can be effective. Each Forest Ranger has use for the following equipment: fire fighting tools, water bags and pails, teams, pack horses, wagons, automobiles, saddle horses, tents, portable telephone lines, riding and packing equipment, and many other special equipment, which must be hired when occasion for its use arises. If a Forest Ranger has not access to this equipment, and few of them have, he has hanging by his telephone a complete list of all the stores, stables, garages, etc., in the neighboring towns and how much equipment each can furnish when called upon. _Forest Fire Maps and Charts._ Not the least important bit of equipment, by any means, is the fire map or maps. The Forest Supervisor has a fire map of his whole forest in his office and the Forest Ranger has one of his district (sometimes including the neighboring districts, too) hanging in his cabin, usually posted conspicuously, so that it can be referred to any time of the day or night without delay. These maps have upon them all the available information regarding the country which is to be protected. They show physiographic features, such as topography, creeks, springs, meadows, water, swamps, etc.; vegetative features, such as timber, forage, brush, reproduction, planted areas, regenerating areas, slashings, etc.; such man-made features as roads, trails, cabins, ranger stations, corrals, pastures, Supervisor's headquarters, sheep camps, cattle camps, ranches, camp sites, railroads, logging railroads and camps, sawmills, power plants, towns, villages, etc.; and special protective features, such as locations of men, tools, equipment, tool and food caches, local help, emergency help, fire lines, fire breaks, lookouts, government and private telephone lines, instruments and switchboards, locations of stores, state Fire Wardens, livery stables, pack trains, garages, stage routes, etc. All these features and data are not put upon one map; usually a series of maps are used or some of the information is put on charts or on the border of the maps. In short all this information is put in such form that it is available at the shortest notice for emergency conditions. It makes little difference how it is recorded, so long as the information is available when needed. [Illustration: Figure 41. A forest fire on the Wasatch National Forest, Utah. Forest officers trying to stop a forest fire by cutting a fire line. Note the valuable growth of young trees which they are trying to save on the right.] _Forest Fire Organization._ The forest fire organization, whether it be on the whole National Forest or upon the Ranger district, consists of three agencies: the fire detection agencies, the fire reporting agencies, and the fire fighting agencies. All these must work in absolute harmony without interruption of any kind, to obtain the maximum of efficiency. The detection agencies consist of the lookout men, stationed at high, advantageous points which overlook large areas, and the moving patrolmen, who are assigned to definite beats or territory which cannot be adequately reached by the lookouts. Lookout men live in small cabins on the tops of high mountains, and they watch for fires constantly. In regions which have very few high points and which are not suited to that method of detection, moving patrolmen are employed. These men move about on foot, on horseback, on railroad speeders, in automobiles, or in any other conveyance adapted to the country they are in. When the detectors find a fire they report it immediately to the nearest Forest Ranger or the Forest Supervisor. The Forest Ranger in whose district the fire is located is logically the first man to be informed, but telephone connections and other conditions sometimes alter this procedure. Just because a fire is found in, we will say, Ranger district number one, does not necessarily mean that the Forest Ranger of this district is the proper man to be notified. The fire may be at the very outer boundary of his district and may be much more easily accessible to the Forest Ranger in district number two. In any case it is all arranged beforehand just exactly who shall be notified in case of a fire in each and every corner of a National Forest. Each man in the organization has his duties and responsibilities determined for him in advance and he does his part without being prodded or reminded. The location of a fire in the wild and inaccessible forest regions of the West, which may seem a very simple matter, is determined in a very ingenious manner. _How Fires Are Located._ The lookout man, as well as the Forest Rangers and the Forest Supervisor, is provided with identical maps of the Forest. These maps show most of the important features useful in fire protection work, including also the private lands, all government holdings, and the public land survey. This public land survey has divided the land surface into legal subdivisions known as townships, sections, and quarter sections, and it is by these and with reference to these that all features, both natural and artificial, are located. A township is usually a square 6 miles on a side, containing 36 sections. Each section is divided into quarter sections containing 160 acres each, which are further divided (though not by law) into forty-acre squares. The problem, therefore, that confronts the lookout man upon the discovery of a forest fire is to inform the Ranger or other Forest officer where the fire is--that is, in what _section_ it is located, if it cannot be located with reference to some well-known natural feature. In order to determine in what section or quarter section a fire is located, each lookout point on the Supervisor's and Rangers' fire maps has a transparent circular protractor mounted on it. (A protractor is a device by which angles are marked off; it consists of a circle upon whose arc the degrees from 0 to 360 are indicated, 0 degrees being equivalent to North, 90° to East, 180° to South and 270° to West.) The center of the protractor is the lookout point. A piece of black thread is fastened to the center of each lookout point, so that it can be stretched across the arc of the circle and the degrees read off. The other end of the thread has fastened to it a thumb tack or similar device, so that when the thread is stretched to read a certain angle, it can be fixed at that angle. The maps of the lookout men are usually fastened or permanently mounted upon a table which is oriented (that is, the top of the map is turned toward the north). The lookout men have sighting devices, usually alidades, which are placed on the map, by means of which they sight at a fire; but the bearing of the fire is read from the angles marked on the edge of the map, which is in reality a large protractor. By these devices a fire is quickly and accurately located. When the lookout man sees a fire, he gets its bearing from the map by means of the sighting device. He telephones this bearing to the Ranger, or, in many cases, to the Supervisor. Immediately the Supervisor goes to his map, picks up the black thread attached to this lookout point, stretches the string, and, having marked off the bearing, pushes the thumb tack into the map. In the meantime, another lookout, perhaps two more, have sighted the same fire. The black threads from the other lookout points on the Supervisor's map are stretched and fixed in a similar manner. The fire will be found to be at the point where two or more of these black threads intersect. This is only one of the many ways which have been devised to locate forest fires; there are other methods, but all are based upon the same principle. [Illustration: Figure 42. A forest fire running in dense underbrush on one of the National Forests in Oregon.] [Illustration: Figure 43. Men in a dense forest with heavy undergrowth clearing away brush to stop the fire as it is running down hill. Crater National Forest, Oregon.] _The Fire Fighting Organization._ The organization of men who do the actual fire suppression must be an elastic one, adequate to meet the needs of a Ranger district or of a whole National Forest, or, in some cases, of an entire administrative district, comprising as many as 25 to 30 National Forests. The Forest Guards and Forest Rangers are known as the first line of defense in this war against forest fires. Upon them falls the brunt of the work of fire suppression. The second line is composed of local stockmen, ranchers, and logging and sawmill crews. When these prove insufficient in number, the large villages and towns are called upon, and the last resort is the labor of the cities and the United States Army. Thus, in the case of a very large fire the organization of the Forest Service is modified to cover not only each and every National Forest, but also entire States. In case of a very large fire, every available man from each Forest is sent to take his place in the organization. Expert fire fighters are sent direct to the fire. Other Forest officers are sent to the large towns and villages to act as quartermasters. These men hire fire fighters, entrain them, and fill orders for food, bedding, tools, and other equipment. Other quartermasters at the scene of the fire check shipments of supplies, check the time of fire fighters, approve accounts, hire transportation, and perform similar duties. Special disbursing agents are sent to the scene to pay the men. In short, everything is done to dispatch as quickly as possible the necessary men, food and equipment to the fire, and to do it in accordance with the prearranged plan for such emergencies. _Forest Fire Coöperation._ A very important part of the plan of fire protection on the National Forests are the coöperative agreements entered into between the Forest Service and private individuals or companies. Such coöperation may be in the form of building improvements for fire suppression, furnishing men in case of fire, furnishing lookouts or patrols, furnishing equipment, and, in fact, in connection with any of the necessary means for fighting fire. This coöperation has been of mutual benefit. One National Forest may coöperate with one or more neighboring Forests or with sawmills, power plants, logging camps, or railroad companies. Coöperation may also be with a well-organized Forest Protection Association, of which there are a large number in the Western States. These coöperative agencies agree to send a large force of their men to fires on the National Forest in their vicinity, and the Forest Service reciprocates by sending men for fires occurring on their lands, which may threaten National Forest timber. Often coöperative agencies enter into agreement to build jointly with the Forest Service certain improvements, such as telephone lines, lookout towers, or trails, which will benefit public fire protection as well as private. Many sawmills and logging companies who operate on or near the National Forests have agreements with the Service, by which they suspend all operations and send all their help to fires which threaten National Forest timber. All timber sale contracts of the Forest Service provide for coöperative fire protection. _Fighting Forest Fires._ The most important requirements for successful fire suppression are: quick arrival after discovery, adequate forces of men, proper equipment, thorough organization on the fire line, skill in attacking, and careful, systematic patrol after the fire is thought to be out. All fires, whether large or small, require generals to lead the attacking forces, and the strategy of fire fighting can only be learned after long experience on the fire line. A cool, level-headed man is the greatest necessity in an emergency, for it is as disastrous to get too many men as it is too few. A few men that know how to attack a fire are worth a great deal more than a great many that are inexperienced. [Illustration: Figure 44. Fire in a Lodgepole pine forest in Colorado. Arapaho National Forest, Colorado] [Illustration: Figure 45. A mountain fire in "Chaparral," five hours after it started. Pasadena, California] There are different kinds of fires, depending upon their size, their intensity, and the nature of the country in which they are burning. And there are as many different methods of fighting fire as there are kinds of fires. Some fires, such as grass fires or those burning in the needles and litter in the forest, can be extinguished directly by being smothered or beaten out. For this purpose Rangers sometimes use their saddle blankets, when nothing else is handy, but usually wet gunny sacks, boughs, and tree branches are used. Often, if it is available, sand or dirt is thrown on the fire with a shovel. Surface fires are a little more difficult to extinguish. They are more intense and more swift and consume brush, young growth, and fallen dry trees. These usually cannot be attacked directly, but must be controlled indirectly by the building of a trench or a fire break, or by a system of back firing. Trenches are fire breaks in miniature, usually from one to several feet wide. Fire breaks or fire lines are broad belts from 30 to 50 feet wide, which are cleared of inflammable material, not so much to stop the fire when it reaches this belt as to furnish a safe area from which fire can be fought and, most of all, from which back firing can be started. These lines or belts are usually built along ridges. If a fire starts on the lower slope of a mountain and the wind carries it up the mountain toward the fire line, the only hope of stopping the fire at the top of the ridge at the fire line is to start fires on the top of the ridge, which will burn down the slope and meet the original fire coming up. In rare cases, as, for instance, in the Idaho fires of 1910, the fires get to be so large and swift that all methods of attack prove futile and the only salvation is in natural barriers, such as rivers, or a change of the wind, or rain, to extinguish them. In all fire fighting work, the plan is to surround the fire (if it cannot be beaten or smothered out) by a trench, fire line, or fire break, and to prevent the fire from spreading. In this kind of work, shovels, spades, mattocks, rakes, and hoes are used to move the soil; saws and axes are used to remove fallen trees from the fire line, and in some cases plows, dynamite, and other implements are employed. PROTECTION AGAINST TRESPASS, FOREST INSECTS, EROSION AND OTHER AGENCIES While the protection of the Forest resources from fire is probably the most important phase of forest protection, it is not the only one by any means. The National Forest force also protects the Forest resources from trespass, from insect damages, and from tree diseases. Also water supply for domestic use, for irrigation, water-power, and navigation must be protected, and the public health must be safeguarded against the pollution of the streams emerging from the Forests. It is also the duty of Forest officers, in coöperation with the state authorities, to protect game, fish, and birds from illegal practices. _Trespass._ The Act of June 4, 1897, authorizes the Secretary of Agriculture to make rules and regulations for the occupancy, use and protection of the National Forests, and provides that any violation of such rules and regulations shall be punishable by a fine or imprisonment or both. This and later acts provide for fines or imprisonment for all violations of the regulations governing National Forests. The violation of these regulations constitutes trespass, and these may be either fire, timber, grazing, occupancy or property trespass, depending upon the offense. Since the United States has all the civil rights and remedies for trespass possessed by private individuals, it may bring action to recover damages resulting from trespass or breach of contract. Fire trespass includes the following offenses: setting fire to timber, brush or grass; building camp fires in dangerous places where they are hard to extinguish; or leaving camp fires without completely extinguishing them. The various railroads that cross the National Forests are one of the most frequent offenders in that the sparks issuing from the locomotives or the hot ashes dropping from the fire box set fire to National Forest timber. The railroads are required to use every precaution to prevent such fires, but many of them are started, resulting in damage suits by the Government. The damages cover not only the merchantable timber and forage destroyed, but damages are also collected for young, immature growth, which at first thought might seem to have little or no value. But the courts have held that while the young, unmerchantable trees have very little value now, they have a great value as the basis for a future crop of timber. Thus, in the case of the United States versus the Chicago, Burlington and Quincy Railroad, in 1910, for fire trespass on the Black Hills National Forest, caused by sparks from the locomotives operated by the company, the damages included $17,900 for young growth. Also, in the case of the United States versus the Great Northern Railroad, in 1911, in which suit was brought upon the negligence (causing fires to start) of the defendant company on their right-of-way, which fires subsequently spread to the Blackfeet National Forest, damages included the destruction of a great many immature trees, the value of which was estimated on the basis of their value at maturity discounted to date. It is significant that this case never went to trial; the defendant paid damages and costs without argument. [Illustration: Figure 46. A few years ago this was a green, luxuriant forest. Picture taken after the great fires of August 20, 1910, on the Coeur d'Alene National Forest near Wallace, Idaho] Under timber trespass are included the following acts: the cutting, killing, girdling, or otherwise damaging trees; the cutting of timber under sale contract or permit before it is marked by a Forest officer; the removal of timber before it is scaled, measured, or counted by a Forest officer; and the fraudulent stamping of any timber belonging to the United States with the regulation marking tools or similar device. Under grazing trespass are included such acts as: grazing stock on National Forest lands without permit; grazing stock on areas which are designated as closed to grazing; driving stock across a National Forest without permit; and refusal to remove stock upon instructions from an authorized Forest officer when an injury is being done to the National Forests by reason of the improper handling of the stock. The use of National Forest land without a permit for any purpose for which special use permits are required constitutes occupancy trespass. But traveling, temporary camping, hunting, surveying, or prospecting may be carried on without permit, and camp wood and forage for stock used in connection with such activities may be taken free of charge. The unauthorized appropriation, damage, or destruction of property belonging to the United States, which is used in the administration of the National Forests, also constitutes trespass. Innocent trespass is usually settled amicably between the trespasser and the Supervisor. If the violation of the timber, grazing, or land regulations was due to a misunderstanding and was not of a willful character, a permit is issued and the trespasser pays for the timber or special use, as under regulation. Fire and property trespass cases seldom can be construed as innocent, hence in most cases such offenses result in litigation. _Forest Insects._ Protection against forest insects is carried out in coöperation with the Bureau of Entomology of the Department of Agriculture. An essential part of good forest protection is the work of locating and reporting evidences of insect depredations. There are scores of insects which are constantly working in the forests, either injuring or killing live trees or attacking the wood of trees after they have been killed. Weevils kill young shoots on trees and destroy tree seeds; bark beetles and timber beetles infest the bark, girdle the tree and destroy the wood; and various borers and timber worms attack seasoned and unseasoned forest products and destroy the wood in the forest after it has been cut down and sawed into lumber. The greatest annual loss by insects is caused not so much by conspicuous local outbreaks as in the sustained annual loss of scattered merchantable trees. Local infestations often kill a large percentage of trees on an area, but these outbreaks are easily seen; the scattered infestations that kill a tree or two here and there over large forest areas are not so noticeable, but, taken all together, add up to a startling total. The task of locating and reporting insect infestations falls upon the Forest Ranger and other field men of the Forest Service. Since the Rangers are practically the only class of Forest officers that visit all parts of a National Forest during each field season, the Supervisor relies mostly on them to report upon insect infestations. In riding to and from his work, while on fire patrol, while going for mail and supplies, while attending to the timber, grazing and other business of his district, the Ranger does a good deal of traveling and covers practically every part of his district. These are good opportunities to watch for fresh outbreaks of insects, and the wide-awake, progressive Ranger never misses such chances. If he sees reddish-brown masses of pitch and sawdust on the bark of a tree he immediately recognizes it as the work of insects. Or perhaps he may see a pine or a spruce tree with all its needles turned yellow. He knows then that this tree was girdled by bark beetles very recently, probably during the previous summer. A tree whose needles had turned red would indicate to him that the infestation was more than a year old, since trees attacked in the spring of one year usually do not show the results until the following summer. These two stages are known by the trained entomologist as the "yellow-top" and the "red-top" stages respectively. The latter is followed by the "black-top" stage. In this stage, insect infested trees stand out very conspicuously as leafless, gray or black snags, and they tell the story of the work of bark beetles that happened years ago. [Illustration: Figure 47. The first evidence of insect attack are the reddish brown pitch tubes on the bark. Lodgepole pine infested by the mountain pine beetle. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 48. The last stage of an insect-attacked tree. The tree is dead and the dry bark is falling off. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] Probably the first external evidence of the attack of a bark beetle upon living trees with normal green foliage, is the presence of pitch tubes upon the outer bark. These are small, reddish-brown (later becoming grayish-white) masses of pitch and sawdust, which exude from the small cylindrical entrance made by the adult beetle where it bores through the bark to begin its egg tunnel. Each tube represents the entrance of one or more of these beetles. But we must follow these egg tunnels further, to learn how the actual damage is done to the tree. As soon as the bark beetle has made its entrance through the bark, it starts to work up through the live bark and cambium of the tree, forming a tunnel but little larger than the diameter of the beetle, which is known as the egg gallery, These egg galleries vary in shape from straight to winding, and in length from ten to forty inches. As a rule, male and female beetles work together in one gallery, and the eggs are deposited along the sides of the gallery, often in little pockets. When the tunneling and egg-laying process of the adult beetles is completed, their activity ceases, and they are usually found dead at the upper end of their galleries. The larvæ hatch and begin their work by burrowing across the cambium at right angles to the egg galleries. The complete girdling of the cambium layer is not accomplished until the larvæ have completed their work, and the numerous larval galleries, by joining one another, form a complete gallery around the cambium of the tree, thus cutting off the food supply which is made in the leaves of the tree, from the lower portion of the tree, namely the roots. Since the roots cannot live without nourishment, the tree dies. As soon as the larvæ have completed their development they pupate. Later they develop into adult beetles. These adult beetles issue forth in swarms the following spring, to attack new trees. The control of insect pests is a difficult matter. On areas where insect depredations are conspicuous and are liable to spread to nearby valuable timber, control measures are undertaken in coöperation with experts from the Bureau of Entomology. In these control projects, crews of men fell the infested trees, strip the bark from them, and burn the bark (usually at a time of the year when the young broods of beetles are still in the bark, namely, fall or winter). Trap trees are sometimes resorted to. In this method, trees are girdled with an ax and thereby weakened to such a degree that beetles are attracted to it. After such a tree has become thoroughly infested in this manner, it is cut down and burned. In the case of a large, conspicuous infestation, an insect reconnoissance is made, in order to obtain an estimate of the percentage of trees that have been killed by insects. When it is possible, the timber is immediately sold. For example, on the Lassen National Forest, the writer several years ago made such an estimate of an infestation caused by the mountain pine beetle, covering over 100,000 acres. The reconnoissance showed that about 35 per cent. of the trees above 12 inches in diameter had been killed. The killed timber was subsequently utilized for telephone and telegraph poles. There are many administrative measures which are practiced on the National Forests, which aim to prevent insect infestation. The prevention and suppression of forest fires, which form infection courts for insects, is probably the most important one. In all timber sales, old dead snags and slashing, which are breeding places for insects, are disposed of. Through free use and timber sales, insect-killed timber is disposed of and the loss due to insects is reduced to a minimum, besides in many cases destroying the young insect broods. _Tree Diseases._ In almost every administrative district there is a Consulting Pathologist, connected with the Bureau of Plant Pathology of the Department of Agriculture, who has charge of all work dealing with the eradication of tree diseases. A tree disease is really any condition that interferes with the normal functioning of the tree, be this condition caused by fungi, mistletoe, fumes, smoke, frost, sunscald, drought or excess of water in the soil. Parasitic fungi and mistletoes cause most of the tree diseases. Leaf diseases, by killing a greater part of the foliage, destroy the very organs in which food for the growing tissues is prepared. Diseases of the bark intercept the flow of food coming down in the bark from the leaves. Diseases of the sapwood cut off the water supply, which is pumped upward from the roots. Those that attack the roots also affect the water supply of the tree. Diseases of flowers and seeds destroy the faculty of reproduction. Certain parasites are able to enter the youngest parts of trees, twigs and leaves directly, but the majority of the fungi causing decay of the wood can get into the interior of the living tree only by way of a pin knot or wound. For this reason, every wound caused by lightning, by fire, by man, or by animals, constitutes a menace to infection. Many coniferous trees cover their wounds by an aseptic coat of pitch, which is very effective in preventing the germination and growth of fungus spores. But the less resinous conifers and the hardwood trees do not cover their wounds very effectively; large wounds are not covered at all. Upon exposure by a wound, the sapwood just underneath the bark dies, dries out, and checks. Spores of parasitic fungi enter the cracks, germinate and infect the heartwood. The spores of a heartwood-inhabiting fungus cannot germinate and thrive unless they fall upon the heartwood of the tree. In this way certain diseases of the heartwood, which result in rot or decay, can very frequently be traced directly to fire scars, lightning scars, spike tops, broken limbs or branches, and other mechanical destruction caused by lightning, fire, storms, cloudbursts, or heavy snowfall. Fire as a cause of wounds is responsible for more cases of heartrot than all other injuries taken together. For this reason the protection of forests from fire is the most important preventive measure that can be taken to eradicate tree diseases. In fact, the best way of controlling diseases is by preventing them, and the Forest officers are endeavoring to eliminate any danger to the health of the forest, to prevent the injury of the trees, and to establish healthy conditions for their growth. This is forest hygiene, and it bears the same relation to the trees and forests as personal hygiene and community sanitation do to persons and communities. It is impossible to grow a sound and thrifty forest for future generations if there are unhealthful conditions in the forest that are a constant menace to the trees. The first step in this hygienic work is close observation on the part of the Forest officers. The next important step is to prevent the infection and infestation of sound trees by getting rid of all diseased and insect-infested living and dying trees. By means of timber sales and free use, Forest officers very materially help in establishing healthy conditions on the National Forests. There is a clause in most timber sale contracts which requires the cutting by the purchaser of all snags and other unhealthy trees on the area. This measure not only eliminates undesirable trees from a hygienic standpoint, but it also makes it possible to utilize the merchantable timber left in undesirable trees, which would otherwise go to waste. On timber sales, Forest officers who do the marking leave for reproduction only such trees as are perfectly sound and healthy. Mistletoe infested trees, especially, are marked for cutting, for neither in plant nor in animal life can healthy offspring be expected to develop under unhealthful conditions. [Illustration: Figure 49. Wrecked farm buildings due to flood of May 21, 1901, Nolichucky River, near Erwin, Tenn. This is one result of denuding the Appalachian Mountains of their forest cover.] [Illustration: Figure 50. When steep hillsides are stripped of their forest growth, erosion results. Erosion has been especially serious in the Appalachian Mountains. View taken in Madison County, North Carolina.] _Water Supply._ Undoubtedly the greatest value of the mountain forests of the West, most of which are within the National Forests, lies in their influence upon the regularity of the water supply. In many States these mountains afford the only water supply for domestic use, for irrigation, and for the development of power. The future development of the entire region depends, therefore, upon a regular water supply. It is not so much the amount of water as the manner in which it flows from the mountains that is important. To insure this regularity, the vegetative covering is an important factor. For this reason, Congress made the preservation of conditions favorable to stream flow one of the principal objects in the establishment and administration of the National Forests. Many of my readers who have lived out-of-doors a great deal have learned by common observation the simple problem of how the forest regulates stream flow. Any one who has been in a treeless region after a heavy rainstorm can recall how suddenly the streams swell and flood their banks, and how soon these same streams return to their former flow. On the other hand, a severe rainstorm in a forested region will hardly have an appreciable effect upon the streams. The difference is not very hard to explain. In a treeless region there are no natural obstacles which might delay or prevent the raindrops from reaching the ground. The soil is usually hard and dry, and the water runs off as though from a gable roof. In a forest, we well know, the crowns of the trees intercept most of the rain that falls; very little strikes the ground directly. The rain that strikes the crown is dissipated on the leaves or needles, on the twigs and branches, and on the trunk. It must travel a long way before it reaches the ground, and all this delay helps in preventing a rapid run-off or flood. The soil in the forest is covered by a living ground cover of flowers, shrubs and young trees, and by a dead cover composed of leaves, twigs, dead branches, fallen trees, all of which interrupt the raindrop's journey to the ground. Even after the rain reaches the ground, only a small part of it goes off as surface run-off. The soil in the forest is loose and full of holes and channels made by decaying roots, earth worms, etc., so that the water is absorbed as fast as it reaches the soil. Also the soil in the forest contains a large amount of organic matter, resulting from decaying leaves and branches, and this organic matter acts as a great sponge, because it is capable of holding several times its own weight of water. As a result of the living and dead ground cover, the crown cover, and the organic matter in the soil, the rainfall is fed to the streams gradually through weeks and months, instead of a few hours, and the nearby rivers have a steady, equable flow, instead of alternate stages of floods and low water. Closely bound up with the protection of watersheds is the erosion problem. Without a forest cover, rain runs off mountain slopes very rapidly, often carrying with it silt and sand, and, in severe floods, even rocks and bowlders. A well known physical law states that the carrying capacity of a stream increases as the sixth power of its velocity. In other words, double the velocity of a stream and you have multiplied its carrying power by 64; increase its velocity ten times, and you multiply its carrying power by a million. The delay caused by the forest cover in each raindrop's journey down a mountain side not only prevents floods, but also preserves the fertility of the fields in the valleys below. Many streams in the West carry such enormous amounts of silt that the storage capacity of reservoirs has been seriously impaired, even within a comparatively short time. Then, also, there is the added difficulty and expense of keeping the diversion works--the ditches and canals--free from an excess of this material. Studies which have been carried on to determine in what way the administration of the National Forests can keep the destructive processes of erosion at a minimum have shown that the balance between the stability of the soil and rapid erosion on many slopes is so delicate that only a slight abuse may result in complete loss of the fertile top soil and permanent changes in the character of the vegetation. In August, 1909, the town of Ephraim, on the Manti National Forest, Utah, experienced a disastrous flood from Ephraim canyon, which was attributed in part to the overgrazed condition on the watershed. An examination made the next spring clearly demonstrated that the severity of the flood was a direct result of deterioration of forest, brush, and grass cover, due to overgrazing during a long period of years. The canyon was therefore closed to grazing as an immediate protective measure. Plans were thereafter made to restore the forest cover of the canyon by planting. [Illustration: Figure 51. A fertile corn-field covered with sand, gravel, and débris brought down from the mountains by floods. These farm lands are ruined beyond redemption. This could have been prevented by preserving the forests on the watershed of this river.] In this kind of protection work, as in the case of forest fires, it has been found that preventive measures are much more effective and much less costly than remedial measures. The regulations under which the Forests are administered give the Secretary of Agriculture power to institute preventive measures. To insure the sufficiency and purity of the water supply of a municipality or of an irrigation district, or to prevent floods and snowslides, the use of watersheds for grazing, timber, special uses, or settlement is especially restricted when such restriction is found to be necessary. On steep grass or timber-covered mountain slopes both grazing and timber sales are prohibited, if necessary. _Public Health._ From the relation which the National Forests bear to the streams that issue from them, it will be seen that they may exert a great influence upon the health and general welfare of the communities in the valleys below. All persons either permanently or temporarily camped upon National Forest land are liable to trespass proceedings if unsanitary conditions result from their presence. All camp refuse must be disposed of either by burying or burning. This regulation applies to hunting and fishing parties, as well as to large logging camps, sawmills, and construction camps on National Forest lands. Thus the regulations strictly guard against the pollution of the water supply of the people who live in the large towns and cities, and also those who live on the Forests or near them. The watersheds tributary to many of the large western cities and towns are under special protection by the Forest Service. Under this sanitary regulation, it is possible to maintain such control of them as will greatly reduce the danger of typhoid and other enteric diseases. _Violation of Game Laws._ Wild game, fish and birds add materially to the enjoyment of the National Forests by the public, and their protection and preservation is a duty of Forest officers. Although this duty rests primarily with the State the Forest Service assists, as far as practicable, in the protection of game on the National Forests from illegal practices. Forest Service officials are at the same time State Game Wardens. In the event of a violation of the state game laws, they either apprehend the offender or report the matter to the proper state official. Various kinds of game and bird refuges may be included within National Forests, depending upon whether they are created by specific acts of the State Legislature or by Acts of Congress. In these refuges, hunting, trapping, willfully disturbing, or killing any game or bird is prohibited. Whether the violation occurs in the state game refuge or the national refuge, the Forest officer has authority to arrest the offender without warrant. CHAPTER IV THE SALE AND RENTAL OF NATIONAL FOREST RESOURCES The timber, the pasture, the water and mineral resources and the land in the National Forests are for the use of the people, and they may be obtained for legitimate use from the local Forest officers without delay. In fact, the Forest Service is doing all it can to encourage all kinds of business which depends upon National Forest resources. THE SALE AND DISPOSAL OF NATIONAL FOREST TIMBER There has been a steady increase in the amount and value of the timber cut on the National Forests. During the fiscal year 1917 over 700,000,000 feet of timber, valued at almost $1,500,000, was cut, while almost three times as much was sold. Most of this was cut in the States of Montana, Oregon, Idaho, Washington, California and Arizona. All mature timber on the National Forests which may be cut with benefit and in accordance with certain well-established forestry principles, is for sale and is advertised and offered as demand arises. The outstanding feature of government timber sales is the fact that only the stumpage is sold, the title of the land remaining with the Government. The timber is sold in any quantity, so long as the sale is in accordance with well-established policy. Large sales require a large initial investment for constructing a railroad or other means for taking out the timber, and may even require the construction of a common carrier from the market to comparatively inaccessible regions. _Government Timber Sale Policy._ The National Forest timber sale policy, first of all, aims to prevent the loss of this valuable public property through forest fires. This phase of the policy, however, is covered under the chapter on protection. Next, it aims to utilize the ripe timber which can be marketed and to cut it in such a way as to insure the restocking of the land with young timber and the continuance of forest production. The price at which timber is sold represents, as required by statute, the appraised market value and a proper return to the public which owns it. It is disposed of in such a way as to prevent its speculative acquisition and holding, and to prevent monopoly. National Forest timber has found its way into both the general, far distant market, and the local market. But it is the aim of the Forest Service to first of all provide for the requirements of local communities and industries, including the free use and sale at cost to settlers as authorized by statute. It is also the aim of the Forest Service policy to make timberlands of agricultural value available for settlement under conditions which prevent speculative acquisition but encourage permanent and genuine farming. According to this policy, land which at the present time is covered with a good stand of timber and which has been shown to have a greater value for agricultural purposes is cleared as soon as a bona fide sale can be consummated. And, lastly, it is the aim of this policy to return as soon as possible the cost of protection and administration of the National Forests, and to yield a revenue to the States, since these are entitled by statute to 25 per cent. of all gross receipts as an offset to the loss of local taxes through the government ownership of the forests. [Illustration: Figure 52. A view towards Mt. Adams and the headwaters of Lewis River. Council Lake in the foreground National Forest lands lie at the headwaters of practically every large western river. This means that the water supply for the western people used for domestic use, water power, and irrigation is being protected from pollution and destruction. View taken on the Rainier National Forest.] _Annual Yield and Cut._ Each year the amount of timber which can be cut from each National Forest, according to sound forestry principles, is authorized by the Secretary of Agriculture. This cut is based upon the best available data as to the amount of mature and over-mature timber needing removal, and the amount of annual growth on each Forest. At the present time only a small percentage of the authorized annual cut of the Forests is taken. Most Forests cut a very small part of their annual allotment, but a few Forests cut their full annual yield, or nearly so. On some Forests, the entire annual yield is used by local industries and no timber can be sent to the general market; on others a very small part of the annual yield is used by local needs and most of the cut can be sent to the general market. On the Cascade National Forest, in Oregon, for instance, the annual production is estimated at about 200,000,000 feet, while the present local needs can be supplied by approximately 1,000,000 feet. From such a Forest a large annual cut can be made for the general market. On the Deerlodge National Forest, in Montana, on the other hand, the annual yield is estimated to be about 40,000,000 feet, all of which is needed to supply the large copper mines near Butte. From Forests like this, no sales for the general market can be made. Although the National Forests contain about six hundred billions of board feet of timber, or about one-fifth of the standing timber in the United States, only a small fraction of the available timber is actually disposed of. This is due to the comparative inaccessibility of this timber and the presence of large bodies of privately owned timber which lie between it and the market. The result of this condition is that the bulk of the salable timber on the Forests will be automatically saved until such a time when most of the privately owned timber has been cut. In this way, future generations will benefit and the public will receive a much better price for it years hence than they could possibly obtain now. _Timber Reconnoissance._ Before any timber can be sold to advantage, however, it is necessary to take an inventory of the timber resources. In other words, it is necessary to know where the timber is, how much there is, and what can be done with it. This timber estimate, or timber reconnoissance, as it is called, is also needed to settle questions of title arising from the presence of patented lands or valid claims; to determine if cutting is advisable on a given area, and, if so, under what stipulations; and to fix the minimum price at which stumpage is to be sold. The annual yield, or the amount of timber grown or produced annually upon an area, must be the ultimate basis of the annual cut, and this yield can only be computed after an inventory of the timber has been made. Timber reconnoissance (valuation survey or valuation strips) involves an estimate of the standing timber by small legal or natural subdivisions of land, with the necessary land surveys, the preparation of an accurate topographic and forest type map, and the compilation of detailed descriptive notes. These notes deal with the condition and character of the timber, the most practical methods of exploitation, the extent and character of the young growth, and many other factors which affect the management of timber lands. These data are secured at a cost of from 3 to 10 cents per acre, depending upon the accessibility and the topography of the region and the density of the timber. This work is carried on both in the summer and in the winter. Up to date, about 21,000,000 acres have been covered by intensive reconnoissance and about 48,000,000 acres by extensive methods. _Logging the Timber._ In order that my reader may better understand various matters connected with the disposal of National Forest timber, it will be necessary to give a brief outline of how timber and other forest products are taken from the woods, and the different steps necessary before a green tree in the woods becomes a board or a railroad tie. The methods of logging used in the National Forests are essentially the same as those used on private lands, with the exception of certain details, such as the protection of young growth, the cutting of snags, and the disposal of the brush. The methods used, of course, vary with the locality; they are different for the Pacific Coast, where donkey engines are used, than for the Rocky Mountains, where horses are largely employed. They vary with the climate, the topography, the size of the timber, and the kind of product to be harvested. But a typical logging operation, as carried on in the Sierras of California, will give an idea of how logs are taken from the forest. [Illustration: Figure 53. A large storage reservoir used to irrigate the ranches in the valley below. Elevation 10,500 feet. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 54. A sheep herder's camp used temporarily by Forest Service timber cruisers. Elevation about 10,000 feet. Battlement National Forest, Colorado. Photo by the author.] In the particular operation which I have in mind the timber was located on the western slope of the mountains between 3,500 and 5,000 feet in elevation. The slopes were of medium steepness and much of the timber was on level benches. The large sawmill was located at the lower edge of the timber and the logging camp was in the woods near the cutting. The felling of the trees, which were from 3 to 6 feet in diameter, was done by two men with a two-man saw. These men are the "fallers." Two men then cut the tree into logs and still other men called "swampers" cut the brush and fallen trees away so that the newly cut timber can be "skidded" to the railroad. This "skidding" is done by a powerful, steam-driven stationary donkey-engine, which is fitted up with a long cable and a drum. After the log is attached to the cable out in the woods by means of a "choker," the man in the woods gives the signal and the engine starts, revolving the drum and winding up the cable at the same time pulling the log towards the engine. Just beside this engine is a platform from which the logs are loaded directly on flat cars. When six or eight flat cars are loaded in this manner a locomotive hauls them to the sawmill where they are sawed into boards. In this case as soon as the boards were cut they were placed in a flume in which there was a strong stream of water. In this they floated about 40 miles to a town in the valley below directly into the company's lumber yard. In the Rocky Mountains one of the main forest products derived from the National Forests is railroad ties. On the particular operation with which the writer is familiar the Government had sold to a tie operator about 3,000,000 railroad ties under a long term contract. This tie operator had a large contract with a railroad company. The area of the sale, several thousand acres, was divided or surveyed into long strips each 100 to 150 feet wide and from one to one and a half miles long. A large camp and commissary was established on the area. There were about 100 tie choppers and each man was assigned to a strip. On these strips the trees to be cut were marked by a Forest officer. Trees too small to make ties were left as a basis for a future tie operation in from forty to fifty years. The tie choppers usually worked alone. They first felled the tree with a saw, cut the lower limbs off, and marked off the ties on the bark to see how many ties could be cut from the tree. The tree was then "scored" with an ax on both sides in order to start making the two flat faces of the tie. These sides were then chipped with a "broad ax," thus making two smooth faces. The bark was then peeled from the other two faces and the tree was then cut into finished ties. After the ties were made the top of the tree was lopped, that is, the branches were cut from the trunk. In this operation these branches were scattered evenly over the ground. The tie chopper then cleared a road through the middle of his strip and "parked" his ties on the road. He then stamped his private mark on each tie. In the winter the ties were "hauled" on large sleds to the river bank. Each tie chopper's ties were put in a separate pile so that the company's scaler could count them and credit them to the man that made them. In the spring, when the river's banks were full, the ties were "driven" down the river to the shipping point, usually a town on a railroad line. A Forest officer is detailed to an operation of this kind to inspect the choppers' work and count and stamp the ties. He sees to it that all trees that have been marked for cutting are cut, that no trees not marked have been cut, that young growth is not unnecessarily injured, that the stumps are not left too high, that the tops are fully utilized, that the slashing or brush is disposed of according to the contract, and that the operator is keeping all his agreements in the contract. _The First Step in Purchasing Government Timber._ After the desired body of timber has been located, the first step for any one desiring to purchase government timber is to communicate with an officer of the National Forest in which the timber is located. If only a small amount is desired--less than $50 in value--the local Ranger can arrange to make the sale without delay. Amounts valued at more than this can be sold only by the higher officials of the Service, that is the Supervisor, District Forester, or the Forester, according to the size of the sale. The Supervisor can sell up to two million feet; larger sales are made by the District Forester or the Forester. All sales exceeding $100 in amount must be advertised, except those made to homestead settlers and farmers in a private sale. Sales are advertised in order to secure the largest number of bidders possible and thus prevent the monopoly of large bodies of timber by large timber operators. [Illustration: Figure 55. View taken in the Coast Range mountains of California where Sugar pine and Douglas fir are the principal trees. Klamath National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 56. A typical mountain scene in the California Coast Range. On these steep slopes a forest cover is of vital importance. Klamath National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] _Procedure in an Advertised Sale._ After the applicant has selected the body of timber he wishes to purchase, he is furnished by the Supervisor with a sample application stating the area, estimated amount, minimum stumpage price, period allowed for cutting and removing the timber, and other conditions to be complied with, following as closely as possible the form of the final sale agreement. Usually, also, the purchaser is interested in the amount of timber which he may cut per acre. For this reason he visits sample areas on which the trees have been marked for cutting. A notice of the sale of the timber is then published, the choice of mediums and number of insertions depending upon whether the sale is of local, regional, or general interest. This notice describes the timber, gives the minimum stumpage prices that will be accepted, and specifies the date upon which sealed bids will be received. The period of advertising is at least 30 days, and in large sales from 3 to 6 months. Forms for bidding are furnished to the original applicant and others who signify their intention to bid. A deposit is required with all bids to show the good faith of the bidder. In large transactions this deposit is usually from 3 to 5 per cent. of the purchase price. On the date specified in the advertisement the Supervisor (or District Forester) opens all bids received and awards the sale to the highest bidder. The sale contract is then prepared and executed by the purchaser. A specific statement of financial ability is required in all sales of ten million feet or more, and in smaller sales in the discretion of the approving officer. Such a statement may be required before the approval of the sale application, either formal or tentative, and in any event before the timber is awarded to the successful bidder. The contract must be supported by a suitable bond given by two responsible sureties or by a surety company authorized to do business with the United States. [Illustration: Figure 57. A forest officer at work on a high mountain peak making a plane-table survey and timber estimate of National Forest lands. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 58. A government timber cruiser's summer camp. These cruisers get a fairly accurate estimate of Uncle Sam's timber resources at a cost of from 2 to 5 cents an acre. Photo by the author.] _Timber Sale Contract Clauses._ The sale contract contains in full all the conditions under which the cutting is to be done. In all sales of National Forest stumpage the contract provides that no timber shall be cut until it has been paid for, and that it shall not be removed until it has been scaled by a Forest officer. All live timber is marked or otherwise designated before cutting, and any merchantable timber used for logging improvements, such as houses, bridges, stables, etc., must be scaled and paid for. In order to secure full utilization of the timber the maximum stump height is ordinarily fixed at 18 inches, and merchantable timber must be used to a specified diameter in the tops, which is adjusted for each species in accordance with local manufacturing and market conditions. The officer in charge of the sale is authorized to vary the stump height and top diameter in individual cases when those specified in the contract are not practicable. The tops must be trimmed up and, as a rule, brush must be piled and burned, or burned without piling under the direction of Forest officers. Merchantable timber which is not cut and removed and unmarked trees which are cut must be paid for at double the specified stumpage rates. This extra charge serves as a penalty. All camps, buildings, railroads, and other improvements necessary in logging and manufacturing the timber may be constructed upon National Forest land without charge. Railroads which open up inaccessible regions may be required to be made common carriers or to transport logs and lumber for other purchasers or for the Government at reasonable rates. Since fire protection is one of the most important duties of the Forest Service, provision is made in all contracts that the purchaser must place himself and employees, as well as the employees of his contractors, at the disposal of authorized Forest officers for fighting fires. Reimbursement is made for such services at the wages in vogue for fighting fires on the National Forest in question, unless the fire threatens the timber of the purchaser or property of the operator, or is started in connection with the operation. Under these conditions the purchaser is expected to furnish his available employees to assist the Government in fire fighting without charge. Efficient spark arresters are required on wood and coal burning boilers or locomotives. Inflammable material must be cleaned up in the vicinity of logging engines, and other precautions taken to insure against fire spreading from this source. Snags and diseased trees upon the sale area must usually be felled, whether merchantable or not, in order to remove fire menace and to check the spread of timber infestations and pests. [Illustration: Figure 59. Forest officers moving camp while engaged in winter reconnaissance work. All food, beds, and clothing are packed on "Alaska" sleds and drawn by the men themselves. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 60. A winter reconnaissance camp showing snow-shoes, skis, "Alaska" sleds, and bull hide used to repair the webbing on the snow-shoes. Lassen National Forest, California. Photo by the author.] _Special Contract Clauses._ Special clauses are inserted in contracts to meet peculiar and unusual conditions. These deal with the number of men the company is to furnish for brush burning; the time of the year this work is to be done; the construction of fire lines; the manner of scaling timber; the manner of piling and the location of piles of material to be scaled; the definition of a merchantable log; the utilization of tops; the manner or method of logging to be used; the location of improvements; the use of timber for the construction of improvements; the disposal of improvements at the termination of the contract; where cutting is to begin and how fast it is to proceed; the percentage of merchantable timber to be reserved in marking; and other special clauses recommended by the Bureau of Entomology for the sale of insect infested timber. That the Forest Service timber sale policy and the various timber sale clauses have met with the approval of the lumbermen and the timber buyers of the Western States is attested by the fact that in the last ten years (from July 1, 1907, to June 30, 1917) there have been nearly 75,000 purchasers of National Forest timber and that between these two dates the annual number of timber sales has increased from 5,062 in the fiscal year 1908 to 11,608 in the fiscal year 1917. No better evidence could be cited of the confidence which the lumbermen have in the Forest Service method of doing business. _When the Operation May Begin._ As soon as the contract has been executed and the first payment has been made a portion of the timber is marked for cutting and the purchaser may begin operations at once. Sometimes cutting in advance of the execution of the contract is allowed to prevent serious hardship and unnecessary delay and expense on the part of the purchaser. [Illustration: Figure 61. A group of giant redwoods. Santa Cruz County, California] _Marking the Timber for Cutting._ In order to insure a proper restocking of the ground, all live trees must be marked or otherwise designated by a Forest officer before cutting can commence. Usually from 1/10 to 1/3 of the stand is reserved, either scattered over the entire tract or distributed in groups. These trees are left for various reasons, depending upon circumstances. The most important consideration is, of course, to leave enough seed trees to restock the cut-over area. On steep slopes a certain number of trees must be left to protect the watershed and to prevent the erosion of the soil. Many species of trees are subject to windthrow when the stand is thinned out. To counteract this tendency a sufficient number of trees must be left to prevent the wind from getting an unobstructed sweep. In many semi-arid portions of the West additional trees must be left standing to protect the forest from excessive drying and to prevent the ground from being occupied by useless tree weeds and brush. Often, especially along highways, trees are left for their scenic effect. From an economic standpoint it is important sometimes to leave trees in order to make a second cut worth while. Where only dead timber is purchased, and no living trees are cut, or where patches of forest are to be cut clean, Forest officers, instead of marking every tree to be removed, blaze and mark a boundary of the cutting area or patch and instruct the purchaser accordingly. Where individual trees are marked they are blazed and stamped "U. S." next to the ground on the lowest side of the stump. Additional blazes may be made several feet above the ground whenever desired by the purchaser for the convenience of his "fallers" or where deep snow may conceal the lower mark from the "fallers." Where both kinds of blazes are used, one man, in fairly dense pine timber, can mark from 500 to 1,000 trees in a day. Under no condition may unmarked or undesignated trees be cut by the purchaser. The system of marking and the proportion of the timber to be cut is explained to purchasers by marking sample areas before the contract is executed. The cost of logging under the methods of marking adopted is compensated fully in the stumpage appraisal. _Scaling, Measuring, and Stamping._ Unless timber is sold by estimate, it must be scaled, counted, or measured before it is removed from the cutting area or place agreed upon for this purpose. In addition it must be stamped by a Forest officer with a regulation marking ax or similar instrument. Payment is made upon the actual scale, count or measure, with due allowance for defect. All National Forest timber is sold under specifications which are in accordance with those in commercial use, such as logs by the thousand board feet, ties by the piece, poles by length and top diameter, shingle bolts by the cord, and mining timbers by the linear foot. All logs are scaled at the small end. [Illustration: Figure 62. A big Sugar pine tree about six feet in diameter. This is the most valuable timber species in California. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 63. A Western Yellow pine forest in California. These trees are from four to six feet in diameter and from 150 to 200 feet high. Note the Forest Service timber cruiser measuring the tree at the left. Photo by the author.] All saw timber is scaled by the Scribner Decimal C log rule. In order to permit scaling at reasonable cost to the Forest Service, purchasers may be required, where the cost of logging may not be unduly increased, to skid and pile the logs for scaling. Piles and skidways must be constructed so as to permit economical scaling and when necessary and practicable the purchaser is required to mark the small ends of the logs to avoid misunderstanding when they are scaled on the pile. Logs or other material that has been scaled or measured are designated by a "US" stamp impressed in the wood so that the material may not be scaled again by mistake. Each merchantable log scaled is stamped on at least one end and unmerchantable or defective logs are stamped "US" in a circle. Material other than saw logs, such as mine timber, ties, posts, poles, or piling, after scaling, is stamped on at least one end. Cord wood is stamped at both the top and bottom of each rick. On all National Forests except those in Alaska and west of the summit of the Cascades in Washington and Oregon, logs over 16 feet are scaled as two or more logs as far as practicable in lengths of not less than 12 feet. In Alaska and parts of Oregon and Washington logs up to and including 32 feet in length are scaled as one log; logs from 32 to 64 feet inclusive are scaled as two logs as nearly equal in length as possible in even feet. All diameters are measured inside the bark at the top end of the log and diameters are rounded off to the nearest inch above or below the actual diameter. In the case of logs each one is numbered and the number entered in a scale book with the corresponding board foot scale of the log. In the case of ties, posts, poles, mining timbers, etc., each pile or skidway is numbered and the count or scale entered opposite the corresponding number in the scale book. _Disposal of Slash._ One of the most important features in National Forest timber sales is the disposal of the brush or slash after logging. On account of the great diversity of conditions which obtain on the Forests, the best way to dispose of brush is not everywhere the same. Piling and burning is required where the fire risk is great; otherwise the method promising the best silvicultural results is used. [Illustration: Figure 64. Logging in California. Powerful steam engines pull the logs from the woods to the railroad and load them on flat cars. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 65. The loaded flat cars reach the sawmill where the logs are unloaded and sawn into lumber. During the fiscal year 1917 timber sales on the National Forests brought into the National Treasury almost $1,700,000.00. Photo by the author.] When piling and burning is necessary, all tops and débris, including large chips made from hewing ties, are piled at a safe distance from standing trees. The piles are not allowed to be made in groups of seedlings or young growth, against dead snags, near living trees, or on stumps, large tops or logs, but wherever possible in openings. The piles are adapted to the size of the opening in which they are made and must be made sufficiently compact to kindle easily and burn cleanly. The ideal pile is of medium size, conical in shape, compact, from 5 to 7 feet in diameter at the base and from 4 to 5 feet high. Brush piling and burning is an art which can only be acquired after long experience. Brush is scattered whenever this method promises the best silvicultural results, unless there is serious danger from fire on account of dense timber and reproduction. The scattered brush is intended to afford protection to seedlings from excessive transpiration and from trampling by stock and to protect the soil from erosion. Ground burning may be advisable where clean cutting has been employed, to expose the loose mineral soil for better seed germination. When this method is used the purchaser is required to clear a fire line around the area to be burned and to furnish adequate help to the Forest officer who supervises the burning. Frequently brush is burned as the cutting progresses. Fires are started at convenient points and the brush is thrown on them as it is lopped. Where brush burning is necessary it is not advisable, ordinarily, to burn over an entire sale area. It is frequently possible to burn the brush so as to form broad fire lines, particularly along railroads or wagon roads. The best times for brush burning are after a light fall of snow or rain, early in the spring before the snow has melted or the dry season has begun or during or immediately after summer rains. Brush disposal must always keep pace with logging except when the depth of snow or other reasons make proper disposal impossible. Often the brush must lay in piles at least one season before it becomes dry enough to burn. _Payment for Timber._ Payment must be made for all timber in advance of cutting. This, however, does not imply that one advance payment must be made to cover the stumpage value of all the timber included in the sale. Frequent installments are allowed sufficient usually to cover the cut of one or two months. [Illustration: Figure 66. Scene in Montana. Forest officers constructing a telephone line through the Flathead National Forest.] [Illustration: Figure 67. Forest Ranger, accompanied by a lumberman, marking National Forest timber for cutting in a timber sale. Coconino National Forest, Arizona.] This arrangement makes it possible to secure large tracts of National Forest timber at a very slight initial outlay and to hold them with almost no interest charges. The other usual carrying charges, namely, taxes and fire protection, are eliminated. The timber is protected from fire by the United States throughout the life of the contract. The money deposited to secure cutting in advance of the execution of the contract may be credited towards the amount to accompany the bid. _Stumpage Rates._ The minimum stumpage rates applicable in each proposed sale are determined by a careful study of the conditions in the particular case. Stumpage rates are the actual market value of the timber. They are based upon the quality of the timber and the character of its commercial products; the estimated cost of logging, transportation, and manufacture; the investment required on the part of the operator; the selling value of the product; and a fair profit to the purchaser. The estimated profit depends upon the size and the permanency of the operation and the degree of risk involved. The cost of brush disposal, protection of young growth, logging only marked timber and other requirements of the Forest Service is fully considered in appraising stumpage rates. Timber is ordinarily appraised at the rates indicated for the most valuable products to which it is suited and for which an established market exists. Merchantable dead timber is appraised at the same rate as green timber of the same species unless it is clearly shown that the products manufactured from it command a lower market price or that logging costs are higher. _Cutting Period._ Ordinarily the cutting period allowed in each sale is only sufficient to permit the removal of the timber at a reasonable rate, approximately equivalent to the working capacity of the plant. Sales of accessible timber usually do not exceed 5 years in length. However, in the case of inaccessible tracts requiring a large investment for transportation facilities an exception is made and periods of from 15 to 20 years may be granted. _Readjustment of Stumpage Rates._ In all sales exceeding 5 years in length provision is made to have the stumpage rates readjusted by the Forester at the end of three or five year intervals to meet changing market and manufacturing conditions. [Illustration: Figure 68. An excellent illustration showing the difference between unrestricted logging as practised by lumbermen, and conservative logging as practised by the Forest Service. In the foreground is the unrestricted logging which strips the soil of every stick of timber both large and small; in the background is the Forest Service logging area which preserves the young growth to insure a future supply of timber for the West. Bitterroot National Forest, Montana.] _Refunds._ Deposits to cover or secure advance cutting or to accompany bids apply on the first payment if a sale is awarded to the depositor; otherwise they will be refunded. Refunds are also made to the purchaser if the last payment is in excess of the value of the timber that is cut. THE DISPOSAL OF TIMBER TO HOMESTEAD SETTLERS AND UNDER FREE USE Besides selling the timber and other forest products outright, as has just been described, some timber is sold to settlers at cost and much timber is given away to the local people under the free use policy. _Sales to Homestead Settlers and Farmers._ Sales to homestead settlers and farmers are made without advertisement in any amount desired, at the price fixed annually for each National Forest region of similar conditions by the Secretary, as equivalent to the actual cost of making and administering such sales. Only material to be used by the purchaser for domestic purposes exclusively on homesteads or farms is sold in this way. Such uses include the construction or repair of farm buildings, fences, and other improvements and fuel. Such sales are restricted to mature dead and down timber which may be cut without injury to the forest. _Free Use._ Free use of timber is granted primarily to aid in the protection and silvicultural improvement of the Forests. Hence the material taken is, except in unusual cases, restricted to dead, insect infested and diseased timber, and thinnings. Green material may be taken in exceptional cases where its refusal would clearly cause unwarranted hardship. The use of such material is granted freely: (1) To bona fide settlers, miners, residents, prospectors, for fire wood, fencing, building, mining, prospecting, and other domestic purposes; and to any one in case its removal is necessary for the welfare of the Forest; (2) for the construction of telephone lines when necessary for the protection of forests from fire; (3) to certain branches of the Federal Government. Free use is not granted for commercial purposes or of use in any business, including sawmills, hotels, stores, companies or corporations. Such persons are required to purchase their timber. [Illustration: Figure 69. View showing the Forest Service method of piling the brush and débris after logging, and also how stump heights are kept down to prevent waste. New Mexico.] [Illustration: Figure 70. A tie-cutting operation on a National Forest. These piles of railroad ties are being inspected, stamped, and counted by Forest rangers. From this point the ties are "skidded" to the banks of a stream to be floated to the shipping point. Near Evanston, Wyoming.] The aggregate amount of free use material granted annually to any user must not exceed $20 in value, except in cases of unusual need or of dead or insect infested timber, the removal of which would be a benefit to the forest, or in the case of any timber which should be removed and whose sale under contract cannot be effected. In these cases the amount may be extended to $100. Supervisors have authority to grant free use permits up to $100, District Foresters up to $500, and larger amounts must have the approval of the Forester. Free use material is appraised in the same manner and in accordance with the same principles as timber purchased under sale agreements. The valuation of such material is at the same rate as that prevailing for similar grades of stumpage in current sales in the same locality. The magnitude of the free use business may be appreciated from the fact that during the fiscal year 1917 there were 41,427 individuals or companies who received timber under this policy. The total amount thus given away was 113,073,000 board feet valued at over $150,000. Permits for this use are required for green material, but dead timber may be taken without a permit. Supervisors designate as free-use areas certain portions or all of any National Forest and settlers, miners, residents, and prospectors may cut and remove from such areas free of charge under Forest Service regulations any timber needed for their own use for firewood, fencing, buildings, mining, prospecting, or other domestic purposes. Material cut under free-use regulations must not be removed from the cutting area until scaled or measured by a Forest officer. In some cases this requirement is waived when by it the needs of the users are met with greater dispatch and the cost of administration is thereby reduced. The free-use applicant is required to utilize the trees cut in accordance with local Forest Service practice and he is required to avoid unnecessary damage to young growth and standing timber. TIMBER SETTLEMENT AND ADMINISTRATIVE USE When timber on National Forest land is cut, damaged, killed, or destroyed in connection with the enjoyment of a right-of-way or other special use, it is not necessary to advertise it for sale, but payment therefor is required at not less than the minimum rate established by the Secretary of Agriculture. Timber removed in this way is usually scaled, measured, or counted and the procedure is identical with that of a timber sale. But where timber is destroyed or where it is not worked up in measurable form or where the cutting is done in such a way that scaling is impracticable, settlement is required on the basis of an estimate. [Illustration: Figure 71. Brush piles on a cut-over area before burning. Forest Service methods aim to clean up the forest after logging so that forest fires have less inflammable material to feed on. Bitterroot National Forest, Montana.] [Illustration: Figure 72. At a time of the year when there is least danger from fire the brush piles are burned. Missoula National Forest, Montana.] In 1912 a new branch of the Southern Pacific Railroad was built across a portion of the Lassen National Forest in California. The company was going to use some of the timber, but most of it was to be destroyed or disposed of in the easiest manner. Scaling was impossible, so the company paid for the timber--about $10,000--on the basis of a careful estimate made by the writer, then Forest Examiner. The charge for all such timber is made on the basis of the current stumpage rates for timber of like quality and accessibility included in sales for all classes of material which have to be cut or destroyed and which are commonly salable on the Forest. Timber is often used by the Forest Service itself in the administration of the National Forests. The Forester, District Foresters, and the Supervisors are authorized to sell or dispose of under free use or otherwise, within the amount each one is authorized to sell, any timber upon the National Forests when such removal is actually necessary to protect the Forest from ravages or destruction, or when the use or removal of the timber is necessary in the construction of roads, trails, cabins, and other improvements on the National Forests or in experiments conducted by the Forest Service. THE RENTAL OF NATIONAL FOREST RANGE LANDS The forage crop on the National Forests is for the use of the sheep and cattle of the western stockmen and it is procured by means of grazing permits which are issued and charged for upon a per capita basis. The primary objects of the administration of government grazing lands are: the protection and conservative use of all National Forest land adapted to grazing; the permanent good of the live stock industry through the proper care and use of grazing lands; and the protection of the settler and home builder against unfair competition in the use of the range. _Importance of the Live Stock Industry._ The grazing business, more than any other feature of National Forest management, is immensely practical, because it is immediately concerned with human interests. This industry furnishes not only meat, but leather, wool, and many by-products. That the National Forests play a big part in the maintenance of this industry there can be little doubt, for it has been estimated recently that 30 per cent. of the sheep and 20 per cent. of the cattle of the far Western States are grazed in the National Forests. The Forests contain by far the largest part of the summer range lands in the far Western States and hence are of paramount importance. The winter grazing lands in the West are so much greater in area than the summer lands, that for this reason also National Forest range lands are in great demand. _Permits Issued in 1917._ During the fiscal year 1917 more than 31,000 permits to graze cattle, hogs, or horses, and over 5,500 permits to graze sheep or goats were issued. These permits provided for 2,054,384 cattle, 7,586,034 sheep, about 100,000 horses, about 50,000 goats, and about 3,000 hogs. The total receipts for 1917 were over $1,500,000. The gross receipts to the owners of the stock probably exceeded $50,000,000 and the capital invested in the stock no doubt amounted to over $200,000,000. An idea of the growth of the grazing business may be gotten from the Forest Service statistics for the fiscal years 1908 and 1917. The increase in the number of permits and the volume of the business is due primarily to a better administration and better regulation of grazing interests and more specifically to the increase in the carrying capacity of government lands by wise and restricted use. Between these two fiscal years there was no appreciable increase in the total area of the Forests which would account for the increased business. In 1908 there were issued 19,845 permits for 1,382,221 cattle, horses and hogs; in 1917 there were issued 31,136 permits for 2,054,384 animals. In 1908 there were issued 4,282 permits for 7,087,111 sheep and goats; in 1917 5,502 permits were issued for 7,586,034 sheep and goats. The number of cattle and horses grazed has increased therefore by 50 per cent. and the number of sheep and goats by 7 per cent. The total receipts have increased from $962,829.40 in 1908 to $1,549,794.76 in 1917. _Kinds of Range, Grazing Seasons, and Methods of Handling Stock._ For the proper understanding of the grazing business on the National Forests it is necessary to know something about the different kinds of range, the length of grazing seasons, and the methods of handling different classes of stock. Sheep and goat range differs materially from cattle and horse range and the proper distribution of stock over a National Forest cannot be effected unless this difference is recognized. Sheep and goat range usually consists of low shrubs or brush and is known collectively as "browse"; cattle and horses subsist mainly upon grass, flowering plants and herbs. Sheep feel more at home on high mountain slopes, while cattle and horses range usually on the lower slopes and in the valleys, and especially in the broad meadows, around lakes and along streams. Sheep are more apt to find feed in the forests, that is under the trees; cattle prefer the open; they usually avoid the forest, preferring to keep out on the open meadows and grassy slopes. Naturally some ranges have feed at some seasons of the year and other ranges at other seasons. Some of the National Forests in California extend from an elevation of a few hundred feet in the foothills of the great valleys to an elevation of more than 10,000 feet at the crest of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The lower foothills afford excellent feed soon after the beginning of the fall rains in November and, due to the very mild winter which this region enjoys, there is excellent feed in February and March. This is known as winter range. The medium high slopes of the mountains have a later growing season and the sheep and cattle reach there about June and stay until August or September. Still higher up the forage matures later and the grazing season extends from August until November. At these elevations the snowbanks usually lie until July and the growing season is very short, for the new snow usually buries the vegetation about the first of November. Thus stockmen have what they call "winter range," "summer range," and "fall range," depending upon what seasons of the year the forage crop can be utilized. The National Forests on the whole contain very little winter range, hence stockmen must move their stock in the fall to private lands at lower elevations either where the climate is considerably warmer or where there is very little snowfall. A large part of the western winter grazing lands are in regions of light snowfall, such as at the lower elevations in Utah, Nevada, Wyoming, and Colorado. Here the stock feeds on dry grass. Stockmen who cannot get winter range lands must feed their stock at ranches. The characteristic habits of sheep and cattle require that they be handled differently on the range. Sheep are herded in bands while cattle are handled in scattered groups. The new and approved method of handling sheep called the "burro system" calls for a burro with the sheep to pack the herder's blankets and provisions. The herder camps where night overtakes him. The herder and his band keep moving over the allotted range from one camp to another until he has covered the whole range. After leaving his last camp he is ready to begin all over again, since the feed near the camp where he began has had two to three weeks' time to grow a new crop. Cattle usually run loose singly or in groups on their allotted range. Usually a range rider is camped on the range to keep the cattle from straying to other ranges. He salts the cattle to keep them on their own range, takes care of cattle that have gotten sick, and takes care of the stock in other ways. _Grazing Districts and Grazing Units._ The Secretary of Agriculture not only has the authority to regulate grazing and prescribe the schedule of grazing fees to be charged but he also regulates the number and class of stock which are allowed to graze on each National Forest annually. The ranges within the National Forests are used by the kind of stock for which they are best adapted except when this would not be consistent with the welfare of local residents or the proper protection of the Forests. For convenience in administration Forests are divided into grazing districts. A typical Forest is divided into from 4 to 6 districts which may be natural grazing units, natural administrative units (coinciding with the Ranger districts), or parts of the Forest used by different classes of stock or parts of the Forest having different lengths of grazing seasons. Each grazing district is also subdivided into smaller divisions, units, or allotments. These are usually natural divisions defined by topographic boundaries, such as ridges, mountains, streams, etc., or more or less artificial divisions determined by the class of stock which uses them. For example, cattle and horses ordinarily graze in the valleys along the streams, while sheep and goats graze the crests of ridges and the slopes of mountains and will cross none but shallow streams. Each range division or unit is usually given a well-known local name, such as "Duck Lake Unit" or "Clover Valley Unit." One or more stockmen may be allotted to such a unit, depending upon the size of the unit and the number of animals it can feed. If only one stockman uses it, it becomes an individual allotment. Usually a sheep owner with several large bands of sheep is allotted one large unit adapted to sheep grazing, while a large unit adapted to cattle and horses may be allotted to one large cattle owner or to two or more smaller owners. The manner in which sheep and goats are handled makes individual allotments both practicable and desirable. The boundaries of range allotments are usually well defined. In the case of sheep they are marked with cloth posters. In most Forests range allotments are fairly well settled. Each stockman gets with his permit each spring a small map showing his own range and the surrounding ranges. _Who Are Entitled to Grazing Privileges._ The Secretary of Agriculture has the authority to permit, regulate, or prohibit grazing on the National Forests. Under his direction the Forest Service allows the use of the forage crop as fully as the proper care and protection of the National Forests and the water supply permit. The grazing use of the National Forest lands is therefore only a personal and non-transferable privilege. This privilege is a temporary one, allowable under the law only when it does not interfere with the purposes for which the National Forests were created. It is non-transferable because it is based upon the possession of certain qualifications peculiar to the permittee. To understand these qualifications it is necessary to briefly look into the history of the grazing of live stock on the western grazing lands. [Illustration: Figure 73. Counting sheep as they leave the corral. Sheep and cattle are pastured on National Forests at so many cents per head, hence they must be counted before they enter in the spring. Wasatch National Forest, Utah.] [Illustration: Figure 74. Logging National Forest timber. Santa Fe National Forest, New Mexico.] By long use of the public lands of the United States for grazing purposes, long before the National Forests were created, stock owners have been allowed to graze their stock upon such lands under certain conditions of occupancy, residence, and ownership of improved lands and water rights. This use, continuing through a long period of years, has, in the absence of congressional legislation, been commonly accepted in many communities, even receiving the recognition of certain of the courts. It was allowed under "unwritten law," as it were, only by the passive consent of the United States, but by force of the presidential proclamation creating National Forests, such passive consent ceased, being superseded by definite regulations by the Secretary of Agriculture prescribed under the authority of Congress. Therefore grazing stock on the Forests, as it was done before the Forests were created, is trespass against the United States. Due to the fact that local stockmen have used certain public ranges year after year by the passive consent of the United States, these stockmen are recognized in these localities as having preference rights or equities in the use of range lands. These equities form the basis upon which grazing privileges are allowed. Grazing permits are issued only to persons entitled to share in the use of the range within the National Forests by reason of their fulfilling certain conditions or requirements. Prior use and occupancy of National Forest lands for grazing purposes is the first and foremost requirement. Local residence and ownership of improved ranch property within or near the Forest and dependence upon government range are also conditions that may entitle a stockman to grazing privileges. The Forest Service also recognizes those stockmen who have acquired by purchase or inheritance stock grazed upon National Forest lands under permit and improved ranch property used in connection with the stock, provided circumstances warrant the renewal of the permit issued to the former owner. The regular use of a range during its open season for several successive years before the creation of the National Forest and under grazing permit thereafter is what is meant by "prior use" or "regular occupancy." The longer the period or use the greater the preference right. No one can acquire this right to the use of National Forest range, nor can it be bought or sold, but stockmen may acquire a preference in the allotment of grazing privileges. This preference right does not entitle him to continued use of a certain part of a Forest, but only to preference over other applicants less entitled to consideration in the use of the ranges open to the class of stock which he wishes to graze. Certain stockmen may be given preference in ranges secured by prior use and occupancy supplemented by heavy investments in improved property and water rights. Citizens of the United States are given preference in the use of the National Forests, but persons who are not citizens may be allowed grazing permits provided they are bona fide residents and owners of improved ranch property either within or adjacent to a National Forest. Regular occupants of the range who own and reside upon improved ranch property in or near National Forests are given first consideration, but will be limited to a number which will not exclude regular occupants who reside or whose stock are wintered at a greater distance from the National Forests. With this provision applicants for grazing permits are given preference in the following order: Class A. Persons owning and residing upon improved ranch property within or near a National Forest who are dependent upon National Forests for range and who do not own more than a limited number of stock (known as the protective limit). Class B. Regular users of National Forests range who do not own improved ranch property within or near a National Forest, and persons owning such ranch property but who own numbers of stock in excess of the established limit. Class C. Persons who are not regular users of the National Forest range and who do not own improved ranch property within or near a National Forest. Such persons are not granted permits upon Forests which are fully occupied by classes A and B. Classes B and C are not allowed to increase the number of stock grazed under permit except by the purchase of other permitted stock. From this classification it is very evident that the small local stockmen who own approximately from 30 to 300 head of cattle and from 500 to 2,000 head of sheep and who own and reside upon the ranches near the Forests are given the preference in the allotment of grazing privileges. _Grazing Permits._ Various kinds of grazing permits are required each year on the National Forests. These are known as ordinary grazing permits, on-and-off permits, private land permits, and crossing permits. All persons must secure permits before grazing any stock on a National Forest except for the few head in actual use by prospectors, campers, ranchers, stockmen, and travelers who use saddle, pack and work animals, and milch cows in connection with permitted operations on the National Forests. Under these conditions 10 head are allowed to graze without permit. Persons owning stock which regularly graze on ranges partially included within a National Forest, or upon range which includes private land may be granted permits for such portions of their stock as the circumstances appear to justify. This regulation provides for cases where only a part of a natural range unit is National Forest land, and where the economical use of the entire unit can be secured only by the utilization of the Forest land in connection with the other land. The regulation contemplates a movement of the stock governed by natural conditions, between the Forest range and the adjoining outside range, or between Forest land and intermingled private land. This is called an on-and-off permit. Permits on account of private lands are issued to persons who own, or who have leased from the owners, unfenced lands within any National Forest which are so situated and of such a character that they may be used by other permitted stock to an extent rendering the exchange advantageous to the Government. The permits allow the permittees to graze upon National Forest land, free of charge, the number of stock which the private lands will support, by waiving the right to the exclusive use of the private land and allowing it to remain open to other stock grazed on National Forest land under permit. The regular grazing permit carries with it the privilege of driving the permitted stock over National Forest lands to and from the allotted ranges at the beginning and end of the grazing season and from the range to the most accessible shearing, dipping, and shipping points during the term of the permit. But crossing permits are necessary for crossing stock over National Forest lands to points beyond the National Forest, for crossing stock to private lands within a National Forest, or for crossing stock to reach dipping vats or railroad shipping points. Rangers sometimes are detailed to accompany the stock and see that there is no delay or trespassing. No charge is made for crossing permits, but it is absolutely necessary that persons crossing stock comply with the regulations governing the National Forests and with the quarantine regulations prescribed by the Secretary of Agriculture and the state authorities. _Grazing Fees._ The full grazing fee is charged on all animals under 6 months of age which are not the natural increase of stock upon which the fees are paid. Animals under 6 months which are the natural increase of permitted stock are not charged for. A reasonable fee is charged for grazing all kinds of live stock on National Forests. The rates are based upon the yearlong rate for cattle, which is from 60 cents to $1.50 per head, depending upon conditions on the Forest. The yearlong rates for horses are 25 per cent. more and the yearlong rate for swine 25 per cent. less than the rate for cattle. The rate for sheep is 25 per cent. of the yearlong rate for cattle. The rates for all kinds of stock for periods shorter than yearlong are computed in proportion to the length of the season during which the stock use National Forest lands. All grazing fees are payable in advance. When notice of the grazing allowance, periods, and rates for the year has been received by the Supervisor he gives public notice of a date on or before which all applications for grazing must be presented to him. These public notices are posted in conspicuous places, usually in the post offices. Applications for grazing permits are submitted on blank forms furnished by the Supervisor. As soon as an applicant for a grazing permit is notified by the Supervisor that his application has been approved, he must remit the amount due for grazing fees to the District Fiscal Agent and upon receipt of notice by the Supervisor that payment has been made a permit is issued allowing the stock to enter the Forest and remain during the period specified. All grazing fees are payable in advance and the stock is not allowed to enter the National Forest unless payment has been made. _Stock Associations._ The thirty or more grazing regulations effective on the National Forests are for the primary purpose of making the National Forest range lands as useful as possible to the people consistent with their protection and perpetuation. It is clearly impossible to meet the wishes and needs of each individual user, but it is often entirely possible to meet the wishes of the majority of users if made known through an organization. The organization of stock associations is encouraged by the Forest Service and the opinions and wishes of their advisory boards are recognized when they represent general rather than individual or personal interests. It is often possible through these organizations to construct range improvements such as corrals, drift fences, roads, trails, and sources of water supply for the common good of the members of the organization and paid for by them. _Protective and Maximum Limits._ In order to secure an equitable distribution of grazing privileges, the District Forester establishes protective limits covering the number of stock for which the permits of Class A owners will be exempt from reduction in the renewal of their permits. Permits for numbers in excess of the protective limits will be subject to necessary reductions and will not be subject to increase in number except through purchase of stock or ranches of other permittees. [Illustration: Figure 75. Sheep grazing on the Montezuma National Forest at the foot of Mt. Wilson, Colorado. Over 7,500,000 sheep and goats grazed on the National Forests during the fiscal year 1917.] [Illustration: Figure 76. Grazing cattle on a National Forest in Colorado. Permits were issued during 1917 to graze over 2,000,000 cattle, horses, and swine on the National Forests.] Protective limits are established to protect permittees from reduction in the number of stock which they are allowed to graze under permit below a point where the business becomes too small to be handled at a profit or to contribute its proper share toward the maintenance of a home. The average number of stock which a settler must graze in order to utilize the products of his farm and derive a reasonable profit is determined upon each Forest or, if necessary, upon each grazing district thereof, and serves as the basis for the protective limit. Protective limits have been established for various Forests running from 25 to 300 head of cattle and from 500 to 2,000 head of sheep and goats. Increases above the protective limit are allowed only to purchasers of stock and ranches of permit holders and any such increase must not exceed the maximum limit. Class A permittees owning a less number of stock than the protective limit are allowed to increase their number gradually. Whenever it is found necessary to reduce the number of stock allowed in any National Forest, Class C stock is excluded before the other classes are reduced. The reduction on a sliding scale is then applied to Class B owners. Class A owners are exempt from reduction. When new stock owners are allowed the use of National Forest range upon a Forest already fully stocked, reductions in the number of permitted stock of Class B and C owners is made in order to make room for the new man. Thus it is seen that the matter of protective limits is actually a protection to the small stock owner; he is protected from the monopoly of the range by big corporations. When necessary to prevent monopoly of the range by large stock owners, the District Forester establishes maximum limits in the number of stock for which a permit may be issued to any one person, firm or corporation. _Prohibition of Grazing._ It often becomes necessary to prohibit all grazing on an area within a National Forest or at least to materially reduce the amount of stock which is allowed to graze on a given area. Sheep may be excluded from a timber-sale area for a certain number of years after cutting or until the reproduction has become well established. Where planting operations are being carried on it is usually necessary to exclude all classes of stock. If investigations show that grazing is responsible for the lack of reproduction over a considerable area, the area or a portion of it may be withdrawn from range use until young growth has become established again. The watersheds of streams supplying water for irrigation, municipal or domestic purposes may be closed to grazing of any or all kinds of domestic stock when necessary to prevent erosion and floods or diminution in water supply. Camping grounds required for the accommodation of the public may be closed to the grazing of permitted stock. Limited areas which are the natural breeding or feeding grounds of game animals or birds may be closed to grazing. Areas within National Forests infested seriously by poisonous plants may be closed to grazing. _Protection of Grazing Interests._ The protection of National Forest grazing interests is secured by the prevention of overgrazing, by the prevention of damage to roads, trails, or water sources, by the proper bedding of sheep and goats, by the proper disposition of carcasses, by salting the stock and by the proper observation of the national and state live stock and quarantine laws. When an owner, who has a permit, is ready to drive in his stock upon the National Forest he must notify the nearest Forest officer concerning the number to be driven in. If called upon to do so he must provide for having his stock counted before entering a National Forest. Each permittee must repair all damage to roads or trails caused by the presence of his stock. Sheep and goats are not allowed to be bedded more than three nights in succession in the same place (except during the lambing season) and must not be bedded within 300 yards of any running or living spring. The carcasses of all animals which die on the National Forests from contagious or infectious diseases must be burned and are not permitted to lie in the close vicinity of water. In order to facilitate the handling of stock and prevent their straying off their range, they must be salted at regular intervals and at regular places. In order to facilitate the moving of stock by stockmen from their home ranches to their grazing allotments and to minimize the damage of grazing animals to the Forests, stock driveways are established over regular routes of travel. SPECIAL USES All uses of National Forest lands and resources permitted by the Secretary of Agriculture, except those specifically provided for in the regulations covering water power, timber sales, timber settlement, the free use of timber, and grazing, are designated "special uses." Among these are the use or occupancy of lands for residences, farms, apiaries, dairies, schools, churches, stores, mills, factories, hotels, sanitariums, summer resorts, telephone and telegraph lines, roads and railways; the occupancy of lands for dams, reservoirs and conduits not used for power purposes; and the use of stone, sand, and gravel. No charge is made for a large number of these permits, some of which are the following: (1) agricultural use by applicants having preference rights under the Act of June 11, 1906; (2) schools, churches, and cemeteries; (3) cabins for the use of miners, prospectors, trappers, and stockmen in connection with grazing permits; (4) saw mills sawing principally National Forest timber; (5) conduits, and reservoirs for irrigation or mining or for municipal water supply; (6) roads and trails (which must be free public highways); (7) telephone lines and telegraph lines with free use of poles and connections for the Forest Service. The occupancy and use of National Forest land or resources under a special use permit (except those given free of charge) are conditioned upon the payment of a charge and are based upon certain rates. Agricultural use of land is given to permittees at a charge of from 25 cents to $1.00 an acre. Not over 160 acres are allowed to any one permittee. Cabins cost from $3.00 to $5.00; hay cutting from 20 to 50 cents an acre; hotels and roadhouses from $10.00 to $50.00; pastures from 4 to 25 cents per acre; residences covering from one to three acres cost from $5.00 to $25.00; resorts from $10.00 to $50.00; stores from $5.00 to $50.00 for two acres or less; and other uses in proportion. Perhaps the use that is purchased most of all on the National Forests is that for residences and summer homes. On many of the Forests they are already in great demand. A large proportion of the population of the far Western States seek the cool and invigorating air of the mountains in the early summer because the heat of the valleys, especially in California, is almost unbearable. There are many desirable pieces of land on the National Forests that are being reserved by the Forest Service especially for this purpose for the people of the neighboring towns. For example, on the Angeles National Forest in California the Supervisor had about 250 suitable sites surveyed in one picturesque canyon and in six months 226 of them were under special use permits as summer homes. A large reservoir--Huntington Lake--was constructed on the Sierra National Forest in California as the result of a dam constructed by a hydro-electric power company. Immediately there was a keen demand among the residents of San Joaquin Valley for summer homes on the shores of the lake. In a few years it is expected there will be a permanent summer colony of from 2,000 to 3,000 people. The Forest Service has already authorized an expenditure of $1,500 in order to furnish an adequate supply of domestic water for the colony. CLAIMS AND SETTLEMENT Claims can be initiated upon National Forest lands under (1) the Act of June 11, 1906, (2) under the mining laws, and (3) under the coal land laws. In connection with these claims it is the duty of the Forest Service to examine them, but the determination of questions involving title is within the jurisdiction of the Secretary of the Interior. It is the purpose of the Forest Service to protect the lands of the United States within the National Forests from acquisition by those who do not seek them for purposes recognized by law. When it is apparent that an entry or a claim is not initiated in good faith and in compliance with the spirit of the law under which it was asserted, but is believed from the facts to be a subterfuge to acquire title to timber land, or to control range privileges, water, a water-power site, or rights of way; or if it otherwise interferes with the interests of the National Forests in any way, the Forest Service recommends a contest, even if the technical requirements of the law appear to have been fulfilled. It is bad faith, for instance, to hold a mining or agricultural claim primarily for the timber thereon or to acquire a site valuable for water power development. _The National Forest Homestead Act._ At the present time there is very little, if any, fraud connected with the Forest Homestead Act because the land is classified before it is opened to entry. The greater part of the work dealing with fraudulent claims is a relic of the old régime. Before the Forests were established many Homestead and Timber and Stone entries were made for the purpose of securing valuable timber. A large number of persons resorted to settlement in order to secure the preference right. It was the common custom in those days for land cruisers to locate men on heavily timbered land either before or immediately after survey and before the filing of the plats and the opening of the land to entry. A cabin would be built upon the land and some unsubstantial improvements made. When the National Forests were created they contained great numbers of these squatters' cabins. Many were abandoned but others attempted to secure title. Under the old Timber and Stone Act timber could be secured for $2.50 per acre, but the National Forests are not subject to entry under this act. So as a last resort the squatters tried to prove up on the land under the Homestead law. When the Forests were created the Service found a great many of these fraudulent claims on their books, many of which were being brought up annually for patent. Between December, 1908, and June 30, 1913, a total of 498 entries for National Forest land were canceled in a single administrative district. These entries represented fraudulent efforts to secure title to 85,906 acres of National Forest land for speculative purposes, involving nearly a billion feet of merchantable timber. During the fiscal year 1913 alone 300,000,000 board feet of merchantable timber in one district was retained in public ownership primarily because the Forest officers brought out the facts. The lands in all cases were covered with heavy stands of timber, very small portions of the land had been cleared, the claimant's residence on the land was not in compliance with the law, seldom was any crop raised on the land, and the claimant in other ways did not carry out the intent of the law. The Act of June 11, 1906, known as the National Forest Homestead Act, provides for the acquisition by qualified entrymen of agricultural lands within National Forests. The Act is in effect an extension of the general provisions of the Homestead laws to the agricultural lands within the National Forests, with the essential difference that the land must be classified by the Secretary of Agriculture as chiefly valuable for agriculture. This Act authorizes the Secretary of Agriculture in his discretion to examine and ascertain, upon application or otherwise, the location and extent of lands both surveyed and unsurveyed in the National Forests, chiefly valuable for agriculture, which may be occupied for agricultural purposes without injury to the National Forests or public interests. He is authorized to list and describe such lands by metes and bounds or otherwise and to file such lists and descriptions with the Secretary of the Interior for opening to entry in accordance with the provisions of the Act. Agricultural lands listed by the Secretary of Agriculture are opened by the Secretary of the Interior to homestead entry in tracts not exceeding 160 acres at the expiration of 60 days from the filing of the lists in the local Land Office. Notice of the filing of the list is posted in the local Land Office and is published for a period of not less than four weeks in a local newspaper. The Act provides that the person upon whose application the land is examined and listed, if a qualified entryman, shall have the preference right of entry. To exercise this preference right, application to enter must be filed in the local Land Office within 60 days after the filing of the list in that office. The entryman can perfect his title to the land within a certain period of years by fulfilling certain conditions of residence and cultivation. By the Act of June 6, 1912, known as the "Three Year Homestead Act," the period of residence necessary to be shown in order to entitle a person to patent under the Homestead laws is reduced from 5 to 3 years and the period within which a homestead entry may be completed is reduced from 7 to 5 years. The new law requires the claimant to cultivate not less than 1/16 of the area of his entry beginning with the second year of entry and not less than 1/8 beginning with the third year and until final proof, except that in the case of the enlarged Homestead laws, double the areas given are required. On a 160-acre claim, therefore, it is required that 1/8 or 20 acres be under cultivation. A mere breaking of the soil does not meet the requirements of the statute, but such breaking of the soil must be accompanied by planting and sowing of seed and tillage for a crop other than native grasses. The period within which the cultivation should be made is reckoned from the date of the entry. The Secretary of the Interior, however, is authorized upon a satisfactory showing therefor to reduce the required area of cultivation on account of financial disabilities or misfortunes of the entryman or on account of special physical and climatic conditions of the land which make cultivation difficult. The entryman must establish an actual residence upon the land entered, 6 months after the date of the entry. After the establishment of residence the entryman is permitted to be absent from the land for one continuous period of not more than 5 months in each year following. He must also file at the local Land Office notice of the beginning of such intended absence. _The Mining Laws._ Mineral deposits within National Forests are open to development exactly as on unreserved public land. A prospector can go anywhere he chooses and stake a claim wherever he finds any evidences of valuable minerals. The only restriction is that mining claims must be bona fide ones and not taken up for the purpose of acquiring valuable timber or a town or a water power site, or to monopolize the water supply of a stock range. Prospectors may obtain a certain amount of National Forest timber free of charge to be used in developing their claims. More than 500 mining claims are patented within the National Forests every fiscal year. A good example of mining claims located for fraudulent purposes were those located on the rim and sides of the Grand Canyon in Arizona to prevent the people from gaining free access to the canyon and make them pay to enter it. These claims were shown to be fraudulent since no deposits of any kind were ever found on them. They were canceled by the higher courts and the land reverted to the people. _Coal-Land Laws._ Coal lands are mineral lands and as such are subject to entry the same as other mineral lands in the National Forests. ADMINISTRATIVE USE OF NATIONAL FOREST LANDS Lands within National Forests may be selected for administrative uses such as Supervisor's and Ranger's headquarters, gardens, pastures, corrals, planting or nursery sites or rights-of-way. These administrative sites are necessary for the present and probable future requirements of the Forest Service for fire protection and the transaction of business on the National Forests. WATER POWER, TELEPHONE, TELEGRAPH, AND POWER TRANSMISSION LINES Along the streams within the National Forests are many sites suitable for power development. These are open to occupancy for such purposes and have the advantage of being on streams whose headwaters are protected. The aggregate capacity of the water power sites on the National Forests is estimated at 12,000,000 horsepower. [Illustration: Figure 77. North Clear Creek Falls, Rio Grande National Forest, Colorado. The National Forests contain about one-third of all the potential water-power resources of the United States.] [Illustration: Figure 78. The power plant of the Colorado Power Company, on the Grand River, Holy Cross National Forest, Colorado. Every fiscal year there is a substantial increase in water power development on the National Forests.] The Government does not permit the monopolization of power in any region or allow sites to be held for speculative purposes. The objects of the regulations are to secure prompt and full development and to obtain a reasonable compensation for the use of the land occupied and the beneficial protection given the watershed. Permits for power development on the National Forests usually run for a term of 50 years and may be renewed at their expiration upon compliance with the regulations then existing. Such permits, while granting liberal terms to applicants, contain ample provision for the protection of the public interests. Applications for power permits are filed with the District Forester of the Forest Service District in which the desired site is located. Preliminary permits are issued to protect an applicant's priority against subsequent applicants until he has had an opportunity to study the proper location and design of the project and to obtain the data necessary for the final application. Operation is allowed under the final permit only. The permittee is required to pay an annual rental charge under the preliminary and final power permits and definite periods are specified for the filing of the final application, beginning of construction and of operation. The rental charges are nominal in amount, the maximum being about 1/16 of a cent per kilowatt hour. The amount of annual payment for transmission lines is $5.00 for each mile or fraction thereof if National Forest land is crossed by the line. No rental charges are made for small power projects (under 100 horsepower capacity), or for transmission lines used in connection therewith, or for transmission lines which are part of a power project under permit or for any power project in which power is to be used by a municipal corporation for municipal purposes. The Secretary of Agriculture has authority to permit the use of rights-of-way through the National Forests for conduits, reservoirs, power plants, telephone and telegraph lines to be used for irrigation, mining, and domestic purposes and for the production and transmission of electric power. No rental charges are made for the telephone and telegraph rights-of-way, but the applicant must agree to furnish such facilities to Forest officers and to permit such reasonable use of its poles or lines as may be determined or agreed upon between the applicant and the District Forester. [Illustration: Figure 79. This is only one of the thousands of streams in the National Forests of the West capable of generating electric power. It has been estimated that over 40 per cent. of the water power resources of the western states are included in the National Forests. Photo by the author.] [Illustration: Figure 80. View in the famous orange belt of San Bernardino County, California. These orchards depend absolutely upon irrigation. The watersheds from which the necessary water comes are in the National Forests and are protected by the Forest Service. Some of the smaller watersheds in these mountains are said to irrigate orchards valued at $10,000,000.] APPENDIX TABLE OF LAND AREAS WITHIN THE NATIONAL FOREST BOUNDARIES June 30, 1917 Key: DN=District Number -------------------+--------------+-----------+-----------+----------- | Headquarters | National | Patented | Total State and | of | Forest | and other | area Forest | Forest | Land | lands | (acres) DN | Supervisor | (acres) | (acres) | -------------------+--------------+-----------+-----------+----------- ALASKA | | | | Chugach 6 |Ketchikan | 5,418,753 | 113,682 | 5,532,435 Tongass 6 |Ketchikan |15,451,716 | 29,284 | 15,481,000 ARIZONA | | | | Apache 3 |Springerville | 1,182,782 | 93,618 | 1,276,400 Chiricahua[1] 3 |Tucson | 348,157 | 10,691 | 358,848 Coconino 3 |Flagstaff | 1,601,598 | 161,799 | 1,763,397 Coronado 3 |Tucson | 959,304 | 39,676 | 998,980 Crook 3 |Safford | 870,130 | 14,870 | 885,000 Dixie[1] 4 |St. George, | | | | Utah | 17,680 | | 17,680 Kaibab 4 |Kanab, Utah | 1,072,375 | 525 | 1,072,900 Manzano[1] 3 |Albuquerque, | | | | N. M. | 27,708 | 29,724 | 57,432 Prescott 3 |Prescott | 1,433,366 | 186,589 | 1,619,955 Sitgreaves 3 |Snowflake | 659,337 | 234,883 | 893,720 Tonto 3 |Roosevelt | 1,994,239 | 39,521 | 2,033,760 Tusayan 3 |Williams | 1,602,750 | 186,068 | 1,788,818 ARKANSAS | | | | Arkansas 7 |Hot Springs | 626,746 | 331,544 | 958,290 Ozark 7 |Harrison | 291,840 | 237,338 | 529,178 CALIFORNIA | | | | Angeles 5 |Los Angeles | 820,980 | 240,723 | 1,061,703 California 5 |Oriental | 807,444 | 255,178 | 1,062,622 Cleveland 5 |Escondido | 547,981 | 265,635 | 813,616 Crater[1] 6 |Medford, Ore. | 46,977 | 10,045 | 57,022 Eldorado[1] 5 |Placerville | 549,392 | 286,408 | 835,800 Inyo[1] 5 |Bishop | 1,269,980 | 67,800 | 1,337,780 Klamath[1] 5 |Yreka | 1,470,841 | 263,824 | 1,734,665 Lassen 5 |Red Bluff | 936,877 | 384,466 | 1,321,343 Modoc 5 |Alturas | 1,182,986 | 399,873 | 1,532,859 Mono[1] 5 |Gardnerville, | | | | Nev. | 784,620 | 90,241 | 874,861 Monterey 5 |King City | 316,058 | 44,436 | 360,494 Plumas 5 |Quincy | 1,144,835 | 288,025 | 1,432,860 Santa Barbara 5 |Santa Barbara | 1,688,571 | 239,723 | 1,928,294 Sequoia 5 |Bakersfield | 2,194,926 | 274,344 | 2,469,270 Shasta 5 |Sisson | 803,448 | 783,432 | 1,586,880 Sierra 5 |Northfork | 1,489,934 | 172,626 | 1,662,560 Siskiyou[1] 6 |Grants Pass, | | | | Ore. | 349,069 | 52,726 | 401,795 Stanislaus 5 |Sonora | 810,399 | 294,013 | 1,104,412 Tahoe 5 |Nevada City | 542,226 | 666,851 | 1,209,077 Trinity 5 |Weaverville | 1,430,547 | 315,600 | 1,746,147 COLORADO | | | | Arapaho 2 |Hot Sulphur | | | | Springs | 634,903 | 46,371 | 681,274 Battlement 2 |Collbran | 651,227 | 26,113 | 677,340 Cochetopa 2 |Saguache | 905,723 | 24,497 | 930,220 Colorado 2 |Fort Collins | 847,328 | 302,266 | 1,149,594 Durango 2 |Durango | 614,129 | 89,871 | 704,000 Gunnison 2 |Gunnison | 908,055 | 43,255 | 951,310 Hayden[1] 2 |Encampment, | | | | Wyo. | 65,598 | 6,402 | 72,000 Holy Cross 2 |Glenwood | | | | Springs | 576,905 | 28,795 | 605,700 La Sal[1] 4 |Moab, Utah | 27,444 | 176 | 27,620 Leadville 2 |Leadville | 934,017 | 122,503 | 1,056,520 Montezuma 2 |Mancos | 700,082 | 112,018 | 812,100 Pike 2 |Denver | 1,080,381 | 175,731 | 1,256,112 Rio Grande 2 |Monte Vista | 1,136,884 | 84,256 | 1,221,140 Routt 2 |Steamboat | | | | Springs | 833,459 | 86,487 | 919,946 San Isabel 2 |Westcliffe | 598,912 | 52,288 | 651,200 San Juan 2 |Pagosa Spgs. | 617,995 | 127,005 | 745,000 Sopris 2 |Aspen | 596,986 | 59,014 | 656,000 Uncampahgre 2 |Delta | 790,349 | 77,511 | 867,860 White River 2 |Meeker | 848,018 | 23,012 | 871,030 FLORIDA | | | | Florida 7 |Pensacola | 308,268 | 367,152 | 675,420 IDAHO | | | | Boise 4 |Boise | 1,058,941 | 59,173 | 1,118,114 Cache[1] 4 |Logan, Utah | 513,617 | 31,447 | 545,064 Caribou[1] 4 |Montpelier | 681,540 | 30,090 | 711,630 Challis 4 |Challis | 1,259,237 | 10,753 | 1,269,990 Clearwater 1 |Orofino | 785,103 | 122,743 | 907,846 Coeur d'Alene | | | | d'Alene 1 |Coeur d'Alene | 662,611 | 127,623 | 790,234 Idaho 4 |McCall | 1,193,439 | 15,841 | 1,209,280 Kaniksu[1] 1 |Newport, | | | | Wash. | 198,757 | 260,220 | 458,977 Lemhi 4 |Mackay | 1,095,924 | 4,638 | 1,100,562 Minidoka[1] 4 |Oakley | 509,536 | 21,584 | 531,120 Nezperce 1 |Grangeville | 1,624,582 | 41,497 | 1,666,079 Palisade[1] 4 |St. Anthony | 283,495 | 9,820 | 293,315 Payette 4 |Emmett | 831,926 | 31,748 | 863,674 Pend Oreille 1 |Sandpoint | 676,014 | 198,724 | 874,738 St. Joe 1 |St. Maries | 493,925 | 481,743 | 975,668 Salmon 4 |Salmon | 1,621,707 | 21,653 | 1,643,360 Sawtooth 4 |Hailey | 1,203,387 | 16,743 | 1,220,130 Selway 1 |Kooskia | 1,693,711 | 108,289 | 1,802,000 Targhee[1] 4 |St. Anthony | 283,495 | 9,820 | 293,315 Weiser 4 |Weiser | 562,609 | 98,291 | 660,900 MICHIGAN | | | | Michigan 2 |East Tawas | 89,466 | 74,412 | 163,878 MINNESOTA | | | | Minnesota 2 |Cass Lake | 190,602 | 121,874 | 312,476 Superior 2 |Ely | 857,255 | 411,283 | 1,268,538 MONTANA | | | | Absaroka 1 |Livingston | 842,467 | 145,243 | 987,710 Beartooth 1 |Billings | 662,537 | 19,393 | 681,930 Beaverhead 1 |Dillon | 1,337,223 | 27,777 | 1,365,000 Bitterroot 1 |Missoula | 1,047,012 | 108,856 | 1,155,868 Blackfeet 1 |Kalispell | 865,077 | 202,013 | 1,067,090 Cabinet 1 |Thompson | | | | Falls | 830,676 | 195,874 | 1,026,550 Custer 1 |Miles City | 428,922 | 83,888 | 512,810 Deerlodge 1 |Anaconda | 833,178 | 130,822 | 964,000 Flathead 1 |Kalispell | 1,802,905 | 285,815 | 2,088,720 Gallatin 1 |Bozeman | 564,855 | 344,575 | 909,430 Helena 1 |Helena | 687,983 | 232,497 | 920,480 Jefferson 1 |Great Falls | 1,039,766 | 135,919 | 1,175,685 Kootenai 1 |Libby | 1,336,061 | 287,279 | 1,623,340 Lewis and | | | | Clark 1 |Chouteau | 811,161 | 15,199 | 826,360 Lolo 1 |Missoula | 850,677 | 330,341 | 1,181,018 Madison 1 |Sheridan | 958,691 | 77,169 | 1,035,860 Missoula 1 |Missoula | 1,031,529 | 336,662 | 1,368,191 Sioux[1] 1 |Camp Crook, | | | | S. D. | 96,743 | 17,798 | 114,541 NEBRASKA | | | | Nebraska 2 |Halsey | 206,074 | 11,744 | 217,818 NEVADA | | | | Dixie[1] 4 |St. George, | | | | Utah | 282,543 | 7,807 | 290,350 Eldorado[1] 5 |Placerville, | | | | Cal. | 400 | | 400 Humboldt 4 |Elko | 690,562 | 35,978 | 726,546 Inyo[1] 5 |Bishop, Cal. | 72,817 | 2,513 | 75,330 Mono[1] 5 |Gardnerville | 464,315 | 19,204 | 483,519 Nevada 4 |Ely | 1,220,929 | 39,871 | 1,260,800 Ruby 4 |Elko | 342,405 | 91,165 | 433,570 Santa Rosa 4 |Elko | 269,658 | 30,302 | 299,960 Tahoe[1] 5 |Nevada City, | | | | Cal. | 14,853 | 47,274 | 62,127 Toiyabe 4 |Austin | 1,907,286 | 17,514 | 1,924,800 NEW MEXICO | | | | Alamo 3 |Alamogordo | 603,779 | 269,877 | 866,656 Carson 3 |Taos | 856,647 | 68,654 | 925,301 Chiricahua[1] 3 |Tucson, Ariz. | 126,478 | 2,674 | 129,152 Datil 3 |Magdalena | 2,670,412 | 270,790 | 2,941,202 Gila 3 |Silver City | 1,463,708 | 136,292 | 1,600,000 Lincoln 3 |Alamogordo | 551,427 | 81,540 | 632,967 Manzano[1] 3 |Albuquerque | 754,772 | 488,007 | 1,242,779 Santa Fé 3 |Santa Fe | 1,354,545 | 122,148 | 1,476,693 NORTH DAKOTA | | | | Dakota 1 |Camp Crook, | | | | S. D. | 6,054 | 7,866 | 13,920 OKLAHOMA | | | | Wichita 7 |Cache | 61,480 | 160 | 61,640 OREGON | | | | Cascade 6 |Eugene | 1,021,461 | 73,024 | 1,094,485 Crater[1] 6 |Medford | 793,044 | 286,281 | 1,079,325 Deschutes 6 |Bend | 1,292,423 | 217,437 | 1,509,860 Fremont 6 |Lakeview | 884,494 | 86,782 | 971,366 Klamath[1] 5 |Yreka, Cal. | 4,401 | 4,492 | 8,893 Malheur 6 |John Day | 1,057,682 | 205,158 | 1,262,840 Minam 6 |Baker | 430,757 | 49,056 | 479,813 Ochoco 6 |Prineville | 716,564 | 102,466 | 819,030 Oregon 6 |Portland | 1,031,926 | 108,994 | 1,140,920 Santiam 6 |Albany | 607,099 | 112,884 | 719,983 Siskiyou[1] 6 |Grants Pass | 998,044 | 257,206 | 1,255,250 Siuslaw 6 |Eugene | 544,178 | 289,263 | 833,441 Umatilla 6 |Pendleton | 485,786 | 79,199 | 564,985 Umpqua 6 |Roseburg | 1,011,097 | 210,294 | 1,221,391 Wallowa 6 |Wallowa | 964,601 | 104,810 | 1,069,411 Wenaha 6 |Walla Walla, | | | | Wash. | 425,504 | 36,540 | 461,954 Whitman 6 |Sumpter | 884,485 | 115,008 | 999,493 PORTO RICO | | | | Luquillo 7 |None | 12,443 | 53,507 | 65,950 SOUTH DAKOTA | | | | Black Hills[1] 2 |Deadwood | 483,403 | 118,608 | 602,011 Harney 2 |Custer | 548,854 | 79,093 | 627,947 Sioux[1] 1 |Camp Crook | 75,524 | 7,744 | 83,268 UTAH | | | | Ashley[1] 4 |Vernal | 982,493 | 9,607 | 992,100 Cache[1] 4 |Logan | 265,594 | 53,987 | 319,581 Dixie[1] 4 |St. George | 432,784 | 26,106 | 458,890 Fillmore 4 |Ritchfield | 699,579 | 79,711 | 779,290 Fishlake 4 |Salina | 661,245 | 62,145 | 723,390 La Sal[1] 4 |Moab | 519,384 | 16,286 | 535,670 Manti 4 |Ephraim | 781,800 | 65,070 | 846,870 Minidoka[1] 4 |Oakley, Idaho | 72,123 | 20,157 | 92,280 Powell 4 |Escalante | 689,927 | 14,773 | 704,700 Sevier 4 |Panguitch | 729,061 | 73,599 | 802,660 Uinta 4 |Provo | 988,602 | 54,533 | 1,043,135 Wasatch 4 |Salt Lake City| 607,492 | 56,913 | 664,405 WASHINGTON | | | | Chelan 6 |Chelan | 677,429 | 46,681 | 724,110 Columbia 6 |Portland, Ore.| 784,498 | 157,702 | 942,200 Colville 6 |Republic | 754,886 | 61,114 | 816,000 Kaniksu[1] 1 |Newport | 257,859 | 118,904 | 376,763 Okanogan 6 |Okanogan | 1,486,325 | 54,675 | 1,541,000 Olympic 1 |Olympia | 1,534,689 | 117,311 | 1,652,000 Rainier 6 |Tacoma | 1,315,891 | 245,579 | 1,561,470 Snoqualmie 6 |Seattle | 698,043 | 343,957 | 1,042,000 Washington 6 |Bellingham | 1,454,214 | 35,786 | 1,490,000 Wenaha[1] 6 |Walla Walla | 313,434 | 8,397 | 321,831 Wenatchee 6 |Leavenworth | 665,276 | 491,724 | 1,157,000 WYOMING | | | | Ashley[1] 4|Vernal, Utah | 5,987 | 73 | 6,060 Bighorn 2|Sheridan | 1,119,725 | 16,475 | 1,136,200 Black Hills[1] 2|Deadwood, S.D.| 144,759 | 34,362 | 179,121 Bridger 2|Pinedale | 710,570 | 7,407 | 717,977 Caribou[1] 4|Montpelier, | | | | Idaho | 6,547 | 813 | 7,360 Hayden[1] 2|Encampment | 322,175 | 43,445 | 365,620 Medicine Bow 2|Laramie | 469,786 | 41,596 | 511,382 Palisade[1] 4|St. Anthony, | | | | Idaho | 250,501 | 3,119 | 253,620 Shoshone 2|Cody | 1,576,043 | 32,957 | 1,609,000 Targhee[1] 4|St. Anthony, | | | | Idaho | 84,970 | 480 | 85,450 Teton 4|Jackson | 1,922,947 | 48,245 | 1,971,192 Washakie 2|Lander | 852,653 | 12,220 | 864,873 Wyoming 4|Afton | 899,980 | 12,020 | 912,000 | | | Aggregate for the 147 National | | | Forests |155,166,619|21,085,541 |176,252,160 ----------------------------------+-----------+-----------+----------- [1] Area of National Forest in more than one State. PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA * * * * * Transcriber's Notes: Simple typographical errors were corrected. Punctuation and spelling were made consistent when a predominant preference was found in this book; otherwise they were not changed. This text uses both 'Uncampahgre' and 'Uncompahgre'; the latter currently is the preferred spelling. Page 55 "sunlight; without it is useless." Probably should be "sunlight; without it, it is useless." 
41175	----	WOODLAND GLEANINGS. "Attractive is the Woodland scene, Diversified with trees of every growth-- Alike yet various.... * * * * * No tree in all the grove but has its charms." WOODLAND GLEANINGS: BEING AN ACCOUNT OF BRITISH FOREST-TREES, INDIGENOUS AND INTRODUCED. [Illustration] SECOND EDITION, REVISED AND ENLARGED, WITH SIXTY-FOUR ILLUSTRATIONS. LONDON: ADAM SCOTT, CHARTERHOUSE SQUARE. 1853. GLASGOW: W. G. BLACKIE AND CO., PRINTERS, VILLAFIELD. ADVERTISEMENT TO THE SECOND EDITION. To those who live in the country, or repair to it from our cities and towns for recreation or recruitment of health, we trust this will be an acceptable book, especially if they are unacquainted with Forest-trees. Our aim has been to produce a volume that will convey general and particular information respecting the timber-trees chiefly cultivated in the United Kingdom, to induce further inquiry respecting them, and to impart a new interest to the Woodland. To effect this we have briefly given their history and description, together with their botanical characters, remarks from our best authors on their habits and ornamental properties, on the usual mode of their cultivation, and on the value or utility of their timber. We have also introduced accounts of such remarkable trees as we considered of sufficient note to interest the general reader. It has been objected that a few species, not recognised as Forest-trees, have been included in this work; such as the Hawthorn, Holly, Mountain-Ash, and Wild Cherry. But as these have been likewise admitted into a subsequent work of greater pretensions, the reason there given by its author will be here equally sufficient:--"That though aware of the secondary rank of these trees in point of dimensions, when compared with the greater denizens of the Forest, he felt that the prominent station they occupy in the ornamental and picturesque departments of our native Sylvia, was sufficient to compensate for this defect, and to entitle them to the situation in which they have been placed." That the thirty-two species particularly described may be the more readily identified, and their botanical characters more easily understood, there has been given a well executed wood-cut representation of the usual growth and representation of each tree, and another of the leaves, flowers, and fruit. _July 1, 1853._ LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. PAGE 1. Alder 41 2. Leaves and Catkins 43 3. Ash 47 4. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 51 5. Beech 55 6. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 59 7. Birch 63 8. Leaves and Catkins 65 9. Cedar of Lebanon 69 10. Foliage, Cone, &c. 73 11. Chestnut 77 12. Leaves, Catkins, &c. 79 13. Elm 82 14. Leaves and Flowers 85 15. Hawthorn 92 16. Leaves, Blossom, and Fruit 95 17. Hazel 98 18. Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts 100 19. Holly 103 20. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 105 21. Hornbeam 109 22. Leaves, Catkins, and Fruit 111 23. Horse-Chestnut 114 24. Leaves, Flowers, &c. 117 25. Larch 122 26. Foliage, Catkins, &c. 125 27. Lime, or Linden 132 28. Leaves and Flowers 135 29. Maple 139 30. Leaves, Flowers, and Seeds 141 31. Mountain-Ash 145 32. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 147 33. Mulberry 152 34. Leaves and Fruits 155 35. Oak 158 36. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 161 37. Oriental Plane 189 38. Leaves, and Globes of Flowers 191 39. Occidental Plane 196 40. Leaves and Flowers 199 41. Poplar 201 42. (White) Leaves, Flowers, and Catkins 203 43. Scotch Fir or Pine 207 44. Foliage, Catkins, Cones, &c. 209 45. Silver Fir 217 46. Foliage and Cones 219 47. Spruce Fir 222 48. Foliage and Cones 225 49. Sycamore 227 50. Leaves, Flowers, and Samaræ 229 51. Walnut 233 52. Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts 235 53. Weymouth Pine 239 54. Foliage, Cones, &c. 241 55. Whitebeam 243 56. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 245 57. Wild Black Cherry 247 58. Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit 249 59. Wild Service 253 60. Leaves and Flowers 255 61. Willow 257 62. (Crack) Leaves and Catkins of _S. fragilis_ 263 63. Yew 269 64. Foliage, Leaves, and Fruit 271 INTRODUCTION. The forest teems With forms of majesty and beauty; some, As the light poplar, wave with every sigh Of zephyr, and some scarcely bend their heads For very mightiness, when wintry storms Are maddening the sea! Carrington. Delightful Edlington! how we love to saunter up and down the broad and verdant pathway that traverses thy wild domain. There, amid the deep imbosomed thickets, we feel that we are in "the haunts of meditation"--we feel that these are, indeed, The scenes where ancient bards th' inspiring breath Ecstatic felt; And wish that the kind muses that them inspired would cast their united mantles over us, and aid us to sing the beauties of the woodland. But no friendly spirit deigns to tune our lyre; we are condemned to dull prose, and are permitted only here and there to call in some bard of old to aid our feeble efforts. Woodland! yea, the very name seems to revive recollections of delightful solitude--of calm and holy feelings, when the world has been, for the time, completely banished from its throne--the throne of the human heart, which, alas! it too commonly occupies. O, how agreeable and pleasant is the woodland, when the trees are half clad with their green attire! How refreshing is the appearance of the tender leaf-bud, emerging from its sheath, just visible upon the dingy gray branches, those of one tree being generally a little in advance of others! We have never yet met with that insensate being whose heart is not elated at the sight. And to look, at this time, upon the vast assemblage of giant trees, whose skeleton, character, and figure may now be plainly traced. The dense foliage does not obscure them now, but they are beheld in all their majesty. "If the contrast of gray and mossy branches," says Howitt, "and of the delicate richness of young leaves gushing out of them in a thousand places be inexpressibly delightful to behold, that of one tree with another is not the less so. One is nearly full clothed; another is mottled with gray and green, struggling, as it were, which should have the predominance, and another is still perfectly naked. The pines look dim dusky amid the lively hues of spring. The abeles are covered with their clusters of alliescent and powdery leaves and withering catkins; and beneath them the pale spathes of the arum, fully expanded and displaying their crimson clubs, presenting a sylvan and unique air." In Sweden, the budding and leafing of the birch-tree is considered as a directory for sowing barley; and as there is something extremely sublime and harmonious in the idea, we flatter ourselves an account of it here will be acceptable. Mr. Harold Barck, in his ingenious dissertation upon the foliation of trees, informs us, that Linnæus had, in the most earnest manner, exhorted his countrymen to observe, with all care and diligence, at what time each tree expanded its buds and unfolded its leaves; imagining, and not without reason, that his country would, some time or other, reap some new and perhaps unexpected benefit from observations of this kind made in different places. As one of the apparent advantages, he advises the prudent husbandman to watch, with the greatest care, the proper time for sowing; because this, with the Divine assistance, produces plenty of provision, and lays the foundation of the public welfare of the state, and of the private happiness of the people. The ignorant farmer, tenacious of the ways and customs of his ancestors, fixes his sowing season generally to a month, and sometimes to a particular week, without considering whether the earth be in a proper state to receive the seed; from whence it frequently happens, that what the sower sowed with sweat, the reaper reaps with sorrow. The wise economist should therefore endeavour to fix upon certain signs, whereby to judge of the proper time for sowing. We see trees open their buds and expand their leaves, from whence we conclude that spring approaches, and experience supports us in the conclusion; but nobody has as yet been able to show us what trees Providence has intended should be our calendar, so that we might know on what day the countryman ought to sow his grain. No one can deny but that the same power which brings forth the leaves of trees, will also make the grain vegetate; nor can any one assert that a premature sowing will always, and in every place, accelerate a ripe harvest. Perhaps, therefore, we cannot promise ourselves a happy success by any means so likely, as by taking our rule for sowing from the leafing of trees. We must for that end observe in what order every tree puts forth its leaves according to its species, the heat of the atmosphere, and the quality of the soil. Afterwards, by comparing together the observations of the several years, it will not be difficult to determine from the foliation of the trees, if not certainly, at least probably, the time when annual plants ought to be sown. It will be necessary, likewise, to remark what sowings made in different parts of the spring produce the best crops, in order that, by comparing these with the leafing of trees, it may appear which is the most proper time for sowing. The temperature of the season, with respect to heat and cold, drought and wet, differing in every year, experiments made one year cannot, with certainty, determine for the following. They may assist, but cannot be conclusive. The hints of Linnæus, however, constitute a universal rule, as trees and shrubs, bud, leaf, and flower, shed their leaves in every country, according to the difference of the seasons. Mr. Stillingfleet is the only person that has made correct observations upon the foliation of the trees and shrubs of this kingdom. The following is his calendar, which was made in Norfolk, in 1765:-- 1 Honeysuckle January 15 2 Gooseberry March 11 3 Currant " 11 4 Elder " 11 5 Birch April 1 6 Weeping Willow " 1 7 Raspberry " 3 8 Bramble " 3 9 Briar " 4 10 Plum " 6 11 Apricot " 6 12 Peach " 6 13 Filbert " 7 14 Sallow " 7 15 Alder " 7 16 Sycamore " 9 17 Elm " 10 18 Quince " 10 19 Marsh Elder " 11 20 Wych Elm " 12 21 Mountain-Ash " 13 22 Hornbeam " 13 23 Apple-tree " 14 24 Abele " 16 25 Chestnut " 16 26 Willow " 17 27 Oak " 18 28 Lime " 18 29 Maple " 19 30 Walnut " 21 31 Plane " 21 32 Black Poplar " 21 33 Beech " 21 34 Acacia Robinia " 21 35 Ash " 22 36 Carolina Poplar " 22 In different years, and in different soils and expositions, these trees and shrubs vary as to their leafing; but they are invariable as to their succession, being bound down to it by nature herself. A farmer, therefore, who would use this sublime idea of Linnæus, should diligently mark the time of budding, leafing, and flowering of different plants. He should also put down the days on which his respective grains were sown; and, by comparing these two tables for a number of years, he will be enabled to form an exact calendar for his spring corn. An attention to the discolouring and falling of the leaves of plants, will assist him in sowing his winter grain, and teach him how to guess at the approach of winter. Towards the end of September, which is the best season for sowing wheat, he will find the leaves of various trees as follows:-- Plane-tree, tawny. Oak, yellowish green. Hazel, yellow. Sycamore, dirty brown. Maple, pale yellow. Ash, fine lemon. Elm, orange. Hawthorn, tawny yellow. Cherry, red. Hornbeam, bright yellow. There is a certain kind of genial warmth which the earth should enjoy at the time the seed is sown. The budding, leafing, and flowering of plants, seem to indicate this happy temperature of the earth. Appearances of this sublime nature may be compared to the writing upon the wall, which was seen by many, but understood by few. They seem to constitute a kind of harmonious intercourse between God and man, and are the silent language of the Deity. Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets, hail! Ye lofty pines! ye venerable oaks! Ye ashes wild, resounding o'er the steep! Delicious is your shelter to the soul! Yes, indeed, the woodland is an ever-pleasant place. There we may couch ourselves upon the mossy bank, and listen to the murmuring "brook that bubbles by," or to the sweet sounds that issue from Every warbling throat Heard in the tuneful woodlands. Yea, truly, There, plunged amid the shadows brown, Imagination lays him down, Attentive, in his airy mood, To every murmur of the wood; The bee in yonder flowery nook, The chidings of the headlong brook, The green leaf shivering in the gale, The warbling hills, the lowing vale, The distant woodman's echoing stroke, The thunder of the falling oak. Carlos Wilcox sings so sweetly of vernal melody in the forest, that we shall favour our readers with his song: With sonorous notes Of every tone, mixed in confusion sweet, All chanted in the fulness of delight, The forest rings. Where, far around enclosed With bushy sides, and covered high above With foliage thick, supported by bare trunks, Like pillars rising to support a roof, It seems a temple vast, the space within Rings loud and clear with thrilling melody. Apart, but near the choir, with voice distinct, The merry mocking-bird together links In one continued song their different notes, Adding new life and sweetness to them all: Hid under shrubs, the squirrel, that in fields Frequents the stony wall, and briery fence, Here chirps so shrill that human feet approach Unheard till just upon him, when, with cries, Sudden and sharp, he darts to his retreat, Beneath the mossy hillock or aged tree; But oft, a moment after, re-appears, First peeping out, then starting forth at once With a courageous air, yet in his pranks Keeping a watchful eye, nor venturing far Till left unheeded. As the summer advances, forest-trees assume a beautiful variety. The Oak has "spread its amber leaves out in the sunny sheen;" the ash, the maple, the beech, and the sycamore are each clad in delicate vestures of green; and the dark perennial firs are enlivened and enriched by the young shoots and the cones of lighter hue. "In the middle of summer," observes Howitt, "it is the very carnival of Nature, and she is prodigal of her luxuries." It is luxury to walk abroad, indulging every sense with sweetness, loveliness, and harmony. It is luxury to stand beneath the forest side, when all is still and basking, at noon; and to see the landscape suddenly darken, the black and tumultuous clouds assemble as at a signal; to hear the awful thunder crash upon the listening ear; and then, to mark the glorious bow rise on the lurid rear of the tempest, the sun laugh jocundly abroad, and every bathed leaf and blossom fair, Pour out its soul to the delicious air. But of the seasons autumn is the most pleasant for a woodland ramble. The depth of gloom, the silence, the wild cries that are heard flitting to and fro; the falling leaves already rustling to the tread, and strewing the forest walk, render it particularly pleasant. "And then those breaks; those openings; those sudden emergings from shadow and silence to light and liberty; those unexpected comings out to the skirts of the forest, or to some wild and heathy tract in the very depth of the woodlands! How pleasant is the thought of it!" The appearance of woods in autumn is indeed more picturesque, and more replete with incidental beauty than at any season of the year. So evident is this, that painters have universally chosen it as the season of landscape. The leafy surface of the forest is then so varied, and the masses of foliage are yet so full, that they allow the artist great latitude in producing his tints, without injuring the breadth of his lights. --The fading, many-coloured woods, Shade deepening over-shade, the country round Imbrown; a varied umbrage, dusk and dun, Of every hue, from wan declining green To sooty dark. Of all the hues of autumn, those of the oak are commonly the most harmonious. In an oaken wood, you see every variety of green and brown, owing either to the different exposure of the tree, the difference of the soil, or its own nature. In the beechen grove, this variety is not to be found. In early autumn, when the extremities of the trees are slightly tinged with orange, it may be partially produced; but late the eye is usually fatigued with one deep monotonous shade of orange, though perhaps it is the most beautiful among all the hues of autumn. And this uniformity prevails wherever the ash and elm abound, though of a different hue; and, indeed, no fading foliage excepting that of the oak, produces harmony of colouring. Even when the beauty of the landscape has departed, the charms of autumn may remain. When the raging heat of summer is abated, and ere the rigours of winter are set in, there are frequent days of such heavenly temperature, that every mind must feel their effect. Thomson thus describes a day of this kind: The morning shines Serene, in all its dewy beauties bright, Unfolding fair the last autumnal day, O'er all the soul its sacred influence breathes; Inflames imagination, through the breast Infuses every tenderness, and far Beyond dim earth exalts the swelling thought. We now proceed to give a detailed notice of some of the component parts of the woodland scenery, beginning with the single tree. We feel no hesitation in calling a tree the grandest and most beautiful of all the various productions of the earth. In respect to its grandeur, nothing can compete with it; for the everlasting rocks and lofty mountains are parts of the earth itself. And though we find great beauty--beauty at once perceptible and ever-varying, and consequently more universally felt and appreciated--among plants of an inferior order--among shrubs and flowers, yet these latter may be considered beautiful rather as individuals, for as they are not adapted to form the arrangement of composition in landscape, nor to receive the effect of light and shade, they must give place in point of beauty--of picturesque beauty at least--to the form, and foliage, and ramification of the tree. The tree, however, we do not place in competition with animal life. "The shape, the different coloured furs, the varied and spirited attitudes, the character and motion, which strike us in the animal creation, are unquestionably beyond still life in its most pleasing appearance." With regard to trees, nature has been more liberal to them in point of variety, than even to its living forms. "Though every animal is distinguished from its fellow, by some little variation of colour, character, or shape; yet in all the larger parts, in the body and limbs, the resemblance is generally exact. In trees, it is just the reverse: the smaller parts, the spray, the leaves, the blossom, and the seed, are the same in all trees of the same kind; while the larger parts, from which the most beautiful varieties result, are wholly different." For instance, you never see two oaks with the same number of limbs, the same kind of head, and twisted in the same form. When young, trees, like striplings, shoot into taper forms. There is a lightness and an airiness about them, which is pleasing; but they do not spread and receive their just proportions, until they have attained their full growth. There is as much difference, too, in trees--that is, in trees of the same kind--in point of beauty, as there is in human figures. The limbs of some are set on awkwardly, their trunks are disproportioned, and their whole form is unpleasing. The same rules, which establish elegance in other objects, establish it in these. There must be the same harmony of parts, the same sweeping line, the same contrast, the same ease and freedom. A bough, indeed, may issue from the trunk at right angles, and yet elegantly, as it frequently does in the oak; but it must immediately form some contrasting sweep, or the junction will be awkward. Generally speaking, trees when lapped and trimmed into fastidious shapes, become ugly and displeasing. Thus clipped yews, lime hedges, and pollards, being rendered unnatural in form, are disagreeable; though sometimes a pollard produces a good effect, when Nature has been suffered, after some years, to bring it again into shape. Lightness is a characteristic of beauty in a tree; for though there are beautiful trees of a heavy, as well as of a light form, yet their extremities must in some parts be separated, and hang with a degree of looseness from the fulness of the foliage, which occupies the middle of the tree, or the whole will only be a large bush. From position, indeed, and contrast, heaviness, though in itself a deformity, may be of singular use in the composition both of natural and of artificial landscape. A tree must be well balanced to be beautiful, for it may have form and lightness, and yet lose its effect from not being properly poised; though occasionally beauty may be found in an unbalanced tree, yet this must be caused by some peculiarity in its situation. For instance, when hanging over a rock, if altogether unpoised, it may be beautiful; or bending over a road, its effect may be good. We have often admired the massy trunk of an aged forest oak; and Gilpin says he frequently examined the varied tints which enriched its furrowed stem. The genuine bark of an oak is ash-coloured, though it is not easy to distinguish this, from the quantity of moss which overspreads it; for we suppose every oak has more or less of these picturesque appendages. About the roots there is a green velvet moss, which is found in a greater degree to occupy the hole of the beech, though its beauty and brilliancy lose much when in decay. As the trunk rises, you see the brimstone colour taking possession in patches. Of this there are two principal kinds: a smooth sort, which spreads like a scurf over the bark, and a rougher sort, which hangs in little rich knots and fringes. This sometimes inclines to an olive hue, and occasionally to a light-green. Intermixed with these mosses is frequently found a species perfectly white. Here and there, a touch of it gives lustre to the trunk, and has its effect; yet, on the whole, it is a nuisance, for as it generally begins to thrive when the other mosses begin to wither, it is rarely accompanied with any of the more beautiful species of its kind. This is a sure sign that the vigour of the tree is declining. There is another species of a dark brown colour, inclining to black; another of an ashy colour; and another of a dingy yellow. Touches of red are also observable, and occasionally, though rarely, a bright yellow, which is like a gleam of sunshine. These add a great richness to the trees, and when blended harmoniously, as they commonly are, the rough and furrowed trunk of an oak, thus adorned, is an object which will long detain the picturesque eye. These and other incidental appendages to a tree are greatly subservient to the uses of the pencil, and the poet will now and then deign to deck his trees with these ornaments. He sometimes calls into being some mighty agent, as guardian of the woods, who cries out, From Jove I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower. I nurse my saplings tall; and cleanse their rind From vegetating filth of every kind; And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill. The blasted tree adds much to effect, both in artificial and natural landscape. In some scenes it is nearly essential. When the dreary heath is spread before the eye, and ideas of wildness and desolation are required, what more suitable accompaniment can be imagined, than the blasted oak, ragged, scathed, and leafless, shooting its peeled white branches athwart the gathering blackness of some rising storm? As when heaven's fire Hath scathed the forest oak, or mountain pine, With singed top its stately growth, though bare, Stands on the blasted heath. --beneath that oak, Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke Of Heaven's own thunder--yet it proudly heaves A giant sceptre wreathed with blasted leaves-- As though it dared the elements. Neale. Ivy also gives great richness to an old trunk, both by its stem, which often winds round it in thick, hairy, irregular volumes; and by its leaf, which either decks the furrowed bark, or creeps among the branches, or carelessly hangs from them. It unites with the mosses, and other furniture of the trees, in adorning and enriching it. The tribes of mosses, lichens, and liver-worts, are all parasitical; it is doubted whether the ivy is or not. The former, however, are absolute retainers. The character of the ivy, too, has been misrepresented, if his feelers have not some other purpose than that of enabling him to show his attachment to his patient supporter. Shakspeare asserts that he makes a property of him: He was The ivy which had hid my princely trunk, And sucked my verdure out. Besides these there are others which are sustained entirely by their own means. Among them we may distinguish the black and white briony. The berries of many of these little plants are variously coloured in the different stages of their growth--yellow, red, and orange. All these produce their effect. The feathered seeds of the traveller's joy are also ornamental. The wild honeysuckle comes within this class; and it fully compensates for any injury it may do by the compression of the young branches, by its winding spiral coils, and by the beauty and fragrance of its flowers: With clasping tendrils it invests the branch, Else unadorned, with many a gay festoon, And fragrant chaplet; recompensing well The strength it borrows with the grace it lends. In warm climates, where vines are the spontaneous offspring of nature, nothing can have a more pleasing effect than the forest-tree adorned with their twisting branches, hanging in rich festoons from bough to bough, and laden with fruit,-- the clusters clear Half through the foliage seen. In England, the hop we consider the most beautiful appendage of the hanging kind. In its rude natural state, indeed, twisting carelessly round the branches of trees, it has as good an effect as the vine. Its leaf is similar; and though its bunches are not so beautiful as the clusters of the vine, it is more accommodating, hangs more loosely, and is less extravagant in its growth. The motion of trees is one source of considerable beauty. The waving heads of some, and the undulation of others, give a continual variety to their forms. In nature this is certainly a circumstance of great beauty: Things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what stirs not; and this also affords the chequered shade, formed under it by the dancing of the sunbeams among its playing leaves. This circumstance is of a very amusing nature, and is capable of being beautifully wrought up in poetry: The chequered 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 darkening and enlightening (as the leaves Play wanton) every part. The clump of trees next occupies our attention. The term, says Gilpin, has rather a relative meaning, as no rule of art hath yet prescribed what number of trees form a clump. Near the eye we should call three or four trees a clump, and at the same time, in distant or extensive scenery, we should apply the same term to any smaller detached portion of wood, though it may be formed of hundreds of trees. But though the term admits not of exact definition, we will endeavour to make the ideas contained under it as distinct as possible. We distinguish, then, two kinds of clumps, the smaller and the larger; confining the former chiefly to the foreground, and considering the latter as a distant ornament. With respect to the former, we apprehend its chief beauty arises from contrast in the parts. We shall attempt to enumerate some of the sources whence the beauty of contrast is produced. Three trees, or more, standing in a line, are formal, but in the natural wood this formality is rarely found. And yet even three trees in a line will be greatly assisted by the lines of the several trunks taking different directions; and by the various forms, distances, and growth of the trees. If three trees do not stand in a line, they must of course stand in a triangle, which produces a great variety of pleasing forms. And if a fourth tree be added, it stands beautifully near the middle of the triangle, of whatever form the triangle may be. If the clump consist of more trees than four, a still greater variety among the stems will of course take place; double triangles, and other pleasing shapes, all of which may be seen exemplified in every wood of natural growth. The branches are not less the source of contrast than the stem. To be picturesque, they must intermingle with each other without heaviness; they must hang loosely, but yet with varied looseness on every side; and if there be one head or top of the tree above another, there may be two or three subordinate, according to the size of the clump. Different kinds of trees, in the same clump, often occasion a beautiful contrast. There are few trees which will not harmonize with trees of another kind; though it may be that contrasts the most simple and beautiful are produced by the various modes of growth in the same species. Two or three oaks, intermingling their branches together, have often a very pleasing effect. The beech, when fully grown, is commonly (in a luxuriant soil at least), so heavy, that it seldom blends happily, either with its own kind or any other. The silver fir, too, is a very unaccommodating tree, as also all the other firs, and indeed every kind of tree that tapers to a point. The pine race, however, being clump-headed, unite well in composition. With these also the Scotch fir leagues, from little knots of which we often see beautiful contrasts arise. When they are young and luxuriant, especially if any number of them above four or five are planted together, they generally form a heavy murky spot, but as they acquire age this heaviness goes off, the inner branches decay, the outer branches hang loosely and negligently, and the whole has frequently a good effect, unless they have been planted too closely. It may be doubted how far deciduous trees mingle well in a clump with evergreens; and yet, occasionally, from the darkness of the fir contrasting agreeably with the sprightly green of a deciduous tree just coming into leaf, a natural good effect of light and shade is produced. Contrasts arise, again, from the mixture of trees of unequal growth, from a young tree united with an old one, a stunted tree with a luxuriant one, and sometimes from two or three trees, which in themselves are ill-shaped, but when combined are pleasing. Inequalities of all these kinds are what chiefly give nature's planting a superiority over art. The form of the foliage is another source of contrast. In one part, where the branches intermingle, the foliage will be interwoven and close; in another, where the boughs of each tree hang separately, the appearance will be light and easy. But whatever beauty these contrasts exhibit, the effect is altogether lost if the clump be not well balanced. If no side preponderate so as to offend the eye, it is enough, and unless the clump have sustained some external injury, it is seldom deficient in point of balance. Nature generally conducts the stems and branches in such easy forms, wherever there is an opening, and fills up all with such nice contrivance, and with so much picturesque irregularity, that we rarely wish for an amendment in her works. So true is this, that you may not take away a tree from a clump without infallibly destroying the balance which can never again be restored. When the clump grows larger, it becomes qualified only as a remote object, combining with vast woods, and forming a part of some extensive scene, either as a first, a second, or a third distance. The great use of the larger clump is to lighten the heaviness of a continued distant wood, and connect it gently with the plain, that the transition may not be too abrupt. All we wish to find in a clump of this kind is proportion and general form. With respect to proportion, the detached clump must not encroach too much on the dignity of the wood it aids, but must observe a proper subordination. A large tract of country covered with wood, will admit several of these auxiliary clumps, of different dimensions. But if the wood be of a smaller size, the clumps must also be smaller and fewer. As the clump becomes larger and recedes in the landscape, all the pleasing contrasts we expected in the smaller clumps are lost, and we are satisfied with a general form. No regular form is pleasing. A clump on the side of a hill, or in any situation where the eye can more easily investigate its shape, must be circumscribed by an irregular line; in which the undulations, both at the base and summit of the clump, should be strongly marked, as the eye has probably a distinct view of both. But if seen only on the top of a hill, or along the distant horizon, a little variation in the line which forms the summit, so as to break any disagreeable regularity there, will be sufficient. As a large tract of wood requires a few large clumps to connect it gently with the plain, so these large clumps themselves require the same service from a single tree, or a few trees, according to their size. The Copse, the Glen, and the open Grove next demand our notice. The Copse is a species of scenery composed generally of forest-trees, intermixed with brushwood, which latter is periodically cut down in twelve, thirteen, or fourteen years. In its dismantled state, nothing can be more forlorn. The area is covered with bare roots and knobs, from which the brushwood has been cut; while the forest-trees, intermingled among them, present their ragged stems, despoiled of all their lateral branches, which the luxuriance of the surrounding thickets had choked. The copse, however, soon repairs the injury it has thus suffered. One winter only sees its disgrace. The following summer produces luxuriant shoots; and two summers more restore it almost to perfect beauty. It is of little moment what species of wood composes the copse; for we do not expect from it scenes of picturesque beauty, but are satisfied if it yields us a shady sequestered path, which it generally furnishes in great perfection. It is among the luxuries of nature, to retreat into the cool recesses of the full-grown copse from the severity of a meridian sun, and to be serenaded by the humming insects of the shade, whose continuous song has a more refreshing sound than the buzzing vagrant fly, which wantons in the glare of day, and, as Milton expresses it, ----winds her sultry horn. In distant landscape the copse hath seldom any effect. The beauty of a wood in a distant view arises in some degree from its tuftings which break and enrich the lights, but chiefly from its contrast with the plain, and from the grand shapes and forms, occasioned by the retiring and advancing parts of the forest, which produce vast masses of light and shade, and give effect to the whole. These beauties appear rarely in the copse. Instead of that rich and tufted bed of foliage, which the distant forest exhibits, the copse presents a meagre and unaccommodating surface. It is age which gives the tree its tufted form, and the forest its effect. A nursery of saplings produces it not, and the copse is little more, nor does the intermixture of full-grown trees assist the appearance. Their clumpy heads blend ill with the spiry tops of the juniors. Neither have they any connection with each other. The woodman's judgment is shown in leaving the timber-trees at proper intervals, that they may neither hinder each other's growth, nor the growth of the underwood. But the woodman does not pretend to manage his trees with a view to picturesque beauty; and from his management, it is impossible they should produce a mass of light and shade. Besides, the copse forms no contrast with the plain, nor presents those beautiful projections and recesses which the skirts of the forest exhibit. A copse is a plot of ground, proportioned off for the purpose of nurturing wood. Of course it must be fenced from cattle; and these fences, which are in themselves disgusting, generally form the copse into a square, or some other regular figure; so that we have not only a deformity, but a want also of a connecting tie between the wood and the plain. Instead of a softened undulating line, we have a harsh fence. The best effect which the copse produces, is on the lofty banks of the river; this may be seen particularly on the Wye. In navigating such a river, the deficiencies of this mode of scenery, as you view it upwards from a boat, are lost; and in almost every state it has a good effect. While it enriches the bank, its uncouth shape, unless the fence is too much in view, and all its other unpleasant appearances, are concealed. When a winding walk is carried through a copse, which must necessarily in a few years, even in point of picturesque beauty, be given to the axe, shall the whole be cut down together? Or shall a border be left, as is sometimes done, on each side of the walk? This is a difficult question; but Gilpin thinks it should all go together. Unless the border you leave be very broad, it will have no effect, even at present. You will see through it; it will appear meagre, and will never unite happily with the neighbouring parts when they begin to grow; at least, it ought not to stand longer than two years. The rest of the copse will then be growing beautiful, and the border may be dispensed with till it is replaced. But the way, decidedly, is to cut down all together. In a little time it will recover its beauty. We now proceed to the Glen. A wide and open space between hills, is called a vale. If it be of smaller dimensions, we call it a valley. But when this space is contracted to a chasm, it becomes a glen. A glen, therefore, is commonly the offspring of a mountainous country; though sometimes found elsewhere, with its usual accompaniments of woody banks, and a rivulet at the bottom. The glen may be more or less contracted. It may form one single sweep, or its deviations may be irregular. The wood may consist of full-grown trees, or of underwood, or of a mixture of both. The path winding through it may run along the upper or the lower part. Or the rivulet may foam among rocks, or murmur among pebbles;--it may form transparent pools, overhung with wood;--or, which is frequently the case, it may be invisible, and an object only of the ear. All these circumstances are capable of an infinite variety. The beauties of the internal parts of the glen consist chiefly in the glades, or openings, which are found in it. If the whole were a thicket, little beauty would result. Unlike the copse, its furniture is commonly of a fortuitous growth, and escapes those periodical defalcations to which the copse is subject, and generally exhibits more beautiful scenery. It abounds with frequent openings. The eye is carried down, from the higher grounds, to a sweep of the river--or to a little gushing cascade--or to the face of a fractured rock, garnished with hanging wood--or perhaps to a cottage, with its scanty area of lawn falling to the river on one side, and sheltered by a clump of oaks on the other; while the smoke, wreathing behind the trees, disperses and loses itself as it gains the summit of the glen. Or, still more beautifully, the eye breaks out at some opening, perhaps into the country, enriched with all the varieties of distant landscape--plains and woods melting together--a winding river--blue mountains--or perhaps some bay of the sea, with a little harbour and shipping. As an object of distance also, the woody glen has often a good effect--climbing the sides of mountains, breaking their lines, and giving variety to their bleak and barren sides. From the glen we hasten to the open Grove, which is composed of trees arising from a smooth area, and consisting either of pines or of the deciduous race. Beautiful groves of both may be seen. That of the pine will always be dry, as it is the peculiar quality of its leaves to imbibe moisture: but in lightness, variety, and general beauty, that of deciduous trees excels. If, however, you wish your grove to be in the gloomy style, the pine race will serve your purpose best. The open grove rarely makes a picturesque appearance. It may, indeed, have the effect of other woods in distant scenery; for the trees of which it is formed need not be separated from each other, as in the copse, but, being well massed together, may receive beautiful effects of light. When we enter its recesses, it is not so well calculated to please. There it wants variety, and that not only from the smoothness of the surface, but from the uniformity of the furniture--at least if it be an artificial scene, in which the trees, having been planted in a nursery, grow all alike, with upright stems. And yet a walk, upon a velvet turf, winding at pleasure among these natural columns, whose twisting branches at least admit some variety, with a spreading canopy of foliage over the head, is pleasing, and in hot weather refreshing. Sometimes we find the open grove of natural growth; it is then more various and irregular, and becomes, of course, a more pleasing scene. And yet, when woods of this kind continue, as they sometimes do, in unpeopled countries, through half a province, they become tiresome, and prove that it is not wood, but variety of landscape, that delights the eye. The pleasing tranquillity of groves hath ever been in high repute among the innocent and refined part of mankind: Groves were planted to console at noon The pensive wanderer in their shades. At eve The moonbeam sliding softly in between The sleeping leaves, is all the light he wants For meditation. Indeed, no species of landscape is so fitted for meditation. The forest attracts the attention by its grandeur, and the park scene by its beauty; while the paths through copses, dells, and thickets, are too close, devious, interrupted, and often too beautiful to allow the mind to be at perfect ease. But the uniform sameness of the grove leaves the eye disengaged; and the feet wandering at pleasure, where they are confined by no path, want little direction. The mind, therefore, undisturbed, has only to retire within itself. Hence the philosopher, the devotee, the poet, all retreated to these quiet recesses; and, from the world retired, Conversed with angels and immortal forms. In classic times, the grove was the haunt of gods; and in the days of Nature, before art had introduced a kind of combination against her, men had no idea of worshipping God in a temple made with hands. The _templum nemorale_ was the only temple he knew. In the resounding wood, All vocal beings hymned their equal God. And to this idea, indeed, one of the earliest forms of the artificial temple seems to have been indebted. Many learned men have thought the Gothic arch of our cathedral churches was an imitation of the natural grove. It arises from a lofty stem, or from two or three stems, if they be slender; which being bound together, and spreading in every direction, cover the whole roof with their ramifications. In the close recesses of the beechen grove, we find this idea the most complete. The lofty, narrow aisle--the pointed arch--the clustered pillar, whose parts separating without violence, diverge gradually to form the fretted roof--find there perhaps their earliest archetype. Bryant has wrought out this idea in a beautiful fragment, entitled "God's First Temples:" The groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems,--in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences, That, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks, that, high in heaven, Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless Power And inaccessible Majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised! Let me, at least, Here in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn--thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in his ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns; thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. Here are seen No traces of man's pomp or pride;--no silks Rustle, no jewels shine, nor envious eyes Encounter; no fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here--thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summits of these trees In music;--thou art in the cooler breath, That, from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt;--the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh, moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship;--nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace, Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak-- By whose immovable stem I stand, and seem Almost annihilated--not a prince, In all the proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me, when I think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me--the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed For ever. Written on thy works, I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die: but see, again, How, on the faltering footsteps of decay, Youth presses--ever gay and beautiful youth, In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly than their ancestors Moulder beneath them. O, there is not lost One of earth's charms: upon her bosom yet, After the flight of untold centuries, The freshness of her far beginning lies, And yet shall lie. Life mocks the idle hate Of his arch-enemy Death--yea, seats himself Upon the sepulchre, and blooms and smiles, And of the triumphs of his ghastly foe Makes his own nourishment. For he came forth From thine own bosom, and shall have no end. There have been holy men, who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them;--and there have been holy men, Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and, in thy presence, reassure My feeble virtue. Here its enemies, The passions, at thy plainer footsteps shrink, And tremble, and are still. O God! when thou Dost scare the world with tempests, set on fire The heavens with falling thunderbolts, or fill, With all the waters of the firmament, The swift, dark whirlwind, that uproots the woods, And drowns the villages; when, at thy call, Uprises the great Deep, and throws himself Upon the continent, and overwhelms Its cities;--who forgets not, at the sight Of these tremendous tokens of thy power, His pride, and lays his strifes and follies by? O, from these sterner aspects of thy face, Spare me and mine; nor let us need the wrath Of the mad, unchained elements to teach Who rules them. Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And, to the beautiful order of thy works, Learn to conform the order of our lives. We will conclude this Introduction by recommending the reader, in the words of the poet, to enjoy the sweet calmness of the Woodland retreat: If thou art worn and hard beset With sorrows that thou would'st forget-- If thou would'st read a lesson that will keep Thy heart from fainting, and thy soul from sleep, Go to the woods and hills!--no tears Dim the sweet look that nature wears. * * * * * Stranger, if thou hast learnt a truth, which needs Experience more than reason, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast known Enough of all its sorrows, crimes and cares, To tire thee of it,--enter this wild wood, And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze, That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men. And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. Misery is wed To guilt. And hence these shades are still the abodes Of undissembled gladness: the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while, below, The squirrel, with raised paws and form erect, Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the glade Try their thin wings, and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment: as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That sucks its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, The old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees, That lead from knoll to knoll, a causey rude, Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them; twisting high Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and, tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems with continuous laughter to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee, nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace. Bryant. [Illustration: THE ALDER-TREE.] THE ALDER-TREE. [_Alnus._[A] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Tetra._] [A] _Generic characters._ Scales of the barren catkins, 3-lobed, 3-flowered. Perianth 4-cleft. Scales of the fertile catkin ovate, 2-flowered, coriaceous, persistent. Styles 2, parallel, setiform, deciduous; stigma simple. Fruit a nut, ovate, 2-celled. Kernel solitary, ovate, acute. Name, Celtic, from _al_, and _lan_, a river bank. The Common Alder (_A. glutinosa_), is the most aquatic of European trees. It grows to the height of fifty or sixty feet, in favourable situations by the sides of streams, and is a somewhat picturesque tree in its ramification as well as its foliage. It is nearly related, in nature rather than in form, to the willow tribe; it is more picturesque than the latter, and perhaps the most so of any of the aquatic species, except the weeping willow. Gilpin says, that if we would see the Alder in perfection, we must follow the banks of the Mole, in Surrey, through the sweet vales of Dorking and Mickleham, into the groves of Esher. The Mole, indeed, is far from being a beautiful river; it is a silent and sluggish stream: but what beauty it has it owes greatly to the Alder, which everywhere fringes its meadows, and in many places forms very pleasing scenes; especially in the vale between Box Hill and the high grounds of Norbury Park. Spenser probably once reposed under the shade of these trees, as he mentions them in his "Colin Clout's come home again." One day, quoth he, I sate, as was my trade, Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hore, Keeping my sheep among the cooly shade Of the green Alders on the Mulla shore. Some of the largest Alders in England grow in the Bishop of Durham's park, at Bishop Auckland. In speaking of these, Gilpin remarks, that "the generality of trees acquire picturesque beauty by age; but it is not often that they are suffered to attain this picturesque period. Some use is commonly found for them long before that time. The oak falls for the greater purposes of man, and the Alder is ready to supply a variety of his smaller wants. An old tree, therefore, of any kind is a curiosity; and even an Alder, such as those at Bishop Auckland, when dignified by age, makes a respectable figure." [Illustration: _Specific character of A. glutinosa. Common Alder._ Leaves roundish, cuneate, waved, serrate, glutinous, downy at the branching of the veins beneath. A moderately-sized tree, with rugged bark, and crooked, spreading, smooth branches: barren catkins long, pendulous; fertile ones short, oval. Flowers in March.] The Alder grows naturally in Europe from Lapland to Gibraltar, in Asia from the White Sea to Mount Caucasus, and in the north of Africa, as well as being indigenous in England. The flowers bloom in March and April; they have no gay tints or beauty to recommend them, and consequently afford pleasure only to the botanist or the curious observer of nature. The leaves begin to open about the 7th of April, and when fully expanded are of a deep dull green. The bark being smooth and of a purplish hue, the tree has an agreeable effect among others in all kinds of plantations of the watery tribe. The Alder must have grown to a great size in days of yore; for Virgil speaks of vessels made of this material: When hollow Alders first the waters tried. And again: And down the rapid Po light Alders glide. Ovid also tells us that Trees rudely hollowed did the waves sustain, Ere ships in triumph ploughed the watery main. Abroad this tree is raised from seed, which is decidedly the best mode, and secures the finest specimens; though in this country they are generally propagated by layers or truncheons. The best time for planting the latter, is in February or March; the truncheons being sharpened at the end, the ground should be loosened by thrusting an iron crow into it, to prevent the bark from being torn off; and they should be planted at the least two feet deep. When cultivated by layers, the planting should take place in October, and they will then be ready to transplant in twelve months' time. The Alder is usually planted as coppice-wood, to be cut down every five or six years, for conversion into charcoal, which is preferred in making gunpowder. The bark on the young wood is powerfully astringent, and is employed by tanners; and the young shoots are used for dyeing red, brown, and yellow; and in combination with copperas, to dye black. It is greatly cultivated in Flanders and Holland for piles, for which purpose it is invaluable, as when constantly under water, or in moist and boggy situations, it becomes hardened, black as ebony, and will last for ages. On this account it is also very serviceable in strengthening the embankments of rivers or canals; and while the roots and trunks are preventing the encroachment of the stream, they throw out branches which may be cut for poles every fifth or sixth year, especially if pruned of superfluous shoots in the spring. As Alders in the spring, their boles extend, And heave so fiercely that the bark they rend. Virgil, _ecl._ x. Vitruvius informs us, that the morasses about Ravenna were piled with this timber to build upon; and Evelyn says that it was used in the foundations of Ponte Rialto, over the Grand Canal at Venice. The wood is also valuable for various domestic purposes. Besides the common Alder there are introduced at least six other species:-- 1. _A. Glutinosa_, already described. 2. _Emarginata_, leaves nearly round, wedge-shaped, and edged with green. 3. _Laciniata_, leaves oblong and pinnatifid, with the lobes acute. 4. _Quercifolia_, leaves sinuated, with the lobes obtuse. 5. _Oxyacanthoefolia_, leaves sinuated and lobed; smaller than those of the preceding variety, and somewhat resembling the common hawthorn. 6. _Macrocarpa_, leaves and fruit larger than those of the species. 7. _Foliis variegatis_, leaves variegated. [Illustration: THE ASH-TREE.] THE ASH-TREE. [_Fraxinus._[B] Nat. Ord.--_Oleaceæ_; Linn.--_Dian. Monog._] [B] _Generic characters._ Calyx none, or deeply 4-cleft. Corolla none, or of 4 petals. Perianth single, or none. Fruit a 2-celled, 2-seeded capsule, flattened and foliaceous at the extremity (a _samara_). Name from [Greek: phraxis], separation, on account of the ease with which the wood may be split. The Common Ash (_F. excelsior_), is one of the noblest of our forest-trees, and generally carries its principal stem higher than the oak, rising in an easy flowing line. Its chief beauty, however, consists in the lightness of its whole appearance. Its branches at first keep close to the trunk, and form acute angles with it; but as they begin to lengthen, they commonly take an easy sweep; and the looseness of the leaves corresponding with the lightness of the spray, the whole forms an elegant depending foliage. Nothing can have a better effect than an old Ash hanging from the corner of a wood, and bringing off the heaviness of the other foliage with its loose pendent branches. And yet in some soils, the Ash loses much of its beauty in the decline of age. The foliage becomes rare and meagre; and its branches, instead of hanging loosely, start away in disagreeable forms; thus the Ash often loses that grandeur and beauty in old age, which the generality of trees, and particularly the oak, preserve till a late period of their existence. The Ash also falls under the displeasure of the picturesque eye on another account, that is, from its leaf being much tenderer than that of the oak, it sooner receives impressions from the winds and frosts. Instead, therefore, of contributing its tint in the wane of the year among the many-coloured offspring of the woods, it shrinks from the blast, drops its leaf, and in each scene where it predominates, leaves wide blanks of desolated boughs, amidst foliage yet fresh and verdant. Before its decay, we sometimes see its leaf tinged with a fine yellow, well contrasted with the neighbouring greens. But this is one of Nature's casual beauties. Much oftener its leaf decays in a dark, muddy, unpleasing tint. And yet, sometimes, notwithstanding this early loss of its foliage, we see the Ash, in a sheltered situation, when the rains have been abundant and the season mild, retain its light pleasant green, when the oak and the elm, in its neighbourhood, have put on their autumnal attire. The leaves of the common Ash were used as fodder for cattle by the Romans, who esteemed them better for that purpose than those of any other tree: and in this country, in various districts, they were used in the same manner. The common Ash is indigenous to northern and central Europe, to the north of Africa, and to Japan. The Romans, it is said, named it _Fraxinus, quia facile frangitur_, to express the fragile nature of the wood, as the boughs of it are easily broken. It is supposed that the name of Ash has been given to this tree, because the bark of the trunk and branches is of the colour of wood ashes. Some, however, affirm that the word is derived from the Saxon _Æsc_, a pike. It is recorded in the fables of the ancients, that Love first made his arrows of this wood. The disciples of Mars used ashen poles for lances: A lance of tough ground Ash the Trojan threw, Rough in the rind and knotted as it grew. Æneid. Virgil says that the spears of the Amazons were formed of this wood, and Homer sings the mighty ashen spear of Achilles: The noble Ash rewards the planter's toil; Noble, since great Achilles from her side Took the dire spear by which brave Hector died. Rapin. It is said, in the Edda, that the Ash was held in high veneration, and that man was formed from its wood. Hesiod, in like manner, deduces his brazen race of men from the Ash. The warlike Ash, that reeks with human blood. There are many remarkable Ash-trees in various parts of the country. One at Woburn Abbey measures at the ground twenty-three feet in circumference; at twelve inches from the ground, it is twenty feet; and fifteen feet three inches at three feet from the ground. It is ninety feet high, and the ground overshadowed by its branches is one hundred and thirteen feet in diameter. The trunk of another, near Kennety Church, in King's County, is twenty-one feet ten inches in circumference, and seventeen feet high, before the branches break out, which are of enormous bulk. There formerly stood in the church-yard of Kilmalie, in Lochaber, an Ash that was considered the largest and most remarkable tree in the Highlands. Lochiel and his numerous kindred and clan held it in great veneration for generations, which is supposed to have hastened its destruction; it being burnt to the ground by the brutal soldiery in 1746. In one direction its diameter was seventeen feet three inches, and the cross diameter twenty-one feet; its circumference at the ground was fifty-eight feet! [Illustration: _Specific characters of F. excelsior. Common Ash._ Leaves pinnate, with lanceolate, serrated leaflets: flowers destitute of calyx and corolla. In old trees, the lower branches, after bending downwards, curve upwards at their extremities. Flowers, in loose panicles: anthers large, purple: capsules with a flat leaf-like termination, generally of two cells, each containing a flat oblong seed. This beautiful tree assumes its foliage later than any of our trees, and loses it early. A _variety_ occurs with simple leaves, and another with pendulous branches. Flowers in April and May; grows in natural woods in many parts of Scotland.] Trees raised from the keys of the Ash are decidedly the best. The "keys," or tongues, should be gathered from a young thriving tree when they begin to fall (which is about the end of October), laid to dry, and then sown any time betwixt that and Christmas. They will remain a full year in the ground before they appear; it is therefore necessary to fence them in, and wait patiently. The Ash will grow exceedingly well upon almost any soil, and indeed is frequently met with in ruined walls and rocks, insinuating its roots into the crevices of decaying buildings, covering the surface with verdure, while it is instrumental in destroying that which yields it support. Its winged capsules are supposed to be deposited in those places by the wind. The Ash asks not a depth of fruitful mould, But, like frugality, on little means It thrives, and high o'er creviced ruins spreads Its ample shade, or in the naked rock, That nods in air, with graceful limbs depends. Bidlake. Southey, in _Don Roderick_, speaks of the Ash: --amid the brook, Gray as the stone to which it clung, half root, Half trunk, the young Ash rises from the rock, And there its parent lifts its lofty head, And spreads its graceful boughs; the passing wind With twinkling motion lifts the silent leaves, And shakes its rattling tufts. The roots of the Ash are remarkably beautiful, and often finely veined, and will take a good polish. There are also certain knotty excrescences in the Ash, called the _brusca_, and _mollusca_, which, when cut and polished, are very beautiful. Dr. Plot, in his _History of Oxfordshire_ mentions a dining-table made of them, which represented the exact figure of a fish. With the exception of that of the oak, the timber of the Ash serves for the greatest variety of uses of any tree in the forest. It is excellent for ploughs. Tough, bending Ash, Gives to the humble swain his useful plough, And for the peer his prouder chariot builds. Dodsley. It is also used for axle-trees, wheel-rings, harrows; and also makes good oars, blocks for pulleys, &c. It is of the utmost value to the husbandman for carts, ladders, &c., and the branches are very serviceable for fuel, either fresh or dry. The most profitable age for felling the Ash, appears to be from eighty to one hundred years. It will continue pushing from stools or from pollards, for above one hundred years. Though a handsome tree, it ought by no means to be planted for ornament in places designed to be kept neat, because the leaves fall off, with their long stalks, very early in the autumn, and by their litter destroy the beauty of such places; yet, however unfit for planting near gravel-walks, or pleasure-grounds, it is very suitable for woods, to form clumps in large parks, or to be set out as standards. It should never be planted on tillage land, as the dripping of the leaves injures the corn, and the roots tend to draw away all nourishment from the ground. Neither should it be planted near pasture ground; for if the kine eat the leaves or shoots, the butter will become rank, and of little value. There are many varieties of the common Ash, but that with pendulous branches is probably the best known: it is called the Weeping Ash, and is of a heavy and somewhat unnatural appearance, yet it is very generally admired. The foliage of the Ash-tree becomes of a brown colour in October. Like leaves on trees the race of man is found-- Now green in youth, now withering on the ground; Another race the following spring supplies, They fall successive, and successive rise: So generations in their course decay, So flourish these, when those are past away. Pope. There are numerous species of the Ash, but these are so rarely to be met with in this country, that it is not necessary to particularize any of them. [Illustration: THE BEECH-TREE] THE BEECH-TREE. [_Fagus._[C] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Poly._] [C] _Generic characters. Barren_ flowers in a roundish catkin. Perianth campanulate, divided into 5 or 6 segments. Stamens 8 to 15. _Fertile_ flowers, 2 together, within a 4-lobed prickly involucre. Stigma 3. Ovaries 3-cornered and 3-celled. Nut by abortion 1 or 2-seeded. Named from [Greek: phagô], to eat. The Common Beech (_F. sylvática_), is supposed to be indigenous to England, but not to Scotland or Ireland. According to Evelyn, it is a beautiful as well as valuable tree, growing generally to a greater stature than the Ash: though Gilpin observes, that it does not deserve to be ranked among timber-trees; its wood being of a soft, spongy nature, sappy, and alluring to the worm. Neither will Gilpin allow that, in point of picturesque beauty, it should rank much higher than in point of utility. Its skeleton, compared with that of the oak, the ash, or the elm, he says, is very deficient; yet its trunk is often highly picturesque, being frequently studded with bold knobs and projections, and having sometimes a sort of irregular fluting about it, which is very characteristic. It has another peculiarity, also, which is somewhat pleasing--that of a number of stems arising from the root. The bark, too, wears often a pleasant hue. It is naturally of a dingy olive; but it is always overspread, in patches, with a variety of mosses and lichens, which are commonly of a lighter tint in the upper parts, and of a deep velvet green towards the root. Its smoothness, also, contrasts agreeably with these rougher appendages. No bark tempts the lover so much to make it the depository of his mistress's name. In days of yore, it seems to have commonly served as the lover's tablet. In Dryden's translation of Virgil's _Eclogues_, we find the following:-- Or shall I rather the sad verse repeat, Which on the Beech's bark I lately writ-- I writ, and sang betwixt. There seems to have been connected with this custom the curious idea, that as the tree increased in growth, so would the words, and also the hopes expressed thereon: The rind of every plant her name shall know, And as the rind extends the love shall grow. Our own Thomson, too, narrates that Musidora carved, on the soft bark of a Beech-tree, the confession of her attachment to Damon: At length, a tender calm, Hushed, by degrees, the tumult of her soul; And on the spreading Beech, that o'er the stream Incumbent hung, she, with the sylvan pen Of rural lovers, this confession carved, Which soon her Damon kissed with weeping joy. The branches of the Beech are fantastically wreathed and disproportioned, twining awkwardly among one another, and running often into long unvaried lines, without any of that strength and firmness which we admire in the oak, or of that easy simplicity which pleases in the ash: in short, we rarely see a Beech well ramified. In full leaf, it is unequally pleasing; it has the appearance of an overgrown bush. Virgil, indeed, was right in choosing the Beech for its shade. No tree forms so complete a roof. If you wish either for shade or shelter, you will find it best Beneath the shade which Beechen boughs diffuse. Its bushiness imparts a great heaviness to the tree, which is always a deformity: A gloomy grove of Beech. Sometimes a light branch issues from a heavy mass; and though these are often beautiful in themselves, they are seldom in harmony with the tree. They distinguish, however, its character, which will be best seen by comparing it with the elm. The latter has a rounder, the former a more pointed foliage; but the elm is always in harmony with itself. Gilpin can see few beauties in the Beech; but, in conclusion, he admits that it sometimes has its beauty, and often its use. In distance, it preserves the depth of the forest, and, even on the spot, in contrast, it is frequently a choice accompaniment. In the corner of a landscape, too, when a thick heavy tree is wanted, or a part of one, at least, which is often necessary, nothing answers the purpose like the Beech. If we would really appreciate the beauty of this tree, we should walk in a wood of them. In its juvenility, contrary to the generality of trees, the Beech is decidedly the most pleasing, not having acquired that heaviness which Gilpin so loudly complains of. A light, airy young Beech, with its spiry branches hanging in easy forms, is generally beautiful. And, occasionally, the forest Beech, in a dry hungry soil, preserves the lightness of youth in the maturity of age. We must, however, mention its autumnal hues, which are often beautiful. Sometimes it is dressed in modest brown, but commonly in glowing orange; and in both dresses its harmony with the grove is pleasing. About the end of September, when the leaf begins to change, it makes a happy contrast with the oak, whose foliage is yet verdant. Some of the finest oppositions of tint which, perhaps, the forest can furnish, arise from the union of oak and Beech. We often see a wonderful effect from this combination; and yet, accommodating as its leaf is in landscape, on handling, it feels as if it were fabricated with metallic rigour. [Illustration: _Specific character. F. sylvática. Common Beech._ Leaves ovate, indistinctly serrate, smooth, ciliate. A large tree, varying from 60 to 100 feet in height, with smooth bark and spreading branches. Flowers in April and May; grows in woods, particularly on calcareous soils.] The leaves are of a pleasant green, and many of them remain on the branches during winter. In France and Switzerland, when dried, they are very commonly used for beds, or, instead of straw, for mattresses. Its fruit consists of "two nuts joined at the base, and covered with an almost globular involucre, which has soft spines on the outside, but within is delicately smooth and silky." Beech mast, as it is called, was formerly used for fattening swine and deer. It affords also a sweet oil, which the poor in France are said to eat most willingly. --The Beech, of oily nuts Prolific. The Beech abounds especially along the great ridge of chalk-hills which passes from Dorsetshire through Wiltshire, Hampshire, Surrey, Sussex, and Kent; trenching out into Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, and Hertfordshire; and it is also found on the Stroudwater and Cotswold hills in Gloucestershire, and on the banks of the Wye in Herefordshire and Monmouthshire. It is particularly abundant in Buckinghamshire, where it forms extensive forests of great magnificence and beauty. It is seldom found mixed with other trees, even when they are coeval with it in point of age. It is rarely found in soil that is not more or less calcareous; and it most commonly abounds on chalk. The finest trees in England are said to grow in Hampshire; and there is a curious legend respecting those in the forest of St. Leonard, in that county. This forest, which was the abode of St. Leonard, abounds in noble Beech-trees; and the saint was particularly fond of reposing under their shade; but, when he did so, he was annoyed during the day by vipers, and at night by the singing of the nightingale. Accordingly, he prayed that they might be removed; and such was the efficacy of his prayers, that since his time, in this forest, "The viper has ne'er been known to sting, Or the nightingale e'er heard to sing." The wood of this tree, from its softness, is easy of being worked, and is consequently a favourite with the turner. Beechen bowls, curiously carved, were highly prized by the ancient shepherds. Indeed, we learn that their use was almost universal: Hence, in the world's best years, the humble shed Was happily and fully furnished: Beech made their chests, their beds, and the joined stools; Beech made the board, the platters, and the bowls. And it is still used for dishes, trays, trenchers, &c. And Dodsley informs us that it was used for the sounding-boards of musical instruments. --The soft Beech And close-grained box employ the turner's wheel; And with a thousand implements supply Mechanic skill. We cannot willingly conclude this article without introducing Wordsworth's beautiful description of a solitary Beech-tree, which stood within "a stately fir-grove," where he was not loth To sympathize with vulgar coppice birds, That, for protection from the nipping blast, Thither repaired. A single Beech-tree grew Within this grove of firs, and in the fork Of that one Beech appeared a thrush's nest: A last year's nest, conspicuously built At such small elevation from the ground, As gave sure sign that they who in that house Of nature and of love had made their home, Amid the fir-trees all the summer long, Dwelt in a tranquil spot. The principal varieties of the Beech are:-- 1. _Purpurea_, the purple Beech, which has the buds and young shoots of a rose colour; the leaves, when half developed, of a cherry red, and of so dark a purple, when fully matured, as to appear almost black. 2. _Foliis variegatis_, having the leaves variegated with white and yellow, interspersed with some streaks of red and purple. 3. _Pendulata_, the weeping Beech, having the branches beautifully pendent. [Illustration: THE BIRCH-TREE.] THE BIRCH-TREE. [_Betula._[D] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Poly._] [D] _Generic characters._ _Barren_ flowers in a cylindrical catkin with ternate scales. Perianth none. Stamens 10 or 12. _Fertile_ flowers in an oblong catkin, with 3-lobed, 3-flowered scales. Perianth none. Styles 2, filiform. Emit an oblong nut, deciduous, winged, 1-celled. Kernel solitary. --most beautiful Of forest trees, the lady of the woods. Coleridge. The common Birch (_B. alba_) is a native of the colder regions of Europe and Asia, being found from Iceland to Mount Etna; in Siberia, as far as the Altaic mountains; and also in the Himalayas; but not in Africa. It is known, at first sight, by the silvery whiteness of its bark, the comparative smallness of its leaves, and the lightness and airiness of its whole appearance. It is admirably calculated to diversify the scene, forming a pleasing variety among other trees, either in summer or winter. In summer it is covered over with beautiful small leaves, and the stem being generally marked with brown, yellow, and silvery touches of a peculiarly picturesque character, as they are characteristic objects of imitation for the pencil, forms an agreeable contrast with the dark green hue of the foliage, as it is waved to and fro by every breath of air. Only the stem and larger branches, however, have this varied colouring: the spray is of a deep brown, which is the colour, too, of the larger branches, where the external rind is peeled off. As the tree grows old, its bark becomes rough and furrowed; it loses all its varied tints, and assumes a uniform ferruginous hue. The Birch is altogether raised from roots or suckers, which, being planted at intervals of four or five feet, in small twigs, will speedily rise to trees, provided the soil suit them, and this cannot well be too barren or spongy; for it will thrive in dry and wet, sandy or stony places, in marshes or bogs. [Illustration: _Specific characters of B. alba._ Leaves ovate, deltoid, acute, unequally serrate, nearly smooth. A moderately-sized tree, seldom exceeding fifty feet in height, with a trunk of from twelve to eighteen inches in diameter, with a white outer bark, peeling transversely, the twigs very slender, and more or less drooping. Flowers in April and May; grows abundantly in extensive natural woods in various parts of the country, particularly in the Highlands of Scotland.] In ancient times, the Birch, whose timber is almost worthless, according to Evelyn, afforded the Old English warriors arrows, bolts, and shafts; and in modern times, its charcoal forms a principal ingredient in the manufacture of gunpowder. In spring, the Birch abounds in juices, and from these the rustic housewife makes an agreeable and wholesome wine: as Warton sings: And though she boasts no charm divine, Yet she can carve, and make Birch wine. Pomona's bard says, also, that --Even afflictive Birch, Cursed by unlettered idle youth, distils A limpid current from her wounded bark, Profuse of nursing sap. We are informed that a Birch-tree has been known to yield, in the course of the season, a quantity of sap equal to its own weight. It is obtained by inserting, in the early part of spring, a fosset made of an elder stick, with the pith taken out; and setting vessels, or hanging bladders, to receive the liquor. The sooner it is boiled the better; so that, in order to procure a sufficient quantity in a short time, a number of trees should be bored on the same day, and two or three fossets inserted in each of the larger trees. Sugar is now commonly used to sweeten it, in the proportion of from two to four pounds to each gallon of liquor. This is allowed to simmer so long as any scum rises, which must be cleared as fast as it appears. It is then poured into a tub to cool, after which it is turned into a cask, and bunged up when it has done working; and is ready to be drunk when a year old. As before remarked, the timber of the Birch is of little value; though in the Highlands, where pine is not to be had, it is used for all purposes. Its stems form the rafters of cabins; "wattles of the boughs are the walls and the door; and even the chests and boxes are of this rude basket-work." Light and strong canoes were formerly made of this timber in Britain, and also in other parts of Europe; and are even now in the northern parts of America. It also makes good fuel; and in Lancashire great quantities of besoms are made for exportation from the slender twigs. The bark is used in Russia and Poland for the covering of houses, instead of slates or tiles; and anciently the inner white cuticle and silken bark were used for writing-paper. Coleridge describes A curious picture, with a master's haste Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin Peeled from the Birchen bark. There is no part of this tree, however, that is not useful for some purpose or other. Even its leaves are used by the Finland women, in forming a soft elastic couch for the cradle of infancy. Gilpin particularly notes a beautiful variety of the White Birch, _B. pendula_, sometimes called the Lady Birch, or the Weeping Birch. Its spray being slenderer and longer than the common sort, forms an elegant pensile foliage, like the weeping willow, and, like it, is put in motion by the smallest breeze. When agitated, it is well adapted to characterize a storm, or to perform any office in landscape which is expected from the weeping willow. This is agreeably described in Wilson's Isle of Palms: --on the green slope Of a romantic glade we sate us down, Amid the fragrance of the yellow broom, While o'er our heads the Weeping Birch-tree streamed Its branches, arching like a fountain shower. "A Weeping Birch, at Balloghie, in the parish of Birse, in Aberdeenshire, in 1792, measured five feet in circumference; but it carried nearly this degree of thickness, with a clear stem, up to the height of about fifty feet, and it was judged to be about one hundred feet high." [Illustration: THE CEDAR OF LEBANON.] THE CEDAR OF LEBANON. [_Cedrus Libani._ Nat. Ord.--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Pinus C. Monoec. Monand.]_ On high the Cedar Stoops, like a monarch to his people bending, And casts his sweets around him. Barry Cornwall. The Cedar of Lebanon is a majestic evergreen tree, generally from fifty to eighty feet in height, extending wide its boughs and branches; and its sturdy arms grow in time so weighty, as frequently to bend the very stem and main shaft. Phillips observes, that "this noble tree has a dignity and a general striking character of growth so peculiar to itself, that no other tree can possibly be mistaken for it. It is instantly recognized by its wide-extending branches, that incline their extremities downwards, exhibiting a most beautiful upper surface, like so many verdant banks, which, when agitated by the wind, play in the most graceful manner, forming one of the most elegant, as well as one of the most noble, objects of the vegetable kingdom." The Cedar of Lebanon was formerly supposed to grow nowhere but on that mountain; but it was discovered, in 1832, on several mountains of the same group, and the probability is, that it extends over the whole of the Tauri mountains. It has also been discovered on the Atlas range of northern Africa. It is generally spoken of as a lofty tree. Milton, in speaking of it, says, Insuperable height of loftiest shade. And Rowe, in his Lucan, alludes to the "tall Cedar's head;" and Spenser speaks of the "Cedar tall;" and Churchill sings, The Cedar, whose top mates the highest cloud. Notwithstanding these poetical authorities for the loftiness of the Cedar, we are assured by Evelyn, and others, that it is not lofty, but is rather remarkable for its wide-spreading branches. In Prior's Solomon, we read of The spreading Cedar that an age had stood, Supreme of trees, and mistress of the wood, Cut down and carved, my shining roof adorns, And Lebanon his ruined honour mourns. Mason describes it as far-spreading: --Cedars here, Coeval with the sky-crowned mountain's self, Spread wide their giant arms. The prophet Ezekiel has given us the fullest description of the Cedar: "Behold the Assyrian was a Cedar in Lebanon, with fair branches, and with a shadowing shroud, and of a high stature; and his top was among the thick boughs. His boughs were multiplied, and his branches became long. The fir-trees were not like his boughs, nor the chestnut-trees like his branches, nor any tree in the garden of God like unto him in beauty." In this description, two of the principal characteristics of the Cedar are marked. The first is, the multiplicity and length of his branches. Few trees divide so many fair branches from the main stem, or spread over so large a compass of ground. His boughs are multiplied, as Ezekiel says, and his branches become long, which David calls spreading abroad. The second characteristic is his shadowing shroud. No tree in the forest is more remarkable than the Cedar for its close-woven leafy canopy. Ezekiel's Cedar is marked as a tree of full and perfect growth, from the circumstance of its top being among the thick boughs. Almost every young tree, and particularly every young Cedar, has what is called a leading branch or two, which continue spiring above the rest till the tree has attained its full size; then the tree becomes, in the language of the nurseryman, clump-headed: but, in the language of eastern sublimity its top is among the thick boughs; that is, no distinction of any spiry head, or leading branch, appears; the head and the branches are all mixed together. This is generally, in all trees, the state in which they are most perfect and most beautiful. Such is the grandeur and form of the Cedar of Lebanon. Its mantling foliage, or shadowing shroud, as Ezekiel calls it, is its greatest beauty, which arises from the horizontal growth of its branches forming a kind of sweeping, irregular penthouse. And when to the idea of beauty that of strength is added, by the pyramidal form of the stem, and the robustness of the limbs, the tree is complete in all its beauty and majesty. In these climates, indeed, we cannot expect to see the Cedar in such perfection. The forest of Lebanon is, perhaps, the only part of the world where its growth is perfect; yet we may, in some degree, conceive its beauty and majesty, from the paltry resemblances of it at this distance from its native soil. In its youth, it is often with us a vigorous thriving plant; and if the leading branch is not bound to a pole (as many people deform their Cedars), but left to take its natural course, and guide the stem after it in some irregular waving line, it is often an object of great beauty. But, in its maturer age, the beauty of the English Cedar is generally gone; it becomes shrivelled, deformed, and stunted; its body increases, but its limbs shrink and wither. Thus it never gives us its two leading qualities together. In its youth, we have some idea of its beauty, without its strength; and in its advanced age, we have some idea of its strength, without its beauty. The imagination, therefore, by joining together the two different periods of its age in this climate, may form some conception of the grandeur of the Cedar in its own climate, where its strength and beauty are united. [Illustration: (Leaves, Cone and Seeds of Cedar of Lebanon)] The following particular botanical description of this celebrated tree, is given by Loudon in his _Arboretum_:-- "The _leaves_ are generally of a dark grass green, straight, about one inch long, slender, nearly cylindrical, tapering to a point, and are on foot-stalks. The leaves, which remain two years on the branches, are at first produced in tufts; the buds from which they spring having the appearance of abortive shoots, which, instead of becoming branches, only produce a tuft of leaves pressed closely together in a whorl. These buds continue, for several years in succession, to produce every spring a new tuft of leaves, placed above those of the preceding year; and thus each bud may be said to make a slight growth annually, but so slowly, that it can scarcely be perceived to have advanced a line in length; hence, many of these buds may be found on old trees, which have eight or ten rings, each ring being the growth of one year; and sometimes they ramify a little. At length, sooner or later, they produce the male and female flowers. The _male catkins_ are simple, solitary, of a reddish hue, about two inches long, terminal, and turning upwards. They are composed of a great number of sessile, imbricated stamens, on a common axis. Each stamen is furnished with an anther with two cells, which open lengthwise by their lower part; and each terminates in a sort of crest, pointing upwards. The pollen is yellowish, and is produced in great abundance. The _female catkins_ are short, erect, roundish, and rather oval; they change, after fecundation, into ovate oblong _cones_, which become, at maturity, from two and a half to five inches long. The cones are of a grayish-brown, with a plum-coloured or pinkish bloom when young, which they lose as they approach maturity; they are composed of a series of coriaceous imbricated _scales_, laid flat, and firmly pressed against each other in an oblique spiral direction. The scales are very broad, obtuse, and truncated at the summit; very thin, and slightly denticulated at the edge; and reddish and shining on the flat part. Each scale contains two seeds, each surmounted by a very thin membranous _wing_, of which the upper part is very broad, and the lower narrow, enveloping the greater part of the seed. The cones are very firmly attached to the branches; they neither open nor fall off, as in the other Abietinæ; but, when ripe, the scales become loose, and drop gradually, leaving the axis of the cone still fixed on the branch. The _seeds_ are of an irregular, but somewhat triangular form, nearly one and a half inch long, of a lightish brown colour. Every part of the cone abounds with resin, which sometimes exudes from between the scales. The female catkins are produced in October, but the cones do not appear till the end of the second year; and, if not gathered, they will remain attached to the tree for several years. The Cedar of Lebanon does not begin to produce cones till it is twenty-five or thirty years old; and, even then, the seeds in such cones are generally imperfect; and it is not till after several years of bearing, that seeds from the cones of young trees can be depended upon. Some Cedars produce only male catkins, and these in immense abundance; others, only female catkins; and some both. There are trees of vigorous growth at various places, which, though upwards of one hundred years old, have scarcely ever produced either male or female catkins. The duration of the Cedar is supposed to extend to several centuries." The Cedar is cultivated from seeds and berries. Any climate suits it, provided it meet with a sandy soil; though it grows better in cold than in warm climates, as its cultivation is more successful in Scotland than in England. The peculiar property of its timber is extremely remarkable, being declared proof against all putrefaction of human or other bodies, serving better than all other ingredients or compositions for embalming; thus, by a singular contradiction, giving life as it were to the dead, and destroying the worms which are living, as it does, where any goods are kept in chests and presses of the wood--except woollen cloths and furs, which, it is observed, they destroy. Its preservative power is attributed to the bitterness of its resinous juices. The ancients, in praising any literary work, would say, "It is worthy of being cased in Cedar." It is also very durable, it being on record that in the Temple of Apollo, at Utica, there was found timber of near two thousand years old. The most remarkable existing Cedars in this country are at Chelsea, at Enfield, at Chiswick House, at Sion House, at Strathfieldsaye, at Charley Wood near Rickmansworth, at Wilton, near Salisbury and at Osgood Hanbury's near Coggeshall. The largest of these, at Strathfieldsaye, is one hundred and eight feet in height; diameter of the trunk, three feet, and diameter of the head, seventy-four feet. [Illustration: THE SWEET CHESTNUT-TREE.] THE SWEET CHESTNUT-TREE. [_Castaneæ vulgaris._ Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Poly._] The Sweet Chestnut, so called with reference to the fruit, in contradistinction to that of the Horse-Chestnut, which is bitter, is also called the Spanish Chestnut, because the best chestnuts for the table are imported from Spain. In favourable situations, it becomes a magnificent tree, though it never attains a height, or diameter of head, equal to that of the oak. The trunk generally rises erect, forming, in all cases, a massy column of wood, in proportion to the expansion of the head, or the height of the tree. The branches form nearly the same angle with the trunk as those of the oak; though in thriving trees the angle is somewhat more acute. If planted in woods, by the road-side, and left untrimmed, as they should be, they will be feathered to the bottom, and will in summer, in addition to their beautiful appearance, hide the naked stems of other trees which are considered disagreeable objects; while in autumn, the golden hue of the leaves will heighten the mellow and pleasing effect produced in the woodlands by the variety of hues in the foliage of different trees, which contrast and blend together in one harmonious and pictorial aspect. The Chestnut has been considered indigenous; but this is the more doubtful, that the tree rarely ripens its fruit, except in a climate that will ripen the grape in the open air. On old trees, the leaves are from four to six inches long; but on young and vigorous shoots, they are often nearly twelve inches in length, and from three to four inches in breadth. They are of a rich shining green above, and paler beneath. The flowers are produced on the wood of the current year, and are ranged along the common stalk, in lateral sessile tufts. The rate of growth of young trees, in the neighbourhood of London, averages from two to three feet for the first ten or twelve years. The tree will attain the height of from sixty to eighty feet in about sixty years; but the tree will live for several centuries afterwards, and produce abundance of fruit. The finest trees in England are said to stand on the banks of the Tamer, in Cornwall; and at Beechworth Castle, in Surrey, there are seventy or eighty Chestnuts, measuring from twelve to eighteen or twenty feet in girth, and some of them very picturesque in form. One, on Earl Durie's estate of Tortworth, in Gloucestershire, is proved to have stood ever since 1150, and to have been then remarkable for its age and size. [Illustration: * _Generic characters of the Castaneæ._ _Barren_ flowers in a long cylindrical spike. Perianth 6-cleft. Stamens 8 to 20. _Fertile_ flowers, 3 within a 4-lobed muricated involucre. Stigmas 3 to 8. Ovary 5 to 8-celled. Nuts 1 or 2, within the enlarged prickly involucre. _Specific characters of C. vulgaris_. Leaves lanceolate, acutely serrate, smooth beneath; prickles compound and entangled; stigmas 6.] The Chestnut is cultivated best by sowing and setting: the nuts must, however, be left to sweat, and then be covered with sand; after having been thus heated for a month, plunge the nuts in water, and reject the swimmers; then dry them for thirty days, and repeat the process. In November, set them as you would beans, taking care to do it in their husks. This tree will thrive in almost all soils and situations, though it succeeds best in rich loamy land. Nothing will thrive beneath its shade. Among mast-bearing trees this is said to be the most valuable; since the nuts, when ripened in southern climates, are considered delicacies for princes. In this country, however, where they rarely come to maturity, they fall to the lot of hogs and squirrels. The trees cultivated for fruit are generally grafted; and, in several parts of South Europe, the peasantry are mainly supported by bread made of the nut-flour. In Italy, in Virgil's time, they ate them with milk and cheese: Chestnuts, and curds and cream shall be our fare. And again, in his second _Pastoral_, thus translated by Dryden: Myself will search our planted grounds at home, For downy peaches and the glossy plum; And thrash the Chestnuts in the neighbouring grove, Such as my Amaryllis used to love. The timber of the Chestnut is strong and very durable; but it is often found decayed at the core, and, in working, is very brittle. The wood is preferred for the manufacture of liquor tubs and vessels, as it does not shrink after being once seasoned. This tree is now, however, chiefly grown for hop-poles, which are the straightest, tallest, and most durable. Though cut at an early age for this purpose, the trees are frequently ornaments of our parks and pleasure-grounds. [Illustration: THE ELM-TREE.] THE ELM-TREE. [_Ulmus_[E] Nat. Ord.--_Ulmaceæ_; Linn.--_Pentand. Digy._] [E] _Generic characters of the Ulmi._ Calyx campanulate, inferior, 4 to 5-cleft, persistent. Corolla none. Fruit a membranous, compressed, winged capsule (a _samara_), 1-seeded. There stood the Elme, whose shade, so mildly dim, Doth nourish all that groweth under him. W. Browne. The Common Elm (_U. campestris_), after having assumed the dignity and hoary roughness of age, is not excelled in grandeur and beauty by any of its brethren. In this latter stage, it partakes so much of the character of the oak, that it is easily mistaken for it; though the oak--such an oak as is strongly marked with its peculiar character--can never be mistaken for the Elm. "This defect, however," says Gilpin, "appears chiefly in the skeleton of the Elm. In full foliage, its character is better marked. No tree is better adapted to receive grand masses of light. In this respect, it is superior both to the oak and the ash. Nor is its foliage, shadowing as it is, of the heavy kind. Its leaves are small, and this gives it a natural lightness; it commonly hangs loosely, and is in general very picturesque." The Elm is not frequently met with in woods or forests, but is more commonly planted in avenues or other artificial situations. Cowper very accurately sketches the variety of form in the Elm, and alludes to the different sites where they are to be found. In the _Task_, he first introduces them rearing their lofty heads by the river's brink: --There, fast rooted in his bank, Stand, never overlooked, our favourite Elms, That screen the herdsman's solitary hut. Then he gives us an enchanting scene, where a lowly cot is surrounded by them: 'Tis perched upon the green hill-top, but close Environed with a ring of branching Elms, That overhang the thatch. He then introduces us to a grove of Elms: --The grove receives us next; Between the upright shafts of whose tall Elms We may discern the thrasher at his task. The Elm is frequently referred to by the poets. Wordsworth thus speaks of a grove of them: Upon that open level stood a grove, The wished-for port to which my course was bound. Thither I came, and there, amid the gloom Spread by a brotherhood of lofty Elms, Appeared a roofless hut. In _The Church Yard among the Mountains_, he introduces one that seems to be the pride of the village: --A wide-spread Elm Stands in our valley, named the JOYFUL TREE; From dateless usage which our peasants hold Of giving welcome to the first of May, By dances round its trunk. And again: --The Joyful Elm, Around whose trunk the maidens dance in May. Dr. Hunter supposes that the Elm is a native of England. Philips, however, does not agree with this; but, admitting that the tree was known in England as early as the Saxon times, observes, that this does not prove the Elm to be indigenous to the soil, confuted as it is by Nature, which rarely allows it to propagate its species in this country according to her common rules; while in other countries, where the seed falls, young plants spring up as commonly as the oaks in Britain. [Illustration: _Specific characters of U. campestris._ Leaves rhomboid-ovate, acuminate, wedge-shaped, and oblique at the base, always scabrous above, doubly and irregularly serrated, downy beneath; serratures incurved. Branches wiry, slightly corky; when young, bright-brown, pubescent. Fruit oblong, deeply cloven, naked.] In favourable situations, the common Elm becomes a large timber-tree, of considerable beauty and utility, naturally growing upright. It is the first tree to put forth its light and cheerful green in spring, a tint which contrasts agreeably with the foliage of the oak, whose leaf has generally, in its early state, more of an olive cast. We see them often in fine harmony together about the end of April and the beginning of May. The Elm is also frequently found planted with the Scotch fir. In spring, its light green is very discordant with the gloomy hue of its companion; but as the year advances, the Elm leaf takes a darker tint, and unites in harmony with the fir. In autumn also, the yellow leaf of the Elm mixes as kindly with the orange of the beech, the ochre of the oak, and many of the other fading hues of the wood. The Elm was considered by the ancients of Eastern nations as a funereal tree, as well as the cypress. It is celebrated in the _Iliad_, for having formed a hasty bridge, by which Achilles escaped the Xanthus, when that river, by its overflowing, placed him in danger of being carried away. It has been suggested that the Romans probably introduced it, and planted it on the graves of their departed heroes. It was well-known among the Latins. Virgil says, that the husbandmen bent the young Elm, whilst growing, into the proper shape, for their _buris_ or plough-tail: Young Elms with early force in copses bow, Fit for the figure of the crooked plough. Dryden. The Romans esteemed the Elm to be the natural support and friend of the vine; and the feeling that a strong sympathy subsisted between plants, led them never to plant one without the other. The gravest of Latin authors speak of the Elm as husband of the vine; and Pliny tells us, that that Elm is a poor spouse that does not support three vines. This mode of marrying the vine to the Elm gave rise to the elegant insinuation of Vertumnus to Pomona, whose story may be found in Ovid: "If that fair Elm," he cried, "alone should stand, No grapes would glow with gold, and tempt the hand: Or, if that vine without her Elm should grow, 'Twould creep a poor neglected shrub below." This union of the vine and the Elm is constantly alluded to by the poets. Tasso, as translated by Fairfax, says, The married Elm fell with his fruitful vine. The lofty Elm with creeping vines o'erspread. Ovid. Milton, narrating the occupations of Adam and Eve before the fall, sings, --They led the vine To wed her Elm; she, spoused, about him twines Her marriageable arms, and with her brings Her dower, the adopted clusters, to adorn His barren leaves. And Beaumont says, --The amorous vine Did with the fair and straight-limbed Elm entwine. And Wordsworth, in that beautiful reflection, the _Pillar of Trajan_, speaks of it: So, pleased with purple clusters to entwine Some lofty Elm-tree, mounts the daring vine. There is a beautiful group of Elms at Mongewell, Oxon, which are in full vigour. The principal one is seventy-nine feet high, fourteen feet in girth at three feet from the ground, sixty-five in extent of boughs, and contains two hundred and fifty-six feet of solid timber. Strutt informs us, that, in 1830, Dr. Barrington, the venerable Bishop of Durham, when in his ninetieth year, erected an urn in the midst of their shade, to the memory of two of his friends; inscribing thereon the following classical fragment: In this once-favoured walk, beneath these Elms, Where thickened foliage, to the solar ray Impervious, sheds a venerable gloom, Oft in instructive converse we beguiled The fervid time, which each returning year To friendship's call devoted. Such things were; But are, alas! no more. The Chipstead Elm, in Kent, which is an English tree, is a fine specimen; and is of an immense size. It is beautiful as to form, and its trunk is richly mantled with ivy. In Henry V.'s time, the high road from Rye to London passed close by it, and a fair was held annually under its branches. At Sprotborough, Yorkshire, stands what is justly regarded as the pride of the grounds--a magnificent English Elm. This noble tree is about fifteen feet in circumference in the bole, and still thicker at the height of four feet from the ground, where it divides into five enormous boughs, each of the size of a large tree, and gracefully descending to the ground; the whole forming a splendid mass of foliage, having a diameter of about forty yards from bough to bough end. The Elm is generally raised by means of suckers, rarely from seeds. It delights in a rich, loamy soil, thriving best in an open situation, and bears transplantation well. It may also be planted in good pasture grounds, as it does not injure the grass beneath; and its leaves are agreeable to cattle, which in some countries are chiefly supported by them. They will eat them before oats, and thrive well upon them. Evelyn says, that in Herefordshire the inhabitants gathered them in sacks for their swine and other cattle. Fruitful in leaves the Elm. So prolific is this tree in leaves, that it affords a constant shade during the summer months, and for this reason it has been planted in most of the public and royal gardens in Europe. It is also of quick growth, as it will yield a load of timber in little more than forty years: it does not, however, cease growing--if planted in a favourable situation--neither too dry nor too moist--till it is one hundred or one hundred and fifty years old; and it will live several centuries. The wood of the Elm is hard and tough, and is greatly esteemed for pipes that are constantly under ground. In London, before iron pipes were used, the consumption of this timber for water-pipes was enormous. It is also valuable for keels, and planking beneath the water-line of ships, and for mill-wheels and water-works. When long bows were in fashion it was used in their manufacture, and the Statutes recommend it for that purpose. Besides _U. campestris_ there are six other varieties which have been long naturalized in this country, the botanical descriptions of which are:-- 2. _U. suberosa_. Ebr. Leaves nearly orbicular, acute, obliquely cordate at the base, sharply, regularly, and doubly serrate; always scabrous above, pubescent below, chiefly hairy in the axillæ. Branches spreading, bright-brown, winged with corky excrescences; when young, very hairy. Fruit nearly round, deeply cloven, naked. Grows in hedges, and flowers in March. 3. _U. major_. Smith. Leaves ovato-acuminate, very oblique at the base, sharply, doubly, and regularly serrate; always scabrous above, pubescent below, with dense tufts of white hairs in the axillæ. Branches spreading, bright-brown, winged with corky excrescences; when young, nearly smooth. Fruit obovate, slightly cloven, naked. _U. hollandica_. Miller. Grows in hedges, and flowers in March. 4. _U. carpinifolia_. Lindl. Leaves ovato-acuminate, coriaceous, strongly veined, simply crenate, serrate, slightly oblique and cordate at the base, shining, but rather scabrous above, smooth beneath. Branches bright-brown, nearly smooth. Grows four miles from Stratford-on-Avon, on the road to Alcester. 5. _U. glabra_. Miller. Leaves ovato-lanceolate, acuminate, doubly and evenly crenate-serrate, cuneate and oblique at the base, becoming quite smooth above, smooth or glandular beneath, with a few hairs in the axillæ. Branches bright-brown, smooth, wiry, weeping. Fruit obovate, naked, deeply cloven. [Greek: Beta]. _glandulosa_. Leaves very glandular beneath, [Greek: gamma]. _latifolia_. Leaves oblong, acute, very broad. Grows in woods and hedges; [Greek: Beta]. near Ludlow; [Greek: gamma]. at West Hatch, in Essex. Flowers in March. N. B. To this species the Downton Elm and Scampston Elm of the nurseries probably belong. 6. _U. stricta_. Lindl. _Cornish Elm_. Leaves obovate, cuspidate, cuneate at the base, evenly and nearly doubly crenate-serrate, strongly veined, coriaceous, very smooth and shining above, smooth beneath, with hairy axillæ. Branches bright-brown, smooth, rigid, erect, very compact. [Greek: Beta] _parvifolia_. Leaves much smaller, less oblique at the base, finely and regularly crenate, acuminate rather than cuspidate. Grows in Cornwall and North Devon; [Greek: Beta] the less common. 7. _U. montana_. Bauh. _Witch Elm_. Leaves obovate, cuspidate, doubly and coarsely serrate, cuneate and nearly equal at the base, always exceedingly scabrous above, evenly downy beneath. Branches not corky, cinereous, smooth. Fruit rhomboid, oblong, scarcely cloven, naked. _U. campestris_. Willd. _U. effusa_. Sibth., not of others. _U. nuda_. Chr. _U. glabra_, Hudson, according to Smith. N. B. Of this, the Giant Elm and the Chichester Elm of the nurseries are varieties. [Illustration: THE HAWTHORN-TREE.] THE HAWTHORN-TREE. [_Cratægus_.[F] Nat. Ord.--_Rosaceæ_; Linn.--_Icosand. Pentag._] [F] _Cratægus_. Calyx superior, monosepalous, 5-cleft. Petals 5. Styles 2 to 5. Fruit a small _pome_, oval or round, concealing the upper end of the bony carpels. _Flowers_ in cymes. _Leaves_ lobed. The Hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made. High as we admit Gilpin's taste for the picturesque to be, we are compelled to differ from him in his opinion of the Hawthorn. He observes that it has little claim to picturesque beauty; he complains that its shape is bad, that it does not taper and point like the holly, but is a matted, round, and heavy bush. We are glad to find, however, that Sir T. Lauder thinks differently; he remarks, that "even in a picturesque point of view, it is not only an interesting object by itself, but produces an interesting combination, or contrast, as things may be, when grouped with other trees. We have seen it," he adds, "hanging over rocks, with deep shadows over its foliage, or shooting from their sides in the most fantastic forms, as if to gaze at its image in the deep pool below. We have seen it contrasting its tender green and its delicate leaves with the brighter and deeper masses of the holly and the alder. We have seen it growing under the shelter, though not under the shade, of some stately oak, embodying the idea of beauty protected by strength. Our eyes have often caught the motion of the busy mill-wheel, over which its blossoms were clustering. We have seen it growing grandly on the green of the village school, the great object of general attraction to the young urchins, who played in idle groups about its roots, and perhaps the only thing remaining to be recognised when the schoolboy returns as the man. We have seen its aged boughs overshadowing one half of some peaceful woodland cottage, its foliage half concealing the window, whence the sounds of happy content and cheerful mirth came forth. We know that lively season When the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. And with these, and a thousand such associations as these, we cannot but feel emotions of no ordinary nature when we behold this beautiful tree." And Gilpin admits, in another part of his _Forest Scenery_, that the Hawthorn, when entangled with an oak, or mixing with other trees, may be beautiful. Loudon describes "the Hawthorn, _C. oxyacantha_, in its wild state, as a shrub, or small tree, with a smooth, blackish bark, and very hard wood. The branches are numerous and slender, furnished with sharp, awl-shaped spines. The leaves are of a deep smooth green, more or less deeply three-lobed, or five-lobed, cut and serrated, wedge-shaped, or rounded. The flowers have white petals, frequently pink, or almost scarlet, and sweet-scented." Its fragrance indeed is great, and its bloom is spread over it in profusion. Marke the faire blooming of the Hawthorne tree, Who, finely cloathed in a robe of white, Fills full the wanton eye with May's delight. Chaucer. While "in autumn," says Gilpin, "the Hawthorn makes its best appearance. Its glowing berries produce a rich tint, which often adds great beauty to the corner of a wood, or the side of some crowded clump." [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Berries of _C. oxyacantha._] There are many remarkable trees of this kind, but the only one we shall here particularly mention is Queen Mary's Thorn, which is thus described in that splendid work, the _Arboretum Britannicum_:--"The parent tree is in a garden near Edinburgh, which once belonged to the Regent Murray, and is now, 1836, in the possession of Mr. Cowan, a paper manufacturer. It is very old, and its branches have somewhat of a drooping character; but whether sufficiently so to constitute a variety worth propagating as a distinct kind, appears to us very doubtful. It may be interesting, however, to some, to continue, by extension, the individual tree under which the unfortunate Queen is supposed to have spent many hours. The fruit of this variety is rather above the middle size, long, fleshy, of a deep red, and good to eat. The height of the parent tree is thirty-three feet, and the diameter of the head thirty-six feet; the trunk divides into two limbs, at fifteen inches from the ground, one of which is one foot four inches in diameter, and the other one foot. The tree is healthy and vigorous, though, if it be true that Queen Mary sat under its shade, it must be nearly three hundred years old." The Hawthorn is found in most parts of Europe, and appears to have been of use in England from a very early period, as in all old works on husbandry ample directions are given for the planting and cultivation of the Thorn. In Tusser's _Five Hundred Points in Good Husbandry_ we find the following directions: Go plough or delve up, advised with skill, The breadth of a ridge, and in length as you will; Where speedy quickset for a fence you will draw, To sow in the seed of the bramble and Haw. If intended for seed, the haws should not be gathered until the end of October, when they become blackish; and even then they rarely vegetate before the second year. The proper mode of preparing them is as follows:--If you do not sow them immediately, as soon as they are gathered, spread them on an airy floor for five or six weeks, till the seeds are dry and firm; then plunge them into water, and divest them wholly of their pulp by rubbing them between your hands with a little sand; spread them again on the loft three or four days, till quite dry; mix them with fine loose sandy mould, in quantity not less than the bulk of the seeds, and lay them in a heap against a south wall, covering them over, three or four inches deep, with soil of the same quality as that with which they are mixed. If you do not sow them in the spring, in this situation let them remain till the second spring, as the seeds, if sown, will not appear the first year. That the berries may be as equally mixed with the soil as possible, turn over the heaps once in two months, blending the covering with the seeds, and, at every turning, give them a fresh covering in the winter months. They should be sown the first dry weather in February, or the beginning of March. Separate them from the loose soil in which they were mixed, with a wire sieve. The ground should be good, dry, fresh land, well prepared, and the seeds beat down with the back of a spade, and then covered about half an inch thick with mould; or they may be dropped in drills about eight inches apart. The utility of the Hawthorn is chiefly for fences. The wood is hard, and the root of an old Thorn is an excellent material for boxes and combs, and is curiously and naturally wrought. It is white, but of a somewhat yellow hue, and is capable of a very high polish. [Illustration: THE HAZEL-TREE.] THE HAZEL-TREE. [_Corylus_.[G] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polyan._] [G] _Corylus_. Barren catkin long, pendulous, cylindrical. Scales 3-lobed, middle lobe covering the 2 lateral lobes. Stamens 8. Anther 1-celled. Perianth none. Fertile flowers, several surrounded by a scaly involucre. Styles 2. Nut 1-seeded, inclosed in the enlarged coriaceous laciniated involucre. The common Hazel, _C. avellana_, is a native of all the temperate climates of Europe and Asia, and grows wild in almost every part of Britain, from Cornwall to Caithness. Although never arriving at the bulk of a timber-tree, it yet claims our notice, among the natives of the forest, on various accounts. Its flowers are among the first to make their appearance, which is generally so early as the end of January, and in a month's time they are in full bloom; these are small, and of a beautiful red colour. Its fruit-bearing buds make a splendid show in March, when they burst and disclose the bright crimson of their shafts. The common Hazel is known at once by its bushy habit; by its roundish-cordate taper-pointed, deeply serrated, light-green, downy leaves; by its rough light-coloured bark; and by its broad leafy husks, much lacerated and spreading at the point. The nuts are a very agreeable fruit, abounding in a mild oil, which is expressed and used by artists for mixing with their colours. We must, however, caution persons against eating too freely of this fruit, as it is difficult of digestion, and often proves hurtful when eaten in large quantities. They are ripe about harvest, and we ourselves have frequently enjoyed the pleasures of a _nutting_ party, and can fully enter into the spirit of the sketch in _Autumn_, by our admired bard, Thomson: Ye swains, now hasten to the Hazel bank, Where, down yon dale, the wildly-winding brook Falls hoarse from steep to steep. In close array, Fit for the thickets and the tangling shrub, Ye virgins come. For you their latest song The woodlands raise; the clustering nuts for you The lover finds amid the secret shade; And, where they burnish on the topmost bough, With active vigour crushes down the tree, Or shakes them ripe from the resigning husk. [Illustration: Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts of _C. avellana_.] We must also give here a description of the pleasures of nutting, from our favourite poet--the poet of nature--Wordsworth: --It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days which cannot die; When in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand, and turned my steps Toward the distant woods. * * * * * * * Among the woods And o'er the pathless rocks I forced my way, Until at length I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation! but the Hazels rose Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung, A virgin scene! A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and with wise restraint, Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet,--or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played. * * * * * * * * * * * * Then up I rose, And dragged on earth each branch and bough with crash And merciless ravage, and the shady nook Of Hazels, and the green and massy bower Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being; and unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past, Even then, when from the bower I turned away Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and the intruding sky. The nut is a favourite food of the squirrels, which hoard them up for winter store, being careful always to select the best. It is commonly remarked, that a plentiful year for nuts is the same for wheat. In order to raise the Hazel, the nuts must be gathered in autumn. These must be carefully preserved until February in a moist place; then, having the ground well ploughed and harrowed, sow them in drills drawn at one yard distance. When the young plants appear they must be kept clear from weeds, and remain under this careful cultivation till the weeds are no longer to be feared. As they grow they should not be permitted to stand too thick, but be kept thinned, until the plants are left a yard asunder each way. Virgil says, Hazels, from set and suckers, take. From these they thrive very well, the shoots being of the scantling of small wands and switches, or somewhat larger, and such as have divers hairy twigs, which are not to be disbranched, any more than their roots, unless by a very discreet hand. Thus, a copse of Hazels being planted about autumn, may be cut the next spring within three or four inches of the ground, when new shoots will soon grow up in clusters, and in tufts of fair poles of twenty, or sometimes thirty feet long. Evelyn, however, recommends that these offsets should be allowed to grow two or three years, until they have taken strong hold, when they may be cut close to the very earth, the feeble ones especially. The rate of growth, under favourable circumstances, is from one to two feet for the first two or three years after planting; after which, if trained to a single stem, the tree grows slower, attaining the height of about twelve feet in ten years, and never growing much higher, unless drawn up by other trees. It is seldom, however, allowed to grow to maturity, being usually cut down before that period. [Illustration: THE HOLLY-TREE.] THE HOLLY-TREE. [_Ilex._[H] Nat. Ord.--_Aquifoliaceæ_; Linn.--_Tetram. Tetrag._] [H] _Ilex._ Calyx inferior, 4 or 5-toothed, persistent. Corolla rotate, 4 or 5-cleft. Stigmas 4, sessile, or nearly so; distinct or united. Fruit a spherical berry, 4-celled, each cell 1-seeded. Flowers sometimes polygamous. Above all the evergreens which enrich our landscapes, there is none to be compared to the common Holly, _I. aquifolium_. This was a favourite plant with Evelyn. It grew spontaneously and luxuriantly near his own residence in Surrey, in a vale anciently called Holmes' Dale, and famous for the flight of the Danes; he expresses his wonder that Britons seek so eagerly after foreign plants, and at a vast expense, while they neglect the culture of this incomparable tree, whether it be cultivated for utility or ornament. He speaks in raptures of it: "Is there under heaven a more glorious and refreshing object of the kind, than an impenetrable hedge, of about four hundred feet in length, nine feet high, and five in diameter, which I can show in my gardens at Say's Court, Deptford, at any time of the year, glittering with its armed and varnished leaves; the taller standards at orderly distances, blushing with their natural coral." The leaves of the common Holly are ovate, acute, spinous, wavy, thorny, and shining; the lower leaves being very spinous, while the upper ones, especially on old trees, are entire. The flowers are white, appearing in May, and the berries, which are red, ripen in September, and remain on the tree all the winter. Gilpin remarks that the Holly can hardly be called a tree, though it is a large shrub, and a plant of singular beauty; but he cannot accord with the learned naturalist (Evelyn) in the whole of his rapturous encomium on his hedge at Say's Court. He recommends it, not as a hedge, but to be planted in a forest, where, mixed with oak, or ash, or other trees of the wood, it contributes to form the most beautiful scenes; blending itself with the trunks and skeletons of the winter, or with the varied greens of summer. And as far as an individual bush can be beautiful, the Holly is extremely so. It has, besides, to recommend it, that it is among the hardiest and stoutest plants of English growth. It thrives in all soils, and in all situations. At Dungeness, in Kent, it flourishes even among the pebbles of the beach. It abounds, more or less, in the remains of all aboriginal forests, and perhaps, at present, it prevails nowhere to a greater extent than in the remains of Needwood Forest, in Staffordshire; there are likewise many fine trees in the New Forest, in Hampshire. It is also abundant on the banks of the river Findhorn, in Aberdeenshire; but it is not very common in Ireland, except about the lakes of Killarney, where it attains a large size. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Berries of _I. aquifolium._] Why Gilpin should hesitate about considering the Holly a tree, we are at a loss to conceive, as it grows to the height of thirty feet, and, under cultivation, to sixty feet or upwards, and yields timber of considerable value. Being the whitest of all hard woods, it is useful for inlaying, especially under thin plates of ivory, rendering the latter more conspicuous; and also for veneering. It is much used by the turner and mathematical instrument maker, and for handles for the best riding-rods, &c. The Holly is a very valuable plant for fences; it is seldom attacked by insects, and, if shorn, becomes so impenetrable that birds cannot obtain access thereto to build their nests. On these accounts it is particularly valuable to the farmer for hedges; the chief objection to it for this purpose is, the slowness of its growth while young, and the difficulty of transplanting the plants when grown to a moderate size. Mr. Sang says, that Holly hedges are the best for making durable fences, and afford the greatest degree of shelter, especially during the winter months; no plant endures the shears better than the Holly; a hedge of it may be carried to a great height, and consequently it is well fitted for situations where strength and shelter are required; it luxuriates most in a rich sandy loam, although there are few soils in which it will not grow. After planting, the Holly makes but indifferent progress for a few years; but after it becomes established in the ground, or about the third or fourth year after planting, no fence whatever will outgrow the Holly. "I have seen hedges," says Evelyn, "or stout walls, of Holly, twenty feet high, kept upright, and the gilded sort budded low; and in two or three places one above another, shorn and fashioned into columns and pilasters, architecturally shaped, and at due distance; than which nothing can possibly be more pleasant, the berry adorning the intercolumniations with scarlet festoons and encarpa." The employment of the Holly at Christmas for ornamenting churches and dwelling-houses, is believed to have come down to us from the Druids, who made use of it in their religious ceremonies. The name Holly is supposed to be a corruption of the word _holy_, as Dr. Turner, one of the earliest English writers on plants, calls it holy, and holy tree, which appellation was probably given to it on account of its use in holy places; the German name, Christdorn, the Danish name, Christorn, and the Swedish name, Christtorn, seem to justify this conjecture. It is also styled Holy in a carol written in its praise in the time of Henry VI., preserved in the Harleian MSS., No. 5396, and printed in Loudon's _Arboretum_: Nay, Ivy, nay, it shall not be I wys; Let Holy hafe the maystry, as the maner ys, Holy stond _in the halle_, fayre to behold; Ivy stond _without the dore_; she is full sore a cold. Holy and hys mery men they dansyn and they syng, Ivy and hur maydenys they wepyn and they wryng. Ivy hath a lybe; she laghtit with the cold, So mot they all hafe that wyth Ivy hold. Holy hath berys as red as any rose, They foster the hunter, kepe him from the doo. Ivy hath berys as black as any slo; Ther com the oule and ete hym as she goo. Holy hath byrdys, aful fayre flok, The nyghtyngale, the poppyngy, the gayntyl laverok, Good Ivy! what byrdys ast thou! Non but the Howlet that "How! How!" The disciples of Zoroaster believe that the sun never shadows the Holly-tree; and there are still some followers of this king in Persia, who throw water which has been in the bark of the Holly in the face of new-born children. Southey, in a very elegant poem, which is printed in the _Sentiment of Flowers_, in the article entitled Foresight, of which quality the Holly is considered emblematical, has noticed the circumstance of the lower leaves of large plants being spinous, while the upper are entire. [Illustration: THE HORNBEAM.] THE HORNBEAM. [_Carpinus_.[I] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polyan._] [I] _Carpinus_. Barren catkin long, cylindrical. Scales roundish. Stamens 5 to 14. Anther 1-celled. Fertile flower in a lax catkin. Scales large, leaf-like, 3-lobed, 2-flowered. Styles 2. Nut ovate, 1-seeded. The Common Hornbeam, _C. betulus_, is a native of England and Ireland, and of the south of Scotland, and is also indigenous throughout the greater part of Europe and western Asia, but not in Africa. Picturesquely considered, the Hornbeam is very nearly allied to the beech. When suffered to grow it will be like it, and attain to a great height, with a fine straight trunk; it is very common in many parts of England, but is rarely allowed to become a timber-tree, being generally pollarded by the country people. It is, therefore, usually seen only in clipped hedges, where it is very obedient to the knife, and, with a little care, will never presume to appear out of form. It is excellent for forming tall hedges, or screens, in nursery grounds or ornamental gardens. That admirable _espalier_ hedge in the long middle walk of Luxemburg garden at Paris (than which there is nothing more graceful), is planted of this tree; and so is that cradle, or close walk, with that perplexed canopy which covers the seat in her Majesty's garden at Hampton Court; these hedges are tonsile, but where they are maintained to fifteen or twenty feet in height (which is very frequent in the places before mentioned), they are to be cut and kept in order with a scythe of four feet long, and very little falcated; this is fixed on a long sneed, or straight handle, and does wonderfully expedite the trimming of these and the like hedges. The leaves of the Hornbeam somewhat resemble those of the elm, but are smoother; they are cordate, doubly serrate, pointed, plaited when young, and have numerous parallel, transverse, hairy ribs; their colour is a darkish green, changing to a russet brown in autumn, and they remain on the tree, like those of the beech, till spring. The buds are rather long and pointed. The flowers appear at the same time as the leaves. The male catkins are loose, scaly, of a yellowish colour, and about two or three inches long; the female catkins are much smaller, and, when young, are covered with close brownish scales, which gradually increase, and form unequally three-lobed, sharply serrated, veiny, dry, pale-green bracts, each enveloping an angular nut, scarcely bigger than a grain of barley. These nuts ripen in October, and fall with the capsules. The bark of the Hornbeam is light-gray and smooth, and the wood very white, tough, and strong. It is used for yokes, handles for tools, and cogs for mill-wheels; it is also much valued by the turner. It is very inflammable, and will burn like a candle, for which purpose it was formerly employed. The inner bark is much used in the north of Europe for dyeing yellow. [Illustration: Leaves and Flowers of _C. betulus_.] When raised from seed, the common Hornbeam acquires the usual magnitude of the beech, to which, as before stated, it is similar in its appearance. In the neighbourhood of London the rate of growth may be considered from twelve to eighteen inches a-year for the first ten years, and the tree will attain its full size in between fifty and sixty years; its longevity may be considered as equal to that of the beech. Hanbury says that this tree is peculiarly grateful to hares and rabbits; and if so, the planting of it among other trees and shrubs might be the means of saving them from being injured by these creatures. The Hornbeam preserves itself from the butting of the deer, by its mode of throwing out its branches; on this account it should be cultivated in parks, as well as for its beauty and shelter. The regular growth of the Hornbeam is referred to by Fawkes, in his _Bramham Park_: Here spiry firs extend their lengthened ranks, There violets blossom on the sunny banks; Here Hornbeam hedges regularly grow, There hawthorn whitens and wild roses blow. The Hornbeam is recommended to be planted on cold, barren hills, as in such situations it will flourish where few other trees will grow; it also resists the winds much better than the generality of trees, and, at the same time, it is not slow of growth. In such situations, Dr. Hunter observes that he noticed some specimens nearly seventy feet high, having large, noble stems, perfectly straight and sound. There was a fine specimen of this tree at Bargoly, in Galloway, which measured, in 1780, six feet two inches in circumference. It had twenty feet of clear trunk, and was seventy feet high. [Illustration: THE HORSE-CHESTNUT TREE.] THE HORSE-CHESTNUT TREE. [_Æsculus._ Nat. Ord.--_Æsculaceæ_; Linn.--_Heptan. Monog._] The Common Horse-chestnut, _Æ. hippocastanum_, is supposed to be a native of the north of India, and appears to have been introduced into England about the year 1575. It is a tree of the largest size, with an erect trunk and a pyramidal head. It forms its foliage generally in a round mass, with little appearance of those breaks which are so much to be admired, and which contribute to give an airiness and lightness, at least a richness and variety, to the whole mass of foliage. This tree is, however, chiefly admired for its flower, which in itself is beautiful; but the whole tree together in flower is a glaring object, totally unharmonious and unpicturesque. In some situations, indeed, and amidst a profusion of other wood, a single Horse-chestnut or two in bloom may be beautiful. As it forms an admirable shade, it may be of use, too, in thickening distant scenery, or in screening an object at hand; for there is no species of foliage, however heavy, nor any species of bloom, however glaring, which may not be brought, by some proper contrast, to produce a good effect. It is generally, however, considered one of the most ornamental trees in our plantations. Evelyn styles it a tree of singular beauty and use; and Miss Twamley, in her elegant volume, the _Romance of Nature_, breaks into raptures in speaking of it. "Few trees," she says, "are so magnificent in foliage as the Horse-chestnut, with its large fan-like leaves, far more resembling those of some tropical plant than the garb of a forest-tree in climes like ours; but when these are crowned with its pyramids of flowers, so splendid in their distant effect, and so exquisitely modelled and pencilled when we gather and examine their fair forms--is it not then the pride of the landscape? If the Oak--the true British Oak--be the forest king, let us give him at least a partner in his majesty; and let the Chestnut, whose noble head is crowned by the hand of spring with a regal diadem, gemmed with myriads of pearly, and golden, and ruby flowers, let her be queen of the woods in bonny England; and while we listen to the musical hum of bees, as they load themselves with her wealth of honey, we will fancy they are congratulating their noble and generous friend on her new honours." The leaves of the Horse-chestnut are large, of a deep green colour, fine, and palmated, and appear very early in the spring; it is naturally uniform in its growth. In the spring it produces long spikes, with beautiful flowers white and variegated, generally in such number as to cover the whole tree, and to give it the appearance of one gigantic bouquet. No flowering shrub is rendered more gay by its blossoms than this tall tree; thus it combines beauty with grandeur, in a degree superior to any other vegetable of these climates. In Howitt's _Forest Minstrel_, we find the following poetical allusion: For in its honour prodigal nature weaves A princely vestment, and profusely showers, O'er its green masses of broad palmy leaves, Ten thousand waxen pyramidal flowers; And gay and gracefully its head it heaves Into the air, and monarch-like it towers. The buds of this tree, before they shoot out leaves, become turgid and large, so that they have a good effect to the eye long before the leaves appear; and it is peculiar to the Horse-chestnut, that as soon as the leading shoot is come out of the bud, it continues to grow so fast as to be able to form its whole summer's shoot in about three weeks' or a month's time: after this it grows little or nothing more in length, but thickens, and becomes strong and woody, and forms the buds for the next year's shoot; the leaves are blunt, spear-shaped, and serrated, growing by sevens on one stalk, the middle one longest. The flowers are in full blossom about May, and, on fine trees, make a pleasing appearance; they continue in bloom for a month or more. [Illustration: (Leaves, Flowers, and Nuts of _Æ. hippocastanum_)] In June that Chestnut shot its blossomed spires Of silver upward 'mid the foliage dark; As if some sylvan deity had hung Its dim umbrageousness with votive wreaths. Thus, Mr. Moir's Horse-chestnut put forth its bloom in June. The fruit ripens about the end of September or the beginning of October. We quote the following singular fact from the _Magazine of Natural History_:--"The downy interior of the Horse-chestnut buds are: protected from the wet by a covering of a gummy substance. Miss Kent says, 'that we cannot have a better specimen of the early formation of plants in their bud than in that of the Horse-chestnut.' A celebrated German naturalist detached from this tree, in the winter season, a flower bud not larger than a pea, and first took off the external covering, which he found consisted of seventeen scales; having removed these scales, and the down which formed the internal covering of the bud, he discovered four branch leaves surrounding a spike of flowers, the latter of which was so distinctly visible, that, with the aid of a microscope, he not only counted sixty-eight flowers, but could discern the pollen of the stamens, and perceive that some were opaque and some transparent. This experiment may be tried by any one, as the flowers may be perceived with a common magnifying glass; but as detaching the scales requires care, it would be advisable for an unpractised student to gather the bud in early spring, when the sun is just beginning to melt away the gum with which the scales are sealed together." The Horse-chestnut is extremely well adapted to parks, not only because it grows to a large size and forms a beautiful regular head, thereby becoming a pleasing object at a distance, but also on account of the quantity of nuts it yields, which are excellent food for deer, so that where great numbers of deer are kept, the planting of these trees in abundance is to be recommended. It is also very suitable for avenues, or walks, though it has been objected that its leaves fall early in the autumn. This must be admitted; yet we think it fully compensates for the loss by the exhibition of its light-brown nuts, some on the ground, some ready to fall, and others just peeping out of their cells. The finest avenue of these trees in England is that at Bushy Park. There are many fine specimens of this tree in various parts of the country. In Suffolk, at Finborough Hall, one, eighty years planted, is one hundred feet high; the diameter of its trunk, at one foot from the ground, is five feet. In the church-yard at Bolton-on-Dearne, in Yorkshire, there are some fine specimens; one sixty-six feet high, and two feet eight inches in diameter at the ground; and another sixty-eight feet high, and two feet six inches in diameter. But the largest in Britain is said to be at Trocton, in Lincolnshire, fifty-nine feet high. Loudon says this is a most magnificent tree, with immense branches extending over the space of three hundred and five feet, in circumference; and the branches are so large as to require props, so that at a little distance it looks like an Indian banyan tree. The Horse-chestnut is propagated from the nut, of which a sufficient quantity should be gathered as they fall from the trees, and soon afterwards either sown or mixed up with earth, until the spring; because, if exposed to the atmosphere, they will lose their germinating power in a month. After being transplanted into the nursery, and having there attained a sufficient size, the young trees must be taken out with care, the great side shoots and bruised parts of the roots lopped off, and then planted in large holes, level with the surface of the ground at the top of their roots, the fibres being all spread and lapped in the fine mould, and the turf also worked to the bottom: October is the best season for this work. Like most other trees, this delights in good fat land, but it will grow exceedingly well on clayey and marly grounds; large trees have been known to look luxuriant and healthy in very cold barren earth. It will attain a very large size in a few years. The timber of this tree is not very valuable, especially where great strength is required, nor will it bear exposure to the air. It is, however, of some use to the turner, and also serviceable for flooring, linings to carts, &c. Du Hamel recommends it as suitable for water-pipes, which are kept constantly underground. The fruit is of a farinaceous quality, but so bitter as to be useless for food. Goats, sheep, and deer are said to be very fond of them; the bark has considerable astringency, and may be used for tanning leather. A decoction of the rind will dye the hair of a golden hue. [Illustration: THE LARCH-TREE.] THE LARCH-TREE. [_Abies Larix._[J] Nat. Ord.--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Monand._] [J] Abies Larix. _Lind._ Pinnis L. _Linn._ L. Europæa. Lond. The Larch claims the Alps and Apennines for its native country, where it thrives in higher regions of the air than any known tree of its large bulk, hanging over rocks and precipices which have never been trod by human feet. It is often felled by the Alpine peasant, to fall athwart some yawning chasm, where it affords an awful passage from cliff to cliff, while the roaring cataract below, is only seen in surges of vapour. The Larch is first mentioned as growing in England in 1629, but it did not become plentiful in nurseries until 1759. It is stated, in the _Transactions of the Highland Society_ (vol. xi. p. 169), that it was first planted as a forest-tree at Goodwood, the seat of the Duke of Richmond, near Chichester; but it was not until after 1784, on the Society of Arts offering gold medals and premiums for its cultivation, that it became generally planted. The following are some of the largest numbers of trees planted about that time by the respective parties:--The Bishop of Llandaff, 48,500, on the high grounds near Ambleside, in Westmoreland; W. Mellish, Esq. of Blythe, 47,500; George Wright, Esq. of Gildingwells, 11,573; and the late Earl of Fife, 181,813, in the county of Moray, in Scotland. The same spirit for planting this tree has continued to the present time, wherever the land has not been thought more valuable for other purposes. In 1820 the Society for promoting Arts, &c., presented his Grace the Duke of Devonshire with the gold medal, for planting 1,981,065 forest-trees, 980,128 of which were Larch. Of the introduction of the Larch into Scotland, it is stated by Headrick, in his _Survey of Forfarshire_: "It is generally supposed that Larches were brought into Scotland by one of the Dukes of Athol; but I saw three Larches of extraordinary size and age, in the garden near the mansion-house of Lockhart of Lee, on the northern banks of the Clyde, a few miles below Lanark. The stems and branches were so much covered with lichens, that they hardly exhibited any signs of life or vegetation. The account I heard of them was, that they were brought there by the celebrated Lockhart of Lee (who had been ambassador from Cromwell to France), soon after the restoration of Charles II. (about 1660). After Cromwell's death, thinking himself unsafe on account of having served the usurper, he retired for some time into the territories of Venice; he there observed the great use the Venetians made of Larches in ship-building, in piles for buildings, in the construction of their houses, and for other purposes; and when he returned home, he brought a great number of large plants, in pots, in order to try if they could be gradually made to endure the climate of Scotland. He nursed his plants in hot-houses, and in a greenhouse, sheltered from the cold, until they all died except the three alluded to. These, in desperation, he planted in the warmest and best sheltered part of his garden, where they attained an extraordinary height and growth." [Illustration: Foliage, Catkins; immature and perfect Cones; and Scale opened showing the Seeds of L. Europæa.] The Common Larch, _A. Larix_, may be described as "a tree, rising in favourable situations on the Alps, and also in Britain, from eighty to one hundred feet in height, with a trunk from three to four feet in diameter, and having a conical head. _Branches_ subverticillate, and spreading horizontally from the straight trunk; occasionally, however, rather pendulous, particularly when old. _Branchlets_ more or less pendulous. _Leaves_ linear, soft, blunt, or rounded at the points, of an agreeable light green colour; single or fasciculated; in the latter case many together round a central bud; spreading, and slightly recurved. _Male catkins_ without foot-stalks, globular, or slightly oblong, of a light yellow colour; and, together with the _female catkins_, or young cones, appearing in April and the beginning of May; the latter varying from a whitish to a bright red colour. _Cones_ of an oblong, ovate shape, erect, full one inch in length, and of a brownish colour when ripe. _Scales_ persistent, roundish, striated, and generally slightly waved, but not distinctly notched on the margin. _Bracts_ generally longer than the scales, particularly towards the base of the cones. _Seeds_ of an irregular or ovate form, fully one-eighth of an inch long, and more than half-surrounded by the smooth, shining, persistent pericarp. Cotyledons five to seven."--_Lawson's Manual._ In the _Memoirs of the Royal Society of Agriculture at Paris_, for the year 1787, there is an Essay by M. le President de la Tour d'Aigues, on the culture of the Larch, in which it is celebrated as one of the most useful of all timber trees. He tells us that in his own garden he has rails which were put up in the year 1743, partly of oak and partly of Larch. The former, he says, have yielded to time, but the latter are still sound. And in his Castle of Tour d'Aigues he has Larchen beams of twenty inches square, which are sound, though above two hundred years old. The finest trees he knows of this kind, grew in some parts of Dauphiny, and in the forest of Baye, in Provence, where there are Larches, he tells us, which two men cannot encompass. The timber is valuable for many purposes. It is said, that old dry Larch will take such a polish as to become almost transparent, and that, in this state, it may be wrought into very beautiful wainscot. In our encomium of the Larch we must not omit that the old painters used it, more than any other wood, to paint on, before the use of canvas became general. Many of Raphael's pictures are painted on boards of Larch. It is also used by the Italians for picture-frames, because no other wood gives gilding such force and brilliancy. We are told that this is the reason why their gilding on wood is so much superior to ours. In Switzerland they cover the roofs of their houses with shingles made of Larch. These are usually cut about one foot square and half an inch in thickness, which they nail to the rafters. At first the roof appears white, but in the course of two or three years it becomes as black as coal, and all the joints are stopped by the resin which the sun extracts from the pores of the wood. This shining varnish renders the roof impenetrable to wind or rain: this is the chief covering, and, some say, an incombustible one. From the Larch, too, is extracted what is commonly called Venice turpentine. This substance, or natural balsam, flows at first without incision; when it has done dropping the poor people make incisions, at about two or three feet from the ground, into the trunk of the trees, and into these they fix narrow troughs, about twenty inches long; the end of these troughs is hollow, like a ladle, and in the middle is a small hole bored for the turpentine to run into a receiver which is placed below it. The people who gather it, visit the tree, morning and evening, from the end of May to September, to collect the turpentine out of the receivers. When it flows out of the tree the turpentine is clear like water, and of a yellowish white; but as it becomes older it thickens, and changes to a citron colour. It is procured in great abundance in the neighbourhood of Lyons, and in the valley of St. Martin, near Lucerne, Switzerland. It is only after the tree has attained the thickness of ten or twelve inches in diameter, that it is thought worth while to collect the turpentine; and if the tree remain in vigorous growth, it will continue, for forty or fifty years, to yield annually seven or eight pounds of turpentine. The cones of the Larch, intended for seed, ought to be gathered towards the latter end of November, and then kept in a dry place till the following spring, when, being spread on a cloth and exposed to the sun, or laid before the fire, the scales will open and shed their seed. These should be sown on a border exposed to the east, where they will be affected by the morning sun only, as the plants do not prosper so well where the sun lies much on them. In autumn the young plants may be pricked out into other beds, as soon as they have shed their leaves, at the distance of six inches each way. In two years the young trees will be ready to plant where they are intended to stand; then they need not be more than eight or ten feet apart from each other, but at less distance on exposed situations. It is now well-known, that the Larch will grow in wild and barren situations better than in a luxuriant soil; and this tree is even apt to grow top-heavy in too much shelter and nourishment. No tree has been introduced into Britain with such remarkable success as the Larch. Phillips says, "The face of our country has, within the last thirty years, been completely changed by the numerous plantations of Larch that have sprung up on every barren spot of these kingdoms, from the southern shores to the extremity of the north, and from the Land's End to the mouth of the Thames. So great has been the demand for young trees of this species of pine, that one nurseryman in Edinburgh raised above five million of these trees in the year 1796. We have introduced no exotic tree that has so greatly embellished the country in general. Its pale and delicate green, so cheerfully enlivening the dark hue of the fir and the pine, and its elegant spiral shape, contrasting with the broad-spreading oak, is a no less happy contrast; whilst its stars of fasciculate foliage are displayed to additional advantage, when neighbouring with the broad-leaved æsculus, the glossy holly, the drooping birch, or the tremulous aspen." Sir T. D. Lauder considers that "The Larch is unquestionably by much the most enduring timber we have. It is remarkable, that whilst red wood or heart wood is not formed at all in the other resinous trees till they have lived for many years, the larch, on the other hand, begins to make it soon after it is planted; and whilst you may fell a Scotch fir of thirty years old, and find no red wood in it, you can hardly cut down a young Larch large enough to be a walking-stick, without finding just such a proportion of red wood, compared to its diameter as a tree, as you will find in the largest Larch in the forest, when compared to its diameter. To prove the value of the Larch as a timber-tree, we believe, at the suggestion of the then Duke of Athol, posts of equal thickness and strength, some of Larch and others of oak, were driven down facing the river-wall, where they were alternately covered with water by the effect of the tide, and left dry by its fall. This species of alternation is the most trying of all circumstances for the endurance of timber, and accordingly the oaken posts decayed, and were twice renewed in the course of a very few years, whilst those which were made of Larch remained altogether unchanged." Of the Larch, Mr. Sang remarks that it "bears the ascendency over the Scotch pine in the following important circumstances: that it brings double the price, at least per measurable foot; that it will arrive at a useful timber size in one half, or a third part, of the time in general which the fir requires; and, above all, that the timber of the Larch, at thirty or forty years old, when planted in a soil and climate adapted to the production of perfect timber, is, in every respect, superior in quality to that of the fir at a hundred years old." On experimental observation, the Larch has been found, in Scotland, to increase annually, at six feet from the ground, about one inch and a half in circumference, on the trunks of trees from ten to fifty years of age. In the course of fifty years the tree will attain the height of eighty feet or upwards; and, in its native habitats, according to Willdenow, "it lives from one hundred and fifty to two hundred years." "Though we should least expect to find such a quality in a resinous tree like the Larch, it has been proved to make a beautiful hedge, and to submit with wonderful patience to the shears. We once saw a very pretty fence of this description in a gentleman's pleasure-grounds near Loch Lomond. The trees were planted at equal distances from each other, and being clipped, were half cut through towards the top, and bent down over each other, and, in, many instances, the top shoot of one had insinuated itself into that adjacent to it, so as to have become corporeally united to it; and, strange as it may seem, we actually found one top that had so inserted itself, which, having been rather deeply cut originally by the hedge-bill, had actually detached itself from its parent stock, and was now growing, grafted on the other, with the lower part of it pointing upwards into the air!"--_Sir T. D. Lauder._ There are ten or more varieties of the Larch in cultivation, but as these are probably only different forms of the same species, it is unnecessary to enumerate them. [Illustration: THE LIME, OR LINDEN TREE.] THE LIME, OR LINDEN TREE. [_Tilia._[K] _Europæa._ Nat. Ord.--_Tiliaceæ_; Linn.--_Polyand. Monog._] [K] _Generic characters_. Sepals 5, deciduous. Petals 5, with or without a scale at the base. Stamens indefinite, free, or polyadelphous. Ovary 5-celled, cells 2-seeded. Style 1. Fruit 1-celled, with 1 or 2 seeds. The Common Lime-tree grows naturally straight and taper, with a smooth erect trunk, and a fine spreading head, inclining to a conical form. In a good soil it arrives at a great height and size, and becomes a majestic object. Thus we read that The stately Lime, smooth, gentle, straight, and fair, With which no other dryad may compare, With verdant locks and fragrant blossoms decked, Does a large, even, odorate shade project. This beautiful tree is a native of the middle and north of Europe, and is said to have been highly esteemed among the Romans for its shade. Evelyn praises the Lime as being the most proper and beautiful for walks; as producing an upright body, smooth and even bark, ample leaves, sweet blossom, and a goodly shade, at the distance of eighteen or twenty feet. Those growing in St. James's Park, London, are said to have been planted at his suggestion. There are now many avenues of Limes in various parts of the country. At the termination of one at Colerton, Leicestershire, there is placed an urn with the following tribute to the memory of Sir Joshua Reynolds, written by Wordsworth at the request of the proprietor, Sir George Beaumont, Bart.:-- Ye Lime-trees, ranged before this hallowed urn, Shoot forth with lively power at spring's return; And be not slow a stately growth to rear Of pillars, branching off from year to year, Till they have learned to frame a darksome aisle,-- That may recal to mind that awful pile Where Reynolds, 'mid our country's noblest dead, In the last sanctity of fame is laid. There, though by right the excelling painter sleep, Where death and glory a joint Sabbath keep; Yet not the less his spirit would hold dear Self-hidden praise, and friendship's private tear; Hence, on my patrimonial grounds, have I Raised this frail tribute to his memory; From youth a zealous follower of the art That he professed, attached to him in heart; Admiring, loving, and with grief and pride, Feeling what England lost when Reynolds died. Loudon speaks of two ancient Lime-trees at Zoffingen, on the branches of which is placed a plank, in such a manner as to enable any one to walk from the one to the other; and thus people may not only walk, but even dance, upon the foliage of the tree. In the village of Villars en Morig, near Fribourg, there is a large Lime which existed there long before the battle of Morat (1476), and which is now of extraordinary dimensions; it was, in 1831, seventy feet high, and thirty-six feet in circumference at four feet from the ground, where it divided into large and perfectly sound branches. It must be nearly a thousand years old. And at Fribourg, in the public square, there is a large Lime, the branches of which are supported by pieces of wood. This tree was planted on the day when the victory was proclaimed of the Swiss over the Duke of Burgundy, Charles the Bold, in the year 1476; and it is a monument admirably accordant with the then feebleness of the Swiss republics, and the extreme simplicity of their manners. In 1831 the trunk of this tree measured thirteen feet nine inches in circumference. [Illustration: Leaves and Flowers of T. Europæa.] Botanically considered, the Common Lime is a large and handsome tree with spreading branches, thickly clothed with leaves twice the length of their petioles, cordate at the base, serrate, pointed, smooth--except a woolly tuft at the origin of each nerve beneath--unequal and entire at the base; stipules oval, smooth, in pairs at the base of each foot-stalk; flower-stalks axillar, cymose, each bearing an oblong, pale, smooth bract, united, for half its length, with the stalk; flowers of a greenish colour, growing in clusters of four or five together, and highly fragrant, especially at night. This renders them very attractive to the bees, which is referred to by Virgil, in his beautiful description of the industrious Corycian, thus translated by Martyn:--"He therefore was the first to abound with pregnant bees, and plentiful swarms, and to squeeze the frothing honey from the combs. He had Limes, and plenty of pines; and as many fruits as showed themselves in early blossom, so many did he gather ripe in early autumn."--_Geo._ iv. 127. The seeds of the Linden-tree rarely ripen in Britain; this tree is, therefore, properly propagated by layers, which must be made in the nursery in autumn; in one year they become rooted so as to allow of being removed. It will grow well in any soil or situation, but if planted in a rich loamy earth, the rapidity of its growth will be almost incredible. The timber of the Lime-tree is very serviceable, and much preferable to that of the willow, being stronger yet lighter. Because of its colour, which is of a pale yellow or white, and its easy working, and not being liable to split, architects form with it their models for buildings. The most elegant use to which it is applied is for carving, not only for small figures, but large statues in basso and alto relievo, as that of the Stoning of St. Stephen, with the structures and elevations about it; the trophies, festoons, fruitages, friezes, capitals, pedestals, and other ornaments and decorations about the choir of St. Paul's, executed by Gibbons, and other carvings by the same artist at Chatsworth, the seat of the Duke of Devonshire, and in Trinity College Library at Cambridge. It is even supposed by some that the blocks employed by Holbein, for wood engravings, were of this tree. Dodsley says-- Smooth Linden best obeys The carver's chisel; best his curious work Displays, in all its nicest touches. It is used by piano-forte makers for sounding-boards, and by cabinet-makers for a variety of purposes. The wood is also said to make excellent charcoal for gunpowder, even better than alder, and nearly as good as hazel, while baskets and cradles are made with the twigs of the Lime; and of the smoother side of the bark, tablets for writing; for the ancient Philyra is but our Tilia, of which Munting affirms he saw a book, made of the inner bark, written about 1000 years ago; such another was brought to the Count of St. Amant, governor of Arras, 1662, for which there were given 8000 ducats by the Emperor. It contains a work of Cicero, _De ordinanda Republica et de Inveniendis Orationum Exordiis_, which is still unprinted, and is now in the imperial library of Vienna, after having been the greatest rarity in that of the celebrated Cardinal Mazarin, who died in 1661. The smoothness of the Lime-tree is thus alluded to by Cowper in the _Task_: Here the gray smooth trunks Of ash, or Lime, or beech, distinctly shine Within the twilight of their distant shades, There lost behind a rising ground, the wood Seems sunk and shortened to its topmost boughs. This peculiarity of the bark has also been noticed by Leigh Hunt, in the story of _Rimini_: Places of nestling green for poets made, Where, when the sunshine struck a yellow shade, The slender trunks to inward peeping sight, Thronged, in dark pillars, up the gold-green light. The leaves of the Lime-tree are also useful, and were esteemed so in common with those of the elm and poplar, both in a dried and green state for feeding cattle, by the Romans. The other two indigenous or naturalized species of Lime are-- 2. _The broad-leaved, T. grandifolia._ Ehrh. Flowers without nectaries; leaves roundish, cordate, pointed, serrate, downy, especially beneath, with hairy tufts at the origin of the veins; capsule turbinate, with prominent angles, downy.----_Flowers_ in August: found in woods and hedges. 3. _The small-leaved, T. parvifolia._ Ehrh. Flowers without nectaries; leaves scarcely longer than their petioles, roundish, cordate, serrate, pointed, glaucous beneath, with hairy tufts at the origin of the veins, and scattered hairy blotches; capsule roundish, with slender ribs, thin, brittle, nearly smooth.----_A handsome_ tree, distinguished from the former by its much smaller leaves and flowers: germen densely woolly: flowers in August: grows in woods in Essex, Sussex, &c.: frequent. [Illustration: THE MAPLE-TREE.] THE MAPLE-TREE. [_Acer._[L] Nat. Ord.--_Aceraceæ_; Linn. _Octan. Monog._] [L] _Generic characters._ Calyx inferior, 5-cleft. Petals 5, obovate. Fruit consisting of 2 capsules, united at the base, indehiscent and winged (a _samara_). Trees, with simple leaves and flowers, often polygamous, in axillary corymbs or racemes. The Common Maple (_A. campestre_) is found throughout the middle states of Europe, and in the north of Asia. It is common in hedges and thickets in the middle and south of England, but is rare in the northern counties and in Scotland, and is not indigenous in Ireland. It is a rather small tree, of no great figure, so that it is seldom seen employed in any nobler service than in filling up a part in a hedge, in company with thorns and briers. In a few instances, where it is met with in a state of maturity, its form appears picturesque. It is not much unlike the oak, only it is more bushy, and its branches are closer and more compact. Although it seldom attains a height of more than twenty feet, yet in favourable situations it rises to forty feet, as may be seen in Eastwell Park, Kent, and in Caversham Park, near Reading. The Rev. William Gilpin, from whose _Remarks on Forest Scenery_ we have derived much interesting matter, is buried under the shade of a very large Maple in the church-yard of Boldre, in the New Forest, Hampshire. The botanical characters of _A. campestre_ are:--_Leaves_ about one and a half inch in width, downy while young, as are their foot-stalks, obtusely five-lobed, here and there notched, sometimes quite entire. Flowers green, in clusters that terminate the young shoots, hairy, erect, short, and somewhat corymbose. Anthers hairy between the lobes. Capsules downy, spreading horizontally, with smooth, oblong, reddish wings. Bark corky, and full of fissures; that of the branches smooth. Flowers in May and June. The ancients held this tree in great repute. Ovid compares it to the Lime: The Maple not unlike the lime-tree grows, Like her, her spreading arms abroad she throws, Well clothed with leaves, but that the Maple's bole Is clad by nature with a ruder stole. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _A. campestre_.] Pliny speaks as highly of its knobs and its excrescences, called the _brusca_ and _mollusca_, as Dr. Plot does of those of the ash. The veins of these excrescences in the Maple, Pliny tells us, were so variegated that they exceeded the beauty of any other wood, even of the citron; though the citron was in such repute at Rome, that Cicero, who was neither rich nor expensive, was tempted to give 10,000 sesterces for a citron table. The brusca and mollusca, Pliny adds, were rarely of a size sufficient for the larger species of furniture, but in all smaller cabinet-work they were inestimable. Indeed, the whole tree was esteemed by the ancients on account of its variegated wood, especially the white, which is singularly beautiful. This is called the French Maple, and grows in northern Italy, between the Po and the Alps; the other has a curled grain, so curiously spotted, that it was called, from a near resemblance, the peacock's tail. So mad were people formerly in searching for the representations of birds, beasts, and other objects in the bruscum of this tree, that they spared no expense in procuring it. The timber is used for musical instruments, inlaying, &c., and is reckoned superior to most woods for turnery ware. Our poets generally place a Maple dish in every hermitage they speak of. Methinks that to some vacant hermitage My feet would rather turn,--to some dry nook Scooped out of living rock, and near a brook Hurled down a mountain-cave, from stage to stage, Yet tempering, for my sight, its bustling rage In the soft haven of a translucent pool; Thence creeping under forest arches cool, Fit haunt of shapes whose glorious equipage Would elevate my dreams. A beechen bowl, A Maple dish, my furniture should be; Crisp, yellow leaves my bed; the hooting owl My night-watch; nor should e'er the crested fowl From thorp or vil his matins sound for me, Tired of the world and all its industry. Wordsworth, _Eccl. Sk._, 22. Wilson and Cowper also furnish the hermit's cell with a Maple dish, while Mason notes one that lacked this article, deemed so requisite for such a habitation: --Many a visitant Had sat within his hospitable cave; From his Maple bowl, the unpolluted spring Drunk fearless, and with him partook the bread That his pale lips most reverently had blessed, With words becoming such a holy man. His dwelling a recess in some rude rock, Books, beads, and Maple dish his meagre stock. --It seemed a hermit's cell, Yet void of hour-glass, skull, and Maple dish. There is an American species of the Maple, _A. saccharinum_, which yields a considerable quantity of sap, from which the Canadians make sugar of an average quality. The season for tapping the trees is in February, March, and April. From a pint to five gallons of syrup may be obtained from one tree in a day; though, when a frosty night is succeeded by a dry and brilliant day, the rush of sap is much greater. The yearly product of sugar from each tree is about three pounds. Trees which grow in lone and moist places, afford a greater quantity of sap than those which occupy rising ground; but it is less rich in the saccharine principle. That of insulated trees, left standing in the middle of fields, or by the side of fences, is the best. It is also remarked, that in districts which have been cleared of other trees, and even of the less vigorous sugar maples, the product of the remainder is proportionally greater. The sap is converted into sugar by boiling, till reduced to the proper consistency for being poured into moulds. There are now cultivated in England more than twenty species of Maple, brought from every quarter of the globe, several of which are likely to prove hardy. They are among the most ornamental trees of artificial plantations, on account of the great beauty and variety of their foliage, which changes to a fine scarlet, or rich yellow, in autumn. The larger growing species are often many years before they come to flower, and, after they do so, they sometimes flower several years before they mature seeds. [Illustration: THE MOUNTAIN-ASH, OR ROWAN-TREE.] THE MOUNTAIN-ASH, OR ROWAN-TREE. [_Pyrus._[M] Nat. Ord.--_Rosaceæ_; Linn.--_Icosand. Pentag._] [M] _Generic characters._ Calyx superior, monosepalous, 5-cleft. Petals 5. Styles 2 to 5. Fruit a _pome_, 5-celled, each cell 2-seeded, cartilaginous. The Mountain-Ash (_P. aucuparia_) is a native of most parts of Europe, and western Asia. It is also found in Japan, and in the most northern parts of North America. In Britain it is common in woods and hedges in mountainous, but rather moist situations, in every part of the island, and also in Ireland. It forms an erect-stemmed tree, with an orbicular head. When fully grown, like every other description of _Pyrus_, it assumes a somewhat formal character, but in a young state its branches are disposed in a more loose and graceful manner. In the Scottish Highlands, according to Lauder, "it becomes a considerable tree. There, on some rocky mountain covered with dark pines and waving birch, which cast a solemn gloom over the lake below, a few Mountain-Ashes, joining in a clump, and mixing with them, have a fine effect. In summer the light green tint of their foliage, and in autumn the glowing berries which hang clustering upon them, contrast beautifully with the deeper green of the pines; and if they are happily blended, and not in too large a proportion, they add some of the most picturesque furniture with which the sides of those rugged mountains are invested." The stems of the Mountain-Ash are covered with a smooth gray bark, and the branches, while young, have a smooth purplish bark. The leaves are pinnate, downy beneath, serrated; panicle corymbose, with downy stalks; flowers numerous, white; fruit globose, scarlet, acid, and austere. Flowers in May and June. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _P. aucuparia_.] The Mountain-Ash is almost always raised from seed, which may be sown any time from November to February. The tree grows rapidly for the first three or four years, attaining, in five years, the height of from eight to nine feet; after which it begins to form a head, and, in ten years, will attain the height of twenty feet. As it grows rapidly, even in the most exposed situations, it forms an admirable nurse-tree to the oak, and other slow-growing species; the more so as it is incapable of being drawn up by culture above a certain height, thereafter quietly submitting to be over-topped and destroyed, by the shade and drip of those which it was planted to shelter and protect. It is frequently planted for coppice-wood, the shoots being well adapted for poles, and for hoops, and the bark being in demand by tanners. The wood is fine-grained, hard, capable of being stained any colour, and of taking a high polish. It is much used for the husbandman's tools, goads, &c., and the wheelwright values it on account of its being homogeneous, or all heart. If the tree be large and fully grown, it will yield planks, boards, and timber. Next to the yew it was useful for bows--a circumstance we ought not to omit recording, if it were only to perpetuate the celebrity of our once English ancestors. It is named in a statute of Henry VIII. as being serviceable for this purpose. It makes excellent fuel; though Evelyn says he never observed any use, except that the blossoms are of an agreeable scent, and the berries offer such temptation to the thrushes, that, as long as they last, you may be sure of their company. Ale and beer brewed with these berries, being ripe, is esteemed an incomparable drink. In Wales, this tree is reputed so sacred, that there is scarcely a church-yard without one of them growing therein. And formerly--and, we believe, in some parts even now--on a certain day in the year many persons religiously wore a cross made of the wood. Keats, in his early poems, notices the loftiness of this tree, and its waving head: --He was withal A man of elegance and stature tall; So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild Ash-tree, Or the winged cap of Mercury. In former days, when superstition prevailed, the Mountain-Ash was considered an object of great veneration. Often at this day a stump of it is found in some old burying-place, or near the circle of a Druid temple, whose rites it formerly invested with its sacred shade. It was supposed to be, and in some places still is esteemed to be, possessed of the property of driving away witches and evil spirits, and this property is recorded in one of the stanzas of a very ancient song, called the _Laidley Worm of Spindleston Heughs:_ Their spells were vain, the hags return'd To the queen, in sorrowful mood, Crying that witches have no pow'r Where there is roan-tree wood. That the superstition respecting the virtues of this tree does exist in Yorkshire at the present day, we know, and of the truth of the following anecdote, related by Waterton, the author of the celebrated _Wanderings_, we have not the slightest doubt; it is printed in one of his communications to the _Magazine of Natural History_:--"In the village of Walton," says Mr. Waterton, "I have two small tenants; the name of one is James Simpson, and that of the other Sally Holloway; and Sally's stands a little before the house of Simpson. Some three months ago I overtook Simpson on the turnpike road, and I asked him if his cow was getting better, for his son had told me that she had fallen sick. 'She's coming on surprisingly, Sir,' quoth he; 'the last time the cow-doctor came to see her, "Jem," said he to me, looking earnestly at Old Sally's house; "Jem," said he, "mind and keep your cowhouse door shut before the sun goes down, otherwise I won't answer for what may happen to the cow." "Ay, ay, my lad," said I, "I understand your meaning; but I am up to the old slut, and I defy her to do me any harm now!"' 'And what has Old Sally been doing to you, James?' said I. 'Why, Sir,' replied he, 'we all know too well what she can do. She has long owed me a grudge; and my cow, which was in very good health, fell sick immediately after Sally had been seen to look in at the door of the cowhouse, just as night was coming on. The cow grew worse, and so I went and cut a bit of wiggin (Mountain-Ash), and I nailed the branches all up and down the cowhouse; and, Sir, you may see them there if you will take the trouble to step in. I am a match for Old Sally now, and she can't do me any more harm, so long as the wiggin branches hang in the place where I have nailed them. My poor cow will get better in spite of her.' Alas! thought I to myself, as the deluded man was finishing his story, how much there is yet to be done in our own country by the schoolmaster of the nineteenth century!" The Mountain-Ash, so esteemed among our northern neighbours as a protection against the evil designs of wizards and witches, is propagated by the Parisians for a very different purpose. It is used as one of the principal charms for enticing the French belles into the public gardens, where they are permitted to use all the spells and witcheries of which they are mistresses; and certainly this tree, ornamented by its brilliant scarlet fruit, has a most enchanting appearance when lighted up with lamps, in the months of August and September. The varieties of the Mountain-Ash are:-- 2. _P. fructu luteo_, with yellow berries. 3. _P. foliis variegatis_, with variegated leaves. 4. _P. fastigiata_, with the branches upright and rigid. 5. _P. pinnatifida_, with deeply pinnatified leaves. [Illustration: THE BLACK-FRUITED MULBERRY.] THE BLACK-FRUITED MULBERRY. [_Morus nigra._[N] Nat. Ord.--_Urticaceæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Tetra._] [N] _Morus. Flowers_ unisexual; _barren_ flowers disposed in a drooping, peduncled, axillary spike; _fertile_ flowers in ovate, erect spikes. _Calyx_ of 4 equal sepals, imbricate in estivation, expanded in flowering. _Stamens_ 4. _Ovary_ 2-celled, one including one pendulous ovate, the other devoid of any. _Stigmas_ 2, long. Seed pendulous. The Black-fruited, or Common Mulberry, is generally supposed to be a native of Persia, where there are still masses of it found in a wild state. It was first brought to England in 1548, when some trees were planted at Sion, near London, one of which still survives. About 1608 James I. recommended by royal edict, and by letter in his own writing to the lord-lieutenant of every county, the planting of Mulberry-trees and the rearing of silk-worms, which are fed upon the leaves; also offering plants at three farthings each, and packets of Mulberry seeds to all who would sow them. Although the king failed to naturalize the production of silk in this country, he rendered the tree so fashionable, that there is scarcely an old garden or gentleman's seat throughout the country, which can be traced back to the seventeenth century, in which a Mulberry-tree is not to be found. It was at this time that Shakspeare planted the one in his garden at Stratford-on-Avon, which was known as "Shakspeare's Mulberry-Tree," until it was felled in 1756; and that it was a black Mulberry we learn from Mr. Drake, a native of Stratford, who frequently in his youth ate of its fruit, some branches of which hung over the wall which bounded his father's garden.--Drake's _Shakspeare_, vol. ii., p. 584. In this country the Black-fruited Mulberry always assumes something of a dwarf or stunted character, spreading into thick arms or branches near the ground, and forming a very large head. The bark is rough and thick, and the leaves cordate, unequally serrated, and very rough. The fruit is large, of a dark purple, very wholesome, and agreeable to the palate. This tree is remarkable for the slowness of its growth, and for being one of the last trees to develope its leaves, though it is one of the first to ripen its fruit. It is also wonderfully tenacious of life: "the roots of one which had lain dormant in the ground for twenty-four years, being said, after the expiration of that time, to have sent up shoots." The Black-fruited Mulberry will grow in almost any soil or situation that is moderately dry, and in any climate not much colder than that of London. North of York it requires a wall, except in very favourable situations. It is very easily propagated by truncheons, or pieces of branches, eight or nine feet in length, planted half their depth in tolerably good soil, when they will bear fruit the following year. It is now rarely propagated by seeds, which seldom ripen in this country. No tree, perhaps, receives more benefit from the spade and the dunghill than the Mulberry; it ought, therefore, to be frequently dug about the roots, and occasionally assisted with manure. The fruit is very much improved by the tree being trained as an espalier, within the reflection of a south wall. As a standard tree, whether for ornament or the production of well-sized fruit, the Mulberry requires very little pruning, or attention of any kind. [Illustration: Leaves and Fruits of _M. nigra_.] The Black-fruited Mulberry has been known from the earliest records of antiquity; it is mentioned four times in the Bible, 2 Sam. v. 23, 24; 1 Chron. xiv. 14, 15. It was dedicated by the Greeks to Minerva, probably because it was considered as the wisest of trees; and Jupiter the Protector was called Mored. Ovid has celebrated the Black Mulberry in the story of Pyramus and Thisbe; in which he relates that its fruit was snow-white until the commingled blood of the unfortunate lovers, who killed themselves under its shade, was absorbed by its roots, when Dark in the rising tide the berries grew, And white no longer, took a sable hue; But brighter crimson springing from the root, Shot through the black, and purpled all the fruit. Cowley, in the fifth book of his poem on plants, has given a very plain and accurate description of the apparently cautious habits of this tree. He also thus alludes to the above fable: But cautiously the Mulberry did move, And first the temper of the skies would prove; What sign the sun was in, and if she might Give credit yet to winter's seeming flight: She dares not venture on his first retreat, Nor trust her fruit or leaves to doubtful heat; Her ready sap within her bark confines, Till she of settled warmth has certain signs! Then, making rich amends for the delay, With sudden haste she dons her green array; In two short months her purple fruit appears, And of two lovers slain the tincture wears. Her fruit is rich, but she doth leaves produce Of far surpassing worth, and noble use. * * * * * * * * They supply The ornaments of royal luxury: The beautiful they make more beauteous seem, The charming sex owe half their charms to them; To them effeminate men their vestments owe; How vain the pride which insect worms bestow! Besides the Black-fruited Mulberry, there are four other species sufficiently hardy to bear our climate without protection; but it will be here sufficient to give a short account of the White-fruited (_M. alba_) as the next best known, and as the species whose leaves are used in feeding silk-worms. _M. alba_, is only found truly wild in the Chinese province of Seres, or Serica. It was brought to Constantinople about the beginning of the sixth century, and was introduced into England in 1596, where it is still not very common. In the south of Europe it is grown in plantations by itself, like willows and fruit trees; also in hedge-rows, and as hedges, as far north as Frankfort-on-the-Oder. When allowed to arrive at maturity, this tree is not less beautiful than the fairest elm, often reaching thirty or forty feet in height. When cultivated to furnish food for the silk-worms, the trees are never allowed to grow higher than three or four feet being cut down to the ground every year in the same manner as a raspberry plantation. In France and Italy the leaves are gathered only once a-year; and when the trees are then wholly stripped, no injury arises from the operation; but if any leaves are left on the trees, they generally receive a severe shock. The specific characters of the White-fruited Mulberry are--_Leaves_ with a deep scallop at the base, and either cordate or ovate, undivided or lobed, serrated with unequal teeth, glossy or smoothish, the projecting portions on the two sides of the basal sinus unequal. The _fruit_ is seldom good for human food, but is excellent for poultry. It is a tree of rapid growth, attaining the height of twenty feet in five or six years, and plants cut down producing shoots four or five feet long in one season. [Illustration: THE BRITISH OAK.] THE BRITISH OAK. [_Quercus_.[O] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polya._] [O] _Generic characters. Barren_ flowers arranged in a loose, pendulous catkin, the perianth single, the stamens 5-10. _Fertile_ flower in a cupulate, scaly involucrum, with 3 stigmas. _Fruit_ an acorn, 1-celled, 1-seeded, seated in the cupulate, scaly involucrum. The Oak, when living, monarch of the wood; The English Oak, when dead, commands the flood. Churchill. On our entrance into the Woodland, the eye first greets the majestic Oak, which is represented as holding the same rank among the plants of the temperate regions throughout the world, that the lion does among quadrupeds, and the eagle among birds; that is to say, it is the emblem of grandeur, strength, and duration; of force that resists, as the lion is of force that acts. In short, its bulk, its longevity, and the extraordinary strength and durability of its timber, constitute it the King of Forest trees. These and other characteristics of the Oak are graphically expressed by the Roman poet:-- Jove's own tree, That holds the woods in awful sovereignty, Requires a depth of loading in the ground, And next the lower skies a bed profound; High as his topmast boughs to heaven ascend, So low his roots to hell's dominions tend. Therefore, nor winds, nor winter's rage o'erthrows His bulky body, but unmoved he grows. For length of ages lasts his happy reign, And lives of mortal men contend in vain. Full in the midst of his own strength he stands, Stretching his brawny arms and leafy hands; His shade protects the plains, his head the hills commands. _Virgil's Georgics_, II. "The Oak grows naturally in the middle and south of Europe; in the north of Africa; and, in Asia, in Natolia, the Himalayas, Cochin-China, and Japan, In America it abounds throughout the greater part of the northern continent, more especially in the United States. In Europe, the Oak has been, and is, more particularly abundant in Britain, France, Spain, and Italy. In Britain two species only are indigenous; in France there are four or five sorts; and in Spain, Italy, and Greece, six or seven sorts. The number of sorts described by botanists as species, and as natives of Europe, exceed 30; and as natives of North America, 40. The latter are all comprised between 20° and 48° N. lat. In Europe, Asia, and Africa, Oaks are found from 60° to 18° N. lat., and even in the Torrid Zone, in situations rendered temperate by their elevation." In Britain, the Oak is everywhere indigenous, the two species being generally found growing together in a wild state. It, however, requires a soil more or less alluvial or loamy to attain its full size, and to bring its timber to perfection; these being seldom attained in the Highlands of Scotland, where it is still abundant in an indigenous state. The two species, _Q. robur_, or _pedunculata_, and _Q. sessiliflora_, are readily distinguished from each other by the first having the leaves on short stalks, and the acorns on long stalks, the other by the leaves being long-stalked, and the acorns short-stalked. In full-grown trees of the two species there is little or no difference either in magnitude and general appearance, or in quality of timber. _Q. robur_ being the most abundant, is called the Common Oak. Its twigs are smooth and grayish-brown: leaves deciduous, sessile, of a thin texture, obovate-oblong, serrated, with the lobes entire, and nearly blunt, diminishing towards the base; a little blistered, and scarcely glossy, with some down occasionally on the under side: acorns oblong, obtuse, much longer than the hemispherical scaly cup, placed on long peduncles. The distinguishing characters or the less common species, _Q. sessiliflora_, the sessile-fruited oak, are, leaves on longish foot-stalks, deciduous, smooth, and oblong, the sinuses opposite, and rather acute, the fruit sessile, oblong. In other respects it so closely resembles the other species, that of the numerous trees recorded for their enormous dimensions, age, and other peculiarities, the species is seldom particularized. Loudon believed that no important or constant difference exists between the mode of growth of the two kinds, individuals of both being found equally pyramidal, fastigiate, or orbicular. He considered, however, that _Q. sessiliflora_ could "readily be distinguished even at a distance, by the less tufted appearance, and generally palish green of its foliage in summer, and in winter by its less tortuous spray and branches, by its light coloured bark, by its large buds, and by its frequently retaining its leaves after they had withered, till the following spring." [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _Q. robur_.] The Oak, says Mr. Gilpin, is confessedly the most picturesque tree in itself, and the most accommodating in composition. It refuses no subject, either in natural or artificial landscape; it is suited to the grandest, and may with propriety be introduced into the most pastoral. It adds new dignity to the ruined tower and Gothic arch; it throws its arms with propriety over the mantling pool, and may be happily introduced into the humblest scene. Imperial Oak, a cottage in thy shade Finds safety, or a monarch in thy arms: Respectful generations see thee spread, Careless of centuries, even in decay Majestic: thy far-shadowing boughs contend With time: the obsequious winds shall visit thee, To scatter round the children of thy age, And eternize thy latest benefits. W. Tighe. The longevity of the Oak is supposed to extend beyond that of any other tree. It is through age that the Oak acquires its greatest beauty, which often continues increasing, even into decay, if any proportion exists between the stem and the branches. When the branches rot away, and the trunk is left alone, the tree is in its decrepitude, the last stage of life, and all the beauty is gone. Spenser has given us a good picture of an Oak just verging towards its last stage of decay: --A huge Oak, dry and dead, Still clad with reliques of its trophies old, Lifting to heaven its aged, hoary head, Whose foot on earth hath got but feeble hold, And, half disbowelled, stands above the ground With wreathed roots, and naked arms, And trunk all rotten and unsound. He also compares a gray-headed old man to an aged Oak-tree, covered with frost: There they do find that goodly aged sire, With snowy locks adown his shoulders shed; As hoary frost with spangles doth attire The mossy branches of an Oak half dead. Montgomery, too, does not forget to observe the longevity of the sturdy Oak: As some triumphal Oak, whose boughs have spread Their changing foliage through a thousand years, Bows to the rushing wind its glorious head. As we before noted, the beauty of almost every species of tree increases after its prime; but unless it hath the good fortune to stand in some place of difficult access, or under the protection of some patron whose mansion it adorns, we rarely see it in that grandeur and dignity which it would acquire by age. Some of the noblest Oaks in England were, at least formerly, found in Sussex. They required sometimes a score of oxen to draw them, and were carried on a sort of wain, which in that deep country is expressly called a _tugg_. It was not uncommon for it to spend two or three years in performing its journey to the Royal dock-yard at Chatham. One tugg carried the load only a little way, and left it for another tugg to take up. If the rains set in, it stirred no more that year; and frequently no part of the next summer was dry enough for the tugg to proceed: so that the timber was generally pretty well seasoned before it arrived at its destination. In this fallen state alone, it is true, the tree becomes the basis of England's glory, though we regret its fall. Therefore, we must not repine, but address the children of the wood as the gallant Oak, on his removal from the forest, is said to have addressed the scion by his side: Where thy great grandsire spread his awful shade, A holy Druid mystic circles made; Myself a sapling when thy grandsire bore Intrepid Edward to the Gallic shore. Me, now my country calls: adieu, my son! And, as the circling years in order run, May'st thou renew the forest's boast and pride, Victorious in some future contest ride. We are sure that all who can appreciate beautiful poetry will be gratified by the following pathetic lamentation of the elegant Vanier:-- --No greater beauty can adorn The hamlet, than a grove of ancient Oak. Ah! how unlike their sires of elder times The sons of Gallia now! They, in each tree Dreading some unknown power, dared not to lift An axe. Though scant of soil, they rather sought For distant herbage, than molest their groves. Now all is spoil and violence. Where now Exists an Oak, whose venerable stem Has seen three centuries? unless some steep, To human footstep inaccessible, Defend a favour'd plant. Now, if some sire Leave to his heir a forest scene, that heir, With graceless hands, hews down each awful trunk, Worthy of Druid reverence. There he rears A paltry copse, destined, each twentieth year, To blaze inglorious on the hearth. Hence woods, Which shelter'd once the stag and grisly boar, Scarce to the timorous hare sure refuge lend. Farewell each rural virtue, with the love Of rural scenes! Sage Contemplation wings Her flight; no more from burning suns she seeks A cool retreat. No more the poet sings, Amid re-echoing groves, his moral lay. As it is thus a general complaint that noble trees are rarely to be found, we must seek them where we can, and consider them, when found, as matters of curiosity, and pay them a due respect. And yet, we should suppose, they are not so frequently found here in a state of nature as in more uncultivated countries. In the forests of America, and other scenes, they have filled the plains from the beginning of time; and where they grow so close, and cover the ground with so impervious a shade that even a weed can scarce rise beneath them, the single tree is lost. Unless it stand on the outskirt of the wood, it is circumscribed, and has not room to expand its vast limbs as nature directs. When we wish, therefore, to find the most sublime sylvan character, the Oak, the elm, or the ash, in perfection, we must not look for it in close, thick woods, but standing single, independent of all connections, as we sometimes find it in our own forests, though oftener in better protected places, shooting its head wildly into the clouds, spreading its arms towards every wind of heaven: --The Oak Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm. He seems indignant, and to feel The impression of the blast with proud disdain; But, deeply earth'd, the unconscious monarch owes His firm stability to what he scorns: More fix'd below, the more disturb'd above. Again, we are told that the foliage of the Oak is Tenacious of the stem, and firm against the wind. The shade of the Oak-tree has been a favourite theme with British poets. Thomson, speaking of Hagley Park, the seat of his friend Littleton, calls it the British Tempe, and describes him as courting the muse beneath the shade of solemn Oaks: --There, along the dale With woods o'erhung, and shagged with mossy rocks, Whence on each hand the gushing waters play, And down the rough cascade white dashing fall, Or gleam in lengthened vista through the trees, You silent steal; or sit beneath the shade Of solemn Oaks, that tuft the swelling mounts, Thrown graceful round by Nature's careless hand, And pensive listens to the various voice Of rural peace: the herds, the flocks, the birds, The hollow whispering breeze, the plaint of rills, That, purling down amid the twisted roots Which creep around, their dewy murmurs shake On the soothed ear. Wordsworth also mentions the fine broad shade of the spreading Oak: Beneath that large old Oak, which near their door Stood, and, from its enormous breadth of shade, Chosen for the shearer's covert from the sun, Thence, in our rustic dialect, was called The clipping tree: a name which yet it bears. The Oaks of Chaucer are particularly celebrated, as the trees under which --The laughing sage Caroll'd his moral song. They grew in the park at Donnington Castle, near Newbury, where Chaucer spent his latter life in studious retirement. The largest of these trees was the King's Oak, and carried an erect stem of fifty feet before it broke into branches, and was cut into a beam five feet square. The next in size was called the Queen's Oak, and survived the calamities of the civil wars in King Charles's time, though Donnington Castle and the country around it were so often the scenes of action and desolation. Its branches were very curious: they pushed out from the stem in several uncommon directions, imitating the horns of a ram, rather than the branches of an Oak. When it was felled, it yielded a beam forty feet long, without knot or blemish, perfectly straight, four feet square at the butt end, and near a yard at the top. The third of these Oaks was called Chaucer's, of which we have no particulars; in general only we are told, that it was a noble tree, though inferior to either of the others. Not one of them, we should suppose, from this account, to be a tree of picturesque beauty. A straight stem, of forty or fifty feet, let its head be what it will, can hardly produce a picturesque form. Close by the gate of the water-walk at Magdalen College, Oxford, grew an Oak, which, perhaps, stood there a sapling when Alfred the Great founded the University. This period only includes a space of nine hundred years, which is no great age for an Oak. It is a difficult matter indeed, to ascertain the age of a tree. The age of a castle, or abbey, is an object of history: even a common house is recorded by the family that built it. All these objects arrive at maturity in their youth, if we may so speak; but the tree, gradually completing its growth, is not worth recording in the early part of its existence. It is then only a common tree; and afterwards, when it becomes remarkable for its age, all memory of its youth is lost. This tree, however, can almost produce historical evidence for the age assigned to it. About five hundred years after the time of Alfred, William of Wainfleet, Dr. Stukely tells us, expressly ordered his college to be founded near the Great Oak; and an Oak could not, we think, be less than five hundred years of age to merit that title, together with the honour of fixing the site of a college. When the magnificence of Cardinal Wolsey erected that handsome tower which is so ornamental to the whole building, this tree might probably be in the meridian of its glory, or rather, perhaps, it had attained a green old age. But it must have been manifestly in its decline at that memorable period when the tyranny of James gave the Fellows of Magdalen so noble an opportunity of withstanding bigotry and superstition. It was afterwards much injured in Charles II.'s time, when the present walks were laid out. The roots were disturbed, and from that period it rapidly declined, and became reduced by degrees to little more than a mere trunk. The faithful records of history have handed down its ancient dimensions. Through a space of sixteen yards on every side from its trunk, it once flung its boughs; and then its magnificent pavilion could have sheltered with ease three thousand men; though, in its decayed state, it could for many years do little more than shelter some luckless individual, whom the drenching shower had overtaken in his evening walk. In the summer of the year 1788, this magnificent ruin fell to the ground, alarming the College with its rushing sound. It then appeared how precariously it had stood for many years. Its grand tap-root was decayed, and it had hold of the earth only by two or three roots, of which none was more than a couple of inches in diameter. From a part of its ruin a chair has been made for the President of the College, which will long continue its memory. Near Worksop grew an Oak, which, in respect both to its own dignity and the dignity of its situation, deserves honourable mention. In point of grandeur, few trees equalled it. It overspread a space of ninety feet from the extremities of its opposite boughs. These dimensions will produce an area capable, on mathematical calculation, of covering a squadron of two hundred and thirty-five horse. The dignity of its station was equal to the dignity of the tree itself. It stood on a point where Yorkshire, Nottinghamshire, and Derbyshire unite, and spread its shade over a portion of each. From the honourable station of thus fixing the boundaries of three large counties, it was equally respected through the domains of them all, and was known far and wide by the honourable distinction of the Shire-Oak, by which appellation it was marked among cities, towns, and rivers, in all the larger maps of England. Gilpin gives us a singular account of an Oak-tree that formerly stood in the New Forest, Hampshire, against which, according to tradition, the arrow of Sir Walter Tyrrell glanced which killed William Rufus. According to Leland, and Camden from him, this tree stood at a place called Througham, where a chapel was erected to the king's memory. But there is now not any place of that name in the New Forest, nor the remains or remembrance of any chapel. It is, however, conjectured that Througham might be what is at present called Fritham, where the tradition of the country seems to have fixed the spot with more credibility than the tree. It is probable that the chapel was only some little temporary oratory, which, having never been endowed, might very soon fall into decay: but the tree, we may suppose, would be noticed at the time by everybody who lived near it, and by strangers who came to see it; and it is as likely that it never could be forgotten afterwards. Those who regard a tree as an insufficient record of an event so many centuries back, may be reminded that seven hundred years (and it is little more than that since the death of Rufus) is no extraordinary period in the existence of an Oak. About one hundred years ago, however, this tree had become so decayed and mutilated, that it is probable the spot would have been completely forgotten if some other memorial had not been raised. Before the stump, therefore, was eradicated, Lord Delaware, who occupied one of the neighbouring lodges, caused a triangular stone to be erected, on the three sides of which the following inscriptions are engraved:-- I. Here stood the Oak-tree, on which an arrow, shot by Sir Walter Tyrrel at a stag, glanced, and struck King William II., surnamed Rufus, in the breast, of which stroke he instantly died, on the 2d of August, 1100. II. King William II., being thus slain, was laid on a cart belonging to one Purkess, and drawn from hence to Winchester, and buried in the Cathedral Church of that city. III. That the spot where an event so memorable happened, might not hereafter be unknown, this stone was set up by John Lord Delaware, who has seen the tree growing in this place. Lord Delaware here asserts plainly that he had seen the Oak-tree; and as he resided much near the place, there is reason to believe that he had other grounds for the assertion besides the mere tradition of the country. That matter, however, rests on his authority. Gilpin likewise gives us the following account of the Cadenham Oak, in the New Forest, which was remarkable for putting forth its buds in the depth of winter. Cadenham is a village about three miles from Lyndhurst, on the road to Salisbury:-- "Having often heard of this Oak, I took a ride to see it on December 29, 1781. It was pointed out to me among several other Oaks, surrounded by a little forest stream, winding round a knoll on which they stood. It is a tall straight plant, of no great age, and apparently vigorous, except that its top has been injured, from which several branches issue in the form of pollard shoots. It was entirely bare of leaves, as far as I could discern, when I saw it, and undistinguishable from the other Oaks in its neighbourhood, except that its bark seemed rather smoother, occasioned, I apprehended, only by frequent climbing. "Having had the account of its early budding confirmed on the spot, I engaged one Michael Lawrence, who kept the White Hart, a small alehouse in the neighbourhood, to send me some of the leaves to Vicar's Hill, as soon as they should appear. The man, who had not the least doubt about the matter, kept his word, and sent me several twigs on the morning of January 5, 1782, a few hours after they had been gathered. The leaves were fairly expanded, and about an inch in length. From some of the buds two leaves had unsheathed themselves, but in general only one. "Through what power in nature this strange premature vegetation is occasioned, I believe no naturalist can explain. I sent some of the leaves to one of the ablest botanists we have, Mr. Lightfoot, author of the _Flora Scotica_, and was in hopes of hearing something satisfactory on the subject. But he is one of those philosophers who are not ashamed of ignorance where attempts at knowledge are mere conjecture. He assured me he neither could account for it in any way, nor did he know of any other instance of premature vegetation, except the Glastonbury thorn. The philosophers of the forest, in the meantime, account for the thing at once, through the influence of old Christmas day, universally believing that the Oak buds on that day, and that only. The same opinion is held with regard to the Glastonbury thorn, by the common people of the west of England. But, without doubt, the vegetation there is gradual, and forwarded or retarded by the mildness or severity of the weather. One of its progeny, which grew in the gardens of the Duchess Dowager of Portland, at Bulstrode, had its flower-buds perfectly formed so early as December 21, 1781, which is fifteen days earlier than it ought to flower, according to the vulgar prejudice. "This early spring, however, of the Cadenham Oak, is of very short duration. The buds, after unfolding themselves, make no farther progress, but immediately shrink from the season and die. The tree continues torpid, like other deciduous trees, during the remainder of the winter, and vegetates again in the spring, at the usual season. I have seen it in full leaf in the middle of summer, when it appeared, both in its form and foliage, exactly like other Oaks. "I have been informed that another tree, with the same property of early vegetation, has lately been found near the spot where Rufus's monument stands. If this be the case, it seems in some degree to authenticate the account which Camden gives us of the scene of that prince's death; for he speaks of the premature vegetation of that very tree on which the arrow of Tyrrel glanced, and the tree I now speak of, if it really exist, though I have no sufficient authority for it, might have been a descendant of the old Oak, and hence inherited its virtues. "It is very probable, however, there may be other Oaks in the forest which may likewise have the property of early vegetation. I have heard it often suspected, that people gather buds from other trees and carry them, on old Christmas day, to the Oak at Cadenham, from whence they pretend to pluck them; for that tree is in such repute, and resorted to annually by so many visitants, that I think it could not easily supply all its votaries without some foreign contributions. Some have accounted for this phenomenon by supposing that leaves have been preserved over the year by being steeped in vinegar. But I am well satisfied this is not the case. Mr. Lightfoot, to whom I sent the leaves, had no such suspicion." * * * * * In the _Salisbury Journal_, January 10, 1781, the following paragraph appeared:-- "In consequence of a report that has prevailed in this country for upwards of two centuries, and which by many has been almost considered as a matter of faith, that the Oak at Cadenham, in the New Forest, shoots forth leaves on every old Christmas day, and that no leaf is ever to be seen on it, either before or after that day, during the winter; a lady, who is now on a visit in this city, and who is attentively curious in every thing relative to art or nature, made a journey to Cadenham on Monday, the 3d instant, purposely to inquire, on the spot, about the production of this famous tree. On her arrival near it, the usual guide was ready to attend her; but on his being desired to climb the Oak, and to search whether there were any leaves then on it, he said it would be to no purpose, but that if she would come on the Wednesday following (Christmas day), she might certainly see thousands. However, he was prevailed on to ascend, and on the first branch which he gathered appeared several fair new leaves, fresh sprouted from the buds, and nearly an inch and a half in length. It may be imagined that the guide was more amazed at this premature production than the lady; for so strong was his belief in the truth of the whole tradition, that he would have pledged his life that not a leaf was to have been discovered on any part of the tree before the usual hour. "But though the superstitious part of this ancient legend is hence confuted, yet it must be allowed there is something very uncommon and curious in an Oak constantly shooting forth leaves at this unseasonable time of the year, and that the cause of it well deserves the philosophical attention of the botanist. In some years there is no doubt that this Oak may show its first leaves on the Christmas morning, as probably as on a few days before; and this perhaps was the case in the last year, when a gentleman of this neighbourhood, a nice and critical observer, strictly examined the branches, not only on the Christmas morn, but also on the day prior to it. On the first day not a leaf was to be found, but on the following every branch had its complement, though they were then but just shooting from the buds, none of them being more than a quarter of an inch long. The latter part of the story may easily be credited--that no leaves are to be seen on it after Christmas day--as large parties yearly assemble about the Oak on that morning, and regularly strip every appearance of a leaf from it." At Elderslie, near Paisley, upon a little knoll, there stood, near the end of the last century, the ruins of an Oak, which was supposed to be the largest tree that ever grew in Scotland. The trunk was then wholly decayed and hollow, but it was evident, from what remained, that its diameter could not have been less than eleven or twelve feet. As to its age, we can only conjecture, from some circumstances, that it is most likely a tree of great antiquity. The little knoll whereon it stands is surrounded by a swamp, over which a causeway leads to the tree, or rather to a circle which seems to have run round it. The vestiges of this circle, as well as the causeway, bear a plain resemblance to those works which are commonly attributed to the Druids, so that this tree was probably a scene of worship consecrated by these heathen priests. But the credit of it does not depend on the dubious vestiges of Druid antiquity. In a latter scene of greater importance (if tradition ever be the vehicle of truth) it bore a large share. When the illustrious and renowned hero, William Wallace, roused the spirit of the Scotch nation to oppose the tyranny of Edward, he frequently chose the solitude of Torwood as a place of rendezvous for his army. There he concealed his numbers and his designs, sallying out suddenly on the enemy's garrisons, and retreating as suddenly when he feared to be overpowered. While his army lay in those woods, the Oak which we are now commemorating was commonly his head-quarters. There the hero generally slept, its hollow trunk being sufficiently capacious, not only to afford shelter to himself, but also to many of his followers. This tree has ever since been known by the name of Wallace tree. In the enclosure known as the Little Park, in Windsor Forest, there is still standing the supposed Oak immortalized by Shakspeare as the scene of Hern the hunter's exploits:-- --An old tale goes, that Hern the hunter, Sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest, Doth all the winter time, at still of midnight, Walk round about this Oak, with ragged horns; And then he blasts the trees, destroys the cattle, Makes the milch cow yield blood, and shakes a chain In hideous, dreadful manner. _Merry Wives_, iv. 3. This tree measures about twenty-four feet in circumference, and is yet vigorous, which somewhat injures its historical credit. For though it is evidently a tree advanced in years, and might well have existed in the time of Elizabeth, it seems too strong and vigorous to have been a proper tree, in that age, for Hern the hunter to have danced round. Fairies, elves, and that generation of people, are universally supposed to select the most ancient and venerable trees to gambol under; and the poet who should describe them dancing under a sapling, would show very little acquaintance with his subject. That this tree could not be called a venerable tree two centuries ago is evident, because it can scarcely assume that character even now. And yet an Oak, in a soil it likes, will continue so many years in a vigorous state, that we must not lay more stress on this argument than it will fairly bear. It may be added, however, in its favour, that a pit, or ditch, is still shown near the tree, as Shakspeare describes it, which may have been preserved with the same veneration as the tree itself. There is an Oak in the grounds of Sir Gerrard Van Neck, at Heveningham, in Suffolk, which carries us likewise into the times of Elizabeth. But this tree brings its evidence with it--evidence which, if necessary, might carry it into the Saxon times. It is now falling fast into the decline of years, and every year robs it more of its honours. But its trunk, which is thirty-five feet in circumference, still retains its grandeur, though the ornaments of its boughs and foliage are much reduced. But the grandeur of the trunk consists only in appearance; it is a mere shell. In Queen Elizabeth's time it was hollow, and from this circumstance the tree derives the honour of being handed down to posterity. That princess, who from her earliest years loved masculine amusements, used often, it is said, in her youth, to take her stand in this tree and shoot the deer as they passed. From that time it has been known by the name of Queen Elizabeth's Oak. The Swilcar Oak, in the Forest of Needwood, in Staffordshire, was measured about 1771, and found to be nineteen feet in girth at six feet from the ground; and when measured in 1825 it was twenty-one feet four inches and a half in circumference at the same height from the ground. This proves that the tree is slowly increasing, having gained two feet four inches in fifty-four years, and yet it is known, by historical documents, to be six hundred years old. Though in decay it is still a fine, shapely, characteristic tree. It stands in an open lawn, surrounded by extensive woods. In a poem entitled _Needwood Forest_ the author thus addresses it:-- Hail! stately Oak, whose wrinkled trunk hath stood, Age after age, the sovereign of the wood: You, who have seen a thousand springs unfold Their ravelled buds, and dip their flowers in gold-- Ten thousand times yon moon relight her horn, And that bright eye of evening gild the morn,-- * * * * * Yes, stately Oak, thy leaf-wrapped head sublime Ere long must perish in the wrecks of time; Should, o'er thy brow, the thunders harmless break, And thy firm roots in vain the whirlwinds shake, Yet must thou fall. Thy withering glories sunk, Arm after arm shall leave thy mouldering trunk. The Cowthorpe, or Coltsthorpe Oak, near Wetherby, in Yorkshire, had its principal branch rent off by a storm in the year 1718, when it was accurately measured, and found to contain more than five tons of timber. Previous to this mutilation, its branches are said to have extended over half an acre of ground. At three feet from the ground, this most gigantic of all trees is sixteen yards, or forty-eight feet, and close to the root it is twenty-six yards, or seventy-eight feet, in girth! Its principal limb projects forty-eight feet from the trunk. It is still in wonderful preservation, though its foliage is thin. It has been called the King of the British Sylva, and, indeed, it deserves the title, and proud we may be of such a king. There were two trees in Yardley Forest, called Gog and Magog, which demand our notice on account of one of them having been celebrated by the muse of Cowper. The scenery in which they stood is hallowed by his shade. He was fond of indulging his melancholy minstrel musings among the woodland scenery there. Gog, the larger of these two Oaks, measured thirty-eight feet round at the roots, and was twenty-eight feet in circumference at three feet from the ground. It was fifty-eight feet high, and contained one thousand six hundred and sixty-eight feet seven inches of solid timber. Magog was only forty-nine feet in height; but its circumference was fifty-four feet four inches at the ground, and thirty-one feet three at three feet high. These two trees were near each other, and although a good deal bared at the top by age, they were very picturesque. We shall quote here the whole of Cowper's Address to the "Yardley Oak"; from which it would appear that only one of them then remained:-- Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all That once lived here, thy brethren, at my birth (Since which I number threescore winters pass'd) A shatter'd veteran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, As now, and with excoriate forks deform, Relics of ages! Could a mind, imbued With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, I might with reverence kneel, and worship thee. It seems idolatry with some excuse, When our forefather Druids in their Oaks Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet Unpurified by an authentic act Of amnesty, the meed of blood Divine, Loved not the light; but, gloomy, into gloom Of thickest shades, like Adam after taste Of fruit proscribed, as to a refuge, fled. Thou wast a bauble once; a cup and ball, Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay, Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin'd The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs, And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. But Fate thy growth decreed; autumnal rains Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil Design'd thy cradle; and a skipping deer, With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe, prepared The soft receptacle, in which, secure, Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can, Ye reasoners broad awake, whose busy search Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss, Sifts half the pleasure of sweet life away I Thou fell'st mature; and in the loamy clod, Swelling with vegetative force instinct, Didst burst thine egg, as theirs the fabled Twins, Now stars; two lobes, protruding, pair'd exact; A leaf succeeded, and another leaf; And, all the elements thy puny growth Fostering propitious, thou becamest a twig. Who lived, when thou wast such? O, couldst thou speak, As in Dodona once thy kindred trees Oracular, I would not curious ask The future, best unknown, but at thy mouth Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, The clock of history, facts and events Timing more punctual, unrecorded facts Recovering, and misstated setting right-- Desperate attempt, till trees shall speak again! Time made thee what thou wast, king of the woods; And Time hath made thee what thou art--a cave For owls to roost in. Once thy spreading boughs O'erhung the champaign; and the numerous flocks That grazed it, stood beneath that ample cope Uncrowded, yet safe-sheltered from the storm. No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outlived Thy popularity, and art become (Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing Forgotten, as the foliage of thy youth. While thus through all the stages thou hast push'd Of treeship--first a seedling hid in grass; Then twig; then sapling; and, as century roll'd Slow after century, a giant bulk Of girth enormous, with moss-cushioned root Upheaved above the soil, and sides emboss'd With prominent wens globose--till at the last The rottenness, which time is charged to inflict On other mighty ones, found also thee. What exhibitions various hath the world Witness'd of mutability in all That we account most durable below! Change is the diet on which all subsist, Created changeable, and change at last Destroys them. Skies uncertain now the heat Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds-- Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, Invigorate by turns the springs of life In all that live--plant, animal, and man-- And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, Fine passing thought, ev'n in her coarsest works, Delight in agitation, yet sustain The force that agitates, not unimpaired; But, worn by frequent impulse, to the cause Of their best tone their dissolution owe. Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still The great and little of thy lot, thy growth From almost nullity into a state Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, Slow, into such magnificent decay. Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly Could shake thee to the root--and time has been When tempests could not. At thy firmest age Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents, That might have ribb'd the sides and plank'd the deck Of some flagg'd admiral; and tortuous arms, The shipwright's darling treasure, didst present To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, Warp'd into tough knee-timber,[1] many a load! But the axe spared thee. In those thriftier days Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply The bottomless demands of contest, waged For senatorial honours. Thus to Time The task was left to whittle thee away With his sly scythe, whose ever-nibbling edge, Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more, Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, Achieved a labour, which had far and wide, By man perform'd, made all the forest ring. Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self Possessing naught but the scoop'd rind, that seems A huge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, Which it would give in rivulets to thy root-- Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidst The feller's toil, which thou couldst ill requite. Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, A quarry of stout spurs and knotted fangs, Which, crook'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp The stubborn soil, and hold thee still erect. So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid; Though all the superstructure, by the tooth Pulverised of venality, a shell Stands now, and semblance only of itself! Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent them off Long since, and rovers of the forest wild With bow and shaft have burn'd them. Some have left A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white; And some, memorial none where once they grew. Tet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth Proof not contemptible of what she can, Even where death predominates. The spring Finds thee not less alive to her sweet force, Than yonder upstarts of the neighbouring wood, So much thy juniors, who their birth received Half a millennium since the date of thine. But since, although well qualified by age To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice May be expected from thee, seated here On thy distorted root, with hearers none, Or prompter, save the scene--I will perform, Myself the oracle, and will discourse In my own ear such matter as I may. One man alone, the father of us all, Drew not his life from woman; never gazed, With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, On all around him; learn'd not by degrees, Nor owed articulation to his ear; But, moulded by his Maker into man At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd All creatures, with precision understood Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd To each his name significant, and, fill'd With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heaven, In praise harmonious, the first air he drew. He was excused the penalties of dull Minority. No tutor charged his hand With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind With problems. History, not wanted yet, Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose course Eventful should supply her with a theme. [1] Knee-timber is found in the crooked arms of Oak, which, by reason of their distortion, are easily adjusted to the angle formed where the deck and the ship's sides meet. Montgomery inscribed the following lines under a drawing of the Yardley Oak, celebrated in the preceding quotation from Cowper:-- The sole survivor of a race Of giant Oaks, where once the wood Bang with the battle or the chase, In stern and lonely grandeur stood. From age to age it slowly spread Its gradual boughs to sun and wind; From age to age its noble head As slowly wither'd and declined. A thousand years are like a day, When fled;--no longer known than seen; This tree was doom'd to pass away, And be as if it _ne'er_ had been;-- But mournful Cowper, wandering nigh, For rest beneath its shadow came, When, lo! the voice of days gone by Ascended from its hollow frame. O that the Poet had reveal'd The words of those prophetic strains, Ere death the eternal mystery seal'd ----Yet in his song the Oak remains. And fresh in undecaying prime, _There_ may it live, beyond the power Of storm and earthquake, Man and Time, Till Nature's conflagration-hour. There are various opinions as to the best mode of rearing Oak-trees; we shall here state that which Evelyn considered the best. In raising Oak-trees from acorns sown in the seminary, a proper situation should be prepared by the time the seeds are ripe. The soil should be loamy, fresh, and in good heart. This should be well prepared by digging, breaking the clods, clearing it of weeds, stones, &c. The acorns should be collected from the best trees; and if allowed to remain until they fall off, they will germinate the better. Sow the acorns in beds about three inches asunder, press them down gently with the spade, and rake the earth over the acorns until it is raised about two inches above them. The plants will not appear in less than two months; and here they may be allowed to remain for two years at least, without any further care than keeping them free from weeds, and occasionally refreshing them with water in dry weather. When the plants are two years old they will be of a proper size for planting out, and the best way to do this is by trenching or ploughing as deeply as the soil will allow. The sets should be planted about the end of October. This operation should be commenced by striking the plants carefully out of the seed-bed, shortening the tap-root, and topping off part of the side shoots, that there may be an equal degree of strength in the stem and the root. After planting they should be well protected from cattle, and, if possible, from hares and rabbits. They must also be kept clear from weeds. Mr. Evelyn was of opinion, that Oaks thus raised will yield the best timber. And Dr. Hunter remarks, that the extensive plantations which were made towards the end of the last century, were made more with a view to shade and ornament than to the propagation of good timber; and with this object the owners planted their trees generally too old, so that many of the woods, when they come to be felled, will greatly disappoint the expectations of the purchaser. Oaks are about eighteen years old before they yield any fruit, a peculiarity which seems to indicate the great longevity of the tree; for "soon ripe and soon rotten," is an adage that holds generally throughout the organic world. The Oak requires sixty or seventy years to attain a considerable size; but it will go on increasing and knowing no decay for centuries, and live for more than 1000 years. In reference to the durability of Oak timber when used in ship-building, the following statement has been elicited by a Select Committee appointed to inquire into the cause of the increased number of shipwrecks. The Sub-Committee addressed a letter to the Lords of the Admiralty, who consulted the officers of the principal dock-yards, and returned the following abstract account of the officers of the yards' opinion on the durability of Oak timber:-- ---------------+-----------------------+------------+----------+ | When used for Floors | When used | | | and Lower Futtocks |for planking|When used | OAK | only. | above | for the | TIMBER. +------------+----------+ light | Upper | | In |Afore and | watermark. | Timbers. | | Midships. | Abaft. | | | ---------------+------------+----------+------------+----------| |From 100 to |From 20 to| From 20 to |From 30 to| English. | 24 years. | 12 years.| 12 years. | 15 years.| | Average of | | | | | yards 42 | - 15 - | - 16 - | - 20 - | ---------------+------------+----------+------------+----------| | From 30 to |From 15 to| From 12 to |From 15 to| Of the growth | 9 years. | 8 years. | 4 years. | 4 years. | of the North | Average of | | | | of Europe. | yards 18 | - 10 - | - 9 - | - 10 - | ---------------+------------+----------+------------+----------| Of the growth | | | | | of the British | | | | | North American | From 30 to |From 15 to| From 12 to |From 16 to| Colonies, | 5 years. | 3 years. | 2 years. | 2 years. | generally | Average of | | | | known as Quebec| yards 17 | - 9 - | - 9 - | - 11 - | white Oak. | | | | | ---------------+------------+----------+------------+----------+ [Illustration: THE ORIENTAL PLANE.] THE ORIENTAL PLANE. [_Platanus[P] orientalis._ Nat. Ord.--_Platanaceæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polya._] [P] _Platanus. Flowers_ unisexual, the barren and fertile upon one plant, disposed many together, and densely, in globular catkins. _Pistils_ numerous, approximately pairs. _Ovary_ 1-celled, including 1-2 pendulous ovules. _Stigmas_ 2, long, filiform, glandular in the upper part. _Fruit_ autricle, densely covered with articulated hairs, including one pendulous, oblong, exalbuminous seed. The Oriental Plane is a native of Greece, and of other parts of the Levant; it is found in Asia Minor, Persia, and eastward to Cashmere; and likewise in Barbary, in the south of Italy, and in Sicily, although probably not indigenous in these countries. It appears to have been introduced into England about the middle of the sixteenth century; but seems not to have been propagated to the extent it deserves, even as an ornamental tree; and the specimens now in existence are neither very numerous, nor are they distinguished for their dimensions. In the East, the Oriental Plane grows to the height of seventy feet and upwards, with widely spreading branches and a massive trunk; forming altogether a majestic tree. The trunk is covered with a smooth bark, which scales off every year in large irregular patches, often producing a pleasing variety of tint. The bark of the younger branches is of a dark brown, inclined to a purple colour. The leaves are alternate, about seven inches long and eight broad, deeply cut into five segments, and the two outer ones slightly cut into two more. These segments are acutely indented on their borders, each having a strong midrib, with numerous lateral veins. The upper side of the leaves is a deep green, the under side pale. The petioles are rather long, with an enlargement at the base which covers the nascent buds. The catkins which contain the seed are of a globular form, and from two to five in number, on axillary peduncles; they vary greatly in size, and are found from four inches to scarcely one in circumference. The flowers are very minute. The balls, which are about the size of walnuts, and fastened together often in pairs like chain-shot, appear before the leaves in spring, and the seed ripens late in autumn; these are small, not unlike the seed of the lettuce, and are surrounded or enveloped in a bristly down. [Illustration: Leaves and Globes of Flowers of _P. orientalis_.] Of the Oriental Plane Loudon remarks, "As an ornamental tree, no one which attains so large a size has a finer appearance, standing singly, or in small groups, upon a lawn, where there is room to allow its lower branches, which stretch themselves horizontally to a considerable distance, gracefully to bend toward the ground, and turn up at their extremities. The peculiar characteristics of the tree, indeed, is the combination which it presents of majesty and gracefulness; an expression which is produced by the massive, and yet open and varied character, of its head, the bending of its branches, and their feathering to the ground. In this respect it is greatly superior to the lime-tree, which comes nearest to it in the general character of the head; but which forms a much more compact and lumpish mass of foliage in summer, and, in winter, is so crowded with branches and spray, as to prevent, in a great measure, the sun from penetrating through them. The head of the Oriental Plane, during sunshine, often abounds in what painters call flickering lights; the consequence of the branches of the head separating themselves into what may be called horizontal undulating strata--or, as it is called in artistic phraseology, tufting--easily put in motion by the wind, and through openings in which the rays of the sun penetrate, and strike on the foliage below. The tree is by no means so suitable, as most others, for an extensive park, or for imitations of forest scenery; but, from its mild and gentle expression, its usefulness for shade in summer, and for admitting the sun in winter, it is peculiarly adapted for pleasure-grounds, and, where there is room, for planting near houses and buildings. For the latter purpose, it is particularly well adapted even in winter, for the colour of the bark of the trunk, which has a grayish white tint, is not unlike the colour of some kinds of freestone. The colour of the foliage, in dry soil, is also of a dull grayish green; which, receiving the light in numerous horizontal tuftings, readily harmonizes with the colour of stone walls. It appears, also, not to be much injured by smoke, since there are trees of it of considerable size in the very heart of London." The Oriental Plane thrives best on a light free soil, moist, but not wet at bottom; and the situation should be sheltered, but not shaded or crowded by other trees. It will scarcely grow in strong clays and on elevated exposed places; nor will it thrive in places where the lime-tree does not prosper. It may be propagated by seeds, layers, or cuttings. The general practice is to sow the seeds in autumn, covering them over as lightly as those of the birch and alder, or beating them in with the back of the spade, and not covering them at all, and protecting the beds with litter to exclude the frost. The plants will come up the following year, and will be fit, after two years' growth, to run into nursery lines; from whence they may be planted into their permanent stations in two or three years, according to the size considered necessary. The growth of this tree is very rapid, attaining in the climate of London, under favourable circumstances, the height of thirty feet in ten years, and arriving at the height of sixty or seventy feet in thirty years. The longevity of this tree was supposed, by the ancients, to be considerable; and there are few old trees in this country. One, still existing at Lee Court, in Kent, was celebrated in 1683 for its age and magnitude. Some of the largest trees in the neighbourhood of London are at Mount Grove, Hampstead, where they are between seventy and eighty feet in height; and in the grounds of Lambeth Palace, there is one ninety feet high, with a trunk of four and a half feet in diameter. The Oriental Plane was held by the Greeks sacred to Helen; and the virgins of Sparta are represented by Theocritus as claiming homage for it, saying, "Reverence me! I am the tree of Helen." It was so admired by Xerxes, that Ælian and other authors inform us, he halted his prodigious army near one of them an entire day, during its march for the invasion of Greece; and, on leaving, covered it with gold, gems, necklaces, scarfs, and bracelets, and an infinity of riches. He likewise caused its figure to be stamped on a medal of gold, which he afterwards wore continually about him. Among many remarkable Plane-trees recorded by Pliny, he mentions one in Lycia, which had a cave or hollow in the trunk that measured eighty-one feet in circumference. In this hollow were stone seats, covered with moss; and there, during the time of his consulship, Licinius Mutianus, with eighteen of his friends, was accustomed to dine and sup! Its branches spread to such an amazing extent, that this single tree appeared like a grove; and this consul, says Pliny, chose rather to sleep in the hollow cavity of this tree, than to repose in his marble chamber, where his bed was richly wrought with curious needlework, and o'ercanopied with beaten gold. Pausanias, also, who lived about the middle of the second century, records a Plane-tree of remarkable size and beauty in Arcadia, which was then supposed to have been planted by the hands of Menelaus, the husband of Helen, which would make the age of the tree about thirteen hundred years. At a later period magnificent examples of this umbrageous tree continued to flourish in Greece, and many of these are still existing. One of the most celebrated is at Buyukdère (or the Great Valley), about thirty miles from Constantinople, which M. de Candolle conjectured to be more than two thousand years old; when measured, in 1831, by Dr. Walsh, it was found to be one hundred and fifty-one feet in circumference at the base, and the diameter of its head covered a space of one hundred and thirty feet. Some doubt, however, seems to exist as to whether it should be considered as a single tree, or as a number of individuals which have sprung from a decayed stock, and become united at the base. The hollow contained within the stem of this enormous tree, we are told, affords a magnificent tent to the Seraskier and his officers, when the Turks encamp in this valley. Among the Turks, the Planes are preserved with a devoted and religious tenderness. [Illustration: THE OCCIDENTAL OR AMERICAN PLANE.] THE OCCIDENTAL OR AMERICAN PLANE. [_Platanus occidentalis._ Nat. Ord.--_Platanaceæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polya._] The American or Western Plane is found over an immense area in North America, comprising the Atlantic and western states, and extending beyond the Mississippi. In the Atlantic states, this tree is commonly known by the name of button-wood; and sometimes, in Virginia, by that of water-beech, from its preferring moist localities, "where the soil is loose, deep, and fertile." On the banks of the Ohio, and in the states of Kentucky and Tennessee, it is commonly called sycamore, and sometimes plane-tree. The button-tree is, however, the name by which this tree is most generally known in America. The Western Plane was first introduced into England about 1630, and was afterwards so generally planted, in consequence of its easy propagation by cuttings and rapid growth, that it soon became more common than _P. orientalis_. This tree is now, however, rare in this country, from the greater number having been killed by a severe frost in May 1809, and by the severe winter of 1813-4. The American Plane, in magnitude and general appearance, closely resembles the oriental plane. The one species, however, can always be distinguished from the other by the following characters:--In the Oriental Plane, the leaves are smaller and much more deeply lobed than in the Western tree, and the petioles of the leaves, which in the Oriental species are green, in the American tree are purplish-red; the fruit, or ball-shaped catkins, also, of the Western Plane, are considerably larger, and not so rough externally as those of the other. The bark is said to scale off in larger pieces, and the wood to be more curiously veined. In all other respects, the descriptive particulars of both trees are the same. According to Michang, the Western Plane is "the loftiest and largest tree of the United States." In 1802, he saw one growing on the banks of the Ohio, whose girth at four feet from the ground, was 47 feet, or nearly 16 feet in diameter. This tree, which showed no symptoms of decay, but on the contrary exhibited a rich foliage and vigorous vegetation, began to ramify at about 20 feet from the ground, a stem of no mean length, but short in comparison to many large trees of this species that he met with, whose boles towered to a height of 60 or 70 feet without a single branch. Even in England, specimens of the Western Plane, of no great age, are to be met with 100 feet in height. The rate of growth of _P. occidentalis_, when placed near water, is so rapid, that in ten years it will attain the height of forty feet; and a tree in the Palace Garden at Lambeth, near a pond, in twenty years had attained the height of eighty feet, with a trunk eight feet in circumference at three feet from the ground, and the diameter of the head forty-eight feet. This was in 1817.--(See Neill's _Hort. Tour_, p. 9.) As a picturesque tree, Gilpin places the Occidental Plane after the oak, the ash, the elm, the beech, and the hornbeam, which he considers as deciduous trees of the first rank; saying of both species of Platanus, that, though neither so beautiful nor so characteristic as the first-named trees, they are yet worth the notice of the eye of the admirer of the picturesque. [Illustration: Leaves and Flowers of _P. occidentalis_.] "The Occidental Plane has a very picturesque stem. It is smooth, and of a light ash colour, and has the property of throwing off its bark in scales; thus naturally cleansing itself, at least its larger boughs, from moss, and other parasitical encumbrances." This would be no recommendation of it in a picturesque light, if the removal of these encumbrances did not substitute as great a beauty in their room. These scales are very irregular, falling off sometimes in one part, and sometimes in another; and, as the under bark is, immediately after its excoriation, of a lighter hue than the upper, it offers to the pencil those smart touches which have so much effect in painting. These flakes, however, would be more beautiful if they fell off in a circular form, instead of a perpendicular one: they would correspond and unite better with the round form of the bole. "No tree forms a more pleasing shade than the Occidental Plane. It is full-leafed, and its leaf is large, smooth, of a fine texture, and seldom injured by insects. Its lower branches shooting horizontally, soon take a direction to the ground, and the spray seems more sedulous than that of any tree we have, by twisting about in various forms, to fill up every little vacuity with shade. At the same time, it must be owned that the twisting of its branches is a disadvantage to this tree, as it is to the beech. When it is stripped of its leaves, and reduced to a skeleton, it has not the natural appearance which the spray of the oak, and that of many other trees, discovers in winter; nor, indeed, does its foliage, from the largeness of the leaf and the mode of its growth, make the most picturesque appearance in summer. One of the finest Occidental Planes I am acquainted with stands in my own garden at Vicar's Hill; where its boughs, feathering to the ground, form a canopy of above fifty feet in diameter." The Occidental Plane is propagated by cuttings, which will hardly fail to succeed if they are taken from strong young wood, and are planted early in the autumn in a moist good mould. [Illustration: THE POPLAR TREE.] THE POPLAR TREE. [_Populus._[Q] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Dioec. Octa._] [Q] _Generic characters._ Flowers of both kinds in cylindrical catkins. _Barren_ flowers consisting of numerous stamens, arising out of a small, oblique, cup-like perianth. _Fertile_ flowers consisting of 4 or 8 stigmas, arising out of a cup-like perianth; _fruit_ a follicle, 2-valved, almost 2-celled by the rolling in of the margins of the valves. The Poplars are deciduous trees, mostly growing to a large size; natives of Europe, North America, some parts of Asia, and the north of Africa. They are all of rapid growth, some of them extremely so; and they are all remarkable for a tremulous motion in their leaves, when agitated by the least breath of wind. The species delight in a rich, moist soil, in the neighbourhood of running water, but they do not thrive in marshes or soils saturated with stagnant moisture. Their wood is light, of a white or pale yellowish colour, very durable when kept dry, not liable to warp or twist when sawn up, and yields, from its elasticity, without splitting or cracking when struck with violence; that of some species is also very slow in taking fire, and burns, when ignited, in a smouldering manner, without flame, on which account it is valuable, and extensively used for the flooring of manufactories and other buildings. Of the fifteen species of Poplar described in Loudon's _Arboretum_, three are believed to be natives of this country--_P. canescens_, _P. tremula_, and _P. nigra_. _P. canescens_, the Gray or Common White Poplar, and its different varieties, form trees of from eighty to one hundred feet high and upwards, with silvery smooth bark, upright and compact branches, and a clear trunk, to a considerable height, and a spreading head, usually in full-grown trees, but thinly clothed with foliage. The leaves are roundish, deeply waved, lobed, and toothed; downy beneath, chiefly grayish; leaves of young shoots cordate-ovate, undivided fertile catkins cylindrical. Stigmas 8. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Catkins of _P. canescens_.] The White Poplar is commonly propagated by layers, which ought to be transplanted into nursery lines for at least one year before removal to their final situation. The tree is admirably adapted for thickening or filling up blanks in woods and plantations; and, for this purpose, truncheons may be planted from three to four inches in diameter, and from ten to twelve feet high. These truncheons have the great advantage of not being overshadowed by the adjoining trees, which is almost always the case when young plants are used for filling up vacancies among old trees. In a moderately good and moist soil, the White Poplar will attain in ten years, the height of thirty feet or upwards, with a trunk from six to nine inches in diameter. As an ornamental tree, the White Poplar is not unworthy of a place in extensive parks and grounds, particularly when planted in lone situations, or near to water; it ought, however, to be grouped and massed with trees of equally rapid growth, else it soon becomes disproportionate, and out of keeping with those whose progress is comparatively slow. It is well adapted in our climate for a wayside tree, as it has no side branches to prevent the admission of light and free circulation of air; and also to form avenues, when an effect is wished to be produced in the shortest possible time. The Aspen or Trembling Poplar, _P. tremula_, is inferior to few of its tribe, presenting the appearance of a tall, and, in proportion to its height, rather a slender tree, with a clean straight trunk; the head ample, and formed of horizontal growing branches, not crowded together, which assume, towards the extremities, a drooping or pendulous direction. The leaves are nearly orbicular, sinuate, or toothed, smooth on both sides; foot-stalks compressed; young branches hairy; stigmas 4, crested and eared at the base. The foliage is of a fine rich green; and the upper surface of the leaves being somewhat darker than the under, a sparkling and peculiar effect is produced by the almost constant tremulous motion with which they are affected by the slightest breath of air, and which is produced by the peculiar form of the foot-stalks, which in this species is flattened, or vertically compressed in relation to the plane of the leaf, causing a quivering or double lateral motion, instead of the usual waving motion, where the foot-stalk is round, or else compressed horizontally. The Black Poplar, _P. nigra_, is a tree of the largest size, with an ample head, composed of numerous branches and terminal shoots. The bark is ash-coloured, and becomes rough and deeply furrowed with age. The catkins are bipartite, cylindrical; the barren appear in March or April, long before the expansion, of the leaves, and, being large and of a deep red colour, produce a rich effect at that early period of the year. The capsules or seed-vessels of the fertile catkin are round, and contain a pure white cottony down, in which the seeds are enveloped. The leaves appear about the middle of May, and, when they first expand, their colour is a mixture of red and yellow; afterwards they are of a pale light green, with yellowish foot-stalks; remarkably triangular, acuminate, serrate, smooth on both sides; stigmas 4. There is a Black Poplar at Alloa House, in Clackmannanshire, which, in 1782, at the height of between three and four feet from the ground, measured thirteen feet and a half in circumference. There is also a very graceful and beautiful tree of the same species at Bury St. Edmunds, ninety feet in height, and which measures, at the distance of three feet from the ground, fifteen feet in girth. The trunk rises forty-five feet before it divides, when it throws out a vast profusion of branches. The Poplar was dedicated by the Romans to Hercules, in honour of his having destroyed the monster Cacus in a cavern near to the Aventine Mount, where the Poplar formerly flourished in abundance. In Pitt's translation of Virgil, the following reference is made to the rite of crowning with the Poplar:-- From that blest hour th' Arcadian tribe bestowed Those solemn honours on their guardian god. Potitius first, his gratitude to prove, Adored Alcides[2] in the shady grove; And with the old Pinarian sacred line These altars raised, and paid the rites divine,-- Rites, which our sons for ever shall maintain; And ever sacred shall the grove remain. Come, then, with us to great Alcides pray, And crown your heads, and solemnize the day. Invoke our common god with hymns divine, And from the goblet pour the generous wine. He said, and with the Poplar's sacred boughs, Like great Alcides, binds his hoary brows. [2] The Greek name of Hercules. [Illustration: THE SCOTCH FIR, OR PINE.] THE SCOTCH FIR, OR PINE. [_Pinus[R] sylvestris._ Nat. Ord.--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Mon._] [R] _Generic characters._ Flowers monoecious. Cones woody, with numerous 2-seeded scales, thickened and angular at the end. Seeds with a crustaceous coat, winged. Leaves acerose, in clusters of from 2 to 5, surrounded by scarious scales at the base. The Scotch Fir or Pine, and its varieties, are indigenous throughout the greater part of Europe. It also extends into the north, east, and west of Asia; and is found at Nootka Sound in Vancouver's Island, on the north-west coast of North America. In the south of Europe it grows at an elevation of from 1000 to 1500 feet; in the Highlands of Scotland, at 2700 feet; and in Norway and Lapland, at 700 feet. Widely dispersed, however, as the species is throughout the mountainous regions of Europe, it is only found in profusion between 52° and 65° N. lat. It occurs in immense forests in Poland and Russia, as well as in northern Germany, Sweden, Norway, and Lapland, up to the 70° of N. lat. The indigenous forests of Scotland, which formerly occupied so large a portion of its surface, have been greatly reduced within the last sixty years, chiefly on account of the pecuniary embarrassments of their proprietors. [Illustration: Foliage, Flowers, Cones; Cone opened, showing the Seeds.] The Scotch Fir, in favourable situations, attains the height of from eighty to one hundred feet, with a trunk from two to four feet in diameter, and a head somewhat conical or rounded, but generally narrow in proportion to its height, as compared with the heads of other broad-leafed trees. The bark is of a reddish tinge, comparatively smooth, scaling off in some varieties, and rough and furrowed in others. The branches are disposed in whorls from two to four together, and sometimes five or six; they are at first slightly turned upwards, but finally become somewhat pendant, with the exception of those branches which form the summit of the tree. The leaves are in sheaths, spirally disposed on the branches; they are distinguished at first sight from all other pines in which the leaves are in pairs, by being much more glaucous, more especially when in a young state, and straighter. The general length of the leaves, in vigorous young trees, is from two to three inches; but in old trees they are much shorter; they are smooth on both surfaces, stiff, obtuse at the extremities, with a small point, and minutely serrated; dark green on the upper side, and glaucous and striated on the under side. The leaves remain green on the tree during four years, and generally drop off at the commencement of the fifth year, Long before this time, generally at the beginning of the second year, they have entirely lost their light glaucous hue, and have become of the dark sombre appearance which is characteristic of this tree at every season except that of summer, when the young glaucous shoots of the year give it a lighter hue. The flowers appear commonly in May and June. The barren flowers are from half an inch to upwards of an inch long, are placed in whorls at the base of the young shoots of the current year, and contain two or more stamens with large yellow anthers, which discharge a sulphur-coloured pollen in great abundance. The fertile flowers, or embryo cones, appear on the summits of the shoots of the current year, generally two on the point of a shoot, but sometimes from four to six. The colour of these embryo cones is generally purple and green; but they are sometimes yellowish or red. It requires eighteen months to mature the cones; and in a state of nature it is two years before the seeds are in a condition to germinate. The cone, which is stalked, and, when mature, begins to open at the narrow extremity, is perfectly conical while closed, rounded at the base, from one to two inches in length, and about an inch across in the broadest part; as it ripens, the colour changes from green to reddish brown. The scales of the cone are oblong, and terminate externally in a kind of depressed pyramid, which varies in shape and height. At the base of each scale, and close to the axis of the cone, two oval-winged seeds or nuts are lodged. From these nuts the young plant appears in the shape of a slender stem, with from five to six linear leaves or cotyledons. In ten years, in the climate of London, plants will attain the height of from twenty-five to thirty feet; and in twenty years, from forty to fifty feet. The great contempt in which the Scotch Fir is commonly held, says Gilpin, "arises, I believe, from two causes--its dark murky hue is unpleasing, and we rarely see it in a picturesque state. In perfection it is a very picturesque tree, though we have little idea of its beauty. It is a hardy plant, and is therefore put to every servile office. If you wish to screen your house from the south-west wind, plant Scotch Firs; and plant them close and thick. If you want to shelter a nursery of young trees, plant Scotch Firs; and the phrase is, you may afterwards weed them out as you please. I admire its foliage, both for the colour of the leaf, and its mode of growth. Its ramification, too, is irregular and beautiful, and not unlike that of the stone pine; which it resembles also in the easy sweep of its stem, and likewise in the colour of the bark, which is commonly, as it attains age, of a rich reddish brown. The Scotch Fir, indeed, in its stripling state, is less an object of beauty. Its pointed and spiry shoots, during the first years of its growth, are formal; and yet I have sometimes seen a good contrast produced between its spiry points and the round-headed oaks and elms in its neighbourhood. When I speak, however, of the Scotch Fir as a beautiful individual, I conceive it when it has outgrown all the improprieties of its youth; when it has completed its full age, and when, like Ezekiel's cedar, it has formed its head high among the thick branches. I may be singular in my attachment to the Scotch Fir. I know it has many enemies; but my opinion will weigh only with the reasons I have given." Sir Thomas Dick Lauder, in his commentary on this passage, says, "We agree with Gilpin to the fullest extent in his approbation of the Scotch Fir as a picturesque tree. We, for our part, confess, that we have seen it towering in full majesty, in the midst of some appropriate Highland scene, and sending its limbs abroad with all the unconstrained freedom of a hardy mountaineer, as if it claimed dominion over the savage regions around it; we have then looked upon it as a very sublime object. People who have not seen it in its native climate and soil, and who judge of it from the wretched abortions which are swaddled and suffocated in English plantations, in deep, heavy, and eternally wet clays, may well call it a wretched tree; but, when its foot is among its own Highland heather, and when it stands freely on its native knoll of dry gravel, or thinly covered rock, over which its roots wander afar in the wildest reticulation, whilst its tall, furrowed, and often gracefully sweeping red and gray trunk, of enormous circumference, rears aloft its high umbrageous canopy, then would the greatest sceptic on this point be compelled to prostrate his mind before it with a veneration which, perhaps, was never before excited in him by any other tree." Some of the most picturesque trees of this kind, perhaps, in England, adorn Mr. Lenthall's mansion, of Basilsleigh, in Berkshire. The soil is a deep rich sand, which seems to be well adapted to them. As they are here at perfect liberty, they not only become large and noble trees, but they expand themselves likewise in all the careless forms of nature. There is a remarkably fine specimen of the Scotch Fir at Castle Huntly, in Perthshire. In 1796, it measured thirteen feet six inches in girth, at three feet from the ground; and close to the ground, it measured nineteen feet, and is thought not unlikely to be the largest planted Fir in the country. The word _planted_ is very properly used here, as many examples of larger _natural_ Firs have been produced. Professor Walker observes, that few Fir-trees were planted before the beginning of the present century; and that as the Fir is a tree which, from the number of rings found in it, will probably grow four hundred years, it is impossible that the planted Firs can have arrived at perfection. "This," says Sir T. Lauder, "may be all true; but as the reasoning proceeds upon the fact of a natural Swedish tree, perfectly sound, having three hundred and sixty circles in it, it by no means follows that a planted Fir will not rot in a premature state of disease, and die before it has sixty circles." The acerose or needle leaf of the Pine seems necessary to protect the tree from injury; for if their leaves were of a broader form, the branches would be borne down, in winter, by the weight of snow in the northern latitudes, and they would be more liable to be uprooted by the mighty hurricane. It is, however, enabled thus to evade both; as the snow falls through, and the winds penetrate between, the interstices of its filiform leaf. Struggling through the branches, the wind comes in contact with such an innumerable quantity of points and edges, as, even when gentle, to produce a deep murmur, or sighing; but when the breeze is strong, or the storm is raging abroad, it produces sounds like the murmuring of the ocean, or the beating of the surge and billows among the rocks:-- The loud wind through the forest wakes With sounds like ocean roaring, wild and deep, And in yon gloomy Pines strange music makes, like symphonies unearthly heard in sleep; The sobbing waters wash their waves and weep: Where moans the blast its dreary path along, The bending Firs a mournful cadence keep, And mountain rocks re-echo to the song, As fitful raves the wind the hills and woods among. Drummond. Wordsworth, also, thus speaks of Pine-trees moved by a gentle breeze:-- An idle voice the Sabbath region fills Of deep that calls to deep across the hills, Broke only by the melancholy sound Of drowsy bells for ever tinkling round; Faint wail of eagle melting into blue Beneath the cliffs, and Pine-wood's steady sugh. The quality of the timber of the Scotch Fir, according to some, is altogether dependent on soil, climate, and slowness of growth; but, according to others, it depends jointly on these circumstances, and on the kind of variety cultivated. It is acknowledged that the timber of the Scotch Fir, grown on rocky surfaces, or where the soil is dry and sandy, is generally more resinous and redder in colour, than that of such as grow on soils of a clayey nature, boggy, or on chalk. At what time the sap wood is transformed into durable or red wood, has not yet been determined by vegetable physiologists. The durability of the red timber of this tree was supposed by Brindley, the celebrated engineer, to be as great as that of the oak; and some of it, grown in the north Highlands, is reported to have been as fresh and full of resin after having been three hundred years in the roof of an old castle, as newly-imported timber from Memel. The red wood timber of the Scottish forests, similar, in every respect, to the best Baltic Pine, is the produce of trees that have numbered from one to two or more centuries. In Norway, it is not considered full-grown timber till it has reached from one hundred and thirty to two hundred years. It seems, then, rather preposterous, that any one should expect that plantation Fir timber, cut down when, perhaps, not more than thirty years old, and consisting entirely of sap wood, should be adapted to all those purposes which require the best full-grown and matured timber; and yet such seems very generally to have been the case, and to the disappointment at not finding those expectations realized, may be attributed a large portion of that prejudice and dislike so generally entertained towards this tree. On Hampstead Heath, near London, there are a number of Pines which are said to have been raised from seed brought from Ravenna. If so, the cones are very different from those of the Ravenna Pine described by Leigh Hunt:-- Various the trees and passing foliage there,-- Wild pear, and oak, and dusky juniper, With bryony between in trails of white, And ivy, and the suckle's streaky light, And moss warm gleaming with a sudden mark, Like flings of sunshine left upon the bark; And still the Pine long-haired, and dark, and tall, In lordly right, predominant o'er all. Much they admire that old religious tree, With shaft above the rest up-shooting free, And shaking, when its dark locks feel the wind, Its wealthy fruit with rough Mosaic rind. [Illustration: THE SILVER FIR.] THE SILVER FIR. [_Abies[S] picea._ Nat. Ord--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Mon._] [S] For the generic characters, see p. 221. The Silver Fir is indigenous to the mountains of Central Europe, and to the west and north of Asia, rising to the commencement of the zone of the Scotch fir. It is found in France, on the Pyrenees, the Alps, and the Vosges; in Italy, Spain, Greece, and the south of Germany; also in Russia and Siberia; but it is not found indigenous in Britain or Ireland. On the Carpathian mountains it is found to the height of 3200 feet; and on the Alps, to the height of from 3000 to 4000 feet. Wherever it is found of a large size, as in the neighbourhood of Strasburg, and in the Vosges, where it has attained the height of one hundred and fifty feet, it invariably grows in good soil, and in a situation sheltered rather than exposed. It appears to have been introduced into England about the commencement of the seventeenth century; as we learn from Evelyn, that in 1663 there were two Silver Firs growing at Harefield, Middlesex, which were there planted sixty years before, at two years' growth from the seed, the larger of which had risen to the height of 81 feet, and was 13 feet in girth below; and it was calculated that it contained 146 feet of good timber. [Illustration: Foliage and Cones of _A. picea_, or _Picea_.] In full-grown trees, the trunk of the Silver Fir is from six to eight feet in diameter, covered, till its fortieth or fiftieth year, with a whitish-gray bark, tolerably smooth; but, as it increases in age, it becomes cracked and chapped. At a still greater age, the bark begins to scale off in large pieces, leaving the trunk of a dark brown colour beneath. The branches stand out horizontally, as do the branchlets and spray, with reference to the main stem of the branch. The leaves on young trees are distinctly two-rowed, and the general surface of the rows is flat; but, as the tree advances in age, and especially on cone-bearing shoots, the disposition of the leaves is less perfect. In every stage of growth they are turned up at the points; but more especially so on old trees, and on cone-bearing branches. The leaves are shorter and broader, and are set much thicker on the spray, than those of other firs and pines. The upper surface of the leaves is also of a darker and brighter green, while underneath they have two white silvery lines running lengthwise on each side of the midrib, which make a conspicuous appearance on the partially turned up leaves; whence its name. The cones of the Silver Fir are large and cylindrical, being from six to eight inches long, erect, and bluntly pointed at both ends. When young they are green, but, as they advance to maturity, the scales acquire a rich purplish colour, and when quite ripe are deep brown; they remain upwards of a year upon the tree, as they first appear in May, when they blossom, and do not ripen the seed till October of the following year. The scales are large, with a long dorsal bract, and fall from the axillar spindle of the cone in the spring of the second year. The seeds are irregular and angular, with a large membranaceous wing. Cones with fertile seeds are seldom produced before the tree has attained its fortieth year; though without, seeds often appear before half that period has elapsed. Gilpin remarks that "the Silver Fir has very little to boast in point of picturesque beauty. It has all the regularity of the spruce, but without its floating foliage. There is a sort of harsh, stiff, unbending formality in the stem, the branches, and the whole economy of the tree, which makes it disagreeable. We rarely see it, even in its happiest state, assume a picturesque shape." In this opinion Sir T. D. Lauder does not entirely coincide, for, in his remarks upon Gilpin's text, he says, "As to the picturesque effect of this tree, we have seen many of them throw out branches from near the very root, that twined and swept away from them in so bold a manner, as to give them, in a very great degree, that character which is most capable of engaging the interest of the artist." The rate of growth of the Silver Fir is slow when young, but rapid after it has attained the age of ten or twelve years. In England, under advantageous circumstances, it attains a magnificent size, some recorded trees being from 100 to 130 feet in height, with trunks varying in diameter from three to six feet, and containing from two hundred to upwards of three hundred feet of timber. In Scotland, also, it has reached dimensions equally great. At Roseneath Castle, Argyleshire, there are two Silver Firs which Sir T. D. Lauder considered the finest specimens he had ever seen. When measured in 1817, he says, "the circumference of one of them, at five feet from the ground, was fifteen feet nine inches; at three feet from the ground, it was seventeen feet six inches; and just above the roots, it was nineteen feet eight inches. The second tree was sixteen feet two inches in girth at five feet from the ground; seventeen feet eleven inches at three feet from the ground; and nineteen feet ten inches when measured immediately above the roots." The Silver Fir likewise grows to a large size in Ireland, much more rapidly than any other tree. Some planted in a wet clay, on a rock, have measured twelve feet in girth at the base, and seven feet six inches at five feet high, after a growth of forty years. [Illustration: THE NORWAY SPRUCE.] THE NORWAY SPRUCE. [_Abies[T] excelsa._ Nat. Ord.--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Mon._] [T] _Generic characters._ Flowers monoecious. _Barren_ catkins crowded, racemose. Scales of the cone thinned away to the edge, and usually membranous or coriaceous. _Leaves_ never fascicled. Though a native of the mountains of Europe and Asia in similar parallels of latitude, the Spruce Fir is not considered indigenous to Britain. It must, however, have been introduced at an early period, as it is mentioned by our oldest writers on arboriculture. It is most common in Lapland, Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and throughout the north of Germany. It grows in the south of Norway at an elevation of 3000 feet above the level of the sea, and in the north on mountains in 70° N. lat. at 750 feet. In the valleys of the Swiss Alps, the Spruce is frequently found above one hundred and fifty feet in height, with trunks from four to five feet in diameter. This tree requires a soft moist soil. Among dry rocks and stones, where the Scotch fir would flourish, the Spruce Fir will scarcely grow. The Norway Spruce Fir is the loftiest of European trees, attaining, in favourable situations, the enormous height of one hundred and eighty feet; with a very straight upright trunk, from two to six feet in diameter, and widely extending branches, which spread out regularly on every side, so as to form a cone-like or pyramidal shape, terminating in a straight arrow-like leading shoot. In young trees, the branches are disposed in regular whorls from the base to the summit; but in old trees the lower branches drop off. The trunk is covered with a thin bark, of a reddish colour and scaly surface, with occasional warts or small excrescences distributed over its surface. The leaves are solitary, of a dark grassy green, generally under one inch in length, straight, stiff, and sharp-pointed, disposed around the shoots, and more crowded together laterally than on the upper and under sides of the branchlets. The barren flowers, about one inch long, are cylindrical, on long catkins, curved, of a yellowish colour, with red tips, and discharging, when expanded, a profusion of yellow pollen. The fertile flowers are produced at the ends of the branches, first appearing as small pointed purplish-red catkins; they afterwards gradually assume the cone-like form, and become pendant, changing first into a green and latterly into a reddish brown, acquiring a length of from five to seven inches, and a breadth of above two inches. The scales are rhomboidal, slightly incurved, and rugged or toothed at the tip, with two seeds in each scale. The seeds, which are very small, and furnished with large membranous wings, are not shed till the spring of the second year. [Illustration: Foliage and Cones of _A. excelsa_.] As an ornamental tree, all admirers of regularity and symmetry are generally partial to the Spruce. Gilpin was, however, no great admirer of the tree; but still he allows it to have had its peculiar beauties. "The Spruce Fir," he says, "is generally esteemed a more elegant tree than the Scotch pine; and the reason, I suppose, is because it often feathers to the ground, and grows in a more exact and regular shape: but this is a principal objection to it. It often wants both form and beauty. We admire its floating foliage, in which it sometimes exceeds all other trees; but it is rather disagreeable to see a repetition of these feathery strata, beautiful as they are, reared tier above tier, in regular order, from the bottom of a tree to the top. Its perpendicular stem, also, which has seldom any lineal variety, makes the appearance of the tree still more formal. It is not always, however, that the Spruce Fir grows with so much regularity. Sometimes a lateral branch, here and there taking the lead beyond the rest, breaks somewhat through the order commonly observed, and forms a few chasms, which have a good effect. When this is the case, the Spruce Fir ranks among picturesque trees. Sometimes it has as good an effect, and in many circumstances a better, when the contrast appears still stronger; when the tree is shattered by some accident, has lost many of its branches, and is scathed and ragged. A feathery branch, here and there, among broken stems, has often an admirable effect; but it must arise from some particular situation. In all circumstances, however, the Spruce Fir appears best either as a single tree, or unmixed with any of its fellows; for neither it, nor any of the spear-headed race, will ever form a beautiful clump without the assistance of other trees." The Spruce Fir is raised from seed, which should be chosen from healthy vigorous trees. The young plant appears with from seven to nine cotyledons, but makes little progress till after the third year, when it begins to put out lateral branches. Its progress from this time, till its fifth or sixth year, is at the annual rate of about six inches, after which age its annual growth, in favourable soils, is very rapid, the leading shoot being frequently from two to three feet in length, and this increase it continues to support with undiminished vigour for forty or fifty years, many trees within that period attaining a height of from sixty to eighty feet. Its growth after this period is slower, and the duration of the tree, in its native habitats, is considered to range between one hundred and one hundred and fifty years. [Illustration: THE SYCAMORE, OR GREATER MAPLE.] THE SYCAMORE, OR GREATER MAPLE. [_Acer[U] pseudo-platanus._ Nat. Ord.--_Aceraceæ_; Linn.--_Polyg. Monoec._] [U] For the generic characters, see p. 139. Turner, who wrote in 1551, considered the Sycamore as a stranger, or tree that had been introduced. On the Continent it is spread over the mountains of middle Europe; and is found in Switzerland, where it particularly abounds, growing at an elevation of from 2000 to 3000 feet above the level of the sea, where the soil is dry and of a good quality. [Illustration: Leaves, Bunch of Flowers, and Samaræ of _A. pseudo-platanus_.] The Sycamore is "certainly a noble tree," vieing, in point of magnitude, with the oak, the ash, and other trees of the first rank. It presents a grand unbroken mass of foliage, contrasting well, in appropriate situations, with trees of a lighter and more airy character. It has round spreading branches, and a smooth ash-coloured bark, frequently broken into patches of different hues, by peeling off in large flakes, like the planes. The leaves have long foot-stalks, are four or five inches broad, palmate, with five acute, unequally serrated lobes; the middle one largest, pale or shining beneath. The flowers are green, the size of a currant blossom, disposed into axillary, pendulous, compound clusters; stamens of the barren flower twice as long as the corolla. Ovary downy, with broad-spreading wings. Selby observes that "from the strength of its spray, and the nature of its growth, which is stiff and angular, the Sycamore is especially calculated to act as a shelter or break-wind in exposed situations, whether it be upon the coast where it braves the cutting eastern blasts, or upon bleak and elevated tracts, subject to long continued and powerful winds; for even in such localities, provided the soil be dry, and of tolerable quality, it attains a respectable size, and shows an upright form, unconquered by the blast. It is, probably, for these peculiar and enduring qualities that we see it so frequently in the north of England and in Scotland planted by itself, or sometimes in company with the ash, around farm houses and cottages, in high and exposed situations." This custom is evidently alluded to by the Westmoreland poet, in his description of the landscape on the banks of the Wye:-- Once again Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs, That on a wild secluded scene impress Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect The landscape with the quiet of the sky. The day is come when I again repose Here, under the dark Sycamore, and view These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard tufts, Which at this season, with their unripe fruits, Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves Among the woods and copses, nor disturb The wild green landscape. Once again I see These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke, Sent up, in silence, from among the trees! With some uncertain notice, as might seem Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods, Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fire The hermit sits alone. These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man's eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them, In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration:--feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime: that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery-- In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, Until the breath of this corporeal frame, And even the motion of our human blood, Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things. If this Be but a vain belief, yet, O! how oft, In darkness, and amid the many shapes Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world, Have hung upon the beatings of my heart, How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee, O sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer thro' the woods, How often has my spirit turned to thee! Wordsworth. The Sycamore is not unfrequently planted in streets and before houses, on account of its spreading branches and thick shade, for which it bears a high reputation. Of this tree Sir T. D. Lauder says, "the spring tints are rich, tender, glowing, and harmonious. In summer, its deep green hue accords well with its grand and massy form; and the browns and dingy reds of its autumnal tints harmonize well with the other colours of the mixed grove, to which they give a depth of tone. It is a favourite Scotch tree, having been much planted about old aristocratic residences in Scotland." The Sycamore, in the language of flowers, signifies curiosity, because it was supposed to be the "tree on which Zaccheus climbed to see Christ pass on his way to Jerusalem, when the people strewed leaves and branches of palm and other trees in his way, exclaiming, 'Hosanna to the Son of David!' The tree which is frequently called the Sycamore in the Bible, was not the species under description, _A. pseudo-platanus_, but a species of fig, _Ficus sycomorus_, a native of Egypt, where it is a timber-tree exceeding the middle size, and bearing edible fruit." The common Sycamore is generally propagated by seed; and its varieties by layers, or by budding or grafting. It will also propagate freely by cuttings of the roots. It is a tree of rapid growth, frequently attaining a diameter of from four to five inches in twenty years. It arrives at its full growth in fifty or sixty years; but it requires to be eighty or one hundred years old before its wood arrives at perfection. It produces fertile seeds at the age of twenty years, but flowers several years sooner. The longevity of the tree is from one hundred and forty to two hundred years, though it has been known of a much greater age. There are many fine Sycamores in different parts of the kingdom; the largest of which, one at Bishopton in Renfrewshire, is sixty feet in height and twenty feet in girth. This tree is known to have been planted before the Reformation, and is therefore more than three hundred years old, yet it has the appearance of being perfectly sound. [Illustration: THE COMMON WALNUT TREE.] THE COMMON WALNUT TREE. [_Juglans[V] regia._ Nat. Ord.--_Juglandaceæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Polya._] [V] _Generic characters. Flowers_ monoecious. _Stamens_ 18 to 24. _Drupe_ with a 2-valved deciduous sarcocarp, or rind; and a deeply-wrinkled putamen or shell. The Walnut tree is a native of Persia, and is found growing wild in the North of China. It was known to the Greeks and Romans, and was probably introduced into this country by the latter. It is now to be met with in every part of Europe, as far north as Warsaw; but it is nowhere so far naturalized as to produce itself spontaneously from seed. It ripens its fruit, in fine seasons, in the neighbourhood of Edinburgh, as a standard; and it lives against a wall as far north as Dunrobin Castle, in Sutherlandshire. The Walnut forms a large and lofty tree, with strong spreading branches, attaining even in this country to the height of ninety feet. The leaves have three or four pairs of oval leaflets, terminated by an odd one, which is longer than the rest. The barren catkins are pendulous, and are produced near the points of the shoots. The bark is thick and deeply furrowed on the trunk; but on the upper branches it is gray and smooth. The fruit is green and oval; and, in the wild species, contains a small hard nut. In the most esteemed cultivated varieties, the fruit is of a roundish oval, and is strongly odoriferous; nearly two inches long, and one and a half broad. The nut occupies two-thirds of the volume of the fruit. Towards autumn the husk softens, and, decaying from about the nut, allows it to fall out. The nuts are used in different ways, and at various stages of their growth; when young and green, and before the shells become indurated, they make an excellent and well-known pickle, as well as a savoury kind of ketchup, and a liqueur is also made from them in this state. Previous to their becoming fully ripe, and while the kernel is yet soft, they are eaten in France with a seasoning of salt, pepper, vinegar, and shallots. When fully ripe, they are both wholesome and easy of digestion, so long as they remain fresh, and part freely from the pellicle, or skin, which envelopes the kernel. An oil is expressed from the nuts, which is of great service to the artist in whites, and other colours, and also for gold size and varnish. [Illustration: Leaves, Catkins, and Nuts of _J. regia_.] When Walnuts are plentiful, it has been observed that there is also a plentiful harvest. Virgil mentions this observation in the first of his _Georgics_, which is thus translated by Martyn:--"Observe also when the Walnut tree shall put on its bloom plentifully in the woods, and bend down its strong, swelling branches: if it abounds in fruit, you will have a like quantity of corn, and a great threshing with much heat. But if it abounds with a luxuriant shade of leaves, in vain shall your floor thresh the corn, which abounds with nothing but chaff." The Walnut is far from being an unpicturesque tree, and planted at some distance from each other they form shady and graceful avenues, and prosper well in hedge-rows. The Bergstras (which extends from Heidelberg to Darmstadt) is planted entirely with this tree; for by an ancient law, the Borderers were compelled to plant and train them up, chiefly on account of their ornament and shade, so that a man might ride for miles about that country, under a continued arbour or close walk--the traveller as well refreshed by its fruit as by its shade. Amid other trees whose foliage may be of a vivid green, its warm, russet-hued leaves present a pleasing variety about the end of May; and in summer that variety is still preserved by the contrast of its yellowish hues with the darker tints of other trees. It puts forth its leaves at such an advanced period of the year, and sheds them so early, that it is never long in harmony with the grove. It, therefore, stands best alone, as the premature loss of its foliage is then of less consequence. The Walnut tree is found abundantly in Burgundy, where it stands in the midst of their corn fields, at distances of sixty and a hundred feet, and is said to be a preserver of the crops by keeping the ground warm. Whenever a tree is felled, which is only when old and decayed, a young one is planted near it; and in Evelyn's time, between Hanau and Frankfort, in Germany, no young farmer was permitted to marry a wife, until he had brought proof that he had planted a stated number of these trees. M. Sorbiere mentions the Dutch plantations of Walnut trees in terms of praise, remarking, that even in the very roads and common highways, they are better preserved and maintained than those about the houses and gardens belonging to the nobility and gentry of most other countries. The Walnut was formerly in great request as a timber-tree; its place is generally now supplied by foreign woods, which excel that of our own growth. It was much used by cabinet-makers for bedsteads, and bureaus, for which purposes it is one of the most durable woods of English growth. It is also used for gun-stocks. Near the root of the tree the wood is finely veined--suitable for inlaying and other ornamental works. The sweet-leafed Walnut's undulated grain, Polished with care, adds to the workman's art Its varying beauties. Dodsley. The Walnut is propagated by the nut; which is best sown where it is finally to remain, on account of the tap-root, which will thus have its full influence on the vigour of the tree. The plant is somewhat tender when young, and apt to be injured by spring frosts: it, however, grows vigorously, and attains in the climate of London the height of twenty feet in ten years, beginning about that time to bear fruit. The Walnut sometimes attains a prodigious size and a great age. Scamozzi, a celebrated Italian architect, who died in 1616, mentions his having seen at St. Nicholas, in Lorraine, a single plank of the wood of this tree twenty-five feet wide, upon which the Emperor Frederick III. had given a sumptuous feast. There is a remarkable specimen of this tree at Kinross House, in Kinross-shire, which measured nine feet six inches in girth, in September, 1796, and is supposed to have been planted about 1684. Sir T. Dick Lauder says it is probably the oldest Walnut tree in Scotland, and is evidently decaying, though whether from accident or age is uncertain. Collinson tells us of another, in his _History of Somersetshire_, which he says grew in the Abbey Church-yard, on the north side of St. Joseph's Chapel. This was a miraculous Walnut tree, which never budded forth before the feast of St. Barnabas (that is, the 11th June), and on that very day shot forth leaves and flourished like its usual species. It is strange to say how much this tree was sought after by the credulous, and though not an uncommon Walnut, Queen Anne, King James, and many of the nobility, even when the times of monkish superstition had ceased, gave large sums of money for small cuttings from the original. [Illustration: THE WEYMOUTH PINE.] THE WEYMOUTH PINE. [_Pinus_[W] _strobus_. Nat. Ord.--_Coniferæ_; Linn.--_Monoec. Monan._] [W] For the generic characters, see p. 207. This Pine is a native of North America, growing in fertile soils, on the sides of hills, from Canada to Virginia. It was introduced about 1705, and was soon after planted in great quantities at Longleat, in Wiltshire, the seat of Lord Weymouth, where the trees prospered amazingly, and whence the species received the name of the Weymouth Pine. In America, in the state of Vermont, and near the commencement of the river St. Lawrence, this tree is found one hundred and eighty feet in height, with a straight trunk, from about four to seven feet in diameter. The trunk is generally free from branches for two-thirds or three-fourths of its height; the branches are short, and in whorls, or disposed in tiers one above another, nearly to the top, which consists of three or four upright branches, forming a small conical head. The bark, on young trees, is smooth, and even polished; but as the tree advances in age, it splits, and becomes rugged and gray, but does not fall off in scales like that of other Pines. The leaves are from three to four inches long, straight, upright, slender, soft, triquetrous, of a fine light bluish green, marked with silvery longitudinal channels; scabrous and inconspicuously serrated on the margin; spreading in summer, but in winter contracted, and lying close to the branches. The barren catkins are short, elliptic, racemose, pale purple, mixed with yellow, and turning red before they fall. The fertile catkins are ovate-cylindrical; erect, on short peduncles when young, but when full-grown pendulous, and from four to six inches long, slightly curved, and composed of thin smooth scales, rounded at the base, and partly covered with white resin, particularly on the tips of the scales; apex of the scales thick, and seeds oval, of a dull gray. The cones open to shed the seeds in October of the second year. [Illustration: Foliage, Cones: Scale opened, with two winged Seeds of _P. strobus_.] Gilpin is very severe upon this tree, and says that it has very little picturesque beauty to recommend it. On the contrary, this tree seems to be a great addition to a landscape: the meagreness of foliage, which Gilpin considers one of its principal defects, giving to it, in our opinion, an elegant appearance. He says that it is admired for its polished bark; but he adds, the painter's eye pays little attention to so trivial a circumstance, even when the tree is considered as a single object. Its stem rises with perpendicular exactness; it rarely varies, and its branches issue with equal formality from its sides. Opposed to the wildness of other trees, the regularity of the Weymouth Pine has sometimes its beauty. A few of its branches hanging from a mass of heavier foliage, may appear light and feathery, while its spiry head may often form an agreeable apex to a clump. The Weymouth Pine is propagated from seed, which come up the first year, and may be treated like those of the Scotch fir. The rate of growth, except in good soil and in very favourable situations, is slower than that of most European Pines. Nevertheless, in the climate of London, it will attain the height of twelve feet in ten years from the seed. The wood is white or very palish yellow, of a fine grain, soft, light, free from knots, and easily wrought; it is also durable, and not very liable to split when exposed to the sun: but it has little strength, gives a feeble hold to nails, and sometimes swells from the humidity of the atmosphere; while, from the very great diminution of the trunk from the base to the summit, it is difficult to procure planks of any great length and uniform diameter. The largest Weymouth Pine in this country is at Kingston, in Somersetshire. In 1837 this tree was ninety-five feet in height, with a trunk of three feet in diameter. [Illustration: THE WHITEBEAM TREE.] THE WHITEBEAM TREE. [_Pyrus aria_.[X] Nat. Ord.--_Rosaceæ_; Linn.--_Icosand. Pentag._] [X] _Generic characters._ _Calyx_ superior, monosepalous, 5-cleft. _Petals_ 5. _Styles_ 2 to 5. Fruit a _pome_, 5-celled, each cell 2-seeded, cartilaginous. The Whitebeam tree is a native of most parts of Europe, from Norway to the Mediterranean Sea; and also of Siberia and Western Asia. It is to be met with in every part of Britain, varying greatly in magnitude, according to soil and situation. It seems to prefer chalky soils, or limestone rocks; and also, according to Withering, loves dry hills and open exposures, and nourishes either on gravel or clay. The Whitebeam rises to the height of forty or fifty feet, with a straight, erect, smooth trunk, and numerous branches, which for the most part tend upwards, and form a round or oval head. The young shoots have a brown bark, covered with a mealy down. The leaves are between two and three inches long, and one and a half broad in the middle, oval, light green above, and very white and downy beneath. The flowers, which appear in May, are terminal, in large corymbs, two inches or more in diameter, and they are succeeded by scarlet fruit. Mr. Loudon says that, "as an ornamental tree, the Whitebeam has some valuable properties. It is of a moderate size, and of a definite shape; and thus, bearing a character of art, it is adapted for particular situations, near works of art, where the violent contrast exhibited by trees of picturesque forms would be inharmonious. In summer, when clothed with leaves, it forms a compact green mass, till it is ruffled by the wind, when it suddenly assumes a mealy whiteness. In the winter season, the tree is attractive from its smooth branches and its large green buds; which, from their size and colour, seem already prepared for spring, and remind us of the approach of that delightful season. When the tree is covered with its fruit, it is exceedingly ornamental." [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _P. avium_.] The Whitebeam may be raised from seed, which should be sown as soon as the fruit is ripe; otherwise, if kept till spring, and then sown, they will not come up till the spring following. The varieties may be propagated by cuttings, or by layering; but they root, by both modes, with great difficulty. Layers require to be made of the young wood, and to remain attached to the stool for two years. The rate of growth, when the tree is young, and in a good soil, is from eighteen to twenty-four inches a year: after it has attained the height of fifteen or twenty feet it grows much slower; but it is a tree of great duration. The roots descend very deep, and spread very wide; and the head of the tree is less affected by prevailing winds than almost any other. In the most exposed situations, on the Highland mountains, this tree is seldom seen above ten or fifteen feet high; but it is always stiff and erect. It bears lopping, and permits the grass to grow under it. The wood is hard and tough, and of a very close grain, and will take a very high polish. It is much used for knife handles, wooden spoons, axle-trees, walking-sticks, and tool-handles. Its principal use, however, is for cogs for wheels in machinery. [Illustration: THE WILD BLACK CHERRY OR GEAN.] THE WILD BLACK CHERRY OR GEAN. [_Prunus Avium._[Y] Nat. Ord.--_Rosaceæ_; Linn.--_Icosand. Monogy._] [Y] _Generic character. Calyx_ inferior, 5-cleft. _Petals_ 5. _Drupe_ roundish, covered with bloom; the _stone_ furrowed at its inner edge. The Cherry, in a wild state, is indigenous in Central Europe, and is also found in Russia up to 56° N. lat. In England, it is met with in woods and hedges; and is found apparently wild in Scotland and Ireland. The Wild Cherry has grown in this country from fifty to eighty-five feet in height. In cultivation, whether in woods or gardens, it may, in point of general appearance, be included in these forms:--Large trees with stout branches, and shoots proceeding from the main stem, nearly horizontally; fastigiate trees, or with the branches appressed to the stem, of a smaller size; and small trees with weak wood, and branches divergent and drooping. The leaves vary so much in the cultivated varieties, that it is impossible to characterise the sorts by them; but, in general, those of the large trees are largest, and the lightest in colour, and those of the slender-branched trees the smallest, and the darkest in colour; the flowers are also largest on the large trees. The specific characters of the Wild Black Cherry may be thus stated:--Leaves drooping, oblong, obovate, pointed, serrated, somewhat pendant, slightly pubescent on the under side, furnished with two glands at the base, and downy beneath. Flowers white, in nearly sessile umbels, not numerous. The colour of the fruit is a very deep, dark red, or black; the flesh is of the same colour, small in quantity, austere and bitter before it comes to maturity, and insipid when the fruit is perfectly ripe. The nut is oval or ovate, like the fruit, firmly adhering to the flesh, and very large in proportion to the fruit. The juice is mostly coloured: and the skin does not separate from the flesh. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _P. Avium_.] As a tree, the Wild Cherry is not only valuable for its timber, but for the food which it supplies to birds, by increasing the number of which, the insects which attack trees of every kind are materially kept down. This is one reason why Cherry trees are generally encouraged in the forests of France and Belgium: an additional reason, in Britain, is the nourishment which they afford to singing birds, particularly to the blackbird and thrush, and while any are to be found on the trees, they may be said to convert them into musical bowers. As an ornamental tree it is also worth cultivating, as it produces a profusion of flowers from an early age, and at an early period of the year; these from their snowy whiteness, contrast well with the blossom of the almond and the scarlet thorn. Its foliage is also handsome, though rather too uniform and unbroken to produce picturesque effect; in the autumn, when it assumes a deep purplish-red colour, it gives a great richness to the landscape, and contrasts well with the yellows and browns which predominate at that season. The Wild Cherry is also recommended for the copse, because it produces a strong shoot, and will shoot forth from the roots as the elm, especially if you fell lusty trees. In light ground it will increase to a goodly tall tree, of which some have been known to attain the height of more than eighty-five feet. Sir T. D. Lauder says, "It may very well be called a forest-tree, seeing that in many parts of Scotland it is almost as numerous, and propagates itself as fast as the birch; it grows, moreover, to be a very handsome timber-tree, and the wood of it makes very pretty furniture. In form, it is oftener graceful than grand; and its foliage is rather too sparse to produce that tufty effect which gives breadth of light and depth of shadow enough to please the painter's eye. But on the cliffs of romantic rivers, such as the Findhorn, and other Scottish streams of the same character, where it is stinted of soil, it often shoots from the crevices of the rocks in very picturesque forms; and the scarlet of its autumnal tint, when not in excess, sometimes produces very brilliant touches in the landscape, when the neighbouring trees happen to be in harmony with it;" and if "merely considered as a natural object, nothing can be more splendid than its appearance when covered with a full blow of flowers in spring, or more gorgeous than the hue of its autumnal livery." "The Cherry has always been a favourite tree with poets; the brilliant red of the fruit, the whiteness and profusion of the blossoms, and the vigorous growth of the tree, affording abundant similies. At Ely, in Cambridgeshire, when the cherries are ripe, numbers of people repair, on what they call Cherry Sunday, to the cherry orchards in the neighbourhood; where, on the payment of 6_d._ each, they are allowed to eat as many cherries as they choose. A similar fète is held at Montmorency, in France. A festival is also celebrated annually at Hamburg, called the Feast of the Cherries, during which troops of children parade the streets with green boughs, ornamented with cherries. The original of this fète is said to be as follows:--In 1432, when the city of Hamburg was besieged by the Hussites, one of the citizens, named Wolf, proposed that all the children in the city, between seven and fourteen years of age, should be clad in mourning, and sent as suppliants to the enemy. Procopius Nasus, chief of the Hussites, was so much moved by this spectacle, that he not only promised to spare the city, but regaled the young suppliants with cherries and other fruits; and the children returned crowned with leaves, shouting 'Victory!' and holding boughs laden with cherries in their hands."--_Loudon._ The Common Wild Cherry is almost always raised from seed; but, as the roots throw up suckers in great abundance, these suckers might be employed for the same purpose. When plants are to be raised from seed, the cherries should be gathered when fully ripe and sown immediately with the flesh on, and covered with about an inch of light mould. The strongest plants, at the end of the next season, will be about eighteen inches in height; these may be drawn out from among the smaller plants, and transplanted into nursery rows, from whence they will, in another season, be fit to be transferred to the plantations, or to be grafted or budded. It will grow in any soil or situation, neither too wet nor entirely a strong clay. It stands less in need of shelter than any other fruit-bearing tree whatever, and for surrounding kitchen gardens, to form a screen against high winds. Dr. Withering observes that it thrives best when unmixed with other trees; that it bears pruning, and suffers the grass to grow under it. [Illustration: THE WILD SERVICE-TREE.] THE WILD SERVICE-TREE. [_Pyrus[Z] torminalis._ Nat. Ord.--_Rosaceæ_; Linn.--_Icosand. Pentag._] [Z] For the generic characters, see p. 243. The Common Wild Service-tree is a native of various parts of Europe, from Germany to the Mediterranean, and of the south of Russia, and Western Asia. It is found in woods and hedges in the middle and south of England, but not in Scotland or Ireland. It generally grows in strong clayey soils. This tree grows to the height of forty or fifty feet, spreading at the top into many branches, and forming a large head. The branches are well clad with leaves, and are covered when young with a purplish bark, with white spots. The leaves are on pretty long foot-stalks, and are nearly four inches in length and three in breadth in the middle, simple, somewhat cordate, serrate, seven-lobed, bright green on the upper side, and woolly underneath. The flowers are white, in large, terminal, downy panicles; they appear in May, and are succeeded by roundish compressed fruit, similar in appearance to large haws, and ripen late in autumn, when they are brown. If kept till they are soft, in the same way as medlars, they have an agreeable acid flavour. The Service-tree gives the husbandman an early presage of the approaching spring, by putting forth its adorned buds; and it ventures to peep out even in the severest seasons. As an ornamental tree, its large green buds strongly recommend it in the winter and spring; as its fine large-lobed leaves do in summer, and its large and numerous clusters of rich brown fruit do in autumn. [Illustration: Leaves, Flowers, and Fruit of _P. torminalis_.] The best mode of propagating the Service-tree is by suckers. Of these it puts forth a goodly number: and it may also be budded with great improvement. It prospers best in good stiff ground, of a nature rather cold than hot; for where the soil is too dry, it will not yield well. This tree may either be grafted on itself, or on the white thorn and quince. To this may be added the Mespilus, or medlar, being a very hard wood, and of which very beautiful walking-sticks are sometimes made. The timber of the Service-tree is useful for the joiner, and it has occasionally been used for wainscoting rooms. It is also used for bows, pulleys, screws, mill and other spindles; for goads to drive oxen with; for pistol and gun-stocks; and for most of the purposes for which the wild pear-tree is serviceable. It is valued by the turner in the manufacture of various curiosities, having a very delicate grain, which makes a showy appearance; and it is very durable. When rubbed over with well-boiled linseed oil, it is an admirable imitation of ebony, or almost any Indian wood. One of the finest specimens of the Service-tree in England is said to be at Arley Hall, near Bewdley. This tree is fifty-four feet six inches high; the diameter of the trunk, at a foot from the ground, is three feet six inches; and that of the head is fifty-eight feet eight inches. [Illustration: THE WILLOW-TREE.] THE WILLOW-TREE. [_Salix_[AA] Nat. Ord.--_Amentiferæ_; Linn.--_Dioec. Diand._] [AA] _Generic characters._ _Catkins_ oblong, imbricated all round, with oblong scales. _Perianth_ none. _Stamens_ 1-5. Fruit a 1-celled follicle with 1-2 glands at its base. The willow tribes that ever weep, Hang drooping o'er the glassy-bosom'd wave. Bidlake. The Willows are chiefly natives of the colder parts of the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere. More than two hundred species of this genus have been described by botanists, of which sixty-six are considered indigenous in this country. These are subdivided into scientific and economic groups. The economic groups are:--for growing as timber-trees, for coppice-wood, for hoops, for basket-rods, for hedges, and for ornamental trees or shrubs. The Babylonian or Weeping Willow, _S. Babylonica_, the portrait of which heads this article, is the most picturesque and beautiful tree of this genus. It is a native of Asia, on the banks of the Euphrates, near Babylon, whence its name; and also of China, and other parts of Asia; and of Egypt, and other parts of the north of Africa. It is said to have been introduced into England by the poet Pope, who planted it in his garden at Twickenham, where it was known until about 1800 as "Pope's Willow;" but it was more probably brought to Europe by the botanist Tournefort, before 1700. Of the Weeping Willow, Miller says, "It grows to a considerable size. I have one in my view whilst I am writing, which is four and a half feet in circumference at three feet above the ground, and is at least thirty feet in height; the age is thirty-four years. This tree is remarkable, and generally esteemed for its long slender pendulous branches, which give it a peculiar character, and render it a beautiful object on the margin of streams or pools. The leaves are minutely and sharply serrate, smooth on both sides, glaucous underneath, with the midrib whitish; on short petioles. Stipules, when present, roundish or semilunar, and very small; but more frequently wanting, and then in their stead a glandular dot on each side. Catkins axillary, small, oblong; in the barren the filaments longer than the scale, with two ovate erect glands fastened to the base; the fertile on two-leafed peduncles, scarcely longer than half an inch." The light airy spray of the Weeping Willow is pendent. The shape of its leaf is conformable to the pensile character of the tree; and its spray, which is lighter than that of the poplar, is more easily put into motion by a breath of air. The Weeping Willow, however, is not adapted to sublime subjects; but the associations which are awakened in conjunction with it, by that very beautiful psalm, "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept, when we remembered thee, O Sion! as for our harps, we hanged them up upon the Willows,"--are of themselves sufficient to impart to it an interest in every human breast touched by the sublime strains of the Psalmist. On the Willow thy harp is suspended, O Salem! its sound shall be free; And the hour when thy glories were ended, But left me that token of thee. And ne'er shall its soft notes be blended, With the voice of the spoiler by me. Byron. Gilpin says we do not employ the Willow to screen the broken buttresses and Gothic windows of an abbey, nor to overshadow the battlements of a ruined castle. These offices it resigns to the oak, whose dignity can support them. The Weeping Willow seeks a humbler scene--some romantic foot-path bridge, which it half conceals, or some glassy pool, over which it hangs its streaming foliage, --and dips Its pendent boughs, stooping, as if to drink. In these situations it appears in character, and to advantage. No poet ever mentions the Weeping Willow but in connection with sad and melancholy thoughts. Burns, in his "Braes of Yarrow," thus sings: Take off, take off these bridal weeds, And crown my careful head with Willow. Prior alludes to the afflicted daughters of Israel: Afflicted Israel shall sit weeping down, Their harps upon the neighbouring Willows hung. And Dr. Booker refers to the same pathetic scene: Silent their harps (each cord unstrung) On pendent Willow branches hung. The Willow is generally found growing on the borders of small streams or rivers. The Sacred writers almost constantly refer to this natural habit. Thus in Job we read: The shady trees cover him with their shadows; the Willows of the brook compass him about (xl. 22). And again, Isaiah, in two places, speaks of its connection with the brook: That which they have laid up, shall they carry away to the brook of the Willows (xv. 7). They shall spring up as among the grass, as Willows by the water-courses (xliv. 4). And Ezekiel refers to this habit of the Willow: He took also of the seed of the land, and placed it by great waters, and set it as a Willow-tree (xvii. 5). And in referring to profane authors, we find Milton speaking of --the rushy-fringed bank Where grows the Willow. An anonymous writer, too, mentions The thirsty Salix bending o'er the stream, Its boughs as banners waving to the breeze. The pastoral poet Rowe places his despairing Shepherd under Silken Willows. Thus he sings--(we will give the chorus in the first verse, and not repeat it, as it would occupy too much space): To the brook and the Willow that heard him complain, Ah, Willow, Willow; Poor Colin sat weeping, and told them his pain; Ah, Willow, Willow; ah, Willow, Willow. Sweet stream, he cry'd sadly, I'll teach thee to flow, And the waters shall rise to the brink with my woe. All restless and painful poor Amoret lies, And counts the sad moments of time as it flies. To the nymph my heart loves, ye soft slumbers repair, Spread your downy wings o'er her, and make her your care. Dear brook, were thy chance near her pillow to creep, Perhaps thy soft murmurs might lull her to sleep. Let me be kept waking, my eyes never close, So the sleep that I lose brings my fair-one repose. But if I am doom'd to be wretched indeed; If the loss of my dear-one, my love is decreed; If no more my sad heart by those eyes shall be cheered; If the voice of my warbler no more shall be heard; Believe me, thou fair-one; thou dear-one believe, Few sighs to thy loss, and few tears will I give. One fate to thy Colin and thee shall be ty'd, And soon lay thy shepherd close by thy cold side. Then run, gentle brook; and to lose thyself, haste; Fade thou, too, my Willow; this verse is my last. Chatterton, in one of his songs, has the following lines: Mie love ys dedde, Gon to ys deathe-bedde, Al under the Wyllowe-tree. In Ovid we read of A hollow vale, where watery torrents gush, Sinks in the plain; the osier, and the rush, The marshy sedge and bending Willow nod Their trailing foliage o'er its oozy sod. And Churchill speaks of The Willow weeping o'er the fatal wave, Where many a lover finds a watery grave. Shakspeare introduces it in Hamlet, where he describes the place of Ophelia's death: There is a Willow grows ascant the brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she make, Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples, That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them: There on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious silver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. The Willows that attain the size of trees of the first and second rank, and that produce valuable timber, are the four following:--The Crack Willow, the Russell Willow, the Huntingdon Willow, and the Goat Willow. [Illustration: Leaves and Catkins of _S. fragilis_.] The Crack or Red-wood Willow, _S. fragilis_, is a tall bushy tree, sometimes growing from eighty to ninety feet in height, with the branches set on obliquely, somewhat crossing each other, not continued in a straight line outwards from the trunk; by which character it may be readily distinguished even in winter. The branches are round, very smooth, "and so brittle at the base, in spring, that with the slightest blow they start from the trunk," whence the name of Crack Willow. Its leaves are ovate-lanceolate, pointed, serrated throughout, very glabrous. Foot-stalks glandular, ovary ovate, abrupt, nearly sessile, glabrous. Bracts oblong, about equal to the stamens and pistils. Stigmas cloven, longer than the style. The Russell or Bedford Willow, _S. Russelliana_, is frequently found from eighty to ninety feet in height. It is more handsome than _S. fragilis_ in its mode of growth, as well as altogether of a lighter or brighter hue. The branches are long, straight, and slender, not angular in their insertion, like those of _S. fragilis_. The leaves are lanceolate, tapering at each end, serrated throughout, and very glabrous. Foot-stalks, glandular or leafy. Ovary tapering; stalked, longer than the bracts. Style as long as the stigma. Dr. Johnson's favourite Willow, at Lichfield, was of this species. In 1781, the trunk of this tree rose to the height of nearly nine feet, and then divided into fifteen large ascending branches, which, in any numerous and crowded subdivisions, spread at the top in a circular form, not unlike the appearance of a shady oak, inclining a little towards the east. The circumference of the trunk at the bottom was nearly sixteen feet; in the middle about twelve feet; and thirteen feet at the top, immediately below the branches. The entire height of the tree was forty-nine feet; and the circumference of the branches, at their extremities, upwards of two hundred feet, overshadowing a plane not far short of four thousand feet. This species was first brought into notice for its valuable properties as a timber-tree, by the late Duke of Bedford; whence its name. The Huntingdon, or Common White Willow, _S. alba_, grows rapidly, attaining the height of thirty feet in twelve years, and rising to sixty feet in height, or upwards, even in inferior soils; while, in favourable situations, it will reach the height of eighty feet, or upwards. "The bark is thick and full of cracks. The branches are numerous, spreading widely, silky when young. The leaves are all alternate, on shortish foot-stalks, lanceolate, broadest a little above the middle, pointed, tapering towards each end, regularly and acutely serrated, the lowest serrature most glandular; both sides of a grayish, somewhat glaucous, green, beautifully silky, with close-pressed silvery hairs, very dense and brilliant on the uppermost, or youngest leaves; the lowermost on each branch, like the bracts, are smaller, more obtuse, and greener. Stipules variable, either roundish or oblong, small, often wanting. Catkins on short stalks, with three or four spreading bracts, for the most part coming from the leaves, but a few more often appear after midsummer; they are all cylindrical, rather slender, obtuse, near one and a half inch long. Scales fringed, rounded at the end; those of the barren catkins narrower towards the base; of the fertile, dilated and convolute in that part. Two obtuse glands, one before, the other behind the stamens. Filaments hairy in their lower part. Anthers roundish, yellow. Ovary very nearly sessile, green, smooth, ovate, lanceolate, bluntish, longer than the scale. Style short. Stigmas short, thickish, cloven. Capsule ovate, brown, smooth, rather small." The Goat Willow, Large-leafed Sallow, or Saugh, _S. caprea_, is distinguished from all the other Willows by its large ovate, or sometimes orbicular ovate leaves, which are pointed, serrated, and waved on the margin; beneath they are of a pale glaucous colour, and clothed with down, but dark green above; varying in length from two to three inches. Foot-stalks stout, downy. Stipules crescent-shaped. Capsules lanceolate, swelling. Style very short. Buds glabrous. Catkins very thick, oval, numerous, nearly sessile, expanding much earlier than the foliage. The ovary is stalked, silky, and ovate in form; the stigmas are undivided, and nearly sessile. In favourable situations this tree attains a height of from thirty to forty feet, with a trunk from one to two feet in diameter. It seldom, however, possesses any considerable length of clean stem, as the branches which form the head generally begin to divide at a moderate height, and diverging in different directions, give it the bearing and appearance of a compact, round-headed tree. It grows in almost all soils and situations, but prefers dry loams, and in such attains its greatest size. There are very few existing Willow-trees remarkable for age or size. The one most worthy of note is the Abbot's Willow, at Bury St. Edmunds. It grows on the banks of the Lark, a small river running through the park of John Benjafield, Esq. It is seventy-five feet in height, and the stem is eighteen feet and a half in girth; it then divides in a very picturesque manner into two large limbs, one fifteen and the other twelve feet in girth. It shadows an area of ground two hundred and four feet in diameter, and the tree contains four hundred and forty feet of solid timber. The uses of the Willow are perhaps equal to those of any other species of our native trees; it is remarked that it supports the banks of rivers, dries marshy soil, supplies bands or withies, feeds a great variety of insects, rejoices bees, yields abundance of fine wood, affords nourishment to cattle with its leaves, and yields a substitute for Jesuit's bark; to which Evelyn adds, all kinds of basket-work, pillboxes, cart saddle-trees, gun-stocks, and half-pikes, harrows, shoemakers' lasts, forks, rakes, ladders, poles for hop vines, small casks and vessels, especially to preserve verjuice in. To which may be added cricket-bats, and numerous other articles where lightness and toughness of wood are desirable. The wood of the Willow has also the property of whetting knives like a whetstone; therefore all knife-boards should be made of this tree in preference to any other. From the earliest times, the various species of Willow have been made use of by man for forming articles of utility; but as an account of our principal forest-trees is the object of this work, it would be out of place to describe those species which are cultivated for coppice-wood, hoops, basket-rods, or hedges. We may, however, remark that the shields of the ancients were made of wicker work, covered with ox-hides; that the ancient Britons served up their meats in osier baskets or dishes, and that these articles were greatly admired by the Romans. A basket I by painted Britons wrought, And now to Rome's imperial city brought. And for want of proper tools for sawing trees into planks, the Britons and other savages made boats of osiers covered with skins, in which they braved the ocean in quest of plunder:-- The bending Willow into barks they twined, Then lined the work with spoils of slaughtered kind; Such are the floats Venetian fishers know, Where in dull marshes stands the settling Po, On such to neighbouring Gaul, allured by gain, The bolder Briton crossed the swelling main. Rowe's _Lucan_. [Illustration: THE YEW-TREE.] THE YEW-TREE. [_Taxus[AB] baccata._ Nat. Ord.--_Taxaceæ_; Linn.--_Dioec. Monad._] [AB] _Generic characters. Barren_ flowers in oval catkins, with crowded, peltate scales, bearing 3 to 8 anther-cells. _Stamens_ numerous. _Style_ 1. _Anthers_ peltate, with several lobes. _Fertile_ flowers scaly below. _Ovule_ surrounded at the base by a ring, which becomes a fleshy cup-shaped disk surrounding the seed. The Berried or Common Yew is indigenous to most parts of Europe, from 58° N. lat. to the Mediterranean Sea; also to the east and west of Asia; and of North America. It is found in every part of Britain, and also in Ireland: on limestone cliffs, and in mountainous woods, in the south of England; on schistose, basaltic, and other rocks, in the north of England: and in Scotland, it is particularly abundant on the north side of the mountains near Loch Lomond. In Ireland, it grows in the crevices of rocks, at an elevation of 1200 feet above the level of the sea; but at that height it assumes the appearance of a low shrub. The Yew is rather a solitary than a social tree; being generally found either alone or with trees of a different species. The Yew-tree rises from the ground with a short but straight trunk, which sends out, at the height of three or four feet, numerous branches, spreading out nearly horizontally, and forms a head of dense foliage. When full-grown it attains the height of from thirty to fifty feet. The trunk and bark are channelled longitudinally, and are generally rough, from the protruding remains of shoots which have decayed and dropped off. The bark is smooth, thin, of a brown colour, and scales off like the pine. The branches are thickly clad with leaves, which are two-rowed, crowded, naked, linear, entire, very slightly revolute, and about one inch long; very dark green, smooth, and shining above; paler, with a prominent midrib, beneath; terminating in a point. The flowers, which appear in May, are solitary, proceeding from a scaly axillary bud; those of the barren plant are pale brown, and discharge a very abundant yellowish white pollen. The fertile flowers are green, and in form not unlike a young acorn. Fruit drooping, consisting of a sweet, internally glutinous, scarlet berry, open at the top, inclosing a brown oval nut, unconnected with the fleshy part. The kernels of these nuts are not deleterious, as supposed by many, but may be eaten, and they possess a sweet and agreeable nutty flavour. [Illustration: Foliage, Leaves, and Fruit of _T. baccata_.] Of all trees the Yew is the most tonsile. Hence all the indignities it formerly suffered. Everywhere it was cut and metamorphosed into such a variety of deformities, that we could hardly conceive that it had any natural shape, or the power which other trees possess, of hanging carelessly and negligently. Yet it has this power in a very eminent degree; and in a state of nature, except in exposed situations, is perhaps one of the most beautiful evergreens we have. It is now, however, seldom found in a state of perfection. Not ranking among timber-trees, it is thus in a degree unprivileged, and unprotected by forest laws, and has often been made booty of by those who durst not lay violent hands on the oak or the ash. But still, in many parts of the New Forest, some noble specimens of it are left. There is one which was esteemed by Gilpin to be a tree of peculiar beauty. It immediately divides into several massy limbs, each of which, hanging in grand loose foliage, spreads over a large compass of ground, and yet the whole tree forms a close compact body; that is, its boughs are not so separated as to break into distinct parts. It is not equal in size to the Yew at Fotheringal, near Taymouth, in Scotland, which measures fifty-six and a half feet in circumference, nor to many others on record; but is of sufficient size for all the purposes of landscape, and is in point of picturesque beauty probably equal to any of them. It stands near the left bank of Lymington river, as you look towards the sea, between Roydon Farm and Boldre Church. So long as the taste prevailed for metamorphosing the Yew into obelisks, pyramids, birds, and beasts, it was very commonly planted near houses. Now it is nearly banished from the precincts of our residences and pleasure-grounds; not, it would appear, from any real objection that can be urged either against its form or the effect it produces, but from now considering it as a funereal tree, and associating it with scenes of melancholy and the grave, a feeling doubtless arising from many of our most venerable and celebrated specimens growing in ancient church-yards. The origin of these locations is now considered to have arisen from churches having been erected on the sites of Druidical places of worship in Yew groves, or near old Yew-trees. Hence the planting of Yews in church-yards is a custom of heathen origin, which was ingrafted on Christianity on its introduction into Britain. The sepulchral character of the Yew is thus referred to by Sir Walter Scott, in _Rokeby_:-- But here 'twixt rock and river grew A dismal grove of sable Yew. With whose sad tints were mingled seen The blighted fir's sepulchral green. Seemed that the trees their shadows cast, The earth that nourished them to blast; For never knew that swathy grove The verdant hue that fairies love, Nor wilding green, nor woodland flower, Arose within its baleful bower. The dank and sable earth receives Its only carpet from the leaves, That, from the withering branches cast, Bestrewed the ground with every blast. And Kirke White, in a fragment written in Wilford church-yard, near Nottingham, on occasion of his recovering from sickness, thus introduces it:-- Here would I wish to sleep.--This is the spot Which I have long marked out to lay my bones in; Tired out and wearied with the riotous world, Beneath this Yew I would be sepulchred. While in that beautiful and pathetic Elegy of Gray's, which is familiar to every mind in Britain, we read:-- Beneath----------that Yew-tree's shade, Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, Each in his narrow cell for ever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. Poor Carrington has the following lines on the Yew-tree, in a poem entitled _My Native Village_. The author is buried in the little quiet church-yard of Combehay, a sequestered village at a short distance from Bath. It is situated in a deep and unfrequented valley, where some of the finest and most luxuriant scenery in the west of England may be found. It was chosen, his son tells us, because it is a spot which, when living, he would have loved full well:-- Tree of the days of old--time-honour'd Yew! Pride of my boyhood--manhood--age, Adieu! Broad was thy shadow, mighty one, but now Sits desolation on thy leafless bough! That huge and far-fam'd trunk, scoop'd out by age, Will break, full soon, beneath the tempest's rage: Few are the leaves lone sprinkled o'er thy breast, There's bleakness, blackness on thy shiver'd crest! When Spring shall vivify again the earth, And yon blest vale shall ring with woodland mirth, Morning, noon, eve,--no bird with wanton glee Shall pour anew his poetry from thee; For thou hast lost thy greenness, and he loves The verdure and companionship of groves-- Sings where the song is loudest, and the spray, Fresh, fair, and youthful, dances in the ray! Nor shall returning Spring, o'er storms and strife Victorious, e'er recal thee into life! Yet stand thou there--majestic to the last, And stoop with grandeur to the conquering blast. Aye, stand thou there--for great in thy decay, Thou wondrous remnant of a far-gone day, Thy name, thy might, shall wake in rural song, Bless'd by the old--respected by the young; While all unknown, uncar'd for,--oak on oak Of yon tall grove shall feel the woodman's stroke; One common, early fate awaits them all, No sympathizing eye shall mark their fall; And beautiful in ruin as they lie, For them shall not be heard one rustic sigh! Since the use of the bow has been superseded by more deadly instruments of warfare, the cultivation of the Yew is now less common. This, says Evelyn, is to be deplored; for the barrenest ground and coldest of our mountains might be profitably replenished with them. However, in winter, we may still see some of the higher hills in Surrey clad with entire woods of Yew and cypress, for miles around, as we stand on Box Hill; and might, without any violence to the ordinary powers of imagination, fancy ourselves transported into a new or enchanted country. Indeed, Evelyn remarked, in his day, that if in any spot in England, --'tis here Eternal spring and summer all the year. Our venerable author records a Yew-tree, ten yards in girth, which grew in the church-yard of Crowhurst, in the county of Surrey. And another standing in Braburne church-yard, near Scot's Hall, Kent; which being fifty-eight feet eleven inches in circumference, would be near 20 feet in diameter. There are several remarkable existing church-yard Yews in this country. The tallest, which is at Harlington, near Hounslow, is fifty-six feet in height; another at Martley, Worcestershire, is about twelve yards in circumference; and at Ashill, Somersetshire, there are two very large trees--one fifteen feet round, extending its branches north and south fifty-six feet; the other dividing into three large trunks a little above the ground, but having many of its branches decayed. There are also eleven Yew-trees in the church-yard of Aberystwith, the largest being twenty-four feet, and the smallest eleven feet six inches, in circumference. There is also a group of Yews at Fountain's Abbey worthy of remark on their own account, and they are also interesting in a historical view. Burton gives the following notice of them:--"At Christmas the Archbishop, being at Ripon (anno 1132), assigned to the monks some lands in the patrimony of St. Peter, about three miles west of that place, for the erecting of a monastery. The spot of ground had never been inhabited, unless by wild beasts, being overgrown with wood and brambles, lying between two steep hills and rocks, covered with wood on all sides, more proper for a retreat for wild beasts than the human species. This was called Skeldale, or the vale of the Skell, a rivulet running through it from the west to the eastward part of it. The Archbishop also gave to them a neighbouring village, called Sutton Richard. The prior of St. Mary's, at York, was chosen abbot by the monks, being the first of this monastery of Fountain's, with whom they withdrew into this uncouth desert, without any house to shelter them in the winter season, or provisions to subsist on; but entirely depending on Divine Providence. There stood a large elm in the midst of the vale, on which they put some thatch or straw, and under that they lay, eat, and prayed, the bishop for a time supplying them with bread, and the rivulet with drink. Part of the day some spent in making wattles, to erect a little oratory, whilst others cleared some ground, to make a little garden. But it is supposed that they soon changed the shelter of the elm for that of seven Yew-trees, growing on the declivity of the hill, on the south side of the Abbey, all standing at this present time, except the largest, which was blown down about the middle of the last century. They are of extraordinary size; the trunk of one of them is twenty-six feet six inches in circumference, at the height of three feet from the ground; and they stand so near each other, as to form a cover almost equal to a thatched roof. Under these trees, we are told by tradition, the monks resided till they built the monastery, which seems to be very probable, when we consider how little a Yew-tree increases in a year, and to what a bulk these are grown. And as the hill-side was covered with wood, which is now cut down, except these trees, it seems as if they were left standing to perpetuate the memory of the monks' habitation there, during the first winter of their residence." Wordsworth gives us the following animated description of a noted Yew in Lorton Vale; and also of four others--the "fraternal four,"--growing in Borrowdale:-- There is a Yew-tree, pride of Lorton Vale, Which to this day stands single, in the midst Of its own darkness, as it stood of yore, Nor loth to furnish weapons for the bands Of Omfraville or Percy, ere they marched To Scotland's heath; or those that crossed the sea, And drew their sounding bows at Agincourt, Perhaps at earlier Crecy, or Poictiers. Of vast circumference and gloom profound This solitary tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed. But worthier still of note Are these fraternal four of Borrowdale, Joined in one solemn and capacious grove; Huge trunks! and each particular trunk a growth Of intertwisted fibres serpentine Up-coiling, and inveterately convolved,-- Nor uninformed with phantasy, and looks That threaten the profane;--a pillared shade Upon whose grassless floor of red-brown hue, By sheddings from the pining umbrage tinged Perennially--beneath whose sable roof Of boughs, as if for festal purpose, decked With unrejoicing berries, ghostly shapes May meet at moontide--Fear and trembling Hope, Silence and Foresight--Death the Skeleton, And Time the Shadow,--there to celebrate, As in a natural temple scattered o'er With altars undisturbed of mossy stone; United worship; or in mute repose To lie, and listen to the mountain flood Murmuring from Glaramara's inmost caves. The Yew is easily propagated by sowing the berries as soon as they are ripe (without clearing them from the surrounding pulp), upon a shady bed of fresh soil, covering them over about half an inch with the same earth. Many plants will appear in spring, while others will remain in the ground until autumn, or the spring following. When the plants come up, they should be kept free from weeds, or they will be choked and frequently destroyed. The plants may remain in the original bed two years, and then be removed early in October into beds four or five feet wide, each plant a foot apart from the next, and the same distance in the rows; taking care to lay a little muck over the ground about their roots, and to water them in dry weather. There the plants may remain two or three years, according to their growth, when they should be transplanted into nursery rows at three feet distance, and eighteen inches asunder. This operation must be performed in autumn. After remaining three or four years in the nursery, they may be planted where they are to remain, observing to remove them in autumn where the ground is very dry, and in spring where it is cold and moist. Whether as an evergreen undergrowth or as a timber-tree, the Yew deserves to be more extensively, cultivated than heretofore. As an underwood, it is scarcely inferior to the holly, and only so in failing to produce those sparkling effects of light which distinguish the larger and more highly glazed dark green foliage of that tree: in hardihood it is its equal, and it bears, with the same comparative impunity, the drip and shade of many of our loftier deciduous trees, a quality of great importance where an evergreen wood is desired. The great value and durable properties of its wood ought also to favour its introduction into our mixed plantations, even where profit is the chief object in view, the value of the wood well compensating for the slowness of its growth. Besides, when fostered by the shelter of surrounding trees, it would be drawn up and grow much more rapidly, and with a cleaner stem. The Yew is not only celebrated for its toughness and elasticity--it is a common saying among the inhabitants of the New Forest, that a post of Yew will outlast a post of iron. The veins of its timber exceed in beauty those of most other trees, and its roots are not surpassed by the ancient citron. The artists in box most gladly employ it; and for the cogs of mill-wheels and axle-trees, there is no wood to be compared to it. We extract the following table from the ancient laws of Wales, showing the comparative worth of a Yew with other trees:-- A consecrated Yew, its value is a pound. An oak, its value is six score pence. A mistletoe branch, its value is three score pence. Thirty pence is the value of every principal branch in the oak. Three score pence is the value of every sweet apple-tree. Thirty pence is the value of a sour apple-tree. Fifteen pence is the value of a good Yew-tree. Seven pence halfpenny is the value of a thorn-tree. FORESTS AND WOODLANDS OF GREAT BRITAIN AND IRELAND. The British isles, like other countries of Europe, were in former times abundantly covered with forests. The first general attack made upon these in England was in 1536, when Henry VIII. confiscated the church lands, and distributed them, together with their woods, among numerous grantees. But it was not until between the civil war which broke out in 1642 and the restoration in 1660, that the royal forests, as well as the woods of the nobility and gentry, were materially diminished. During these few years, however, many extensive forests so completely disappeared, that hardly any memorial was left of them but their name. These two great territorial changes were followed by increased social and national prosperity. Though we have now hardly any forests or woodlands of considerable extent, there are perhaps few countries over which timber is more equably distributed, that is, in those counties where the soil and aspect are favourable to its growth. Woods of small extent, coppices, clumps, and clusters of trees are very generally distributed over the face of the country, which, together with the timber scattered in the hedge-rows, constitute a mass of wood of no inconsiderable importance. In Herefordshire, Warwickshire, Northamptonshire, and Staffordshire is abundance of fine oak and elm woods. In Buckinghamshire there is much birch and oak, and also fine beech. Sussex, once celebrated for the extent and quality of its oak forests, has yet some good timber; at present its woodlands, including coppice-wood, occupy 175,000 acres. Essex, with 50,000 acres of woodland, has some elms and oaks. Surrey, Hertfordshire, and Derbyshire abound in coppice-woods. In Worcestershire is abundance of oak and elm. In Oxfordshire there are the forests of Wychwood and Stokenchurch, chiefly of beech, with some oak, ash, birch, and aspen. Berkshire contains a part of Windsor forest; and Gloucestershire, the Forest of Dean; so that these three last counties are extensively wooded and with noble trees. Cheshire has few woods of any extent, but the hedge-row timber and coppices are in such abundance as to give the whole country, especially when seen from an elevation, the appearance of a vast forest. Of the remaining counties some have very little wood, and a few are altogether without it; but the want and value of timber have given rise to a great many flourishing plantations. In Wales particularly, there is a rage for planting. In South Wales alone six millions of trees, it is said, are annually planted; if that is the case, nine-tenths of the number must come to nothing, or the whole country would be one entire forest. _Scotland_ has few forests of large timber, if we except the woods of Inverness-shire and Aberdeenshire. In the former of these counties the natural pine-woods exceed the quantity of this wood growing naturally in all the rest of Britain. In Strathspey alone, there are 15,000 acres of natural firs; and in other parts, the woods are reckoned by miles, not by acres; there are also oak woods and extensive tracts of birch. In Aberdeenshire, in the higher divisions of Mar, there are 100 square miles of wood and plantations. The pines of Braemar are magnificent in size, and are of the finest quality. Argyleshire, Dumbartonshire, and Stirlingshire have many thousands of acres of coppice-wood, and, with a very few exceptions, the remaining counties have many, and some very extensive plantations. _Ireland_ has every appearance of having been once covered with wood, but at the present day, timber is exceedingly scarce in that country, there being no woods, if we except a portion along the sea-coast of Wicklow, the borders of the Lake Gilly, in Sligo, some remains of an ancient forest in Galway, and some small woods round Lough Lene, in the county of Kerry. The lakes of Westmeath have also some wooded islands. There are extensive plantations in Waterford, and a few natural woods, of small extent, in Cavan and Down; but Fermanagh is the best-wooded part of Ireland. The want of wood, however, in this country, as far as it is employed for fuel, is little felt, in consequence of its extensive bogs, which furnish an almost inexhaustible quantity of peat. Upon the whole then, though Great Britain and Ireland do not now possess any extensive forests, still there is a considerable quantity of timber, and the extent of new plantations seems to promise that we shall never be wholly destitute of so essential an article as wood. According to M'Culloch, there is annually cut down in Great Britain and Ireland, timber to the amount of £2,000,000. * * * * * In this country, even in the time of the Saxons, the forests or tracts, more or less covered with wood, were generally public or crown lands, in which the king was accustomed to take the diversion of hunting, and that hunting from which all other persons were prohibited. This distinctly appears from the laws of king Canute, enacted in 1016. But the prohibition against hunting in these, was merely a protection thrown around the property of the crown of the same kind with that afforded to all other lauded estates, in regard to which, universally, the law was, that every proprietor might hunt in his own woods or fields, but that no other person might do so without his leave. On the establishment, however, of the Norman government, it has generally been supposed that the property of all the animals of chase throughout the kingdom was held to be vested in the crown, and no person, without the express licence of the crown, was allowed to hunt even upon his own estate. But this, after all, is rather a conjecture; and, perhaps, all that we are absolutely entitled to affirm, from the evidence we possess on the subject, is, that after the Norman conquest the royal forests were guarded with much greater strictness than before; that possibly in some cases their bounds were enlarged; that trespasses upon them were punished with much greater severity; and, finally, that there was established a new system of laws and of courts for their administration. In the language of the law, forests and chases differ from parks in not being enclosed by walls or palings, but only encompassed by metes and bounds; and a chase differs from a forest, both in being of much smaller extent (so that there are some chases within forests) and in its capability of being held by a subject, whereas a forest can only be in the hands of the Crown. But the material distinction is, or rather was, that forests alone were subject to the forest laws so long as they subsisted. Every forest, however, was also a chase. A forest is defined by Manwood, the great authority on the forest laws, as being "a certain territory or circuit of woody grounds and pastures, known in its bounds, and privileged, for the peaceable being and abiding of wild beasts, and fowls of forest, chase, and warren, to be under the king's protection for his princely delight; replenished with beasts of venery or chase, and great coverts of vert for succour of the said beasts; for preservation whereof there are particular laws, privileges, and officers belonging thereunto." The beasts of park or chase, according to Coke, are properly the buck, the doe, the fox, the marten, and the roe; but the term, in a wider sense, comprehends all the beasts of the forest. Beasts of warren are such as hares, conies, and roes; fowls of warren, such as the partridge, quail, rail, pheasant, woodcock, mallard, heron, &c. The national woodlands of England, for many centuries, consisted of 49 forests, 13 chases, and 781 parks; some of them being of great extent, as the New Forest in Hampshire, which still contains about 66,291 acres, and extends over a district of 20 miles from north-east to south-west, and about 15 miles from east to west. Recent parliamentary inquiry has so fully established long-continued mismanagement, embezzlement of timber, and encroachments upon the national forests and parks, that a considerable portion of what remains will probably be shortly sold or leased for general cultivation. The principal remaining national forests and parks are:-- 1. New Forest, Hampshire. 2. Dean Forest, Gloucestershire. 3. High Meadow Woods, do. 4. Alice Holt, Hampshire. 5. Woolmer Forest, do. 6. Parkhurst Forest, do. 7. Bere Forest, do. 8. Whittlebury Forest, Notts. 9. Salcey Forest, do. 10. Delamere Forest, Cheshire. 11. Wychwood Forest, Oxfordshire. 12. Waltham Forest, Essex. 13. Chopwell Woods, Durham. 14. The London Parks. 15. Greenwich Park. 16. Richmond Park. 17. Hampton and Bushy Parks. 18. Windsor Forest and Parks. MISCELLANEOUS INDEX. *_* The Names of the Trees described are given at page vii and viii. PAGE Alder timber valuable for piles; 45 Amazons, spears of the; 49 Aspen described; 204 Autumn, the Season of Landscape; 16 Bees, their fondness for the Linden flower; 136 Birch wine; 66 Blasted tree, its effect; 22 Bryony berries, ornamental, in their various stages; 23 Cadenham Oak; 172 Clump of trees; 25 Consecrated Yew-trees, ancient value of; 280 Copse, its use; 29 Cowper's Address to the Yardley Oak; 181 Cowthorpe Oak, near Wetherby; 180 Edlington; 9 Elm-tree, anciently considered as a funeral tree; 86 Ezekiel's (the Prophet) description of the Cedar-tree; 71 Forests and woodlands in the United Kingdom; 281 Gilpin, grave of the Rev. W. ----; 140 Glen, its character; 32 God's First Temples, Bryant's; 36 Gog and Magog; 181 Grove, its character; 33 Harefield Park in 1663, Silver Firs at; 218 Hawthorn, Queen Mary's; 94 Hern's Oak, Windsor Forest; 177 Holly-tree, supposed origin of the name; 107 ---- Persian tradition and custom connected with the; 108 Honeysuckle, wild, its ornamental effect; 23 Hop, its effect when supported by a tree; 24 Hornbeam Maze, at Hampton Court; 110 Horse-chestnuts, finest at Bushy Park; 119 Inscription for the entrance into a wood, Bryant's; 40 Ivy on Trees; 22 Larch-tree, durability of its timber; 130 Leafing of Trees; 13 Leonard, Legend of St.; 60 Lightness a characteristic of beauty in Trees; 19 Lime-tree avenues; 133 Lover's Tablet, the; 56 Magdalen College, Oxford, founded near "the great Oak"; 168 Maple-tree crusca and mollusca; 142 ---- the Sugar; 143 Mole, the; 42 Moss, its picturesque effect on the trunk of an aged Oak; 21 Motion, a source of picturesque beauty; 24 Mountain-Ash, Supersititions connected with the; 149 Mulberry-tree, Shakspeare's; 153 Norway Spruce Fir, the loftiest of European trees; 223 Nutting, pleasures of; 99 Oak-tree, the emblem of grandeur, strength, and duration; 158 Ornamental appendages to Trees; 22 Pine timber, character and value of; 215 Poplar dedicated to Hercules; 206 Pyramus and Thisbe, Fable of; 155 Queen Mary's Thorn; 94 Ravenna Pines at Hampstead, near London; 216 Reynolds, Tribute to Sir J; 133 Rufus, tradition respecting the place of his death; 170 Scotch Fir or Pine, durability of its timber; 215 Shire-Oak, near Worksop; 170 Swilcar Oak, in Needwood Forest; 179 Sycamore, Wordsworth's allusion to the; 229 Tamer, the finest Chestnut trees on the; 80 Traveller's joy ornamental; 23 Tree as a single object; 18 Venice Turpentine, how obtained; 127 Vernal Melody in the Forest; 15 Vine-clad branches of Trees; 23 Wallace's Oak; 176 Walnut tree, a miraculous; 238 Water-pipes, Elm; 89 Willow bark, a substitute for Jesuit's bark; 267 Woodlands and forests in the United Kingdom; 281 Yardley Oak; 180 Yew-tree, Wordsworth's description of a noted; 278 Zoroaster, the Holly and the disciples of; 108 GLASGOW: W. G. BLACKIE AND CO., PRINTERS, VILLAFIELD. * * * * * Transcriber's Note Although hyphenation was standardized, some words have both hyphaned and seperate words (for example, "light-green" and "light green") which were retained due to usage or being in qouatations. Non-standard formatting of scientific names was not changed (example, both _Abies Larix_ and Abies Larix appear). The Linnean system terminology was NOT standardized with the exception of Monoec. as an abbreviation for the term monoecious. 
482	----	THE WOODLANDERS by Thomas Hardy CHAPTER I. The rambler who, for old association or other reasons, should trace the forsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol to the south shore of England, would find himself during the latter half of his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands, interspersed with apple-orchards. Here the trees, timber or fruit-bearing, as the case may be, make the wayside hedges ragged by their drip and shade, stretching over the road with easeful horizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air an adequate support for their limbs. At one place, where a hill is crossed, the largest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the head of thick hair is bisected by the white line of its parting. The spot is lonely. The physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degree that is not reached by mere dales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-like stillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. The contrast of what is with what might be probably accounts for this. To step, for instance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantation into the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness for a moment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simple absence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn. At this spot, on the lowering evening of a by-gone winter's day, there stood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaid manner. Alighting into the road from a stile hard by, he, though by no means a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced by some such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before he had emerged upon the highway. It could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress that he did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, after a while, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, music in the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentiment of this old turnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way. The dead men's work that had been expended in climbing that hill, the blistered soles that had trodden it, and the tears that had wetted it, were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any but practical things. He looked north and south, and mechanically prodded the ground with his walking-stick. A closer glance at his face corroborated the testimony of his clothes. It was self-complacent, yet there was small apparent ground for such complacence. Nothing irradiated it; to the eye of the magician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expression enthroned there was absolute submission to and belief in a little assortment of forms and habitudes. At first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired, or seemed likely to appear that night. But presently a slight noise of laboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips became audible; and there loomed in the notch of the hill and plantation that the road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a single horse. When it got nearer, he said, with some relief to himself, "'Tis Mrs. Dollery's--this will help me." The vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women. He held up his stick at its approach, and the woman who was driving drew rein. "I've been trying to find a short way to Little Hintock this last half-hour, Mrs. Dollery," he said. "But though I've been to Great Hintock and Hintock House half a dozen times I am at fault about the small village. You can help me, I dare say?" She assured him that she could--that as she went to Great Hintock her van passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out of the lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "Though," continued Mrs. Dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a town gentleman, you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don't know where 'tis. Bedad! I wouldn't live there if they'd pay me to. Now at Great Hintock you do see the world a bit." He mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they were ever and anon brushed over by the horse's tail. This van, driven and owned by Mrs. Dollery, was rather a movable attachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to those who knew it well. The old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color of heather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted by harness and drudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, he ought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of some Eastern plain instead of tugging here--had trodden this road almost daily for twenty years. Even his subjection was not made congruous throughout, for the harness being too short, his tail was not drawn through the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to one side. He knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles of ground between Hintock and Sherton Abbas--the market-town to which he journeyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by a Dumpy level. The vehicle had a square black tilt which nodded with the motion of the wheels, and at a point in it over the driver's head was a hook to which the reins were hitched at times, when they formed a catenary curve from the horse's shoulders. Somewhere about the axles was a loose chain, whose only known purpose was to clink as it went. Mrs. Dollery, having to hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore, especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown for modesty's sake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with a handkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequently subject. In the rear of the van was a glass window, which she cleaned with her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting. Looking at the van from the back, the spectator could thus see through its interior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he saw without, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who, as they rumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animated private converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that their mannerisms and facial peculiarities were sharply defined to the public eye. This hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not the happiest, of the week for them. Snugly ensconced under the tilt, they could forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life and recapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles. The passengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and while the new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in a confidential chat about him as about other people, which the noise of the van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting forward. "'Tis Barber Percombe--he that's got the waxen woman in his window at the top of Abbey Street," said one. "What business can bring him from his shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter, but a master-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!" They listened to his conversation, but Mr. Percombe, though he had nodded and spoken genially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiosity which he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which had animated the inside of the van before his arrival was checked thenceforward. Thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane, whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could be discerned in the dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk in a concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland. From this self-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke, which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root on quiet hearth-stones festooned overhead with hams and flitches. It was one of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where may usually be found more meditation than action, and more passivity than meditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results in inferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from time to time, no less than in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly Sophoclean are enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions and closely knit interdependence of the lives therein. This place was the Little Hintock of the master-barber's search. The coming night gradually obscured the smoke of the chimneys, but the position of the sequestered little world could still be distinguished by a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through the leafless boughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the form of balls of feathers, at roost among them. Out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smaller lane, at the corner of which the barber alighted, Mrs. Dollery's van going on to the larger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as an exemplar of the world's movements was not particularly apparent in its means of approach. "A very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in league with the devil, lives in the place you be going to--not because there's anybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of his district." The observation was flung at the barber by one of the women at parting, as a last attempt to get at his errand that way. But he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrian plunged towards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaves which nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. As very few people except themselves passed this way after dark, a majority of the denizens of Little Hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and on this account Mr. Percombe made it his business to stop opposite the casements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showed that he was endeavoring to conjecture, from the persons and things he observed within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here. Only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses, whose size, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified that notwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if they were not still, inhabited by people of a certain social standing, being neglected by him entirely. Smells of pomace, and the hiss of fermenting cider, which reached him from the back quarters of other tenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants, and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot. Half a dozen dwellings were passed without result. The next, which stood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance, the flickering brightness from the inside shining up the chimney and making a luminous mist of the emerging smoke. The interior, as seen through the window, caused him to draw up with a terminative air and watch. The house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, which opened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbon of light fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without. Every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flit for a moment across the out-coming rays and disappear again into the night. CHAPTER II. In the room from which this cheerful blaze proceeded, he beheld a girl seated on a willow chair, and busily occupied by the light of the fire, which was ample and of wood. With a bill-hook in one hand and a leather glove, much too large for her, on the other, she was making spars, such as are used by thatchers, with great rapidity. She wore a leather apron for this purpose, which was also much too large for her figure. On her left hand lay a bundle of the straight, smooth sticks called spar-gads--the raw material of her manufacture; on her right, a heap of chips and ends--the refuse--with which the fire was maintained; in front, a pile of the finished articles. To produce them she took up each gad, looked critically at it from end to end, cut it to length, split it into four, and sharpened each of the quarters with dexterous blows, which brought it to a triangular point precisely resembling that of a bayonet. Beside her, in case she might require more light, a brass candlestick stood on a little round table, curiously formed of an old coffin-stool, with a deal top nailed on, the white surface of the latter contrasting oddly with the black carved oak of the substructure. The social position of the household in the past was almost as definitively shown by the presence of this article as that of an esquire or nobleman by his old helmets or shields. It had been customary for every well-to-do villager, whose tenure was by copy of court-roll, or in any way more permanent than that of the mere cotter, to keep a pair of these stools for the use of his own dead; but for the last generation or two a feeling of cui bono had led to the discontinuance of the custom, and the stools were frequently made use of in the manner described. The young woman laid down the bill-hook for a moment and examined the palm of her right hand, which, unlike the other, was ungloved, and showed little hardness or roughness about it. The palm was red and blistering, as if this present occupation were not frequent enough with her to subdue it to what it worked in. As with so many right hands born to manual labor, there was nothing in its fundamental shape to bear out the physiological conventionalism that gradations of birth, gentle or mean, show themselves primarily in the form of this member. Nothing but a cast of the die of destiny had decided that the girl should handle the tool; and the fingers which clasped the heavy ash haft might have skilfully guided the pencil or swept the string, had they only been set to do it in good time. Her face had the usual fulness of expression which is developed by a life of solitude. Where the eyes of a multitude beat like waves upon a countenance they seem to wear away its individuality; but in the still water of privacy every tentacle of feeling and sentiment shoots out in visible luxuriance, to be interpreted as readily as a child's look by an intruder. In years she was no more than nineteen or twenty, but the necessity of taking thought at a too early period of life had forced the provisional curves of her childhood's face to a premature finality. Thus she had but little pretension to beauty, save in one prominent particular--her hair. Its abundance made it almost unmanageable; its color was, roughly speaking, and as seen here by firelight, brown, but careful notice, or an observation by day, would have revealed that its true shade was a rare and beautiful approximation to chestnut. On this one bright gift of Time to the particular victim of his now before us the new-comer's eyes were fixed; meanwhile the fingers of his right hand mechanically played over something sticking up from his waistcoat-pocket--the bows of a pair of scissors, whose polish made them feebly responsive to the light within. In her present beholder's mind the scene formed by the girlish spar-maker composed itself into a post-Raffaelite picture of extremest quality, wherein the girl's hair alone, as the focus of observation, was depicted with intensity and distinctness, and her face, shoulders, hands, and figure in general, being a blurred mass of unimportant detail lost in haze and obscurity. He hesitated no longer, but tapped at the door and entered. The young woman turned at the crunch of his boots on the sanded floor, and exclaiming, "Oh, Mr. Percombe, how you frightened me!" quite lost her color for a moment. He replied, "You should shut your door--then you'd hear folk open it." "I can't," she said; "the chimney smokes so. Mr. Percombe, you look as unnatural out of your shop as a canary in a thorn-hedge. Surely you have not come out here on my account--for--" "Yes--to have your answer about this." He touched her head with his cane, and she winced. "Do you agree?" he continued. "It is necessary that I should know at once, as the lady is soon going away, and it takes time to make up." "Don't press me--it worries me. I was in hopes you had thought no more of it. I can NOT part with it--so there!" "Now, look here, Marty," said the barber, sitting down on the coffin-stool table. "How much do you get for making these spars?" "Hush--father's up-stairs awake, and he don't know that I am doing his work." "Well, now tell me," said the man, more softly. "How much do you get?" "Eighteenpence a thousand," she said, reluctantly. "Who are you making them for?" "Mr. Melbury, the timber-dealer, just below here." "And how many can you make in a day?" "In a day and half the night, three bundles--that's a thousand and a half." "Two and threepence." The barber paused. "Well, look here," he continued, with the remains of a calculation in his tone, which calculation had been the reduction to figures of the probable monetary magnetism necessary to overpower the resistant force of her present purse and the woman's love of comeliness, "here's a sovereign--a gold sovereign, almost new." He held it out between his finger and thumb. "That's as much as you'd earn in a week and a half at that rough man's work, and it's yours for just letting me snip off what you've got too much of." The girl's bosom moved a very little. "Why can't the lady send to some other girl who don't value her hair--not to me?" she exclaimed. "Why, simpleton, because yours is the exact shade of her own, and 'tis a shade you can't match by dyeing. But you are not going to refuse me now I've come all the way from Sherton o' purpose?" "I say I won't sell it--to you or anybody." "Now listen," and he drew up a little closer beside her. "The lady is very rich, and won't be particular to a few shillings; so I will advance to this on my own responsibility--I'll make the one sovereign two, rather than go back empty-handed." "No, no, no!" she cried, beginning to be much agitated. "You are a-tempting me, Mr. Percombe. You go on like the Devil to Dr. Faustus in the penny book. But I don't want your money, and won't agree. Why did you come? I said when you got me into your shop and urged me so much, that I didn't mean to sell my hair!" The speaker was hot and stern. "Marty, now hearken. The lady that wants it wants it badly. And, between you and me, you'd better let her have it. 'Twill be bad for you if you don't." "Bad for me? Who is she, then?" The barber held his tongue, and the girl repeated the question. "I am not at liberty to tell you. And as she is going abroad soon it makes no difference who she is at all." "She wants it to go abroad wi'?" Percombe assented by a nod. The girl regarded him reflectively. "Barber Percombe," she said, "I know who 'tis. 'Tis she at the House--Mrs. Charmond!" "That's my secret. However, if you agree to let me have it, I'll tell you in confidence." "I'll certainly not let you have it unless you tell me the truth. It is Mrs. Charmond." The barber dropped his voice. "Well--it is. You sat in front of her in church the other day, and she noticed how exactly your hair matched her own. Ever since then she's been hankering for it, and at last decided to get it. As she won't wear it till she goes off abroad, she knows nobody will recognize the change. I'm commissioned to get it for her, and then it is to be made up. I shouldn't have vamped all these miles for any less important employer. Now, mind--'tis as much as my business with her is worth if it should be known that I've let out her name; but honor between us two, Marty, and you'll say nothing that would injure me?" "I don't wish to tell upon her," said Marty, coolly. "But my hair is my own, and I'm going to keep it." "Now, that's not fair, after what I've told you," said the nettled barber. "You see, Marty, as you are in the same parish, and in one of her cottages, and your father is ill, and wouldn't like to turn out, it would be as well to oblige her. I say that as a friend. But I won't press you to make up your mind to-night. You'll be coming to market to-morrow, I dare say, and you can call then. If you think it over you'll be inclined to bring what I want, I know." "I've nothing more to say," she answered. Her companion saw from her manner that it was useless to urge her further by speech. "As you are a trusty young woman," he said, "I'll put these sovereigns up here for ornament, that you may see how handsome they are. Bring the hair to-morrow, or return the sovereigns." He stuck them edgewise into the frame of a small mantle looking-glass. "I hope you'll bring it, for your sake and mine. I should have thought she could have suited herself elsewhere; but as it's her fancy it must be indulged if possible. If you cut it off yourself, mind how you do it so as to keep all the locks one way." He showed her how this was to be done. "But I sha'nt," she replied, with laconic indifference. "I value my looks too much to spoil 'em. She wants my hair to get another lover with; though if stories are true she's broke the heart of many a noble gentleman already." "Lord, it's wonderful how you guess things, Marty," said the barber. "I've had it from them that know that there certainly is some foreign gentleman in her eye. However, mind what I ask." "She's not going to get him through me." Percombe had retired as far as the door; he came back, planted his cane on the coffin-stool, and looked her in the face. "Marty South," he said, with deliberate emphasis, "YOU'VE GOT A LOVER YOURSELF, and that's why you won't let it go!" She reddened so intensely as to pass the mild blush that suffices to heighten beauty; she put the yellow leather glove on one hand, took up the hook with the other, and sat down doggedly to her work without turning her face to him again. He regarded her head for a moment, went to the door, and with one look back at her, departed on his way homeward. Marty pursued her occupation for a few minutes, then suddenly laying down the bill-hook, she jumped up and went to the back of the room, where she opened a door which disclosed a staircase so whitely scrubbed that the grain of the wood was wellnigh sodden away by such cleansing. At the top she gently approached a bedroom, and without entering, said, "Father, do you want anything?" A weak voice inside answered in the negative; adding, "I should be all right by to-morrow if it were not for the tree!" "The tree again--always the tree! Oh, father, don't worry so about that. You know it can do you no harm." "Who have ye had talking to ye down-stairs?" "A Sherton man called--nothing to trouble about," she said, soothingly. "Father," she went on, "can Mrs. Charmond turn us out of our house if she's minded to?" "Turn us out? No. Nobody can turn us out till my poor soul is turned out of my body. 'Tis life-hold, like Ambrose Winterborne's. But when my life drops 'twill be hers--not till then." His words on this subject so far had been rational and firm enough. But now he lapsed into his moaning strain: "And the tree will do it--that tree will soon be the death of me." "Nonsense, you know better. How can it be?" She refrained from further speech, and descended to the ground-floor again. "Thank Heaven, then," she said to herself, "what belongs to me I keep." CHAPTER III. The lights in the village went out, house after house, till there only remained two in the darkness. One of these came from a residence on the hill-side, of which there is nothing to say at present; the other shone from the window of Marty South. Precisely the same outward effect was produced here, however, by her rising when the clock struck ten and hanging up a thick cloth curtain. The door it was necessary to keep ajar in hers, as in most cottages, because of the smoke; but she obviated the effect of the ribbon of light through the chink by hanging a cloth over that also. She was one of those people who, if they have to work harder than their neighbors, prefer to keep the necessity a secret as far as possible; and but for the slight sounds of wood-splintering which came from within, no wayfarer would have perceived that here the cottager did not sleep as elsewhere. Eleven, twelve, one o'clock struck; the heap of spars grew higher, and the pile of chips and ends more bulky. Even the light on the hill had now been extinguished; but still she worked on. When the temperature of the night without had fallen so low as to make her chilly, she opened a large blue umbrella to ward off the draught from the door. The two sovereigns confronted her from the looking-glass in such a manner as to suggest a pair of jaundiced eyes on the watch for an opportunity. Whenever she sighed for weariness she lifted her gaze towards them, but withdrew it quickly, stroking her tresses with her fingers for a moment, as if to assure herself that they were still secure. When the clock struck three she arose and tied up the spars she had last made in a bundle resembling those that lay against the wall. She wrapped round her a long red woollen cravat and opened the door. The night in all its fulness met her flatly on the threshold, like the very brink of an absolute void, or the antemundane Ginnung-Gap believed in by her Teuton forefathers. For her eyes were fresh from the blaze, and here there was no street-lamp or lantern to form a kindly transition between the inner glare and the outer dark. A lingering wind brought to her ear the creaking sound of two over-crowded branches in the neighboring wood which were rubbing each other into wounds, and other vocalized sorrows of the trees, together with the screech of owls, and the fluttering tumble of some awkward wood-pigeon ill-balanced on its roosting-bough. But the pupils of her young eyes soon expanded, and she could see well enough for her purpose. Taking a bundle of spars under each arm, and guided by the serrated line of tree-tops against the sky, she went some hundred yards or more down the lane till she reached a long open shed, carpeted around with the dead leaves that lay about everywhere. Night, that strange personality, which within walls brings ominous introspectiveness and self-distrust, but under the open sky banishes such subjective anxieties as too trivial for thought, inspired Marty South with a less perturbed and brisker manner now. She laid the spars on the ground within the shed and returned for more, going to and fro till her whole manufactured stock were deposited here. This erection was the wagon-house of the chief man of business hereabout, Mr. George Melbury, the timber, bark, and copse-ware merchant for whom Marty's father did work of this sort by the piece. It formed one of the many rambling out-houses which surrounded his dwelling, an equally irregular block of building, whose immense chimneys could just be discerned even now. The four huge wagons under the shed were built on those ancient lines whose proportions have been ousted by modern patterns, their shapes bulging and curving at the base and ends like Trafalgar line-of-battle ships, with which venerable hulks, indeed, these vehicles evidenced a constructed spirit curiously in harmony. One was laden with sheep-cribs, another with hurdles, another with ash poles, and the fourth, at the foot of which she had placed her thatching-spars was half full of similar bundles. She was pausing a moment with that easeful sense of accomplishment which follows work done that has been a hard struggle in the doing, when she heard a woman's voice on the other side of the hedge say, anxiously, "George!" In a moment the name was repeated, with "Do come indoors! What are you doing there?" The cart-house adjoined the garden, and before Marty had moved she saw enter the latter from the timber-merchant's back door an elderly woman sheltering a candle with her hand, the light from which cast a moving thorn-pattern of shade on Marty's face. Its rays soon fell upon a man whose clothes were roughly thrown on, standing in advance of the speaker. He was a thin, slightly stooping figure, with a small nervous mouth and a face cleanly shaven; and he walked along the path with his eyes bent on the ground. In the pair Marty South recognized her employer Melbury and his wife. She was the second Mrs. Melbury, the first having died shortly after the birth of the timber-merchant's only child. "'Tis no use to stay in bed," he said, as soon as she came up to where he was pacing restlessly about. "I can't sleep--I keep thinking of things, and worrying about the girl, till I'm quite in a fever of anxiety." He went on to say that he could not think why "she (Marty knew he was speaking of his daughter) did not answer his letter. She must be ill--she must, certainly," he said. "No, no. 'Tis all right, George," said his wife; and she assured him that such things always did appear so gloomy in the night-time, if people allowed their minds to run on them; that when morning came it was seen that such fears were nothing but shadows. "Grace is as well as you or I," she declared. But he persisted that she did not see all--that she did not see as much as he. His daughter's not writing was only one part of his worry. On account of her he was anxious concerning money affairs, which he would never alarm his mind about otherwise. The reason he gave was that, as she had nobody to depend upon for a provision but himself, he wished her, when he was gone, to be securely out of risk of poverty. To this Mrs. Melbury replied that Grace would be sure to marry well, and that hence a hundred pounds more or less from him would not make much difference. Her husband said that that was what she, Mrs. Melbury, naturally thought; but there she was wrong, and in that lay the source of his trouble. "I have a plan in my head about her," he said; "and according to my plan she won't marry a rich man." "A plan for her not to marry well?" said his wife, surprised. "Well, in one sense it is that," replied Melbury. "It is a plan for her to marry a particular person, and as he has not so much money as she might expect, it might be called as you call it. I may not be able to carry it out; and even if I do, it may not be a good thing for her. I want her to marry Giles Winterborne." His companion repeated the name. "Well, it is all right," she said, presently. "He adores the very ground she walks on; only he's close, and won't show it much." Marty South appeared startled, and could not tear herself away. Yes, the timber-merchant asserted, he knew that well enough. Winterborne had been interested in his daughter for years; that was what had led him into the notion of their union. And he knew that she used to have no objection to him. But it was not any difficulty about that which embarrassed him. It was that, since he had educated her so well, and so long, and so far above the level of daughters thereabout, it was "wasting her" to give her to a man of no higher standing than the young man in question. "That's what I have been thinking," said Mrs. Melbury. "Well, then, Lucy, now you've hit it," answered the timber-merchant, with feeling. "There lies my trouble. I vowed to let her marry him, and to make her as valuable as I could to him by schooling her as many years and as thoroughly as possible. I mean to keep my vow. I made it because I did his father a terrible wrong; and it was a weight on my conscience ever since that time till this scheme of making amends occurred to me through seeing that Giles liked her." "Wronged his father?" asked Mrs. Melbury. "Yes, grievously wronged him," said her husband. "Well, don't think of it to-night," she urged. "Come indoors." "No, no, the air cools my head. I shall not stay long." He was silent a while; then he told her, as nearly as Marty could gather, that his first wife, his daughter Grace's mother, was first the sweetheart of Winterborne's father, who loved her tenderly, till he, the speaker, won her away from him by a trick, because he wanted to marry her himself. He sadly went on to say that the other man's happiness was ruined by it; that though he married Winterborne's mother, it was but a half-hearted business with him. Melbury added that he was afterwards very miserable at what he had done; but that as time went on, and the children grew up, and seemed to be attached to each other, he determined to do all he could to right the wrong by letting his daughter marry the lad; not only that, but to give her the best education he could afford, so as to make the gift as valuable a one as it lay in his power to bestow. "I still mean to do it," said Melbury. "Then do," said she. "But all these things trouble me," said he; "for I feel I am sacrificing her for my own sin; and I think of her, and often come down here and look at this." "Look at what?" asked his wife. He took the candle from her hand, held it to the ground, and removed a tile which lay in the garden-path. "'Tis the track of her shoe that she made when she ran down here the day before she went away all those months ago. I covered it up when she was gone; and when I come here and look at it, I ask myself again, why should she be sacrificed to a poor man?" "It is not altogether a sacrifice," said the woman. "He is in love with her, and he's honest and upright. If she encourages him, what can you wish for more?" "I wish for nothing definite. But there's a lot of things possible for her. Why, Mrs. Charmond is wanting some refined young lady, I hear, to go abroad with her--as companion or something of the kind. She'd jump at Grace." "That's all uncertain. Better stick to what's sure." "True, true," said Melbury; "and I hope it will be for the best. Yes, let me get 'em married up as soon as I can, so as to have it over and done with." He continued looking at the imprint, while he added, "Suppose she should be dying, and never make a track on this path any more?" "She'll write soon, depend upon't. Come, 'tis wrong to stay here and brood so." He admitted it, but said he could not help it. "Whether she write or no, I shall fetch her in a few days." And thus speaking, he covered the track, and preceded his wife indoors. Melbury, perhaps, was an unlucky man in having within him the sentiment which could indulge in this foolish fondness about the imprint of a daughter's footstep. Nature does not carry on her government with a view to such feelings, and when advancing years render the open hearts of those who possess them less dexterous than formerly in shutting against the blast, they must suffer "buffeting at will by rain and storm" no less than Little Celandines. But her own existence, and not Mr. Melbury's, was the centre of Marty's consciousness, and it was in relation to this that the matter struck her as she slowly withdrew. "That, then, is the secret of it all," she said. "And Giles Winterborne is not for me, and the less I think of him the better." She returned to her cottage. The sovereigns were staring at her from the looking-glass as she had left them. With a preoccupied countenance, and with tears in her eyes, she got a pair of scissors, and began mercilessly cutting off the long locks of her hair, arranging and tying them with their points all one way, as the barber had directed. Upon the pale scrubbed deal of the coffin-stool table they stretched like waving and ropy weeds over the washed gravel-bed of a clear stream. She would not turn again to the little looking-glass, out of humanity to herself, knowing what a deflowered visage would look back at her, and almost break her heart; she dreaded it as much as did her own ancestral goddess Sif the reflection in the pool after the rape of her locks by Loke the malicious. She steadily stuck to business, wrapped the hair in a parcel, and sealed it up, after which she raked out the fire and went to bed, having first set up an alarum made of a candle and piece of thread, with a stone attached. But such a reminder was unnecessary to-night. Having tossed till about five o'clock, Marty heard the sparrows walking down their long holes in the thatch above her sloping ceiling to their orifice at the eaves; whereupon she also arose, and descended to the ground-floor again. It was still dark, but she began moving about the house in those automatic initiatory acts and touches which represent among housewives the installation of another day. While thus engaged she heard the rumbling of Mr. Melbury's wagons, and knew that there, too, the day's toil had begun. An armful of gads thrown on the still hot embers caused them to blaze up cheerfully and bring her diminished head-gear into sudden prominence as a shadow. At this a step approached the door. "Are folk astir here yet?" inquired a voice she knew well. "Yes, Mr. Winterborne," said Marty, throwing on a tilt bonnet, which completely hid the recent ravages of the scissors. "Come in!" The door was flung back, and there stepped in upon the mat a man not particularly young for a lover, nor particularly mature for a person of affairs. There was reserve in his glance, and restraint upon his mouth. He carried a horn lantern which hung upon a swivel, and wheeling as it dangled marked grotesque shapes upon the shadier part of the walls. He said that he had looked in on his way down, to tell her that they did not expect her father to make up his contract if he was not well. Mr. Melbury would give him another week, and they would go their journey with a short load that day. "They are done," said Marty, "and lying in the cart-house." "Done!" he repeated. "Your father has not been too ill to work after all, then?" She made some evasive reply. "I'll show you where they be, if you are going down," she added. They went out and walked together, the pattern of the air-holes in the top of the lantern being thrown upon the mist overhead, where they appeared of giant size, as if reaching the tent-shaped sky. They had no remarks to make to each other, and they uttered none. Hardly anything could be more isolated or more self-contained than the lives of these two walking here in the lonely antelucan hour, when gray shades, material and mental, are so very gray. And yet, looked at in a certain way, their lonely courses formed no detached design at all, but were part of the pattern in the great web of human doings then weaving in both hemispheres, from the White Sea to Cape Horn. The shed was reached, and she pointed out the spars. Winterborne regarded them silently, then looked at her. "Now, Marty, I believe--" he said, and shook his head. "What?" "That you've done the work yourself." "Don't you tell anybody, will you, Mr. Winterborne?" she pleaded, by way of answer. "Because I am afraid Mr. Melbury may refuse my work if he knows it is mine." "But how could you learn to do it? 'Tis a trade." "Trade!" said she. "I'd be bound to learn it in two hours." "Oh no, you wouldn't, Mrs. Marty." Winterborne held down his lantern, and examined the cleanly split hazels as they lay. "Marty," he said, with dry admiration, "your father with his forty years of practice never made a spar better than that. They are too good for the thatching of houses--they are good enough for the furniture. But I won't tell. Let me look at your hands--your poor hands!" He had a kindly manner of a quietly severe tone; and when she seemed reluctant to show her hands, he took hold of one and examined it as if it were his own. Her fingers were blistered. "They'll get harder in time," she said. "For if father continues ill, I shall have to go on wi' it. Now I'll help put 'em up in wagon." Winterborne without speaking set down his lantern, lifted her as she was about to stoop over the bundles, placed her behind him, and began throwing up the bundles himself. "Rather than you should do it I will," he said. "But the men will be here directly. Why, Marty!--whatever has happened to your head? Lord, it has shrunk to nothing--it looks an apple upon a gate-post!" Her heart swelled, and she could not speak. At length she managed to groan, looking on the ground, "I've made myself ugly--and hateful--that's what I've done!" "No, no," he answered. "You've only cut your hair--I see now." "Then why must you needs say that about apples and gate-posts?" "Let me see." "No, no!" She ran off into the gloom of the sluggish dawn. He did not attempt to follow her. When she reached her father's door she stood on the step and looked back. Mr. Melbury's men had arrived, and were loading up the spars, and their lanterns appeared from the distance at which she stood to have wan circles round them, like eyes weary with watching. She observed them for a few seconds as they set about harnessing the horses, and then went indoors. CHAPTER IV. There was now a distinct manifestation of morning in the air, and presently the bleared white visage of a sunless winter day emerged like a dead-born child. The villagers everywhere had already bestirred themselves, rising at this time of the year at the far less dreary hour of absolute darkness. It had been above an hour earlier, before a single bird had untucked his head, that twenty lights were struck in as many bedrooms, twenty pairs of shutters opened, and twenty pairs of eyes stretched to the sky to forecast the weather for the day. Owls that had been catching mice in the out-houses, rabbits that had been eating the wintergreens in the gardens, and stoats that had been sucking the blood of the rabbits, discerning that their human neighbors were on the move, discreetly withdrew from publicity, and were seen and heard no more that day. The daylight revealed the whole of Mr. Melbury's homestead, of which the wagon-sheds had been an outlying erection. It formed three sides of an open quadrangle, and consisted of all sorts of buildings, the largest and central one being the dwelling itself. The fourth side of the quadrangle was the public road. It was a dwelling-house of respectable, roomy, almost dignified aspect; which, taken with the fact that there were the remains of other such buildings thereabout, indicated that Little Hintock had at some time or other been of greater importance than now, as its old name of Hintock St. Osmond also testified. The house was of no marked antiquity, yet of well-advanced age; older than a stale novelty, but no canonized antique; faded, not hoary; looking at you from the still distinct middle-distance of the early Georgian time, and awakening on that account the instincts of reminiscence more decidedly than the remoter and far grander memorials which have to speak from the misty reaches of mediaevalism. The faces, dress, passions, gratitudes, and revenues of the great-great-grandfathers and grandmothers who had been the first to gaze from those rectangular windows, and had stood under that key-stoned doorway, could be divined and measured by homely standards of to-day. It was a house in whose reverberations queer old personal tales were yet audible if properly listened for; and not, as with those of the castle and cloister, silent beyond the possibility of echo. The garden-front remained much as it had always been, and there was a porch and entrance that way. But the principal house-door opened on the square yard or quadrangle towards the road, formerly a regular carriage entrance, though the middle of the area was now made use of for stacking timber, fagots, bundles, and other products of the wood. It was divided from the lane by a lichen-coated wall, in which hung a pair of gates, flanked by piers out of the perpendicular, with a round white ball on the top of each. The building on the left of the enclosure was a long-backed erection, now used for spar-making, sawing, crib-framing, and copse-ware manufacture in general. Opposite were the wagon-sheds where Marty had deposited her spars. Here Winterborne had remained after the girl's abrupt departure, to see that the wagon-loads were properly made up. Winterborne was connected with the Melbury family in various ways. In addition to the sentimental relationship which arose from his father having been the first Mrs. Melbury's lover, Winterborne's aunt had married and emigrated with the brother of the timber-merchant many years before--an alliance that was sufficient to place Winterborne, though the poorer, on a footing of social intimacy with the Melburys. As in most villages so secluded as this, intermarriages were of Hapsburgian frequency among the inhabitants, and there were hardly two houses in Little Hintock unrelated by some matrimonial tie or other. For this reason a curious kind of partnership existed between Melbury and the younger man--a partnership based upon an unwritten code, by which each acted in the way he thought fair towards the other, on a give-and-take principle. Melbury, with his timber and copse-ware business, found that the weight of his labor came in winter and spring. Winterborne was in the apple and cider trade, and his requirements in cartage and other work came in the autumn of each year. Hence horses, wagons, and in some degree men, were handed over to him when the apples began to fall; he, in return, lending his assistance to Melbury in the busiest wood-cutting season, as now. Before he had left the shed a boy came from the house to ask him to remain till Mr. Melbury had seen him. Winterborne thereupon crossed over to the spar-house where two or three men were already at work, two of them being travelling spar-makers from White-hart Lane, who, when this kind of work began, made their appearance regularly, and when it was over disappeared in silence till the season came again. Firewood was the one thing abundant in Little Hintock; and a blaze of gad-cuds made the outhouse gay with its light, which vied with that of the day as yet. In the hollow shades of the roof could be seen dangling etiolated arms of ivy which had crept through the joints of the tiles and were groping in vain for some support, their leaves being dwarfed and sickly for want of sunlight; others were pushing in with such force at the eaves as to lift from their supports the shelves that were fixed there. Besides the itinerant journey-workers there were also present John Upjohn, engaged in the hollow-turnery trade, who lived hard by; old Timothy Tangs and young Timothy Tangs, top and bottom sawyers, at work in Mr. Melbury's pit outside; Farmer Bawtree, who kept the cider-house, and Robert Creedle, an old man who worked for Winterborne, and stood warming his hands; these latter being enticed in by the ruddy blaze, though they had no particular business there. None of them call for any remark except, perhaps, Creedle. To have completely described him it would have been necessary to write a military memoir, for he wore under his smock-frock a cast-off soldier's jacket that had seen hot service, its collar showing just above the flap of the frock; also a hunting memoir, to include the top-boots that he had picked up by chance; also chronicles of voyaging and shipwreck, for his pocket-knife had been given him by a weather-beaten sailor. But Creedle carried about with him on his uneventful rounds these silent testimonies of war, sport, and adventure, and thought nothing of their associations or their stories. Copse-work, as it was called, being an occupation which the secondary intelligence of the hands and arms could carry on without requiring the sovereign attention of the head, the minds of its professors wandered considerably from the objects before them; hence the tales, chronicles, and ramifications of family history which were recounted here were of a very exhaustive kind, and sometimes so interminable as to defy description. Winterborne, seeing that Melbury had not arrived, stepped back again outside the door; and the conversation interrupted by his momentary presence flowed anew, reaching his ears as an accompaniment to the regular dripping of the fog from the plantation boughs around. The topic at present handled was a highly popular and frequent one--the personal character of Mrs. Charmond, the owner of the surrounding woods and groves. "My brother-in-law told me, and I have no reason to doubt it," said Creedle, "that she'd sit down to her dinner with a frock hardly higher than her elbows. 'Oh, you wicked woman!' he said to himself when he first see her, 'you go to your church, and sit, and kneel, as if your knee-jints were greased with very saint's anointment, and tell off your Hear-us-good-Lords like a business man counting money; and yet you can eat your victuals such a figure as that!' Whether she's a reformed character by this time I can't say; but I don't care who the man is, that's how she went on when my brother-in-law lived there." "Did she do it in her husband's time?" "That I don't know--hardly, I should think, considering his temper. Ah!" Here Creedle threw grieved remembrance into physical form by slowly resigning his head to obliquity and letting his eyes water. "That man! 'Not if the angels of heaven come down, Creedle,' he said, 'shall you do another day's work for me!' Yes--he'd say anything--anything; and would as soon take a winged creature's name in vain as yours or mine! Well, now I must get these spars home-along, and to-morrow, thank God, I must see about using 'em." An old woman now entered upon the scene. She was Mr. Melbury's servant, and passed a great part of her time in crossing the yard between the house-door and the spar-shed, whither she had come now for fuel. She had two facial aspects--one, of a soft and flexible kind, she used indoors when assisting about the parlor or upstairs; the other, with stiff lines and corners, when she was bustling among the men in the spar-house or out-of-doors. "Ah, Grammer Oliver," said John Upjohn, "it do do my heart good to see a old woman like you so dapper and stirring, when I bear in mind that after fifty one year counts as two did afore! But your smoke didn't rise this morning till twenty minutes past seven by my beater; and that's late, Grammer Oliver." "If you was a full-sized man, John, people might take notice of your scornful meanings. But your growing up was such a scrimped and scanty business that really a woman couldn't feel hurt if you were to spit fire and brimstone itself at her. Here," she added, holding out a spar-gad to one of the workmen, from which dangled a long black-pudding--"here's something for thy breakfast, and if you want tea you must fetch it from in-doors." "Mr. Melbury is late this morning," said the bottom-sawyer. "Yes. 'Twas a dark dawn," said Mrs. Oliver. "Even when I opened the door, so late as I was, you couldn't have told poor men from gentlemen, or John from a reasonable-sized object. And I don't think maister's slept at all well to-night. He's anxious about his daughter; and I know what that is, for I've cried bucketfuls for my own." When the old woman had gone Creedle said, "He'll fret his gizzard green if he don't soon hear from that maid of his. Well, learning is better than houses and lands. But to keep a maid at school till she is taller out of pattens than her mother was in 'em--'tis tempting Providence." "It seems no time ago that she was a little playward girl," said young Timothy Tangs. "I can mind her mother," said the hollow-turner. "Always a teuny, delicate piece; her touch upon your hand was as soft and cool as wind. She was inoculated for the small-pox and had it beautifully fine, just about the time that I was out of my apprenticeship--ay, and a long apprenticeship 'twas. I served that master of mine six years and three hundred and fourteen days." The hollow-turner pronounced the days with emphasis, as if, considering their number, they were a rather more remarkable fact than the years. "Mr. Winterborne's father walked with her at one time," said old Timothy Tangs. "But Mr. Melbury won her. She was a child of a woman, and would cry like rain if so be he huffed her. Whenever she and her husband came to a puddle in their walks together he'd take her up like a half-penny doll and put her over without dirting her a speck. And if he keeps the daughter so long at boarding-school, he'll make her as nesh as her mother was. But here he comes." Just before this moment Winterborne had seen Melbury crossing the court from his door. He was carrying an open letter in his hand, and came straight to Winterborne. His gloom of the preceding night had quite gone. "I'd no sooner made up my mind, Giles, to go and see why Grace didn't come or write than I get a letter from her--'Clifton: Wednesday. My dear father,' says she, 'I'm coming home to-morrow' (that's to-day), 'but I didn't think it worth while to write long beforehand.' The little rascal, and didn't she! Now, Giles, as you are going to Sherton market to-day with your apple-trees, why not join me and Grace there, and we'll drive home all together?" He made the proposal with cheerful energy; he was hardly the same man as the man of the small dark hours. Ever it happens that even among the moodiest the tendency to be cheered is stronger than the tendency to be cast down; and a soul's specific gravity stands permanently less than that of the sea of troubles into which it is thrown. Winterborne, though not demonstrative, replied to this suggestion with something like alacrity. There was not much doubt that Marty's grounds for cutting off her hair were substantial enough, if Ambrose's eyes had been a reason for keeping it on. As for the timber-merchant, it was plain that his invitation had been given solely in pursuance of his scheme for uniting the pair. He had made up his mind to the course as a duty, and was strenuously bent upon following it out. Accompanied by Winterborne, he now turned towards the door of the spar-house, when his footsteps were heard by the men as aforesaid. "Well, John, and Lot," he said, nodding as he entered. "A rimy morning." "'Tis, sir!" said Creedle, energetically; for, not having as yet been able to summon force sufficient to go away and begin work, he felt the necessity of throwing some into his speech. "I don't care who the man is, 'tis the rimiest morning we've had this fall." "I heard you wondering why I've kept my daughter so long at boarding-school," resumed Mr. Melbury, looking up from the letter which he was reading anew by the fire, and turning to them with the suddenness that was a trait in him. "Hey?" he asked, with affected shrewdness. "But you did, you know. Well, now, though it is my own business more than anybody else's, I'll tell ye. When I was a boy, another boy--the pa'son's son--along with a lot of others, asked me 'Who dragged Whom round the walls of What?' and I said, 'Sam Barrett, who dragged his wife in a chair round the tower corner when she went to be churched.' They laughed at me with such torrents of scorn that I went home ashamed, and couldn't sleep for shame; and I cried that night till my pillow was wet: till at last I thought to myself there and then--'They may laugh at me for my ignorance, but that was father's fault, and none o' my making, and I must bear it. But they shall never laugh at my children, if I have any: I'll starve first!' Thank God, I've been able to keep her at school without sacrifice; and her scholarship is such that she stayed on as governess for a time. Let 'em laugh now if they can: Mrs. Charmond herself is not better informed than my girl Grace." There was something between high indifference and humble emotion in his delivery, which made it difficult for them to reply. Winterborne's interest was of a kind which did not show itself in words; listening, he stood by the fire, mechanically stirring the embers with a spar-gad. "You'll be, then, ready, Giles?" Melbury continued, awaking from a reverie. "Well, what was the latest news at Shottsford yesterday, Mr. Bawtree?" "Well, Shottsford is Shottsford still--you can't victual your carcass there unless you've got money; and you can't buy a cup of genuine there, whether or no....But as the saying is, 'Go abroad and you'll hear news of home.' It seems that our new neighbor, this young Dr. What's-his-name, is a strange, deep, perusing gentleman; and there's good reason for supposing he has sold his soul to the wicked one." "'Od name it all," murmured the timber-merchant, unimpressed by the news, but reminded of other things by the subject of it; "I've got to meet a gentleman this very morning? and yet I've planned to go to Sherton Abbas for the maid." "I won't praise the doctor's wisdom till I hear what sort of bargain he's made," said the top-sawyer. "'Tis only an old woman's tale," said Bawtree. "But it seems that he wanted certain books on some mysterious science or black-art, and in order that the people hereabout should not know anything about his dark readings, he ordered 'em direct from London, and not from the Sherton book-seller. The parcel was delivered by mistake at the pa'son's, and he wasn't at home; so his wife opened it, and went into hysterics when she read 'em, thinking her husband had turned heathen, and 'twould be the ruin of the children. But when he came he said he knew no more about 'em than she; and found they were this Mr. Fitzpier's property. So he wrote 'Beware!' outside, and sent 'em on by the sexton." "He must be a curious young man," mused the hollow-turner. "He must," said Timothy Tangs. "Nonsense," said Mr. Melbury, authoritatively, "he's only a gentleman fond of science and philosophy and poetry, and, in fact, every kind of knowledge; and being lonely here, he passes his time in making such matters his hobby." "Well," said old Timothy, "'tis a strange thing about doctors that the worse they be the better they be. I mean that if you hear anything of this sort about 'em, ten to one they can cure ye as nobody else can." "True," said Bawtree, emphatically. "And for my part I shall take my custom from old Jones and go to this one directly I've anything the matter with me. That last medicine old Jones gave me had no taste in it at all." Mr. Melbury, as became a well-informed man, did not listen to these recitals, being moreover preoccupied with the business appointment which had come into his head. He walked up and down, looking on the floor--his usual custom when undecided. That stiffness about the arm, hip, and knee-joint which was apparent when he walked was the net product of the divers sprains and over-exertions that had been required of him in handling trees and timber when a young man, for he was of the sort called self-made, and had worked hard. He knew the origin of every one of these cramps: that in his left shoulder had come of carrying a pollard, unassisted, from Tutcombe Bottom home; that in one leg was caused by the crash of an elm against it when they were felling; that in the other was from lifting a bole. On many a morrow after wearying himself by these prodigious muscular efforts, he had risen from his bed fresh as usual; his lassitude had departed, apparently forever; and confident in the recuperative power of his youth, he had repeated the strains anew. But treacherous Time had been only hiding ill results when they could be guarded against, for greater accumulation when they could not. In his declining years the store had been unfolded in the form of rheumatisms, pricks, and spasms, in every one of which Melbury recognized some act which, had its consequence been contemporaneously made known, he would wisely have abstained from repeating. On a summons by Grammer Oliver to breakfast, he left the shed. Reaching the kitchen, where the family breakfasted in winter to save house-labor, he sat down by the fire, and looked a long time at the pair of dancing shadows cast by each fire-iron and dog-knob on the whitewashed chimney-corner--a yellow one from the window, and a blue one from the fire. "I don't quite know what to do to-day," he said to his wife at last. "I've recollected that I promised to meet Mrs. Charmond's steward in Round Wood at twelve o'clock, and yet I want to go for Grace." "Why not let Giles fetch her by himself? 'Twill bring 'em together all the quicker." "I could do that--but I should like to go myself. I always have gone, without fail, every time hitherto. It has been a great pleasure to drive into Sherton, and wait and see her arrive; and perhaps she'll be disappointed if I stay away." "You may be disappointed, but I don't think she will, if you send Giles," said Mrs. Melbury, dryly. "Very well--I'll send him." Melbury was often persuaded by the quietude of his wife's words when strenuous argument would have had no effect. This second Mrs. Melbury was a placid woman, who had been nurse to his child Grace before her mother's death. After that melancholy event little Grace had clung to the nurse with much affection; and ultimately Melbury, in dread lest the only woman who cared for the girl should be induced to leave her, persuaded the mild Lucy to marry him. The arrangement--for it was little more--had worked satisfactorily enough; Grace had thriven, and Melbury had not repented. He returned to the spar-house and found Giles near at hand, to whom he explained the change of plan. "As she won't arrive till five o'clock, you can get your business very well over in time to receive her," said Melbury. "The green gig will do for her; you'll spin along quicker with that, and won't be late upon the road. Her boxes can be called for by one of the wagons." Winterborne, knowing nothing of the timber-merchant's restitutory aims, quietly thought all this to be a kindly chance. Wishing even more than her father to despatch his apple-tree business in the market before Grace's arrival, he prepared to start at once. Melbury was careful that the turnout should be seemly. The gig-wheels, for instance, were not always washed during winter-time before a journey, the muddy roads rendering that labor useless; but they were washed to-day. The harness was blacked, and when the rather elderly white horse had been put in, and Winterborne was in his seat ready to start, Mr. Melbury stepped out with a blacking-brush, and with his own hands touched over the yellow hoofs of the animal. "You see, Giles," he said, as he blacked, "coming from a fashionable school, she might feel shocked at the homeliness of home; and 'tis these little things that catch a dainty woman's eye if they are neglected. We, living here alone, don't notice how the whitey-brown creeps out of the earth over us; but she, fresh from a city--why, she'll notice everything!" "That she will," said Giles. "And scorn us if we don't mind." "Not scorn us." "No, no, no--that's only words. She's too good a girl to do that. But when we consider what she knows, and what she has seen since she last saw us, 'tis as well to meet her views as nearly as possible. Why, 'tis a year since she was in this old place, owing to her going abroad in the summer, which I agreed to, thinking it best for her; and naturally we shall look small, just at first--I only say just at first." Mr. Melbury's tone evinced a certain exultation in the very sense of that inferiority he affected to deplore; for this advanced and refined being, was she not his own all the time? Not so Giles; he felt doubtful--perhaps a trifle cynical--for that strand was wound into him with the rest. He looked at his clothes with misgiving, then with indifference. It was his custom during the planting season to carry a specimen apple-tree to market with him as an advertisement of what he dealt in. This had been tied across the gig; and as it would be left behind in the town, it would cause no inconvenience to Miss Grace Melbury coming home. He drove away, the twigs nodding with each step of the horse; and Melbury went in-doors. Before the gig had passed out of sight, Mr. Melbury reappeared and shouted after-- "Here, Giles," he said, breathlessly following with some wraps, "it may be very chilly to-night, and she may want something extra about her. And, Giles," he added, when the young man, having taken the articles, put the horse in motion once more, "tell her that I should have come myself, but I had particular business with Mrs. Charmond's agent, which prevented me. Don't forget." He watched Winterborne out of sight, saying, with a jerk--a shape into which emotion with him often resolved itself--"There, now, I hope the two will bring it to a point and have done with it! 'Tis a pity to let such a girl throw herself away upon him--a thousand pities!...And yet 'tis my duty for his father's sake." CHAPTER V. Winterborne sped on his way to Sherton Abbas without elation and without discomposure. Had he regarded his inner self spectacularly, as lovers are now daily more wont to do, he might have felt pride in the discernment of a somewhat rare power in him--that of keeping not only judgment but emotion suspended in difficult cases. But he noted it not. Neither did he observe what was also the fact, that though he cherished a true and warm feeling towards Grace Melbury, he was not altogether her fool just now. It must be remembered that he had not seen her for a year. Arrived at the entrance to a long flat lane, which had taken the spirit out of many a pedestrian in times when, with the majority, to travel meant to walk, he saw before him the trim figure of a young woman in pattens, journeying with that steadfast concentration which means purpose and not pleasure. He was soon near enough to see that she was Marty South. Click, click, click went the pattens; and she did not turn her head. She had, however, become aware before this that the driver of the approaching gig was Giles. She had shrunk from being overtaken by him thus; but as it was inevitable, she had braced herself up for his inspection by closing her lips so as to make her mouth quite unemotional, and by throwing an additional firmness into her tread. "Why do you wear pattens, Marty? The turnpike is clean enough, although the lanes are muddy." "They save my boots." "But twelve miles in pattens--'twill twist your feet off. Come, get up and ride with me." She hesitated, removed her pattens, knocked the gravel out of them against the wheel, and mounted in front of the nodding specimen apple-tree. She had so arranged her bonnet with a full border and trimmings that her lack of long hair did not much injure her appearance; though Giles, of course, saw that it was gone, and may have guessed her motive in parting with it, such sales, though infrequent, being not unheard of in that locality. But nature's adornment was still hard by--in fact, within two feet of him, though he did not know it. In Marty's basket was a brown paper packet, and in the packet the chestnut locks, which, by reason of the barber's request for secrecy, she had not ventured to intrust to other hands. Giles asked, with some hesitation, how her father was getting on. He was better, she said; he would be able to work in a day or two; he would be quite well but for his craze about the tree falling on him. "You know why I don't ask for him so often as I might, I suppose?" said Winterborne. "Or don't you know?" "I think I do." "Because of the houses?" She nodded. "Yes. I am afraid it may seem that my anxiety is about those houses, which I should lose by his death, more than about him. Marty, I do feel anxious about the houses, since half my income depends upon them; but I do likewise care for him; and it almost seems wrong that houses should be leased for lives, so as to lead to such mixed feelings." "After father's death they will be Mrs. Charmond's?" "They'll be hers." "They are going to keep company with my hair," she thought. Thus talking, they reached the town. By no pressure would she ride up the street with him. "That's the right of another woman," she said, with playful malice, as she put on her pattens. "I wonder what you are thinking of! Thank you for the lift in that handsome gig. Good-by." He blushed a little, shook his head at her, and drove on ahead into the streets--the churches, the abbey, and other buildings on this clear bright morning having the liny distinctness of architectural drawings, as if the original dream and vision of the conceiving master-mason, some mediaeval Vilars or other unknown to fame, were for a few minutes flashed down through the centuries to an unappreciative age. Giles saw their eloquent look on this day of transparency, but could not construe it. He turned into the inn-yard. Marty, following the same track, marched promptly to the hair-dresser's, Mr. Percombe's. Percombe was the chief of his trade in Sherton Abbas. He had the patronage of such county offshoots as had been obliged to seek the shelter of small houses in that ancient town, of the local clergy, and so on, for some of whom he had made wigs, while others among them had compensated for neglecting him in their lifetime by patronizing him when they were dead, and letting him shave their corpses. On the strength of all this he had taken down his pole, and called himself "Perruquier to the aristocracy." Nevertheless, this sort of support did not quite fill his children's mouths, and they had to be filled. So, behind his house there was a little yard, reached by a passage from the back street, and in that yard was a pole, and under the pole a shop of quite another description than the ornamental one in the front street. Here on Saturday nights from seven till ten he took an almost innumerable succession of twopences from the farm laborers who flocked thither in crowds from the country. And thus he lived. Marty, of course, went to the front shop, and handed her packet to him silently. "Thank you," said the barber, quite joyfully. "I hardly expected it after what you said last night." She turned aside, while a tear welled up and stood in each eye at this reminder. "Nothing of what I told you," he whispered, there being others in the shop. "But I can trust you, I see." She had now reached the end of this distressing business, and went listlessly along the street to attend to other errands. These occupied her till four o'clock, at which time she recrossed the market-place. It was impossible to avoid rediscovering Winterborne every time she passed that way, for standing, as he always did at this season of the year, with his specimen apple-tree in the midst, the boughs rose above the heads of the crowd, and brought a delightful suggestion of orchards among the crowded buildings there. When her eye fell upon him for the last time he was standing somewhat apart, holding the tree like an ensign, and looking on the ground instead of pushing his produce as he ought to have been doing. He was, in fact, not a very successful seller either of his trees or of his cider, his habit of speaking his mind, when he spoke at all, militating against this branch of his business. While she regarded him he suddenly lifted his eyes in a direction away from Marty, his face simultaneously kindling with recognition and surprise. She followed his gaze, and saw walking across to him a flexible young creature in whom she perceived the features of her she had known as Miss Grace Melbury, but now looking glorified and refined above her former level. Winterborne, being fixed to the spot by his apple-tree, could not advance to meet her; he held out his spare hand with his hat in it, and with some embarrassment beheld her coming on tiptoe through the mud to the middle of the square where he stood. Miss Melbury's arrival so early was, as Marty could see, unexpected by Giles, which accounted for his not being ready to receive her. Indeed, her father had named five o'clock as her probable time, for which reason that hour had been looming out all the day in his forward perspective, like an important edifice on a plain. Now here she was come, he knew not how, and his arranged welcome stultified. His face became gloomy at her necessity for stepping into the road, and more still at the little look of embarrassment which appeared on hers at having to perform the meeting with him under an apple-tree ten feet high in the middle of the market-place. Having had occasion to take off the new gloves she had bought to come home in, she held out to him a hand graduating from pink at the tips of the fingers to white at the palm; and the reception formed a scene, with the tree over their heads, which was not by any means an ordinary one in Sherton Abbas streets. Nevertheless, the greeting on her looks and lips was of a restrained type, which perhaps was not unnatural. For true it was that Giles Winterborne, well-attired and well-mannered as he was for a yeoman, looked rough beside her. It had sometimes dimly occurred to him, in his ruminating silence at Little Hintock, that external phenomena--such as the lowness or height or color of a hat, the fold of a coat, the make of a boot, or the chance attitude or occupation of a limb at the instant of view--may have a great influence upon feminine opinion of a man's worth--so frequently founded on non-essentials; but a certain causticity of mental tone towards himself and the world in general had prevented to-day, as always, any enthusiastic action on the strength of that reflection; and her momentary instinct of reserve at first sight of him was the penalty he paid for his laxness. He gave away the tree to a by-stander, as soon as he could find one who would accept the cumbersome gift, and the twain moved on towards the inn at which he had put up. Marty made as if to step forward for the pleasure of being recognized by Miss Melbury; but abruptly checking herself, she glided behind a carrier's van, saying, dryly, "No; I baint wanted there," and critically regarded Winterborne's companion. It would have been very difficult to describe Grace Melbury with precision, either now or at any time. Nay, from the highest point of view, to precisely describe a human being, the focus of a universe--how impossible! But, apart from transcendentalism, there never probably lived a person who was in herself more completely a reductio ad absurdum of attempts to appraise a woman, even externally, by items of face and figure. Speaking generally, it may be said that she was sometimes beautiful, at other times not beautiful, according to the state of her health and spirits. In simple corporeal presentment she was of a fair and clear complexion, rather pale than pink, slim in build and elastic in movement. Her look expressed a tendency to wait for others' thoughts before uttering her own; possibly also to wait for others' deeds before her own doing. In her small, delicate mouth, which had perhaps hardly settled down to its matured curves, there was a gentleness that might hinder sufficient self-assertion for her own good. She had well-formed eyebrows which, had her portrait been painted, would probably have been done in Prout's or Vandyke brown. There was nothing remarkable in her dress just now, beyond a natural fitness and a style that was recent for the streets of Sherton. But, indeed, had it been the reverse, and quite striking, it would have meant just as little. For there can be hardly anything less connected with a woman's personality than drapery which she has neither designed, manufactured, cut, sewed, or even seen, except by a glance of approval when told that such and such a shape and color must be had because it has been decided by others as imperative at that particular time. What people, therefore, saw of her in a cursory view was very little; in truth, mainly something that was not she. The woman herself was a shadowy, conjectural creature who had little to do with the outlines presented to Sherton eyes; a shape in the gloom, whose true description could only be approximated by putting together a movement now and a glance then, in that patient and long-continued attentiveness which nothing but watchful loving-kindness ever troubles to give. There was a little delay in their setting out from the town, and Marty South took advantage of it to hasten forward, with the view of escaping them on the way, lest they should feel compelled to spoil their tete-a-tete by asking her to ride. She walked fast, and one-third of the journey was done, and the evening rapidly darkening, before she perceived any sign of them behind her. Then, while ascending a hill, she dimly saw their vehicle drawing near the lowest part of the incline, their heads slightly bent towards each other; drawn together, no doubt, by their souls, as the heads of a pair of horses well in hand are drawn in by the rein. She walked still faster. But between these and herself there was a carriage, apparently a brougham, coming in the same direction, with lighted lamps. When it overtook her--which was not soon, on account of her pace--the scene was much darker, and the lights glared in her eyes sufficiently to hide the details of the equipage. It occurred to Marty that she might take hold behind this carriage and so keep along with it, to save herself the mortification of being overtaken and picked up for pity's sake by the coming pair. Accordingly, as the carriage drew abreast of her in climbing the long ascent, she walked close to the wheels, the rays of the nearest lamp penetrating her very pores. She had only just dropped behind when the carriage stopped, and to her surprise the coachman asked her, over his shoulder, if she would ride. What made the question more surprising was that it came in obedience to an order from the interior of the vehicle. Marty gladly assented, for she was weary, very weary, after working all night and keeping afoot all day. She mounted beside the coachman, wondering why this good-fortune had happened to her. He was rather a great man in aspect, and she did not like to inquire of him for some time. At last she said, "Who has been so kind as to ask me to ride?" "Mrs. Charmond," replied her statuesque companion. Marty was stirred at the name, so closely connected with her last night's experiences. "Is this her carriage?" she whispered. "Yes; she's inside." Marty reflected, and perceived that Mrs. Charmond must have recognized her plodding up the hill under the blaze of the lamp; recognized, probably, her stubbly poll (since she had kept away her face), and thought that those stubbles were the result of her own desire. Marty South was not so very far wrong. Inside the carriage a pair of bright eyes looked from a ripely handsome face, and though behind those bright eyes was a mind of unfathomed mysteries, beneath them there beat a heart capable of quick extempore warmth--a heart which could, indeed, be passionately and imprudently warm on certain occasions. At present, after recognizing the girl, she had acted on a mere impulse, possibly feeling gratified at the denuded appearance which signified the success of her agent in obtaining what she had required. "'Tis wonderful that she should ask ye," observed the magisterial coachman, presently. "I have never known her do it before, for as a rule she takes no interest in the village folk at all." Marty said no more, but occasionally turned her head to see if she could get a glimpse of the Olympian creature who as the coachman had truly observed, hardly ever descended from her clouds into the Tempe of the parishioners. But she could discern nothing of the lady. She also looked for Miss Melbury and Winterborne. The nose of their horse sometimes came quite near the back of Mrs. Charmond's carriage. But they never attempted to pass it till the latter conveyance turned towards the park gate, when they sped by. Here the carriage drew up that the gate might be opened, and in the momentary silence Marty heard a gentle oral sound, soft as a breeze. "What's that?" she whispered. "Mis'ess yawning." "Why should she yawn?" "Oh, because she's been used to such wonderfully good life, and finds it dull here. She'll soon be off again on account of it." "So rich and so powerful, and yet to yawn!" the girl murmured. "Then things don't fay with she any more than with we!" Marty now alighted; the lamp again shone upon her, and as the carriage rolled on, a soft voice said to her from the interior, "Good-night." "Good-night, ma'am," said Marty. But she had not been able to see the woman who began so greatly to interest her--the second person of her own sex who had operated strongly on her mind that day. CHAPTER VI. Meanwhile, Winterborne and Grace Melbury had also undergone their little experiences of the same homeward journey. As he drove off with her out of the town the glances of people fell upon them, the younger thinking that Mr. Winterborne was in a pleasant place, and wondering in what relation he stood towards her. Winterborne himself was unconscious of this. Occupied solely with the idea of having her in charge, he did not notice much with outward eye, neither observing how she was dressed, nor the effect of the picture they together composed in the landscape. Their conversation was in briefest phrase for some time, Grace being somewhat disconcerted, through not having understood till they were about to start that Giles was to be her sole conductor in place of her father. When they were in the open country he spoke. "Don't Brownley's farm-buildings look strange to you, now they have been moved bodily from the hollow where the old ones stood to the top of the hill?" She admitted that they did, though she should not have seen any difference in them if he had not pointed it out. "They had a good crop of bitter-sweets; they couldn't grind them all" (nodding towards an orchard where some heaps of apples had been left lying ever since the ingathering). She said "Yes," but looking at another orchard. "Why, you are looking at John-apple-trees! You know bitter-sweets--you used to well enough!" "I am afraid I have forgotten, and it is getting too dark to distinguish." Winterborne did not continue. It seemed as if the knowledge and interest which had formerly moved Grace's mind had quite died away from her. He wondered whether the special attributes of his image in the past had evaporated like these other things. However that might be, the fact at present was merely this, that where he was seeing John-apples and farm-buildings she was beholding a far remoter scene--a scene no less innocent and simple, indeed, but much contrasting--a broad lawn in the fashionable suburb of a fast city, the evergreen leaves shining in the evening sun, amid which bounding girls, gracefully clad in artistic arrangements of blue, brown, red, black, and white, were playing at games, with laughter and chat, in all the pride of life, the notes of piano and harp trembling in the air from the open windows adjoining. Moreover, they were girls--and this was a fact which Grace Melbury's delicate femininity could not lose sight of--whose parents Giles would have addressed with a deferential Sir or Madam. Beside this visioned scene the homely farmsteads did not quite hold their own from her present twenty-year point of survey. For all his woodland sequestration, Giles knew the primitive simplicity of the subject he had started, and now sounded a deeper note. "'Twas very odd what we said to each other years ago; I often think of it. I mean our saying that if we still liked each other when you were twenty and I twenty-five, we'd--" "It was child's tattle." "H'm!" said Giles, suddenly. "I mean we were young," said she, more considerately. That gruff manner of his in making inquiries reminded her that he was unaltered in much. "Yes....I beg your pardon, Miss Melbury; your father SENT me to meet you to-day." "I know it, and I am glad of it." He seemed satisfied with her tone and went on: "At that time you were sitting beside me at the back of your father's covered car, when we were coming home from gypsying, all the party being squeezed in together as tight as sheep in an auction-pen. It got darker and darker, and I said--I forget the exact words--but I put my arm round your waist and there you let it stay till your father, sitting in front suddenly stopped telling his story to Farmer Bollen, to light his pipe. The flash shone into the car, and showed us all up distinctly; my arm flew from your waist like lightning; yet not so quickly but that some of 'em had seen, and laughed at us. Yet your father, to our amazement, instead of being angry, was mild as milk, and seemed quite pleased. Have you forgot all that, or haven't you?" She owned that she remembered it very well, now that he mentioned the circumstances. "But, goodness! I must have been in short frocks," she said. "Come now, Miss Melbury, that won't do! Short frocks, indeed! You know better, as well as I." Grace thereupon declared that she would not argue with an old friend she valued so highly as she valued him, saying the words with the easy elusiveness that will be polite at all costs. It might possibly be true, she added, that she was getting on in girlhood when that event took place; but if it were so, then she was virtually no less than an old woman now, so far did the time seem removed from her present. "Do you ever look at things philosophically instead of personally?" she asked. "I can't say that I do," answered Giles, his eyes lingering far ahead upon a dark spot, which proved to be a brougham. "I think you may, sometimes, with advantage," said she. "Look at yourself as a pitcher drifting on the stream with other pitchers, and consider what contrivances are most desirable for avoiding cracks in general, and not only for saving your poor one. Shall I tell you all about Bath or Cheltenham, or places on the Continent that I visited last summer?" "With all my heart." She then described places and persons in such terms as might have been used for that purpose by any woman to any man within the four seas, so entirely absent from that description was everything specially appertaining to her own existence. When she had done she said, gayly, "Now do you tell me in return what has happened in Hintock since I have been away." "Anything to keep the conversation away from her and me," said Giles within him. It was true cultivation had so far advanced in the soil of Miss Melbury's mind as to lead her to talk by rote of anything save of that she knew well, and had the greatest interest in developing--that is to say, herself. He had not proceeded far with his somewhat bald narration when they drew near the carriage that had been preceding them for some time. Miss Melbury inquired if he knew whose carriage it was. Winterborne, although he had seen it, had not taken it into account. On examination, he said it was Mrs. Charmond's. Grace watched the vehicle and its easy roll, and seemed to feel more nearly akin to it than to the one she was in. "Pooh! We can polish off the mileage as well as they, come to that," said Winterborne, reading her mind; and rising to emulation at what it bespoke, he whipped on the horse. This it was which had brought the nose of Mr. Melbury's old gray close to the back of Mrs. Charmond's much-eclipsing vehicle. "There's Marty South sitting up with the coachman," said he, discerning her by her dress. "Ah, poor Marty! I must ask her to come to see me this very evening. How does she happen to be riding there?" "I don't know. It is very singular." Thus these people with converging destinies went along the road together, till Winterborne, leaving the track of the carriage, turned into Little Hintock, where almost the first house was the timber-merchant's. Pencils of dancing light streamed out of the windows sufficiently to show the white laurestinus flowers, and glance over the polished leaves of laurel. The interior of the rooms could be seen distinctly, warmed up by the fire-flames, which in the parlor were reflected from the glass of the pictures and bookcase, and in the kitchen from the utensils and ware. "Let us look at the dear place for a moment before we call them," she said. In the kitchen dinner was preparing; for though Melbury dined at one o'clock at other times, to-day the meal had been kept back for Grace. A rickety old spit was in motion, its end being fixed in the fire-dog, and the whole kept going by means of a cord conveyed over pulleys along the ceiling to a large stone suspended in a corner of the room. Old Grammer Oliver came and wound it up with a rattle like that of a mill. In the parlor a large shade of Mrs. Melbury's head fell on the wall and ceiling; but before the girl had regarded this room many moments their presence was discovered, and her father and stepmother came out to welcome her. The character of the Melbury family was of that kind which evinces some shyness in showing strong emotion among each other: a trait frequent in rural households, and one which stands in curiously inverse relation to most of the peculiarities distinguishing villagers from the people of towns. Thus hiding their warmer feelings under commonplace talk all round, Grace's reception produced no extraordinary demonstrations. But that more was felt than was enacted appeared from the fact that her father, in taking her in-doors, quite forgot the presence of Giles without, as did also Grace herself. He said nothing, but took the gig round to the yard and called out from the spar-house the man who particularly attended to these matters when there was no conversation to draw him off among the copse-workers inside. Winterborne then returned to the door with the intention of entering the house. The family had gone into the parlor, and were still absorbed in themselves. The fire was, as before, the only light, and it irradiated Grace's face and hands so as to make them look wondrously smooth and fair beside those of the two elders; shining also through the loose hair about her temples as sunlight through a brake. Her father was surveying her in a dazed conjecture, so much had she developed and progressed in manner and stature since he last had set eyes on her. Observing these things, Winterborne remained dubious by the door, mechanically tracing with his fingers certain time-worn letters carved in the jambs--initials of by-gone generations of householders who had lived and died there. No, he declared to himself, he would not enter and join the family; they had forgotten him, and it was enough for to-day that he had brought her home. Still, he was a little surprised that her father's eagerness to send him for Grace should have resulted in such an anticlimax as this. He walked softly away into the lane towards his own house, looking back when he reached the turning, from which he could get a last glimpse of the timber-merchant's roof. He hazarded guesses as to what Grace was saying just at that moment, and murmured, with some self-derision, "nothing about me!" He looked also in the other direction, and saw against the sky the thatched hip and solitary chimney of Marty's cottage, and thought of her too, struggling bravely along under that humble shelter, among her spar-gads and pots and skimmers. At the timber-merchant's, in the mean time, the conversation flowed; and, as Giles Winterborne had rightly enough deemed, on subjects in which he had no share. Among the excluding matters there was, for one, the effect upon Mr. Melbury of the womanly mien and manners of his daughter, which took him so much unawares that, though it did not make him absolutely forget the existence of her conductor homeward, thrust Giles's image back into quite the obscurest cellarage of his brain. Another was his interview with Mrs. Charmond's agent that morning, at which the lady herself had been present for a few minutes. Melbury had purchased some standing timber from her a long time before, and now that the date had come for felling it he was left to pursue almost his own course. This was what the household were actually talking of during Giles's cogitation without; and Melbury's satisfaction with the clear atmosphere that had arisen between himself and the deity of the groves which enclosed his residence was the cause of a counterbalancing mistiness on the side towards Winterborne. "So thoroughly does she trust me," said Melbury, "that I might fell, top, or lop, on my own judgment, any stick o' timber whatever in her wood, and fix the price o't, and settle the matter. But, name it all! I wouldn't do such a thing. However, it may be useful to have this good understanding with her....I wish she took more interest in the place, and stayed here all the year round." "I am afraid 'tis not her regard for you, but her dislike of Hintock, that makes her so easy about the trees," said Mrs. Melbury. When dinner was over, Grace took a candle and began to ramble pleasurably through the rooms of her old home, from which she had latterly become wellnigh an alien. Each nook and each object revived a memory, and simultaneously modified it. The chambers seemed lower than they had appeared on any previous occasion of her return, the surfaces of both walls and ceilings standing in such relations to the eye that it could not avoid taking microscopic note of their irregularities and old fashion. Her own bedroom wore at once a look more familiar than when she had left it, and yet a face estranged. The world of little things therein gazed at her in helpless stationariness, as though they had tried and been unable to make any progress without her presence. Over the place where her candle had been accustomed to stand, when she had used to read in bed till the midnight hour, there was still the brown spot of smoke. She did not know that her father had taken especial care to keep it from being cleaned off. Having concluded her perambulation of this now uselessly commodious edifice, Grace began to feel that she had come a long journey since the morning; and when her father had been up himself, as well as his wife, to see that her room was comfortable and the fire burning, she prepared to retire for the night. No sooner, however, was she in bed than her momentary sleepiness took itself off, and she wished she had stayed up longer. She amused herself by listening to the old familiar noises that she could hear to be still going on down-stairs, and by looking towards the window as she lay. The blind had been drawn up, as she used to have it when a girl, and she could just discern the dim tree-tops against the sky on the neighboring hill. Beneath this meeting-line of light and shade nothing was visible save one solitary point of light, which blinked as the tree-twigs waved to and fro before its beams. From its position it seemed to radiate from the window of a house on the hill-side. The house had been empty when she was last at home, and she wondered who inhabited the place now. Her conjectures, however, were not intently carried on, and she was watching the light quite idly, when it gradually changed color, and at length shone blue as sapphire. Thus it remained several minutes, and then it passed through violet to red. Her curiosity was so widely awakened by the phenomenon that she sat up in bed, and stared steadily at the shine. An appearance of this sort, sufficient to excite attention anywhere, was no less than a marvel in Hintock, as Grace had known the hamlet. Almost every diurnal and nocturnal effect in that woodland place had hitherto been the direct result of the regular terrestrial roll which produced the season's changes; but here was something dissociated from these normal sequences, and foreign to local habit and knowledge. It was about this moment that Grace heard the household below preparing to retire, the most emphatic noise in the proceeding being that of her father bolting the doors. Then the stairs creaked, and her father and mother passed her chamber. The last to come was Grammer Oliver. Grace slid out of bed, ran across the room, and lifting the latch, said, "I am not asleep, Grammer. Come in and talk to me." Before the old woman had entered, Grace was again under the bedclothes. Grammer set down her candlestick, and seated herself on the edge of Miss Melbury's coverlet. "I want you to tell me what light that is I see on the hill-side," said Grace. Mrs. Oliver looked across. "Oh, that," she said, "is from the doctor's. He's often doing things of that sort. Perhaps you don't know that we've a doctor living here now--Mr. Fitzpiers by name?" Grace admitted that she had not heard of him. "Well, then, miss, he's come here to get up a practice. I know him very well, through going there to help 'em scrub sometimes, which your father said I might do, if I wanted to, in my spare time. Being a bachelor-man, he've only a lad in the house. Oh yes, I know him very well. Sometimes he'll talk to me as if I were his own mother." "Indeed." "Yes. 'Grammer,' he said one day, when I asked him why he came here where there's hardly anybody living, 'I'll tell you why I came here. I took a map, and I marked on it where Dr. Jones's practice ends to the north of this district, and where Mr. Taylor's ends on the south, and little Jimmy Green's on the east, and somebody else's to the west. Then I took a pair of compasses, and found the exact middle of the country that was left between these bounds, and that middle was Little Hintock; so here I am....' But, Lord, there: poor young man!" "Why?" "He said, 'Grammer Oliver, I've been here three months, and although there are a good many people in the Hintocks and the villages round, and a scattered practice is often a very good one, I don't seem to get many patients. And there's no society at all; and I'm pretty near melancholy mad,' he said, with a great yawn. 'I should be quite if it were not for my books, and my lab--laboratory, and what not. Grammer, I was made for higher things.' And then he'd yawn and yawn again." "Was he really made for higher things, do you think? I mean, is he clever?" "Well, no. How can he be clever? He may be able to jine up a broken man or woman after a fashion, and put his finger upon an ache if you tell him nearly where 'tis; but these young men--they should live to my time of life, and then they'd see how clever they were at five-and-twenty! And yet he's a projick, a real projick, and says the oddest of rozums. 'Ah, Grammer,' he said, at another time, 'let me tell you that Everything is Nothing. There's only Me and not Me in the whole world.' And he told me that no man's hands could help what they did, any more than the hands of a clock....Yes, he's a man of strange meditations, and his eyes seem to see as far as the north star." "He will soon go away, no doubt." "I don't think so." Grace did not say "Why?" and Grammer hesitated. At last she went on: "Don't tell your father or mother, miss, if I let you know a secret." Grace gave the required promise. "Well, he talks of buying me; so he won't go away just yet." "Buying you!--how?" "Not my soul--my body, when I'm dead. One day when I was there cleaning, he said, 'Grammer, you've a large brain--a very large organ of brain,' he said. 'A woman's is usually four ounces less than a man's; but yours is man's size.' Well, then--hee, hee!--after he'd flattered me a bit like that, he said he'd give me ten pounds to have me as a natomy after my death. Well, knowing I'd no chick nor chiel left, and nobody with any interest in me, I thought, faith, if I can be of any use to my fellow-creatures after I'm gone they are welcome to my services; so I said I'd think it over, and would most likely agree and take the ten pounds. Now this is a secret, miss, between us two. The money would be very useful to me; and I see no harm in it." "Of course there's no harm. But oh, Grammer, how can you think to do it? I wish you hadn't told me." "I wish I hadn't--if you don't like to know it, miss. But you needn't mind. Lord--hee, hee!--I shall keep him waiting many a year yet, bless ye!" "I hope you will, I am sure." The girl thereupon fell into such deep reflection that conversation languished, and Grammer Oliver, taking her candle, wished Miss Melbury good-night. The latter's eyes rested on the distant glimmer, around which she allowed her reasoning fancy to play in vague eddies that shaped the doings of the philosopher behind that light on the lines of intelligence just received. It was strange to her to come back from the world to Little Hintock and find in one of its nooks, like a tropical plant in a hedgerow, a nucleus of advanced ideas and practices which had nothing in common with the life around. Chemical experiments, anatomical projects, and metaphysical conceptions had found a strange home here. Thus she remained thinking, the imagined pursuits of the man behind the light intermingling with conjectural sketches of his personality, till her eyes fell together with their own heaviness, and she slept. CHAPTER VII. Kaleidoscopic dreams of a weird alchemist-surgeon, Grammer Oliver's skeleton, and the face of Giles Winterborne, brought Grace Melbury to the morning of the next day. It was fine. A north wind was blowing--that not unacceptable compromise between the atmospheric cutlery of the eastern blast and the spongy gales of the west quarter. She looked from her window in the direction of the light of the previous evening, and could just discern through the trees the shape of the surgeon's house. Somehow, in the broad, practical daylight, that unknown and lonely gentleman seemed to be shorn of much of the interest which had invested his personality and pursuits in the hours of darkness, and as Grace's dressing proceeded he faded from her mind. Meanwhile, Winterborne, though half assured of her father's favor, was rendered a little restless by Miss Melbury's behavior. Despite his dry self-control, he could not help looking continually from his own door towards the timber-merchant's, in the probability of somebody's emergence therefrom. His attention was at length justified by the appearance of two figures, that of Mr. Melbury himself, and Grace beside him. They stepped out in a direction towards the densest quarter of the wood, and Winterborne walked contemplatively behind them, till all three were soon under the trees. Although the time of bare boughs had now set in, there were sheltered hollows amid the Hintock plantations and copses in which a more tardy leave-taking than on windy summits was the rule with the foliage. This caused here and there an apparent mixture of the seasons; so that in some of the dells that they passed by holly-berries in full red were found growing beside oak and hazel whose leaves were as yet not far removed from green, and brambles whose verdure was rich and deep as in the month of August. To Grace these well-known peculiarities were as an old painting restored. Now could be beheld that change from the handsome to the curious which the features of a wood undergo at the ingress of the winter months. Angles were taking the place of curves, and reticulations of surfaces--a change constituting a sudden lapse from the ornate to the primitive on Nature's canvas, and comparable to a retrogressive step from the art of an advanced school of painting to that of the Pacific Islander. Winterborne followed, and kept his eye upon the two figures as they threaded their way through these sylvan phenomena. Mr. Melbury's long legs, and gaiters drawn in to the bone at the ankles, his slight stoop, his habit of getting lost in thought and arousing himself with an exclamation of "Hah!" accompanied with an upward jerk of the head, composed a personage recognizable by his neighbors as far as he could be seen. It seemed as if the squirrels and birds knew him. One of the former would occasionally run from the path to hide behind the arm of some tree, which the little animal carefully edged round pari passu with Melbury and his daughters movement onward, assuming a mock manner, as though he were saying, "Ho, ho; you are only a timber-merchant, and carry no gun!" They went noiselessly over mats of starry moss, rustled through interspersed tracts of leaves, skirted trunks with spreading roots, whose mossed rinds made them like hands wearing green gloves; elbowed old elms and ashes with great forks, in which stood pools of water that overflowed on rainy days, and ran down their stems in green cascades. On older trees still than these, huge lobes of fungi grew like lungs. Here, as everywhere, the Unfulfilled Intention, which makes life what it is, was as obvious as it could be among the depraved crowds of a city slum. The leaf was deformed, the curve was crippled, the taper was interrupted; the lichen eat the vigor of the stalk, and the ivy slowly strangled to death the promising sapling. They dived amid beeches under which nothing grew, the younger boughs still retaining their hectic leaves, that rustled in the breeze with a sound almost metallic, like the sheet-iron foliage of the fabled Jarnvid wood. Some flecks of white in Grace's drapery had enabled Giles to keep her and her father in view till this time; but now he lost sight of them, and was obliged to follow by ear--no difficult matter, for on the line of their course every wood-pigeon rose from its perch with a continued clash, dashing its wings against the branches with wellnigh force enough to break every quill. By taking the track of this noise he soon came to a stile. Was it worth while to go farther? He examined the doughy soil at the foot of the stile, and saw among the large sole-and-heel tracks an impression of a slighter kind from a boot that was obviously not local, for Winterborne knew all the cobblers' patterns in that district, because they were very few to know. The mud-picture was enough to make him swing himself over and proceed. The character of the woodland now changed. The bases of the smaller trees were nibbled bare by rabbits, and at divers points heaps of fresh-made chips, and the newly-cut stool of a tree, stared white through the undergrowth. There had been a large fall of timber this year, which explained the meaning of some sounds that soon reached him. A voice was shouting intermittently in a sort of human bark, which reminded Giles that there was a sale of trees and fagots that very day. Melbury would naturally be present. Thereupon Winterborne remembered that he himself wanted a few fagots, and entered upon the scene. A large group of buyers stood round the auctioneer, or followed him when, between his pauses, he wandered on from one lot of plantation produce to another, like some philosopher of the Peripatetic school delivering his lectures in the shady groves of the Lyceum. His companions were timber-dealers, yeomen, farmers, villagers, and others; mostly woodland men, who on that account could afford to be curious in their walking-sticks, which consequently exhibited various monstrosities of vegetation, the chief being cork-screw shapes in black and white thorn, brought to that pattern by the slow torture of an encircling woodbine during their growth, as the Chinese have been said to mould human beings into grotesque toys by continued compression in infancy. Two women, wearing men's jackets on their gowns, conducted in the rear of the halting procession a pony-cart containing a tapped barrel of beer, from which they drew and replenished horns that were handed round, with bread-and-cheese from a basket. The auctioneer adjusted himself to circumstances by using his walking-stick as a hammer, and knocked down the lot on any convenient object that took his fancy, such as the crown of a little boy's head, or the shoulders of a by-stander who had no business there except to taste the brew; a proceeding which would have been deemed humorous but for the air of stern rigidity which that auctioneer's face preserved, tending to show that the eccentricity was a result of that absence of mind which is engendered by the press of affairs, and no freak of fancy at all. Mr. Melbury stood slightly apart from the rest of the Peripatetics, and Grace beside him, clinging closely to his arm, her modern attire looking almost odd where everything else was old-fashioned, and throwing over the familiar garniture of the trees a homeliness that seemed to demand improvement by the addition of a few contemporary novelties also. Grace seemed to regard the selling with the interest which attaches to memories revived after an interval of obliviousness. Winterborne went and stood close to them; the timber-merchant spoke, and continued his buying; Grace merely smiled. To justify his presence there Winterborne began bidding for timber and fagots that he did not want, pursuing the occupation in an abstracted mood, in which the auctioneer's voice seemed to become one of the natural sounds of the woodland. A few flakes of snow descended, at the sight of which a robin, alarmed at these signs of imminent winter, and seeing that no offence was meant by the human invasion, came and perched on the tip of the fagots that were being sold, and looked into the auctioneer's face, while waiting for some chance crumb from the bread-basket. Standing a little behind Grace, Winterborne observed how one flake would sail downward and settle on a curl of her hair, and how another would choose her shoulder, and another the edge of her bonnet, which took up so much of his attention that his biddings proceeded incoherently; and when the auctioneer said, every now and then, with a nod towards him, "Yours, Mr. Winterborne," he had no idea whether he had bought fagots, poles, or logwood. He regretted, with some causticity of humor, that her father should show such inequalities of temperament as to keep Grace tightly on his arm to-day, when he had quite lately seemed anxious to recognize their betrothal as a fact. And thus musing, and joining in no conversation with other buyers except when directly addressed, he followed the assemblage hither and thither till the end of the auction, when Giles for the first time realized what his purchases had been. Hundreds of fagots, and divers lots of timber, had been set down to him, when all he had required had been a few bundles of spray for his odd man Robert Creedle's use in baking and lighting fires. Business being over, he turned to speak to the timber merchant. But Melbury's manner was short and distant; and Grace, too, looked vexed and reproachful. Winterborne then discovered that he had been unwittingly bidding against her father, and picking up his favorite lots in spite of him. With a very few words they left the spot and pursued their way homeward. Giles was extremely sorry at what he had done, and remained standing under the trees, all the other men having strayed silently away. He saw Melbury and his daughter pass down a glade without looking back. While they moved slowly through it a lady appeared on horseback in the middle distance, the line of her progress converging upon that of Melbury's. They met, Melbury took off his hat, and she reined in her horse. A conversation was evidently in progress between Grace and her father and this equestrian, in whom he was almost sure that he recognized Mrs. Charmond, less by her outline than by the livery of the groom who had halted some yards off. The interlocutors did not part till after a prolonged pause, during which much seemed to be said. When Melbury and Grace resumed their walk it was with something of a lighter tread than before. Winterborne then pursued his own course homeward. He was unwilling to let coldness grow up between himself and the Melburys for any trivial reason, and in the evening he went to their house. On drawing near the gate his attention was attracted by the sight of one of the bedrooms blinking into a state of illumination. In it stood Grace lighting several candles, her right hand elevating the taper, her left hand on her bosom, her face thoughtfully fixed on each wick as it kindled, as if she saw in every flame's growth the rise of a life to maturity. He wondered what such unusual brilliancy could mean to-night. On getting in-doors he found her father and step-mother in a state of suppressed excitement, which at first he could not comprehend. "I am sorry about my biddings to-day," said Giles. "I don't know what I was doing. I have come to say that any of the lots you may require are yours." "Oh, never mind--never mind," replied the timber-merchant, with a slight wave of his hand, "I have so much else to think of that I nearly had forgot it. Just now, too, there are matters of a different kind from trade to attend to, so don't let it concern ye." As the timber-merchant spoke, as it were, down to him from a higher moral plane than his own, Giles turned to Mrs. Melbury. "Grace is going to the House to-morrow," she said, quietly. "She is looking out her things now. I dare say she is wanting me this minute to assist her." Thereupon Mrs. Melbury left the room. Nothing is more remarkable than the independent personality of the tongue now and then. Mr. Melbury knew that his words had been a sort of boast. He decried boasting, particularly to Giles; yet whenever the subject was Grace, his judgment resigned the ministry of speech in spite of him. Winterborne felt surprise, pleasure, and also a little apprehension at the news. He repeated Mrs. Melbury's words. "Yes," said paternal pride, not sorry to have dragged out of him what he could not in any circumstances have kept in. "Coming home from the woods this afternoon we met Mrs. Charmond out for a ride. She spoke to me on a little matter of business, and then got acquainted with Grace. 'Twas wonderful how she took to Grace in a few minutes; that freemasonry of education made 'em close at once. Naturally enough she was amazed that such an article--ha, ha!--could come out of my house. At last it led on to Mis'ess Grace being asked to the House. So she's busy hunting up her frills and furbelows to go in." As Giles remained in thought without responding, Melbury continued: "But I'll call her down-stairs." "No, no; don't do that, since she's busy," said Winterborne. Melbury, feeling from the young man's manner that his own talk had been too much at Giles and too little to him, repented at once. His face changed, and he said, in lower tones, with an effort, "She's yours, Giles, as far as I am concerned." "Thanks--my best thanks....But I think, since it is all right between us about the biddings, that I'll not interrupt her now. I'll step homeward, and call another time." On leaving the house he looked up at the bedroom again. Grace, surrounded by a sufficient number of candles to answer all purposes of self-criticism, was standing before a cheval-glass that her father had lately bought expressly for her use; she was bonneted, cloaked, and gloved, and glanced over her shoulder into the mirror, estimating her aspect. Her face was lit with the natural elation of a young girl hoping to inaugurate on the morrow an intimate acquaintance with a new, interesting, and powerful friend. CHAPTER VIII. The inspiriting appointment which had led Grace Melbury to indulge in a six-candle illumination for the arrangement of her attire, carried her over the ground the next morning with a springy tread. Her sense of being properly appreciated on her own native soil seemed to brighten the atmosphere and herbage around her, as the glowworm's lamp irradiates the grass. Thus she moved along, a vessel of emotion going to empty itself on she knew not what. Twenty minutes' walking through copses, over a stile, and along an upland lawn brought her to the verge of a deep glen, at the bottom of which Hintock House appeared immediately beneath her eye. To describe it as standing in a hollow would not express the situation of the manor-house; it stood in a hole, notwithstanding that the hole was full of beauty. From the spot which Grace had reached a stone could easily have been thrown over or into, the birds'-nested chimneys of the mansion. Its walls were surmounted by a battlemented parapet; but the gray lead roofs were quite visible behind it, with their gutters, laps, rolls, and skylights, together with incised letterings and shoe-patterns cut by idlers thereon. The front of the house exhibited an ordinary manorial presentation of Elizabethan windows, mullioned and hooded, worked in rich snuff-colored freestone from local quarries. The ashlar of the walls, where not overgrown with ivy and other creepers, was coated with lichen of every shade, intensifying its luxuriance with its nearness to the ground, till, below the plinth, it merged in moss. Above the house to the back was a dense plantation, the roots of whose trees were above the level of the chimneys. The corresponding high ground on which Grace stood was richly grassed, with only an old tree here and there. A few sheep lay about, which, as they ruminated, looked quietly into the bedroom windows. The situation of the house, prejudicial to humanity, was a stimulus to vegetation, on which account an endless shearing of the heavy-armed ivy was necessary, and a continual lopping of trees and shrubs. It was an edifice built in times when human constitutions were damp-proof, when shelter from the boisterous was all that men thought of in choosing a dwelling-place, the insidious being beneath their notice; and its hollow site was an ocular reminder, by its unfitness for modern lives, of the fragility to which these have declined. The highest architectural cunning could have done nothing to make Hintock House dry and salubrious; and ruthless ignorance could have done little to make it unpicturesque. It was vegetable nature's own home; a spot to inspire the painter and poet of still life--if they did not suffer too much from the relaxing atmosphere--and to draw groans from the gregariously disposed. Grace descended the green escarpment by a zigzag path into the drive, which swept round beneath the slope. The exterior of the house had been familiar to her from her childhood, but she had never been inside, and the approach to knowing an old thing in a new way was a lively experience. It was with a little flutter that she was shown in; but she recollected that Mrs. Charmond would probably be alone. Up to a few days before this time that lady had been accompanied in her comings, stayings, and goings by a relative believed to be her aunt; latterly, however, these two ladies had separated, owing, it was supposed, to a quarrel, and Mrs. Charmond had been left desolate. Being presumably a woman who did not care for solitude, this deprivation might possibly account for her sudden interest in Grace. Mrs. Charmond was at the end of a gallery opening from the hall when Miss Melbury was announced, and saw her through the glass doors between them. She came forward with a smile on her face, and told the young girl it was good of her to come. "Ah! you have noticed those," she said, seeing that Grace's eyes were attracted by some curious objects against the walls. "They are man-traps. My husband was a connoisseur in man-traps and spring-guns and such articles, collecting them from all his neighbors. He knew the histories of all these--which gin had broken a man's leg, which gun had killed a man. That one, I remember his saying, had been set by a game-keeper in the track of a notorious poacher; but the keeper, forgetting what he had done, went that way himself, received the charge in the lower part of his body, and died of the wound. I don't like them here, but I've never yet given directions for them to be taken away." She added, playfully, "Man-traps are of rather ominous significance where a person of our sex lives, are they not?" Grace was bound to smile; but that side of womanliness was one which her inexperience had no great zest in contemplating. "They are interesting, no doubt, as relics of a barbarous time happily past," she said, looking thoughtfully at the varied designs of these instruments of torture--some with semi-circular jaws, some with rectangular; most of them with long, sharp teeth, but a few with none, so that their jaws looked like the blank gums of old age. "Well, we must not take them too seriously," said Mrs. Charmond, with an indolent turn of her head, and they moved on inward. When she had shown her visitor different articles in cabinets that she deemed likely to interest her, some tapestries, wood-carvings, ivories, miniatures, and so on--always with a mien of listlessness which might either have been constitutional, or partly owing to the situation of the place--they sat down to an early cup of tea. "Will you pour it out, please? Do," she said, leaning back in her chair, and placing her hand above her forehead, while her almond eyes--those long eyes so common to the angelic legions of early Italian art--became longer, and her voice more languishing. She showed that oblique-mannered softness which is perhaps most frequent in women of darker complexion and more lymphatic temperament than Mrs. Charmond's was; who lingeringly smile their meanings to men rather than speak them, who inveigle rather than prompt, and take advantage of currents rather than steer. "I am the most inactive woman when I am here," she said. "I think sometimes I was born to live and do nothing, nothing, nothing but float about, as we fancy we do sometimes in dreams. But that cannot be really my destiny, and I must struggle against such fancies." "I am so sorry you do not enjoy exertion--it is quite sad! I wish I could tend you and make you very happy." There was something so sympathetic, so appreciative, in the sound of Grace's voice, that it impelled people to play havoc with their customary reservations in talking to her. "It is tender and kind of you to feel that," said Mrs. Charmond. "Perhaps I have given you the notion that my languor is more than it really is. But this place oppresses me, and I have a plan of going abroad a good deal. I used to go with a relative, but that arrangement has dropped through." Regarding Grace with a final glance of criticism, she seemed to make up her mind to consider the young girl satisfactory, and continued: "Now I am often impelled to record my impressions of times and places. I have often thought of writing a 'New Sentimental Journey.' But I cannot find energy enough to do it alone. When I am at different places in the south of Europe I feel a crowd of ideas and fancies thronging upon me continually, but to unfold writing-materials, take up a cold steel pen, and put these impressions down systematically on cold, smooth paper--that I cannot do. So I have thought that if I always could have somebody at my elbow with whom I am in sympathy, I might dictate any ideas that come into my head. And directly I had made your acquaintance the other day it struck me that you would suit me so well. Would you like to undertake it? You might read to me, too, if desirable. Will you think it over, and ask your parents if they are willing?" "Oh yes," said Grace. "I am almost sure they would be very glad." "You are so accomplished, I hear; I should be quite honored by such intellectual company." Grace, modestly blushing, deprecated any such idea. "Do you keep up your lucubrations at Little Hintock?" "Oh no. Lucubrations are not unknown at Little Hintock; but they are not carried on by me." "What--another student in that retreat?" "There is a surgeon lately come, and I have heard that he reads a great deal--I see his light sometimes through the trees late at night." "Oh yes--a doctor--I believe I was told of him. It is a strange place for him to settle in." "It is a convenient centre for a practice, they say. But he does not confine his studies to medicine, it seems. He investigates theology and metaphysics and all sorts of subjects." "What is his name?" "Fitzpiers. He represents a very old family, I believe, the Fitzpierses of Buckbury-Fitzpiers--not a great many miles from here." "I am not sufficiently local to know the history of the family. I was never in the county till my husband brought me here." Mrs. Charmond did not care to pursue this line of investigation. Whatever mysterious merit might attach to family antiquity, it was one which, though she herself could claim it, her adaptable, wandering weltburgerliche nature had grown tired of caring about--a peculiarity that made her a contrast to her neighbors. "It is of rather more importance to know what the man is himself than what his family is," she said, "if he is going to practise upon us as a surgeon. Have you seen him?" Grace had not. "I think he is not a very old man," she added. "Has he a wife?" "I am not aware that he has." "Well, I hope he will be useful here. I must get to know him when I come back. It will be very convenient to have a medical man--if he is clever--in one's own parish. I get dreadfully nervous sometimes, living in such an outlandish place; and Sherton is so far to send to. No doubt you feel Hintock to be a great change after watering-place life." "I do. But it is home. It has its advantages and its disadvantages." Grace was thinking less of the solitude than of the attendant circumstances. They chatted on for some time, Grace being set quite at her ease by her entertainer. Mrs. Charmond was far too well-practised a woman not to know that to show a marked patronage to a sensitive young girl who would probably be very quick to discern it, was to demolish her dignity rather than to establish it in that young girl's eyes. So, being violently possessed with her idea of making use of this gentle acquaintance, ready and waiting at her own door, she took great pains to win her confidence at starting. Just before Grace's departure the two chanced to pause before a mirror which reflected their faces in immediate juxtaposition, so as to bring into prominence their resemblances and their contrasts. Both looked attractive as glassed back by the faithful reflector; but Grace's countenance had the effect of making Mrs. Charmond appear more than her full age. There are complexions which set off each other to great advantage, and there are those which antagonize, the one killing or damaging its neighbor unmercifully. This was unhappily the case here. Mrs. Charmond fell into a meditation, and replied abstractedly to a cursory remark of her companion's. However, she parted from her young friend in the kindliest tones, promising to send and let her know as soon as her mind was made up on the arrangement she had suggested. When Grace had ascended nearly to the top of the adjoining slope she looked back, and saw that Mrs. Charmond still stood at the door, meditatively regarding her. Often during the previous night, after his call on the Melburys, Winterborne's thoughts ran upon Grace's announced visit to Hintock House. Why could he not have proposed to walk with her part of the way? Something told him that she might not, on such an occasion, care for his company. He was still more of that opinion when, standing in his garden next day, he saw her go past on the journey with such a pretty pride in the event. He wondered if her father's ambition, which had purchased for her the means of intellectual light and culture far beyond those of any other native of the village, would conduce to the flight of her future interests above and away from the local life which was once to her the movement of the world. Nevertheless, he had her father's permission to win her if he could; and to this end it became desirable to bring matters soon to a crisis, if he ever hoped to do so. If she should think herself too good for him, he could let her go and make the best of his loss; but until he had really tested her he could not say that she despised his suit. The question was how to quicken events towards an issue. He thought and thought, and at last decided that as good a way as any would be to give a Christmas party, and ask Grace and her parents to come as chief guests. These ruminations were occupying him when there became audible a slight knocking at his front door. He descended the path and looked out, and beheld Marty South, dressed for out-door work. "Why didn't you come, Mr. Winterborne?" she said. "I've been waiting there hours and hours, and at last I thought I must try to find you." "Bless my soul, I'd quite forgot," said Giles. What he had forgotten was that there was a thousand young fir-trees to be planted in a neighboring spot which had been cleared by the wood-cutters, and that he had arranged to plant them with his own hands. He had a marvellous power of making trees grow. Although he would seem to shovel in the earth quite carelessly, there was a sort of sympathy between himself and the fir, oak, or beech that he was operating on, so that the roots took hold of the soil in a few days. When, on the other hand, any of the journeymen planted, although they seemed to go through an identically similar process, one quarter of the trees would die away during the ensuing August. Hence Winterborne found delight in the work even when, as at present, he contracted to do it on portions of the woodland in which he had no personal interest. Marty, who turned her hand to anything, was usually the one who performed the part of keeping the trees in a perpendicular position while he threw in the mould. He accompanied her towards the spot, being stimulated yet further to proceed with the work by the knowledge that the ground was close to the way-side along which Grace must pass on her return from Hintock House. "You've a cold in the head, Marty," he said, as they walked. "That comes of cutting off your hair." "I suppose it do. Yes; I've three headaches going on in my head at the same time." "Three headaches!" "Yes, a rheumatic headache in my poll, a sick headache over my eyes, and a misery headache in the middle of my brain. However, I came out, for I thought you might be waiting and grumbling like anything if I was not there." The holes were already dug, and they set to work. Winterborne's fingers were endowed with a gentle conjuror's touch in spreading the roots of each little tree, resulting in a sort of caress, under which the delicate fibres all laid themselves out in their proper directions for growth. He put most of these roots towards the south-west; for, he said, in forty years' time, when some great gale is blowing from that quarter, the trees will require the strongest holdfast on that side to stand against it and not fall. "How they sigh directly we put 'em upright, though while they are lying down they don't sigh at all," said Marty. "Do they?" said Giles. "I've never noticed it." She erected one of the young pines into its hole, and held up her finger; the soft musical breathing instantly set in, which was not to cease night or day till the grown tree should be felled--probably long after the two planters should be felled themselves. "It seems to me," the girl continued, "as if they sigh because they are very sorry to begin life in earnest--just as we be." "Just as we be?" He looked critically at her. "You ought not to feel like that, Marty." Her only reply was turning to take up the next tree; and they planted on through a great part of the day, almost without another word. Winterborne's mind ran on his contemplated evening-party, his abstraction being such that he hardly was conscious of Marty's presence beside him. From the nature of their employment, in which he handled the spade and she merely held the tree, it followed that he got good exercise and she got none. But she was an heroic girl, and though her out-stretched hand was chill as a stone, and her cheeks blue, and her cold worse than ever, she would not complain while he was disposed to continue work. But when he paused she said, "Mr. Winterborne, can I run down the lane and back to warm my feet?" "Why, yes, of course," he said, awakening anew to her existence. "Though I was just thinking what a mild day it is for the season. Now I warrant that cold of yours is twice as bad as it was. You had no business to chop that hair off, Marty; it serves you almost right. Look here, cut off home at once." "A run down the lane will be quite enough." "No, it won't. You ought not to have come out to-day at all." "But I should like to finish the--" "Marty, I tell you to go home," said he, peremptorily. "I can manage to keep the rest of them upright with a stick or something." She went away without saying any more. When she had gone down the orchard a little distance she looked back. Giles suddenly went after her. "Marty, it was for your good that I was rough, you know. But warm yourself in your own way, I don't care." When she had run off he fancied he discerned a woman's dress through the holly-bushes which divided the coppice from the road. It was Grace at last, on her way back from the interview with Mrs. Charmond. He threw down the tree he was planting, and was about to break through the belt of holly when he suddenly became aware of the presence of another man, who was looking over the hedge on the opposite side of the way upon the figure of the unconscious Grace. He appeared as a handsome and gentlemanly personage of six or eight and twenty, and was quizzing her through an eye-glass. Seeing that Winterborne was noticing him, he let his glass drop with a click upon the rail which protected the hedge, and walked away in the opposite direction. Giles knew in a moment that this must be Mr. Fitzpiers. When he was gone, Winterborne pushed through the hollies, and emerged close beside the interesting object of their contemplation. CHAPTER IX. "I heard the bushes move long before I saw you," she began. "I said first, 'it is some terrible beast;' next, 'it is a poacher;' next, 'it is a friend!'" He regarded her with a slight smile, weighing, not her speech, but the question whether he should tell her that she had been watched. He decided in the negative. "You have been to the house?" he said. "But I need not ask." The fact was that there shone upon Miss Melbury's face a species of exaltation, which saw no environing details nor his own occupation; nothing more than his bare presence. "Why need you not ask?" "Your face is like the face of Moses when he came down from the Mount." She reddened a little and said, "How can you be so profane, Giles Winterborne?" "How can you think so much of that class of people? Well, I beg pardon; I didn't mean to speak so freely. How do you like her house and her?" "Exceedingly. I had not been inside the walls since I was a child, when it used to be let to strangers, before Mrs. Charmond's late husband bought the property. She is SO nice!" And Grace fell into such an abstracted gaze at the imaginary image of Mrs. Charmond and her niceness that it almost conjured up a vision of that lady in mid-air before them. "She has only been here a month or two, it seems, and cannot stay much longer, because she finds it so lonely and damp in winter. She is going abroad. Only think, she would like me to go with her." Giles's features stiffened a little at the news. "Indeed; what for? But I won't keep you standing here. Hoi, Robert!" he cried to a swaying collection of clothes in the distance, which was the figure of Creedle his man. "Go on filling in there till I come back." "I'm a-coming, sir; I'm a-coming." "Well, the reason is this," continued she, as they went on together--"Mrs. Charmond has a delightful side to her character--a desire to record her impressions of travel, like Alexandre Dumas, and Mery, and Sterne, and others. But she cannot find energy enough to do it herself." And Grace proceeded to explain Mrs. Charmond's proposal at large. "My notion is that Mery's style will suit her best, because he writes in that soft, emotional, luxurious way she has," Grace said, musingly. "Indeed!" said Winterborne, with mock awe. "Suppose you talk over my head a little longer, Miss Grace Melbury?" "Oh, I didn't mean it!" she said, repentantly, looking into his eyes. "And as for myself, I hate French books. And I love dear old Hintock, AND THE PEOPLE IN IT, fifty times better than all the Continent. But the scheme; I think it an enchanting notion, don't you, Giles?" "It is well enough in one sense, but it will take you away," said he, mollified. "Only for a short time. We should return in May." "Well, Miss Melbury, it is a question for your father." Winterborne walked with her nearly to her house. He had awaited her coming, mainly with the view of mentioning to her his proposal to have a Christmas party; but homely Christmas gatherings in the venerable and jovial Hintock style seemed so primitive and uncouth beside the lofty matters of her converse and thought that he refrained. As soon as she was gone he turned back towards the scene of his planting, and could not help saying to himself as he walked, that this engagement of his was a very unpromising business. Her outing to-day had not improved it. A woman who could go to Hintock House and be friendly with its mistress, enter into the views of its mistress, talk like her, and dress not much unlike her, why, she would hardly be contented with him, a yeoman, now immersed in tree-planting, even though he planted them well. "And yet she's a true-hearted girl," he said, thinking of her words about Hintock. "I must bring matters to a point, and there's an end of it." When he reached the plantation he found that Marty had come back, and dismissing Creedle, he went on planting silently with the girl as before. "Suppose, Marty," he said, after a while, looking at her extended arm, upon which old scratches from briers showed themselves purple in the cold wind--"suppose you know a person, and want to bring that person to a good understanding with you, do you think a Christmas party of some sort is a warming-up thing, and likely to be useful in hastening on the matter?" "Is there to be dancing?" "There might be, certainly." "Will He dance with She?" "Well, yes." "Then it might bring things to a head, one way or the other; I won't be the one to say which." "It shall be done," said Winterborne, not to her, though he spoke the words quite loudly. And as the day was nearly ended, he added, "Here, Marty, I'll send up a man to plant the rest to-morrow. I've other things to think of just now." She did not inquire what other things, for she had seen him walking with Grace Melbury. She looked towards the western sky, which was now aglow like some vast foundery wherein new worlds were being cast. Across it the bare bough of a tree stretched horizontally, revealing every twig against the red, and showing in dark profile every beck and movement of three pheasants that were settling themselves down on it in a row to roost. "It will be fine to-morrow," said Marty, observing them with the vermilion light of the sun in the pupils of her eyes, "for they are a-croupied down nearly at the end of the bough. If it were going to be stormy they'd squeeze close to the trunk. The weather is almost all they have to think of, isn't it, Mr. Winterborne? and so they must be lighter-hearted than we." "I dare say they are," said Winterborne. Before taking a single step in the preparations, Winterborne, with no great hopes, went across that evening to the timber-merchant's to ascertain if Grace and her parents would honor him with their presence. Having first to set his nightly gins in the garden, to catch the rabbits that ate his winter-greens, his call was delayed till just after the rising of the moon, whose rays reached the Hintock houses but fitfully as yet, on account of the trees. Melbury was crossing his yard on his way to call on some one at the larger village, but he readily turned and walked up and down the path with the young man. Giles, in his self-deprecatory sense of living on a much smaller scale than the Melburys did, would not for the world imply that his invitation was to a gathering of any importance. So he put it in the mild form of "Can you come in for an hour, when you have done business, the day after to-morrow; and Mrs. and Miss Melbury, if they have nothing more pressing to do?" Melbury would give no answer at once. "No, I can't tell you to-day," he said. "I must talk it over with the women. As far as I am concerned, my dear Giles, you know I'll come with pleasure. But how do I know what Grace's notions may be? You see, she has been away among cultivated folks a good while; and now this acquaintance with Mrs. Charmond--Well, I'll ask her. I can say no more." When Winterborne was gone the timber-merchant went on his way. He knew very well that Grace, whatever her own feelings, would either go or not go, according as he suggested; and his instinct was, for the moment, to suggest the negative. His errand took him past the church, and the way to his destination was either across the church-yard or along-side it, the distances being the same. For some reason or other he chose the former way. The moon was faintly lighting up the gravestones, and the path, and the front of the building. Suddenly Mr. Melbury paused, turned ill upon the grass, and approached a particular headstone, where he read, "In memory of John Winterborne," with the subjoined date and age. It was the grave of Giles's father. The timber-merchant laid his hand upon the stone, and was humanized. "Jack, my wronged friend!" he said. "I'll be faithful to my plan of making amends to 'ee." When he reached home that evening, he said to Grace and Mrs. Melbury, who were working at a little table by the fire, "Giles wants us to go down and spend an hour with him the day after to-morrow; and I'm thinking, that as 'tis Giles who asks us, we'll go." They assented without demur, and accordingly the timber-merchant sent Giles the next morning an answer in the affirmative. Winterborne, in his modesty, or indifference, had mentioned no particular hour in his invitation; and accordingly Mr. Melbury and his family, expecting no other guests, chose their own time, which chanced to be rather early in the afternoon, by reason of the somewhat quicker despatch than usual of the timber-merchant's business that day. To show their sense of the unimportance of the occasion, they walked quite slowly to the house, as if they were merely out for a ramble, and going to nothing special at all; or at most intending to pay a casual call and take a cup of tea. At this hour stir and bustle pervaded the interior of Winterborne's domicile from cellar to apple-loft. He had planned an elaborate high tea for six o'clock or thereabouts, and a good roaring supper to come on about eleven. Being a bachelor of rather retiring habits, the whole of the preparations devolved upon himself and his trusty man and familiar, Robert Creedle, who did everything that required doing, from making Giles's bed to catching moles in his field. He was a survival from the days when Giles's father held the homestead, and Giles was a playing boy. These two, with a certain dilatoriousness which appertained to both, were now in the heat of preparation in the bake-house, expecting nobody before six o'clock. Winterborne was standing before the brick oven in his shirt-sleeves, tossing in thorn sprays, and stirring about the blazing mass with a long-handled, three-pronged Beelzebub kind of fork, the heat shining out upon his streaming face and making his eyes like furnaces, the thorns crackling and sputtering; while Creedle, having ranged the pastry dishes in a row on the table till the oven should be ready, was pressing out the crust of a final apple-pie with a rolling-pin. A great pot boiled on the fire, and through the open door of the back kitchen a boy was seen seated on the fender, emptying the snuffers and scouring the candlesticks, a row of the latter standing upside down on the hob to melt out the grease. Looking up from the rolling-pin, Creedle saw passing the window first the timber-merchant, in his second-best suit, Mrs. Melbury in her best silk, and Grace in the fashionable attire which, in part brought home with her from the Continent, she had worn on her visit to Mrs. Charmond's. The eyes of the three had been attracted to the proceedings within by the fierce illumination which the oven threw out upon the operators and their utensils. "Lord, Lord! if they baint come a'ready!" said Creedle. "No--hey?" said Giles, looking round aghast; while the boy in the background waved a reeking candlestick in his delight. As there was no help for it, Winterborne went to meet them in the door-way. "My dear Giles, I see we have made a mistake in the time," said the timber-merchant's wife, her face lengthening with concern. "Oh, it is not much difference. I hope you'll come in." "But this means a regular randyvoo!" said Mr. Melbury, accusingly, glancing round and pointing towards the bake-house with his stick. "Well, yes," said Giles. "And--not Great Hintock band, and dancing, surely?" "I told three of 'em they might drop in if they'd nothing else to do," Giles mildly admitted. "Now, why the name didn't ye tell us 'twas going to be a serious kind of thing before? How should I know what folk mean if they don't say? Now, shall we come in, or shall we go home and come back along in a couple of hours?" "I hope you'll stay, if you'll be so good as not to mind, now you are here. I shall have it all right and tidy in a very little time. I ought not to have been so backward." Giles spoke quite anxiously for one of his undemonstrative temperament; for he feared that if the Melburys once were back in their own house they would not be disposed to turn out again. "'Tis we ought not to have been so forward; that's what 'tis," said Mr. Melbury, testily. "Don't keep us here in the sitting-room; lead on to the bakehouse, man. Now we are here we'll help ye get ready for the rest. Here, mis'ess, take off your things, and help him out in his baking, or he won't get done to-night. I'll finish heating the oven, and set you free to go and skiver up them ducks." His eye had passed with pitiless directness of criticism into yet remote recesses of Winterborne's awkwardly built premises, where the aforesaid birds were hanging. "And I'll help finish the tarts," said Grace, cheerfully. "I don't know about that," said her father. "'Tisn't quite so much in your line as it is in your mother-law's and mine." "Of course I couldn't let you, Grace!" said Giles, with some distress. "I'll do it, of course," said Mrs. Melbury, taking off her silk train, hanging it up to a nail, carefully rolling back her sleeves, pinning them to her shoulders, and stripping Giles of his apron for her own use. So Grace pottered idly about, while her father and his wife helped on the preparations. A kindly pity of his household management, which Winterborne saw in her eyes whenever he caught them, depressed him much more than her contempt would have done. Creedle met Giles at the pump after a while, when each of the others was absorbed in the difficulties of a cuisine based on utensils, cupboards, and provisions that were strange to them. He groaned to the young man in a whisper, "This is a bruckle het, maister, I'm much afeared! Who'd ha' thought they'd ha' come so soon?" The bitter placidity of Winterborne's look adumbrated the misgivings he did not care to express. "Have you got the celery ready?" he asked, quickly. "Now that's a thing I never could mind; no, not if you'd paid me in silver and gold. And I don't care who the man is, I says that a stick of celery that isn't scrubbed with the scrubbing-brush is not clean." "Very well, very well! I'll attend to it. You go and get 'em comfortable in-doors." He hastened to the garden, and soon returned, tossing the stalks to Creedle, who was still in a tragic mood. "If ye'd ha' married, d'ye see, maister," he said, "this caddle couldn't have happened to us." Everything being at last under way, the oven set, and all done that could insure the supper turning up ready at some time or other, Giles and his friends entered the parlor, where the Melburys again dropped into position as guests, though the room was not nearly so warm and cheerful as the blazing bakehouse. Others now arrived, among them Farmer Bawtree and the hollow-turner, and tea went off very well. Grace's disposition to make the best of everything, and to wink at deficiencies in Winterborne's menage, was so uniform and persistent that he suspected her of seeing even more deficiencies than he was aware of. That suppressed sympathy which had showed in her face ever since her arrival told him as much too plainly. "This muddling style of house-keeping is what you've not lately been used to, I suppose?" he said, when they were a little apart. "No; but I like it; it reminds me so pleasantly that everything here in dear old Hintock is just as it used to be. The oil is--not quite nice; but everything else is." "The oil?" "On the chairs, I mean; because it gets on one's dress. Still, mine is not a new one." Giles found that Creedle, in his zeal to make things look bright, had smeared the chairs with some greasy kind of furniture-polish, and refrained from rubbing it dry in order not to diminish the mirror-like effect that the mixture produced as laid on. Giles apologized and called Creedle; but he felt that the Fates were against him. CHAPTER X. Supper-time came, and with it the hot-baked meats from the oven, laid on a snowy cloth fresh from the press, and reticulated with folds, as in Flemish "Last Suppers." Creedle and the boy fetched and carried with amazing alacrity, the latter, to mollify his superior and make things pleasant, expressing his admiration of Creedle's cleverness when they were alone. "I s'pose the time when you learned all these knowing things, Mr. Creedle, was when you was in the militia?" "Well, yes. I seed the world at that time somewhat, certainly, and many ways of strange dashing life. Not but that Giles has worked hard in helping me to bring things to such perfection to-day. 'Giles,' says I, though he's maister. Not that I should call'n maister by rights, for his father growed up side by side with me, as if one mother had twinned us and been our nourishing." "I s'pose your memory can reach a long way back into history, Mr. Creedle?" "Oh yes. Ancient days, when there was battles and famines and hang-fairs and other pomps, seem to me as yesterday. Ah, many's the patriarch I've seed come and go in this parish! There, he's calling for more plates. Lord, why can't 'em turn their plates bottom upward for pudding, as they used to do in former days?" Meanwhile, in the adjoining room Giles was presiding in a half-unconscious state. He could not get over the initial failures in his scheme for advancing his suit, and hence he did not know that he was eating mouthfuls of bread and nothing else, and continually snuffing the two candles next him till he had reduced them to mere glimmers drowned in their own grease. Creedle now appeared with a specially prepared dish, which he served by elevating the little three-legged pot that contained it, and tilting the contents into a dish, exclaiming, simultaneously, "Draw back, gentlemen and ladies, please!" A splash followed. Grace gave a quick, involuntary nod and blink, and put her handkerchief to her face. "Good heavens! what did you do that for, Creedle?" said Giles, sternly, and jumping up. "'Tis how I do it when they baint here, maister," mildly expostulated Creedle, in an aside audible to all the company. "Well, yes--but--" replied Giles. He went over to Grace, and hoped none of it had gone into her eye. "Oh no," she said. "Only a sprinkle on my face. It was nothing." "Kiss it and make it well," gallantly observed Mr. Bawtree. Miss Melbury blushed. The timber-merchant said, quickly, "Oh, it is nothing! She must bear these little mishaps." But there could be discerned in his face something which said "I ought to have foreseen this." Giles himself, since the untoward beginning of the feast, had not quite liked to see Grace present. He wished he had not asked such people as Bawtree and the hollow-turner. He had done it, in dearth of other friends, that the room might not appear empty. In his mind's eye, before the event, they had been the mere background or padding of the scene, but somehow in reality they were the most prominent personages there. After supper they played cards, Bawtree and the hollow-turner monopolizing the new packs for an interminable game, in which a lump of chalk was incessantly used--a game those two always played wherever they were, taking a solitary candle and going to a private table in a corner with the mien of persons bent on weighty matters. The rest of the company on this account were obliged to put up with old packs for their round game, that had been lying by in a drawer ever since the time that Giles's grandmother was alive. Each card had a great stain in the middle of its back, produced by the touch of generations of damp and excited thumbs now fleshless in the grave; and the kings and queens wore a decayed expression of feature, as if they were rather an impecunious dethroned race of monarchs hiding in obscure slums than real regal characters. Every now and then the comparatively few remarks of the players at the round game were harshly intruded on by the measured jingle of Farmer Bawtree and the hollow-turner from the back of the room: "And I' will hold' a wa'-ger with you' That all' these marks' are thirt'-y two!" accompanied by rapping strokes with the chalk on the table; then an exclamation, an argument, a dealing of the cards; then the commencement of the rhymes anew. The timber-merchant showed his feelings by talking with a satisfied sense of weight in his words, and by praising the party in a patronizing tone, when Winterborne expressed his fear that he and his were not enjoying themselves. "Oh yes, yes; pretty much. What handsome glasses those are! I didn't know you had such glasses in the house. Now, Lucy" (to his wife), "you ought to get some like them for ourselves." And when they had abandoned cards, and Winterborne was talking to Melbury by the fire, it was the timber-merchant who stood with his back to the mantle in a proprietary attitude, from which post of vantage he critically regarded Giles's person, rather as a superficies than as a solid with ideas and feelings inside it, saying, "What a splendid coat that one is you have on, Giles! I can't get such coats. You dress better than I." After supper there was a dance, the bandsmen from Great Hintock having arrived some time before. Grace had been away from home so long that she had forgotten the old figures, and hence did not join in the movement. Then Giles felt that all was over. As for her, she was thinking, as she watched the gyrations, of a very different measure that she had been accustomed to tread with a bevy of sylph-like creatures in muslin, in the music-room of a large house, most of whom were now moving in scenes widely removed from this, both as regarded place and character. A woman she did not know came and offered to tell her fortune with the abandoned cards. Grace assented to the proposal, and the woman told her tale unskilfully, for want of practice, as she declared. Mr. Melbury was standing by, and exclaimed, contemptuously, "Tell her fortune, indeed! Her fortune has been told by men of science--what do you call 'em? Phrenologists. You can't teach her anything new. She's been too far among the wise ones to be astonished at anything she can hear among us folks in Hintock." At last the time came for breaking up, Melbury and his family being the earliest to leave, the two card-players still pursuing their game doggedly in the corner, where they had completely covered Giles's mahogany table with chalk scratches. The three walked home, the distance being short and the night clear. "Well, Giles is a very good fellow," said Mr. Melbury, as they struck down the lane under boughs which formed a black filigree in which the stars seemed set. "Certainly he is," said Grace, quickly, and in such a tone as to show that he stood no lower, if no higher, in her regard than he had stood before. When they were opposite an opening through which, by day, the doctor's house could be seen, they observed a light in one of his rooms, although it was now about two o'clock. "The doctor is not abed yet," said Mrs. Melbury. "Hard study, no doubt," said her husband. "One would think that, as he seems to have nothing to do about here by day, he could at least afford to go to bed early at night. 'Tis astonishing how little we see of him." Melbury's mind seemed to turn with much relief to the contemplation of Mr. Fitzpiers after the scenes of the evening. "It is natural enough," he replied. "What can a man of that sort find to interest him in Hintock? I don't expect he'll stay here long." His mind reverted to Giles's party, and when they were nearly home he spoke again, his daughter being a few steps in advance: "It is hardly the line of life for a girl like Grace, after what she's been accustomed to. I didn't foresee that in sending her to boarding-school and letting her travel, and what not, to make her a good bargain for Giles, I should be really spoiling her for him. Ah, 'tis a thousand pities! But he ought to have her--he ought!" At this moment the two exclusive, chalk-mark men, having at last really finished their play, could be heard coming along in the rear, vociferously singing a song to march-time, and keeping vigorous step to the same in far-reaching strides-- "She may go, oh! She may go, oh! She may go to the d---- for me!" The timber-merchant turned indignantly to Mrs. Melbury. "That's the sort of society we've been asked to meet," he said. "For us old folk it didn't matter; but for Grace--Giles should have known better!" Meanwhile, in the empty house from which the guests had just cleared out, the subject of their discourse was walking from room to room surveying the general displacement of furniture with no ecstatic feeling; rather the reverse, indeed. At last he entered the bakehouse, and found there Robert Creedle sitting over the embers, also lost in contemplation. Winterborne sat down beside him. "Well, Robert, you must be tired. You'd better get on to bed." "Ay, ay, Giles--what do I call ye? Maister, I would say. But 'tis well to think the day IS done, when 'tis done." Winterborne had abstractedly taken the poker, and with a wrinkled forehead was ploughing abroad the wood-embers on the broad hearth, till it was like a vast scorching Sahara, with red-hot bowlders lying about everywhere. "Do you think it went off well, Creedle?" he asked. "The victuals did; that I know. And the drink did; that I steadfastly believe, from the holler sound of the barrels. Good, honest drink 'twere, the headiest mead I ever brewed; and the best wine that berries could rise to; and the briskest Horner-and-Cleeves cider ever wrung down, leaving out the spice and sperrits I put into it, while that egg-flip would ha' passed through muslin, so little curdled 'twere. 'Twas good enough to make any king's heart merry--ay, to make his whole carcass smile. Still, I don't deny I'm afeared some things didn't go well with He and his." Creedle nodded in a direction which signified where the Melburys lived. "I'm afraid, too, that it was a failure there!" "If so, 'twere doomed to be so. Not but what that snail might as well have come upon anybody else's plate as hers." "What snail?" "Well, maister, there was a little one upon the edge of her plate when I brought it out; and so it must have been in her few leaves of wintergreen." "How the deuce did a snail get there?" "That I don't know no more than the dead; but there my gentleman was." "But, Robert, of all places, that was where he shouldn't have been!" "Well, 'twas his native home, come to that; and where else could we expect him to be? I don't care who the man is, snails and caterpillars always will lurk in close to the stump of cabbages in that tantalizing way." "He wasn't alive, I suppose?" said Giles, with a shudder on Grace's account. "Oh no. He was well boiled. I warrant him well boiled. God forbid that a LIVE snail should be seed on any plate of victuals that's served by Robert Creedle....But Lord, there; I don't mind 'em myself--them small ones, for they were born on cabbage, and they've lived on cabbage, so they must be made of cabbage. But she, the close-mouthed little lady, she didn't say a word about it; though 'twould have made good small conversation as to the nater of such creatures; especially as wit ran short among us sometimes." "Oh yes--'tis all over!" murmured Giles to himself, shaking his head over the glooming plain of embers, and lining his forehead more than ever. "Do you know, Robert," he said, "that she's been accustomed to servants and everything superfine these many years? How, then, could she stand our ways?" "Well, all I can say is, then, that she ought to hob-and-nob elsewhere. They shouldn't have schooled her so monstrous high, or else bachelor men shouldn't give randys, or if they do give 'em, only to their own race." "Perhaps that's true," said Winterborne, rising and yawning a sigh. CHAPTER XI. "'Tis a pity--a thousand pities!" her father kept saying next morning at breakfast, Grace being still in her bedroom. But how could he, with any self-respect, obstruct Winterborne's suit at this stage, and nullify a scheme he had labored to promote--was, indeed, mechanically promoting at this moment? A crisis was approaching, mainly as a result of his contrivances, and it would have to be met. But here was the fact, which could not be disguised: since seeing what an immense change her last twelve months of absence had produced in his daughter, after the heavy sum per annum that he had been spending for several years upon her education, he was reluctant to let her marry Giles Winterborne, indefinitely occupied as woodsman, cider-merchant, apple-farmer, and what not, even were she willing to marry him herself. "She will be his wife if you don't upset her notion that she's bound to accept him as an understood thing," said Mrs. Melbury. "Bless ye, she'll soon shake down here in Hintock, and be content with Giles's way of living, which he'll improve with what money she'll have from you. 'Tis the strangeness after her genteel life that makes her feel uncomfortable at first. Why, when I saw Hintock the first time I thought I never could like it. But things gradually get familiar, and stone floors seem not so very cold and hard, and the hooting of the owls not so very dreadful, and loneliness not so very lonely, after a while." "Yes, I believe ye. That's just it. I KNOW Grace will gradually sink down to our level again, and catch our manners and way of speaking, and feel a drowsy content in being Giles's wife. But I can't bear the thought of dragging down to that old level as promising a piece of maidenhood as ever lived--fit to ornament a palace wi'--that I've taken so much trouble to lift up. Fancy her white hands getting redder every day, and her tongue losing its pretty up-country curl in talking, and her bounding walk becoming the regular Hintock shail and wamble!" "She may shail, but she'll never wamble," replied his wife, decisively. When Grace came down-stairs he complained of her lying in bed so late; not so much moved by a particular objection to that form of indulgence as discomposed by these other reflections. The corners of her pretty mouth dropped a little down. "You used to complain with justice when I was a girl," she said. "But I am a woman now, and can judge for myself....But it is not that; it is something else!" Instead of sitting down she went outside the door. He was sorry. The petulance that relatives show towards each other is in truth directed against that intangible Causality which has shaped the situation no less for the offenders than the offended, but is too elusive to be discerned and cornered by poor humanity in irritated mood. Melbury followed her. She had rambled on to the paddock, where the white frost lay, and where starlings in flocks of twenties and thirties were walking about, watched by a comfortable family of sparrows perched in a line along the string-course of the chimney, preening themselves in the rays of the sun. "Come in to breakfast, my girl," he said. "And as to Giles, use your own mind. Whatever pleases you will please me." "I am promised to him, father; and I cannot help thinking that in honor I ought to marry him, whenever I do marry." He had a strong suspicion that somewhere in the bottom of her heart there pulsed an old simple indigenous feeling favorable to Giles, though it had become overlaid with implanted tastes. But he would not distinctly express his views on the promise. "Very well," he said. "But I hope I sha'n't lose you yet. Come in to breakfast. What did you think of the inside of Hintock House the other day?" "I liked it much." "Different from friend Winterborne's?" She said nothing; but he who knew her was aware that she meant by her silence to reproach him with drawing cruel comparisons. "Mrs. Charmond has asked you to come again--when, did you say?" "She thought Tuesday, but would send the day before to let me know if it suited her." And with this subject upon their lips they entered to breakfast. Tuesday came, but no message from Mrs. Charmond. Nor was there any on Wednesday. In brief, a fortnight slipped by without a sign, and it looked suspiciously as if Mrs. Charmond were not going further in the direction of "taking up" Grace at present. Her father reasoned thereon. Immediately after his daughter's two indubitable successes with Mrs. Charmond--the interview in the wood and a visit to the House--she had attended Winterborne's party. No doubt the out-and-out joviality of that gathering had made it a topic in the neighborhood, and that every one present as guests had been widely spoken of--Grace, with her exceptional qualities, above all. What, then, so natural as that Mrs. Charmond should have heard the village news, and become quite disappointed in her expectations of Grace at finding she kept such company? Full of this post hoc argument, Mr. Melbury overlooked the infinite throng of other possible reasons and unreasons for a woman changing her mind. For instance, while knowing that his Grace was attractive, he quite forgot that Mrs. Charmond had also great pretensions to beauty. In his simple estimate, an attractive woman attracted all around. So it was settled in his mind that her sudden mingling with the villagers at the unlucky Winterborne's was the cause of her most grievous loss, as he deemed it, in the direction of Hintock House. "'Tis a thousand pities!" he would repeat to himself. "I am ruining her for conscience' sake!" It was one morning later on, while these things were agitating his mind, that, curiously enough, something darkened the window just as they finished breakfast. Looking up, they saw Giles in person mounted on horseback, and straining his neck forward, as he had been doing for some time, to catch their attention through the window. Grace had been the first to see him, and involuntarily exclaimed, "There he is--and a new horse!" On their faces as they regarded Giles were written their suspended thoughts and compound feelings concerning him, could he have read them through those old panes. But he saw nothing: his features just now were, for a wonder, lit up with a red smile at some other idea. So they rose from breakfast and went to the door, Grace with an anxious, wistful manner, her father in a reverie, Mrs. Melbury placid and inquiring. "We have come out to look at your horse," she said. It could be seen that he was pleased at their attention, and explained that he had ridden a mile or two to try the animal's paces. "I bought her," he added, with warmth so severely repressed as to seem indifference, "because she has been used to carry a lady." Still Mr. Melbury did not brighten. Mrs. Melbury said, "And is she quiet?" Winterborne assured her that there was no doubt of it. "I took care of that. She's five-and-twenty, and very clever for her age." "Well, get off and come in," said Melbury, brusquely; and Giles dismounted accordingly. This event was the concrete result of Winterborne's thoughts during the past week or two. The want of success with his evening party he had accepted in as philosophic a mood as he was capable of; but there had been enthusiasm enough left in him one day at Sherton Abbas market to purchase this old mare, which had belonged to a neighboring parson with several daughters, and was offered him to carry either a gentleman or a lady, and to do odd jobs of carting and agriculture at a pinch. This obliging quadruped seemed to furnish Giles with a means of reinstating himself in Melbury's good opinion as a man of considerateness by throwing out future possibilities to Grace. The latter looked at him with intensified interest this morning, in the mood which is altogether peculiar to woman's nature, and which, when reduced into plain words, seems as impossible as the penetrability of matter--that of entertaining a tender pity for the object of her own unnecessary coldness. The imperturbable poise which marked Winterborne in general was enlivened now by a freshness and animation that set a brightness in his eye and on his cheek. Mrs. Melbury asked him to have some breakfast, and he pleasurably replied that he would join them, with his usual lack of tactical observation, not perceiving that they had all finished the meal, that the hour was inconveniently late, and that the note piped by the kettle denoted it to be nearly empty; so that fresh water had to be brought in, trouble taken to make it boil, and a general renovation of the table carried out. Neither did he know, so full was he of his tender ulterior object in buying that horse, how many cups of tea he was gulping down one after another, nor how the morning was slipping, nor how he was keeping the family from dispersing about their duties. Then he told throughout the humorous story of the horse's purchase, looking particularly grim at some fixed object in the room, a way he always looked when he narrated anything that amused him. While he was still thinking of the scene he had described, Grace rose and said, "I have to go and help my mother now, Mr. Winterborne." "H'm!" he ejaculated, turning his eyes suddenly upon her. She repeated her words with a slight blush of awkwardness; whereupon Giles, becoming suddenly conscious, too conscious, jumped up, saying, "To be sure, to be sure!" wished them quickly good-morning, and bolted out of the house. Nevertheless he had, upon the whole, strengthened his position, with her at least. Time, too, was on his side, for (as her father saw with some regret) already the homeliness of Hintock life was fast becoming effaced from her observation as a singularity; just as the first strangeness of a face from which we have for years been separated insensibly passes off with renewed intercourse, and tones itself down into simple identity with the lineaments of the past. Thus Mr. Melbury went out of the house still unreconciled to the sacrifice of the gem he had been at such pains in mounting. He fain could hope, in the secret nether chamber of his mind, that something would happen, before the balance of her feeling had quite turned in Winterborne's favor, to relieve his conscience and preserve her on her elevated plane. He could not forget that Mrs. Charmond had apparently abandoned all interest in his daughter as suddenly as she had conceived it, and was as firmly convinced as ever that the comradeship which Grace had shown with Giles and his crew by attending his party had been the cause. Matters lingered on thus. And then, as a hoop by gentle knocks on this side and on that is made to travel in specific directions, the little touches of circumstance in the life of this young girl shaped the curves of her career. CHAPTER XII. It was a day of rather bright weather for the season. Miss Melbury went out for a morning walk, and her ever-regardful father, having an hour's leisure, offered to walk with her. The breeze was fresh and quite steady, filtering itself through the denuded mass of twigs without swaying them, but making the point of each ivy-leaf on the trunks scratch its underlying neighbor restlessly. Grace's lips sucked in this native air of hers like milk. They soon reached a place where the wood ran down into a corner, and went outside it towards comparatively open ground. Having looked round about, they were intending to re-enter the copse when a fox quietly emerged with a dragging brush, trotted past them tamely as a domestic cat, and disappeared amid some dead fern. They walked on, her father merely observing, after watching the animal, "They are hunting somewhere near." Farther up they saw in the mid-distance the hounds running hither and thither, as if there were little or no scent that day. Soon divers members of the hunt appeared on the scene, and it was evident from their movements that the chase had been stultified by general puzzle-headedness as to the whereabouts of the intended victim. In a minute a farmer rode up to the two pedestrians, panting with acteonic excitement, and Grace being a few steps in advance, he addressed her, asking if she had seen the fox. "Yes," said she. "We saw him some time ago--just out there." "Did you cry Halloo?" "We said nothing." "Then why the d---- didn't you, or get the old buffer to do it for you?" said the man, as he cantered away. She looked rather disconcerted at this reply, and observing her father's face, saw that it was quite red. "He ought not to have spoken to ye like that!" said the old man, in the tone of one whose heart was bruised, though it was not by the epithet applied to himself. "And he wouldn't if he had been a gentleman. 'Twas not the language to use to a woman of any niceness. You, so well read and cultivated--how could he expect ye to know what tom-boy field-folk are in the habit of doing? If so be you had just come from trimming swedes or mangolds--joking with the rough work-folk and all that--I could have stood it. But hasn't it cost me near a hundred a year to lift you out of all that, so as to show an example to the neighborhood of what a woman can be? Grace, shall I tell you the secret of it? 'Twas because I was in your company. If a black-coated squire or pa'son had been walking with you instead of me he wouldn't have spoken so." "No, no, father; there's nothing in you rough or ill-mannered!" "I tell you it is that! I've noticed, and I've noticed it many times, that a woman takes her color from the man she's walking with. The woman who looks an unquestionable lady when she's with a polished-up fellow, looks a mere tawdry imitation article when she's hobbing and nobbing with a homely blade. You sha'n't be treated like that for long, or at least your children sha'n't. You shall have somebody to walk with you who looks more of a dandy than I--please God you shall!" "But, my dear father," she said, much distressed, "I don't mind at all. I don't wish for more honor than I already have!" "A perplexing and ticklish possession is a daughter," according to Menander or some old Greek poet, and to nobody was one ever more so than to Melbury, by reason of her very dearness to him. As for Grace, she began to feel troubled; she did not perhaps wish there and then to unambitiously devote her life to Giles Winterborne, but she was conscious of more and more uneasiness at the possibility of being the social hope of the family. "You would like to have more honor, if it pleases me?" asked her father, in continuation of the subject. Despite her feeling she assented to this. His reasoning had not been without its weight upon her. "Grace," he said, just before they had reached the house, "if it costs me my life you shall marry well! To-day has shown me that whatever a young woman's niceness, she stands for nothing alone. You shall marry well." He breathed heavily, and his breathing was caught up by the breeze, which seemed to sigh a soft remonstrance. She looked calmly at him. "And how about Mr. Winterborne?" she asked. "I mention it, father, not as a matter of sentiment, but as a question of keeping faith." The timber-merchant's eyes fell for a moment. "I don't know--I don't know," he said. "'Tis a trying strait. Well, well; there's no hurry. We'll wait and see how he gets on." That evening he called her into his room, a snug little apartment behind the large parlor. It had at one time been part of the bakehouse, with the ordinary oval brick oven in the wall; but Mr. Melbury, in turning it into an office, had built into the cavity an iron safe, which he used for holding his private papers. The door of the safe was now open, and his keys were hanging from it. "Sit down, Grace, and keep me company," he said. "You may amuse yourself by looking over these." He threw out a heap of papers before her. "What are they?" she asked. "Securities of various sorts." He unfolded them one by one. "Papers worth so much money each. Now here's a lot of turnpike bonds for one thing. Would you think that each of these pieces of paper is worth two hundred pounds?" "No, indeed, if you didn't say so." "'Tis so, then. Now here are papers of another sort. They are for different sums in the three-per-cents. Now these are Port Breedy Harbor bonds. We have a great stake in that harbor, you know, because I send off timber there. Open the rest at your pleasure. They'll interest ye." "Yes, I will, some day," said she, rising. "Nonsense, open them now. You ought to learn a little of such matters. A young lady of education should not be ignorant of money affairs altogether. Suppose you should be left a widow some day, with your husband's title-deeds and investments thrown upon your hands--" "Don't say that, father--title-deeds; it sounds so vain!" "It does not. Come to that, I have title-deeds myself. There, that piece of parchment represents houses in Sherton Abbas." "Yes, but--" She hesitated, looked at the fire, and went on in a low voice: "If what has been arranged about me should come to anything, my sphere will be quite a middling one." "Your sphere ought not to be middling," he exclaimed, not in passion, but in earnest conviction. "You said you never felt more at home, more in your element, anywhere than you did that afternoon with Mrs. Charmond, when she showed you her house and all her knick-knacks, and made you stay to tea so nicely in her drawing-room--surely you did!" "Yes, I did say so," admitted Grace. "Was it true?" "Yes, I felt so at the time. The feeling is less strong now, perhaps." "Ah! Now, though you don't see it, your feeling at the time was the right one, because your mind and body were just in full and fresh cultivation, so that going there with her was like meeting like. Since then you've been biding with us, and have fallen back a little, and so you don't feel your place so strongly. Now, do as I tell ye, and look over these papers and see what you'll be worth some day. For they'll all be yours, you know; who have I got to leave 'em to but you? Perhaps when your education is backed up by what these papers represent, and that backed up by another such a set and their owner, men such as that fellow was this morning may think you a little more than a buffer's girl." So she did as commanded, and opened each of the folded representatives of hard cash that her father put before her. To sow in her heart cravings for social position was obviously his strong desire, though in direct antagonism to a better feeling which had hitherto prevailed with him, and had, indeed, only succumbed that morning during the ramble. She wished that she was not his worldly hope; the responsibility of such a position was too great. She had made it for herself mainly by her appearance and attractive behavior to him since her return. "If I had only come home in a shabby dress, and tried to speak roughly, this might not have happened," she thought. She deplored less the fact than the sad possibilities that might lie hidden therein. Her father then insisted upon her looking over his checkbook and reading the counterfoils. This, also, she obediently did, and at last came to two or three which had been drawn to defray some of the late expenses of her clothes, board, and education. "I, too, cost a good deal, like the horses and wagons and corn," she said, looking up sorrily. "I didn't want you to look at those; I merely meant to give you an idea of my investment transactions. But if you do cost as much as they, never mind. You'll yield a better return." "Don't think of me like that!" she begged. "A mere chattel." "A what? Oh, a dictionary word. Well, as that's in your line I don't forbid it, even if it tells against me," he said, good-humoredly. And he looked her proudly up and down. A few minutes later Grammer Oliver came to tell them that supper was ready, and in giving the information she added, incidentally, "So we shall soon lose the mistress of Hintock House for some time, I hear, Maister Melbury. Yes, she's going off to foreign parts to-morrow, for the rest of the winter months; and be-chok'd if I don't wish I could do the same, for my wynd-pipe is furred like a flue." When the old woman had left the room, Melbury turned to his daughter and said, "So, Grace, you've lost your new friend, and your chance of keeping her company and writing her travels is quite gone from ye!" Grace said nothing. "Now," he went on, emphatically, "'tis Winterborne's affair has done this. Oh yes, 'tis. So let me say one word. Promise me that you will not meet him again without my knowledge." "I never do meet him, father, either without your knowledge or with it." "So much the better. I don't like the look of this at all. And I say it not out of harshness to him, poor fellow, but out of tenderness to you. For how could a woman, brought up delicately as you have been, bear the roughness of a life with him?" She sighed; it was a sigh of sympathy with Giles, complicated by a sense of the intractability of circumstances. At that same hour, and almost at that same minute, there was a conversation about Winterborne in progress in the village street, opposite Mr. Melbury's gates, where Timothy Tangs the elder and Robert Creedle had accidentally met. The sawyer was asking Creedle if he had heard what was all over the parish, the skin of his face being drawn two ways on the matter--towards brightness in respect of it as news, and towards concern in respect of it as circumstance. "Why, that poor little lonesome thing, Marty South, is likely to lose her father. He was almost well, but is much worse again. A man all skin and grief he ever were, and if he leave Little Hintock for a better land, won't it make some difference to your Maister Winterborne, neighbor Creedle?" "Can I be a prophet in Israel?" said Creedle. "Won't it! I was only shaping of such a thing yesterday in my poor, long-seeing way, and all the work of the house upon my one shoulders! You know what it means? It is upon John South's life that all Mr. Winterborne's houses hang. If so be South die, and so make his decease, thereupon the law is that the houses fall without the least chance of absolution into HER hands at the House. I told him so; but the words of the faithful be only as wind!" CHAPTER XIII. The news was true. The life--the one fragile life--that had been used as a measuring-tape of time by law, was in danger of being frayed away. It was the last of a group of lives which had served this purpose, at the end of whose breathings the small homestead occupied by South himself, the larger one of Giles Winterborne, and half a dozen others that had been in the possession of various Hintock village families for the previous hundred years, and were now Winterborne's, would fall in and become part of the encompassing estate. Yet a short two months earlier Marty's father, aged fifty-five years, though something of a fidgety, anxious being, would have been looked on as a man whose existence was so far removed from hazardous as any in the parish, and as bidding fair to be prolonged for another quarter of a century. Winterborne walked up and down his garden next day thinking of the contingency. The sense that the paths he was pacing, the cabbage-plots, the apple-trees, his dwelling, cider-cellar, wring-house, stables, and weathercock, were all slipping away over his head and beneath his feet, as if they were painted on a magic-lantern slide, was curious. In spite of John South's late indisposition he had not anticipated danger. To inquire concerning his health had been to show less sympathy than to remain silent, considering the material interest he possessed in the woodman's life, and he had, accordingly, made a point of avoiding Marty's house. While he was here in the garden somebody came to fetch him. It was Marty herself, and she showed her distress by her unconsciousness of a cropped poll. "Father is still so much troubled in his mind about that tree," she said. "You know the tree I mean, Mr. Winterborne? the tall one in front of the house, that he thinks will blow down and kill us. Can you come and see if you can persuade him out of his notion? I can do nothing." He accompanied her to the cottage, and she conducted him upstairs. John South was pillowed up in a chair between the bed and the window exactly opposite the latter, towards which his face was turned. "Ah, neighbor Winterborne," he said. "I wouldn't have minded if my life had only been my own to lose; I don't vallie it in much of itself, and can let it go if 'tis required of me. But to think what 'tis worth to you, a young man rising in life, that do trouble me! It seems a trick of dishonesty towards ye to go off at fifty-five! I could bear up, I know I could, if it were not for the tree--yes, the tree, 'tis that's killing me. There he stands, threatening my life every minute that the wind do blow. He'll come down upon us and squat us dead; and what will ye do when the life on your property is taken away?" "Never you mind me--that's of no consequence," said Giles. "Think of yourself alone." He looked out of the window in the direction of the woodman's gaze. The tree was a tall elm, familiar to him from childhood, which stood at a distance of two-thirds its own height from the front of South's dwelling. Whenever the wind blew, as it did now, the tree rocked, naturally enough; and the sight of its motion and sound of its sighs had gradually bred the terrifying illusion in the woodman's mind that it would descend and kill him. Thus he would sit all day, in spite of persuasion, watching its every sway, and listening to the melancholy Gregorian melodies which the air wrung out of it. This fear it apparently was, rather than any organic disease which was eating away the health of John South. As the tree waved, South waved his head, making it his flugel-man with abject obedience. "Ah, when it was quite a small tree," he said, "and I was a little boy, I thought one day of chopping it off with my hook to make a clothes-line prop with. But I put off doing it, and then I again thought that I would; but I forgot it, and didn't. And at last it got too big, and now 'tis my enemy, and will be the death o' me. Little did I think, when I let that sapling stay, that a time would come when it would torment me, and dash me into my grave." "No, no," said Winterborne and Marty, soothingly. But they thought it possible that it might hasten him into his grave, though in another way than by falling. "I tell you what," added Winterborne, "I'll climb up this afternoon and shroud off the lower boughs, and then it won't be so heavy, and the wind won't affect it so." "She won't allow it--a strange woman come from nobody knows where--she won't have it done." "You mean Mrs. Charmond? Oh, she doesn't know there's such a tree on her estate. Besides, shrouding is not felling, and I'll risk that much." He went out, and when afternoon came he returned, took a billhook from the woodman's shed, and with a ladder climbed into the lower part of the tree, where he began lopping off--"shrouding," as they called it at Hintock--the lowest boughs. Each of these quivered under his attack, bent, cracked, and fell into the hedge. Having cut away the lowest tier, he stepped off the ladder, climbed a few steps higher, and attacked those at the next level. Thus he ascended with the progress of his work far above the top of the ladder, cutting away his perches as he went, and leaving nothing but a bare stem below him. The work was troublesome, for the tree was large. The afternoon wore on, turning dark and misty about four o'clock. From time to time Giles cast his eyes across towards the bedroom window of South, where, by the flickering fire in the chamber, he could see the old man watching him, sitting motionless with a hand upon each arm of the chair. Beside him sat Marty, also straining her eyes towards the skyey field of his operations. A curious question suddenly occurred to Winterborne, and he stopped his chopping. He was operating on another person's property to prolong the years of a lease by whose termination that person would considerably benefit. In that aspect of the case he doubted if he ought to go on. On the other hand he was working to save a man's life, and this seemed to empower him to adopt arbitrary measures. The wind had died down to a calm, and while he was weighing the circumstances he saw coming along the road through the increasing mist a figure which, indistinct as it was, he knew well. It was Grace Melbury, on her way out from the house, probably for a short evening walk before dark. He arranged himself for a greeting from her, since she could hardly avoid passing immediately beneath the tree. But Grace, though she looked up and saw him, was just at that time too full of the words of her father to give him any encouragement. The years-long regard that she had had for him was not kindled by her return into a flame of sufficient brilliancy to make her rebellious. Thinking that she might not see him, he cried, "Miss Melbury, here I am." She looked up again. She was near enough to see the expression of his face, and the nails in his soles, silver-bright with constant walking. But she did not reply; and dropping her glance again, went on. Winterborne's face grew strange; he mused, and proceeded automatically with his work. Grace meanwhile had not gone far. She had reached a gate, whereon she had leaned sadly, and whispered to herself, "What shall I do?" A sudden fog came on, and she curtailed her walk, passing under the tree again on her return. Again he addressed her. "Grace," he said, when she was close to the trunk, "speak to me." She shook her head without stopping, and went on to a little distance, where she stood observing him from behind the hedge. Her coldness had been kindly meant. If it was to be done, she had said to herself, it should be begun at once. While she stood out of observation Giles seemed to recognize her meaning; with a sudden start he worked on, climbing higher, and cutting himself off more and more from all intercourse with the sublunary world. At last he had worked himself so high up the elm, and the mist had so thickened, that he could only just be discerned as a dark-gray spot on the light-gray sky: he would have been altogether out of notice but for the stroke of his billhook and the flight of a bough downward, and its crash upon the hedge at intervals. It was not to be done thus, after all: plainness and candor were best. She went back a third time; he did not see her now, and she lingeringly gazed up at his unconscious figure, loath to put an end to any kind of hope that might live on in him still. "Giles-- Mr. Winterborne," she said. He was so high amid the fog that he did not hear. "Mr. Winterborne!" she cried again, and this time he stopped, looked down, and replied. "My silence just now was not accident," she said, in an unequal voice. "My father says it is best not to think too much of that--engagement, or understanding between us, that you know of. I, too, think that upon the whole he is right. But we are friends, you know, Giles, and almost relations." "Very well," he answered, as if without surprise, in a voice which barely reached down the tree. "I have nothing to say in objection--I cannot say anything till I've thought a while." She added, with emotion in her tone, "For myself, I would have married you--some day--I think. But I give way, for I see it would be unwise." He made no reply, but sat back upon a bough, placed his elbow in a fork, and rested his head upon his hand. Thus he remained till the fog and the night had completely enclosed him from her view. Grace heaved a divided sigh, with a tense pause between, and moved onward, her heart feeling uncomfortably big and heavy, and her eyes wet. Had Giles, instead of remaining still, immediately come down from the tree to her, would she have continued in that filial acquiescent frame of mind which she had announced to him as final? If it be true, as women themselves have declared, that one of their sex is never so much inclined to throw in her lot with a man for good and all as five minutes after she has told him such a thing cannot be, the probabilities are that something might have been done by the appearance of Winterborne on the ground beside Grace. But he continued motionless and silent in that gloomy Niflheim or fog-land which involved him, and she proceeded on her way. The spot seemed now to be quite deserted. The light from South's window made rays on the fog, but did not reach the tree. A quarter of an hour passed, and all was blackness overhead. Giles had not yet come down. Then the tree seemed to shiver, then to heave a sigh; a movement was audible, and Winterborne dropped almost noiselessly to the ground. He had thought the matter out, and having returned the ladder and billhook to their places, pursued his way homeward. He would not allow this incident to affect his outer conduct any more than the danger to his leaseholds had done, and went to bed as usual. Two simultaneous troubles do not always make a double trouble; and thus it came to pass that Giles's practical anxiety about his houses, which would have been enough to keep him awake half the night at any other time, was displaced and not reinforced by his sentimental trouble about Grace Melbury. This severance was in truth more like a burial of her than a rupture with her; but he did not realize so much at present; even when he arose in the morning he felt quite moody and stern: as yet the second note in the gamut of such emotions, a tender regret for his loss, had not made itself heard. A load of oak timber was to be sent away that morning to a builder whose works were in a town many miles off. The proud trunks were taken up from the silent spot which had known them through the buddings and sheddings of their growth for the foregoing hundred years; chained down like slaves to a heavy timber carriage with enormous red wheels, and four of the most powerful of Melbury's horses were harnessed in front to draw them. The horses wore their bells that day. There were sixteen to the team, carried on a frame above each animal's shoulders, and tuned to scale, so as to form two octaves, running from the highest note on the right or off-side of the leader to the lowest on the left or near-side of the shaft-horse. Melbury was among the last to retain horse-bells in that neighborhood; for, living at Little Hintock, where the lanes yet remained as narrow as before the days of turnpike roads, these sound-signals were still as useful to him and his neighbors as they had ever been in former times. Much backing was saved in the course of a year by the warning notes they cast ahead; moreover, the tones of all the teams in the district being known to the carters of each, they could tell a long way off on a dark night whether they were about to encounter friends or strangers. The fog of the previous evening still lingered so heavily over the woods that the morning could not penetrate the trees till long after its time. The load being a ponderous one, the lane crooked, and the air so thick, Winterborne set out, as he often did, to accompany the team as far as the corner, where it would turn into a wider road. So they rumbled on, shaking the foundations of the roadside cottages by the weight of their progress, the sixteen bells chiming harmoniously over all, till they had risen out of the valley and were descending towards the more open route, the sparks rising from their creaking skid and nearly setting fire to the dead leaves alongside. Then occurred one of the very incidents against which the bells were an endeavor to guard. Suddenly there beamed into their eyes, quite close to them, the two lamps of a carriage, shorn of rays by the fog. Its approach had been quite unheard, by reason of their own noise. The carriage was a covered one, while behind it could be discerned another vehicle laden with luggage. Winterborne went to the head of the team, and heard the coachman telling the carter that he must turn back. The carter declared that this was impossible. "You can turn if you unhitch your string-horses," said the coachman. "It is much easier for you to turn than for us," said Winterborne. "We've five tons of timber on these wheels if we've an ounce." "But I've another carriage with luggage at my back." Winterborne admitted the strength of the argument. "But even with that," he said, "you can back better than we. And you ought to, for you could hear our bells half a mile off." "And you could see our lights." "We couldn't, because of the fog." "Well, our time's precious," said the coachman, haughtily. "You are only going to some trumpery little village or other in the neighborhood, while we are going straight to Italy." "Driving all the way, I suppose," said Winterborne, sarcastically. The argument continued in these terms till a voice from the interior of the carriage inquired what was the matter. It was a lady's. She was briefly informed of the timber people's obstinacy; and then Giles could hear her telling the footman to direct the timber people to turn their horses' heads. The message was brought, and Winterborne sent the bearer back to say that he begged the lady's pardon, but that he could not do as she requested; that though he would not assert it to be impossible, it was impossible by comparison with the slight difficulty to her party to back their light carriages. As fate would have it, the incident with Grace Melbury on the previous day made Giles less gentle than he might otherwise have shown himself, his confidence in the sex being rudely shaken. In fine, nothing could move him, and the carriages were compelled to back till they reached one of the sidings or turnouts constructed in the bank for the purpose. Then the team came on ponderously, and the clanging of its sixteen bells as it passed the discomfited carriages, tilted up against the bank, lent a particularly triumphant tone to the team's progress--a tone which, in point of fact, did not at all attach to its conductor's feelings. Giles walked behind the timber, and just as he had got past the yet stationary carriages he heard a soft voice say, "Who is that rude man? Not Melbury?" The sex of the speaker was so prominent in the voice that Winterborne felt a pang of regret. "No, ma'am. A younger man, in a smaller way of business in Little Hintock. Winterborne is his name." Thus they parted company. "Why, Mr. Winterborne," said the wagoner, when they were out of hearing, "that was She--Mrs. Charmond! Who'd ha' thought it? What in the world can a woman that does nothing be cock-watching out here at this time o' day for? Oh, going to Italy--yes to be sure, I heard she was going abroad, she can't endure the winter here." Winterborne was vexed at the incident; the more so that he knew Mr. Melbury, in his adoration of Hintock House, would be the first to blame him if it became known. But saying no more, he accompanied the load to the end of the lane, and then turned back with an intention to call at South's to learn the result of the experiment of the preceding evening. It chanced that a few minutes before this time Grace Melbury, who now rose soon enough to breakfast with her father, in spite of the unwontedness of the hour, had been commissioned by him to make the same inquiry at South's. Marty had been standing at the door when Miss Melbury arrived. Almost before the latter had spoken, Mrs. Charmond's carriages, released from the obstruction up the lane, came bowling along, and the two girls turned to regard the spectacle. Mrs. Charmond did not see them, but there was sufficient light for them to discern her outline between the carriage windows. A noticeable feature in her tournure was a magnificent mass of braided locks. "How well she looks this morning!" said Grace, forgetting Mrs. Charmond's slight in her generous admiration. "Her hair so becomes her worn that way. I have never seen any more beautiful!" "Nor have I, miss," said Marty, dryly, unconsciously stroking her crown. Grace watched the carriages with lingering regret till they were out of sight. She then learned of Marty that South was no better. Before she had come away Winterborne approached the house, but seeing that one of the two girls standing on the door-step was Grace, he suddenly turned back again and sought the shelter of his own home till she should have gone away. CHAPTER XIV. The encounter with the carriages having sprung upon Winterborne's mind the image of Mrs. Charmond, his thoughts by a natural channel went from her to the fact that several cottages and other houses in the two Hintocks, now his own, would fall into her possession in the event of South's death. He marvelled what people could have been thinking about in the past to invent such precarious tenures as these; still more, what could have induced his ancestors at Hintock, and other village people, to exchange their old copyholds for life-leases. But having naturally succeeded to these properties through his father, he had done his best to keep them in order, though he was much struck with his father's negligence in not insuring South's life. After breakfast, still musing on the circumstances, he went upstairs, turned over his bed, and drew out a flat canvas bag which lay between the mattress and the sacking. In this he kept his leases, which had remained there unopened ever since his father's death. It was the usual hiding-place among rural lifeholders for such documents. Winterborne sat down on the bed and looked them over. They were ordinary leases for three lives, which a member of the South family, some fifty years before this time, had accepted of the lord of the manor in lieu of certain copyholds and other rights, in consideration of having the dilapidated houses rebuilt by said lord. They had come into his father's possession chiefly through his mother, who was a South. Pinned to the parchment of one of the indentures was a letter, which Winterborne had never seen before. It bore a remote date, the handwriting being that of some solicitor or agent, and the signature the landholder's. It was to the effect that at any time before the last of the stated lives should drop, Mr. Giles Winterborne, senior, or his representative, should have the privilege of adding his own and his son's life to the life remaining on payment of a merely nominal sum; the concession being in consequence of the elder Winterborne's consent to demolish one of the houses and relinquish its site, which stood at an awkward corner of the lane and impeded the way. The house had been pulled down years before. Why Giles's father had not taken advantage of his privilege to insert his own and his son's lives it was impossible to say. The likelihood was that death alone had hindered him in the execution of his project, as it surely was, the elder Winterborne having been a man who took much pleasure in dealing with house property in his small way. Since one of the Souths still survived, there was not much doubt that Giles could do what his father had left undone, as far as his own life was concerned. This possibility cheered him much, for by those houses hung many things. Melbury's doubt of the young man's fitness to be the husband of Grace had been based not a little on the precariousness of his holdings in Little and Great Hintock. He resolved to attend to the business at once, the fine for renewal being a sum that he could easily muster. His scheme, however, could not be carried out in a day; and meanwhile he would run up to South's, as he had intended to do, to learn the result of the experiment with the tree. Marty met him at the door. "Well, Marty," he said; and was surprised to read in her face that the case was not so hopeful as he had imagined. "I am sorry for your labor," she said. "It is all lost. He says the tree seems taller than ever." Winterborne looked round at it. Taller the tree certainly did seem, the gauntness of its now naked stem being more marked than before. "It quite terrified him when he first saw what you had done to it this morning," she added. "He declares it will come down upon us and cleave us, like 'the sword of the Lord and of Gideon.'" "Well; can I do anything else?" asked he. "The doctor says the tree ought to be cut down." "Oh--you've had the doctor?" "I didn't send for him. Mrs. Charmond, before she left, heard that father was ill, and told him to attend him at her expense." "That was very good of her. And he says it ought to be cut down. We mustn't cut it down without her knowledge, I suppose." He went up-stairs. There the old man sat, staring at the now gaunt tree as if his gaze were frozen on to its trunk. Unluckily the tree waved afresh by this time, a wind having sprung up and blown the fog away, and his eyes turned with its wavings. They heard footsteps--a man's, but of a lighter type than usual. "There is Doctor Fitzpiers again," she said, and descended. Presently his tread was heard on the naked stairs. Mr. Fitzpiers entered the sick-chamber just as a doctor is more or less wont to do on such occasions, and pre-eminently when the room is that of a humble cottager, looking round towards the patient with that preoccupied gaze which so plainly reveals that he has wellnigh forgotten all about the case and the whole circumstances since he dismissed them from his mind at his last exit from the same apartment. He nodded to Winterborne, with whom he was already a little acquainted, recalled the case to his thoughts, and went leisurely on to where South sat. Fitzpiers was, on the whole, a finely formed, handsome man. His eyes were dark and impressive, and beamed with the light either of energy or of susceptivity--it was difficult to say which; it might have been a little of both. That quick, glittering, practical eye, sharp for the surface of things and for nothing beneath it, he had not. But whether his apparent depth of vision was real, or only an artistic accident of his corporeal moulding, nothing but his deeds could reveal. His face was rather soft than stern, charming than grand, pale than flushed; his nose--if a sketch of his features be de rigueur for a person of his pretensions--was artistically beautiful enough to have been worth doing in marble by any sculptor not over-busy, and was hence devoid of those knotty irregularities which often mean power; while the double-cyma or classical curve of his mouth was not without a looseness in its close. Nevertheless, either from his readily appreciative mien, or his reflective manner, or the instinct towards profound things which was said to possess him, his presence bespoke the philosopher rather than the dandy or macaroni--an effect which was helped by the absence of trinkets or other trivialities from his attire, though this was more finished and up to date than is usually the case among rural practitioners. Strict people of the highly respectable class, knowing a little about him by report, might have said that he seemed likely to err rather in the possession of too many ideas than too few; to be a dreamy 'ist of some sort, or too deeply steeped in some false kind of 'ism. However this may be, it will be seen that he was undoubtedly a somewhat rare kind of gentleman and doctor to have descended, as from the clouds, upon Little Hintock. "This is an extraordinary case," he said at last to Winterborne, after examining South by conversation, look, and touch, and learning that the craze about the elm was stronger than ever. "Come down-stairs, and I'll tell you what I think." They accordingly descended, and the doctor continued, "The tree must be cut down, or I won't answer for his life." "'Tis Mrs. Charmond's tree, and I suppose we must get permission?" said Giles. "If so, as she is gone away, I must speak to her agent." "Oh--never mind whose tree it is--what's a tree beside a life! Cut it down. I have not the honor of knowing Mrs. Charmond as yet, but I am disposed to risk that much with her." "'Tis timber," rejoined Giles, more scrupulous than he would have been had not his own interests stood so closely involved. "They'll never fell a stick about here without it being marked first, either by her or the agent." "Then we'll inaugurate a new era forthwith. How long has he complained of the tree?" asked the doctor of Marty. "Weeks and weeks, sir. The shape of it seems to haunt him like an evil spirit. He says that it is exactly his own age, that it has got human sense, and sprouted up when he was born on purpose to rule him, and keep him as its slave. Others have been like it afore in Hintock." They could hear South's voice up-stairs "Oh, he's rocking this way; he must come! And then my poor life, that's worth houses upon houses, will be squashed out o' me. Oh! oh!" "That's how he goes on," she added. "And he'll never look anywhere else but out of the window, and scarcely have the curtains drawn." "Down with it, then, and hang Mrs. Charmond," said Mr. Fitzpiers. "The best plan will be to wait till the evening, when it is dark, or early in the morning before he is awake, so that he doesn't see it fall, for that would terrify him worse than ever. Keep the blind down till I come, and then I'll assure him, and show him that his trouble is over." The doctor then departed, and they waited till the evening. When it was dusk, and the curtains drawn, Winterborne directed a couple of woodmen to bring a crosscut-saw, and the tall, threatening tree was soon nearly off at its base. He would not fell it completely then, on account of the possible crash, but next morning, before South was awake, they went and lowered it cautiously, in a direction away from the cottage. It was a business difficult to do quite silently; but it was done at last, and the elm of the same birth-year as the woodman's lay stretched upon the ground. The weakest idler that passed could now set foot on marks formerly made in the upper forks by the shoes of adventurous climbers only; once inaccessible nests could be examined microscopically; and on swaying extremities where birds alone had perched, the by-standers sat down. As soon as it was broad daylight the doctor came, and Winterborne entered the house with him. Marty said that her father was wrapped up and ready, as usual, to be put into his chair. They ascended the stairs, and soon seated him. He began at once to complain of the tree, and the danger to his life and Winterborne's house-property in consequence. The doctor signalled to Giles, who went and drew back the printed cotton curtains. "'Tis gone, see," said Mr. Fitzpiers. As soon as the old man saw the vacant patch of sky in place of the branched column so familiar to his gaze, he sprang up, speechless, his eyes rose from their hollows till the whites showed all round; he fell back, and a bluish whiteness overspread him. Greatly alarmed, they put him on the bed. As soon as he came a little out of his fit, he gasped, "Oh, it is gone!--where?--where?" His whole system seemed paralyzed by amazement. They were thunder-struck at the result of the experiment, and did all they could. Nothing seemed to avail. Giles and Fitzpiers went and came, but uselessly. He lingered through the day, and died that evening as the sun went down. "D--d if my remedy hasn't killed him!" murmured the doctor. CHAPTER XV. When Melbury heard what had happened he seemed much moved, and walked thoughtfully about the premises. On South's own account he was genuinely sorry; and on Winterborne's he was the more grieved in that this catastrophe had so closely followed the somewhat harsh dismissal of Giles as the betrothed of his daughter. He was quite angry with circumstances for so heedlessly inflicting on Giles a second trouble when the needful one inflicted by himself was all that the proper order of events demanded. "I told Giles's father when he came into those houses not to spend too much money on lifehold property held neither for his own life nor his son's," he exclaimed. "But he wouldn't listen to me. And now Giles has to suffer for it." "Poor Giles!" murmured Grace. "Now, Grace, between us two, it is very, very remarkable. It is almost as if I had foreseen this; and I am thankful for your escape, though I am sincerely sorry for Giles. Had we not dismissed him already, we could hardly have found it in our hearts to dismiss him now. So I say, be thankful. I'll do all I can for him as a friend; but as a pretender to the position of my son-in law, that can never be thought of more." And yet at that very moment the impracticability to which poor Winterborne's suit had been reduced was touching Grace's heart to a warmer sentiment on his behalf than she had felt for years concerning him. He, meanwhile, was sitting down alone in the old familiar house which had ceased to be his, taking a calm if somewhat dismal survey of affairs. The pendulum of the clock bumped every now and then against one side of the case in which it swung, as the muffled drum to his worldly march. Looking out of the window he could perceive that a paralysis had come over Creedle's occupation of manuring the garden, owing, obviously, to a conviction that they might not be living there long enough to profit by next season's crop. He looked at the leases again and the letter attached. There was no doubt that he had lost his houses by an accident which might easily have been circumvented if he had known the true conditions of his holding. The time for performance had now lapsed in strict law; but might not the intention be considered by the landholder when she became aware of the circumstances, and his moral right to retain the holdings for the term of his life be conceded? His heart sank within him when he perceived that despite all the legal reciprocities and safeguards prepared and written, the upshot of the matter amounted to this, that it depended upon the mere caprice--good or ill--of the woman he had met the day before in such an unfortunate way, whether he was to possess his houses for life or no. While he was sitting and thinking a step came to the door, and Melbury appeared, looking very sorry for his position. Winterborne welcomed him by a word and a look, and went on with his examination of the parchments. His visitor sat down. "Giles," he said, "this is very awkward, and I am sorry for it. What are you going to do?" Giles informed him of the real state of affairs, and how barely he had missed availing himself of his chance of renewal. "What a misfortune! Why was this neglected? Well, the best thing you can do is to write and tell her all about it, and throw yourself upon her generosity." "I would rather not," murmured Giles. "But you must," said Melbury. In short, he argued so cogently that Giles allowed himself to be persuaded, and the letter to Mrs. Charmond was written and sent to Hintock House, whence, as he knew, it would at once be forwarded to her. Melbury feeling that he had done so good an action in coming as almost to extenuate his previous arbitrary conduct to nothing, went home; and Giles was left alone to the suspense of waiting for a reply from the divinity who shaped the ends of the Hintock population. By this time all the villagers knew of the circumstances, and being wellnigh like one family, a keen interest was the result all round. Everybody thought of Giles; nobody thought of Marty. Had any of them looked in upon her during those moonlight nights which preceded the burial of her father, they would have seen the girl absolutely alone in the house with the dead man. Her own chamber being nearest the stairs, the coffin had been placed there for convenience; and at a certain hour of the night, when the moon arrived opposite the window, its beams streamed across the still profile of South, sublimed by the august presence of death, and onward a few feet farther upon the face of his daughter, lying in her little bed in the stillness of a repose almost as dignified as that of her companion--the repose of a guileless soul that had nothing more left on earth to lose, except a life which she did not overvalue. South was buried, and a week passed, and Winterborne watched for a reply from Mrs. Charmond. Melbury was very sanguine as to its tenor; but Winterborne had not told him of the encounter with her carriage, when, if ever he had heard an affronted tone on a woman's lips, he had heard it on hers. The postman's time for passing was just after Melbury's men had assembled in the spar-house; and Winterborne, who when not busy on his own account would lend assistance there, used to go out into the lane every morning and meet the post-man at the end of one of the green rides through the hazel copse, in the straight stretch of which his laden figure could be seen a long way off. Grace also was very anxious; more anxious than her father; more, perhaps, than Winterborne himself. This anxiety led her into the spar-house on some pretext or other almost every morning while they were awaiting the reply. Fitzpiers too, though he did not personally appear, was much interested, and not altogether easy in his mind; for he had been informed by an authority of what he had himself conjectured, that if the tree had been allowed to stand, the old man would have gone on complaining, but might have lived for twenty years. Eleven times had Winterborne gone to that corner of the ride, and looked up its long straight slope through the wet grays of winter dawn. But though the postman's bowed figure loomed in view pretty regularly, he brought nothing for Giles. On the twelfth day the man of missives, while yet in the extreme distance, held up his hand, and Winterborne saw a letter in it. He took it into the spar-house before he broke the seal, and those who were there gathered round him while he read, Grace looking in at the door. The letter was not from Mrs. Charmond herself, but her agent at Sherton. Winterborne glanced it over and looked up. "It's all over," he said. "Ah!" said they altogether. "Her lawyer is instructed to say that Mrs. Charmond sees no reason for disturbing the natural course of things, particularly as she contemplates pulling the houses down," he said, quietly. "Only think of that!" said several. Winterborne had turned away, and said vehemently to himself, "Then let her pull 'em down, and be d--d to her!" Creedle looked at him with a face of seven sorrows, saying, "Ah, 'twas that sperrit that lost 'em for ye, maister!" Winterborne subdued his feelings, and from that hour, whatever they were, kept them entirely to himself. There could be no doubt that, up to this last moment, he had nourished a feeble hope of regaining Grace in the event of this negotiation turning out a success. Not being aware of the fact that her father could have settled upon her a fortune sufficient to enable both to live in comfort, he deemed it now an absurdity to dream any longer of such a vanity as making her his wife, and sank into silence forthwith. Yet whatever the value of taciturnity to a man among strangers, it is apt to express more than talkativeness when he dwells among friends. The countryman who is obliged to judge the time of day from changes in external nature sees a thousand successive tints and traits in the landscape which are never discerned by him who hears the regular chime of a clock, because they are never in request. In like manner do we use our eyes on our taciturn comrade. The infinitesimal movement of muscle, curve, hair, and wrinkle, which when accompanied by a voice goes unregarded, is watched and translated in the lack of it, till virtually the whole surrounding circle of familiars is charged with the reserved one's moods and meanings. This was the condition of affairs between Winterborne and his neighbors after his stroke of ill-luck. He held his tongue; and they observed him, and knew that he was discomposed. Mr. Melbury, in his compunction, thought more of the matter than any one else, except his daughter. Had Winterborne been going on in the old fashion, Grace's father could have alluded to his disapproval of the alliance every day with the greatest frankness; but to speak any further on the subject he could not find it in his heart to do now. He hoped that Giles would of his own accord make some final announcement that he entirely withdrew his pretensions to Grace, and so get the thing past and done with. For though Giles had in a measure acquiesced in the wish of her family, he could make matters unpleasant if he chose to work upon Grace; and hence, when Melbury saw the young man approaching along the road one day, he kept friendliness and frigidity exactly balanced in his eye till he could see whether Giles's manner was presumptive or not. His manner was that of a man who abandoned all claims. "I am glad to meet ye, Mr. Melbury," he said, in a low voice, whose quality he endeavored to make as practical as possible. "I am afraid I shall not be able to keep that mare I bought, and as I don't care to sell her, I should like--if you don't object--to give her to Miss Melbury. The horse is very quiet, and would be quite safe for her." Mr. Melbury was rather affected at this. "You sha'n't hurt your pocket like that on our account, Giles. Grace shall have the horse, but I'll pay you what you gave for her, and any expense you may have been put to for her keep." He would not hear of any other terms, and thus it was arranged. They were now opposite Melbury's house, and the timber-merchant pressed Winterborne to enter, Grace being out of the way. "Pull round the settle, Giles," said the timber-merchant, as soon as they were within. "I should like to have a serious talk with you." Thereupon he put the case to Winterborne frankly, and in quite a friendly way. He declared that he did not like to be hard on a man when he was in difficulty; but he really did not see how Winterborne could marry his daughter now, without even a house to take her to. Giles quite acquiesced in the awkwardness of his situation. But from a momentary feeling that he would like to know Grace's mind from her own lips, he did not speak out positively there and then. He accordingly departed somewhat abruptly, and went home to consider whether he would seek to bring about a meeting with her. In the evening, while he sat quietly pondering, he fancied that he heard a scraping on the wall outside his house. The boughs of a monthly rose which grew there made such a noise sometimes, but as no wind was stirring he knew that it could not be the rose-tree. He took up the candle and went out. Nobody was near. As he turned, the light flickered on the whitewashed rough case of the front, and he saw words written thereon in charcoal, which he read as follows: "O Giles, you've lost your dwelling-place, And therefore, Giles, you'll lose your Grace." Giles went in-doors. He had his suspicions as to the scrawler of those lines, but he could not be sure. What suddenly filled his heart far more than curiosity about their authorship was a terrible belief that they were turning out to be true, try to see Grace as he might. They decided the question for him. He sat down and wrote a formal note to Melbury, in which he briefly stated that he was placed in such a position as to make him share to the full Melbury's view of his own and his daughter's promise, made some years before; to wish that it should be considered as cancelled, and they themselves quite released from any obligation on account of it. Having fastened up this their plenary absolution, he determined to get it out of his hands and have done with it; to which end he went off to Melbury's at once. It was now so late that the family had all retired; he crept up to the house, thrust the note under the door, and stole away as silently as he had come. Melbury himself was the first to rise the next morning, and when he had read the letter his relief was great. "Very honorable of Giles, very honorable," he kept saying to himself. "I shall not forget him. Now to keep her up to her own true level." It happened that Grace went out for an early ramble that morning, passing through the door and gate while her father was in the spar-house. To go in her customary direction she could not avoid passing Winterborne's house. The morning sun was shining flat upon its white surface, and the words, which still remained, were immediately visible to her. She read them. Her face flushed to crimson. She could see Giles and Creedle talking together at the back; the charred spar-gad with which the lines had been written lay on the ground beneath the wall. Feeling pretty sure that Winterborne would observe her action, she quickly went up to the wall, rubbed out "lose" and inserted "keep" in its stead. Then she made the best of her way home without looking behind her. Giles could draw an inference now if he chose. There could not be the least doubt that gentle Grace was warming to more sympathy with, and interest in, Giles Winterborne than ever she had done while he was her promised lover; that since his misfortune those social shortcomings of his, which contrasted so awkwardly with her later experiences of life, had become obscured by the generous revival of an old romantic attachment to him. Though mentally trained and tilled into foreignness of view, as compared with her youthful time, Grace was not an ambitious girl, and might, if left to herself, have declined Winterborne without much discontent or unhappiness. Her feelings just now were so far from latent that the writing on the wall had thus quickened her to an unusual rashness. Having returned from her walk she sat at breakfast silently. When her step-mother had left the room she said to her father, "I have made up my mind that I should like my engagement to Giles to continue, for the present at any rate, till I can see further what I ought to do." Melbury looked much surprised. "Nonsense," he said, sharply. "You don't know what you are talking about. Look here." He handed across to her the letter received from Giles. She read it, and said no more. Could he have seen her write on the wall? She did not know. Fate, it seemed, would have it this way, and there was nothing to do but to acquiesce. It was a few hours after this that Winterborne, who, curiously enough, had NOT perceived Grace writing, was clearing away the tree from the front of South's late dwelling. He saw Marty standing in her door-way, a slim figure in meagre black, almost without womanly contours as yet. He went up to her and said, "Marty, why did you write that on my wall last night? It WAS you, you know." "Because it was the truth. I didn't mean to let it stay, Mr. Winterborne; but when I was going to rub it out you came, and I was obliged to run off." "Having prophesied one thing, why did you alter it to another? Your predictions can't be worth much." "I have not altered it." "But you have." "No." "It is altered. Go and see." She went, and read that, in spite of losing his dwelling-place, he would KEEP his Grace. Marty came back surprised. "Well, I never," she said. "Who can have made such nonsense of it?" "Who, indeed?" said he. "I have rubbed it all out, as the point of it is quite gone." "You'd no business to rub it out. I didn't tell you to. I meant to let it stay a little longer." "Some idle boy did it, no doubt," she murmured. As this seemed very probable, and the actual perpetrator was unsuspected, Winterborne said no more, and dismissed the matter from his mind. From this day of his life onward for a considerable time, Winterborne, though not absolutely out of his house as yet, retired into the background of human life and action thereabout--a feat not particularly difficult of performance anywhere when the doer has the assistance of a lost prestige. Grace, thinking that Winterborne saw her write, made no further sign, and the frail bark of fidelity that she had thus timidly launched was stranded and lost. CHAPTER XVI. Dr. Fitzpiers lived on the slope of the hill, in a house of much less pretension, both as to architecture and as to magnitude, than the timber-merchant's. The latter had, without doubt, been once the manorial residence appertaining to the snug and modest domain of Little Hintock, of which the boundaries were now lost by its absorption with others of its kind into the adjoining estate of Mrs. Charmond. Though the Melburys themselves were unaware of the fact, there was every reason to believe--at least so the parson said--that the owners of that little manor had been Melbury's own ancestors, the family name occurring in numerous documents relating to transfers of land about the time of the civil wars. Mr. Fitzpiers's dwelling, on the contrary, was small, cottage-like, and comparatively modern. It had been occupied, and was in part occupied still, by a retired farmer and his wife, who, on the surgeon's arrival in quest of a home, had accommodated him by receding from their front rooms into the kitchen quarter, whence they administered to his wants, and emerged at regular intervals to receive from him a not unwelcome addition to their income. The cottage and its garden were so regular in their arrangement that they might have been laid out by a Dutch designer of the time of William and Mary. In a low, dense hedge, cut to wedge-shape, was a door over which the hedge formed an arch, and from the inside of the door a straight path, bordered with clipped box, ran up the slope of the garden to the porch, which was exactly in the middle of the house front, with two windows on each side. Right and left of the path were first a bed of gooseberry bushes; next of currant; next of raspberry; next of strawberry; next of old-fashioned flowers; at the corners opposite the porch being spheres of box resembling a pair of school globes. Over the roof of the house could be seen the orchard, on yet higher ground, and behind the orchard the forest-trees, reaching up to the crest of the hill. Opposite the garden door and visible from the parlor window was a swing-gate leading into a field, across which there ran a footpath. The swing-gate had just been repainted, and on one fine afternoon, before the paint was dry, and while gnats were still dying thereon, the surgeon was standing in his sitting-room abstractedly looking out at the different pedestrians who passed and repassed along that route. Being of a philosophical stamp, he perceived that the character of each of these travellers exhibited itself in a somewhat amusing manner by his or her method of handling the gate. As regarded the men, there was not much variety: they gave the gate a kick and passed through. The women were more contrasting. To them the sticky wood-work was a barricade, a disgust, a menace, a treachery, as the case might be. The first that he noticed was a bouncing woman with her skirts tucked up and her hair uncombed. She grasped the gate without looking, giving it a supplementary push with her shoulder, when the white imprint drew from her an exclamation in language not too refined. She went to the green bank, sat down and rubbed herself in the grass, cursing the while. "Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the doctor. The next was a girl, with her hair cropped short, in whom the surgeon recognized the daughter of his late patient, the woodman South. Moreover, a black bonnet that she wore by way of mourning unpleasantly reminded him that he had ordered the felling of a tree which had caused her parent's death and Winterborne's losses. She walked and thought, and not recklessly; but her preoccupation led her to grasp unsuspectingly the bar of the gate, and touch it with her arm. Fitzpiers felt sorry that she should have soiled that new black frock, poor as it was, for it was probably her only one. She looked at her hand and arm, seemed but little surprised, wiped off the disfigurement with an almost unmoved face, and as if without abandoning her original thoughts. Thus she went on her way. Then there came over the green quite a different sort of personage. She walked as delicately as if she had been bred in town, and as firmly as if she had been bred in the country; she seemed one who dimly knew her appearance to be attractive, but who retained some of the charm of being ignorant of that fact by forgetting it in a general pensiveness. She approached the gate. To let such a creature touch it even with a tip of her glove was to Fitzpiers almost like letting her proceed to tragical self-destruction. He jumped up and looked for his hat, but was unable to find the right one; glancing again out of the window he saw that he was too late. Having come up, she stopped, looked at the gate, picked up a little stick, and using it as a bayonet, pushed open the obstacle without touching it at all. He steadily watched her till she had passed out of sight, recognizing her as the very young lady whom he had seen once before and been unable to identify. Whose could that emotional face be? All the others he had seen in Hintock as yet oppressed him with their crude rusticity; the contrast offered by this suggested that she hailed from elsewhere. Precisely these thoughts had occurred to him at the first time of seeing her; but he now went a little further with them, and considered that as there had been no carriage seen or heard lately in that spot she could not have come a very long distance. She must be somebody staying at Hintock House? Possibly Mrs. Charmond, of whom he had heard so much--at any rate an inmate, and this probability was sufficient to set a mild radiance in the surgeon's somewhat dull sky. Fitzpiers sat down to the book he had been perusing. It happened to be that of a German metaphysician, for the doctor was not a practical man, except by fits, and much preferred the ideal world to the real, and the discovery of principles to their application. The young lady remained in his thoughts. He might have followed her; but he was not constitutionally active, and preferred a conjectural pursuit. However, when he went out for a ramble just before dusk he insensibly took the direction of Hintock House, which was the way that Grace had been walking, it having happened that her mind had run on Mrs. Charmond that day, and she had walked to the brow of a hill whence the house could be seen, returning by another route. Fitzpiers in his turn reached the edge of the glen, overlooking the manor-house. The shutters were shut, and only one chimney smoked. The mere aspect of the place was enough to inform him that Mrs. Charmond had gone away and that nobody else was staying there. Fitzpiers felt a vague disappointment that the young lady was not Mrs. Charmond, of whom he had heard so much; and without pausing longer to gaze at a carcass from which the spirit had flown, he bent his steps homeward. Later in the evening Fitzpiers was summoned to visit a cottage patient about two miles distant. Like the majority of young practitioners in his position he was far from having assumed the dignity of being driven his rounds by a servant in a brougham that flashed the sunlight like a mirror; his way of getting about was by means of a gig which he drove himself, hitching the rein of the horse to the gate post, shutter hook, or garden paling of the domicile under visitation, or giving pennies to little boys to hold the animal during his stay--pennies which were well earned when the cases to be attended were of a certain cheerful kind that wore out the patience of the little boys. On this account of travelling alone, the night journeys which Fitzpiers had frequently to take were dismal enough, a serious apparent perversity in nature ruling that whenever there was to be a birth in a particularly inaccessible and lonely place, that event should occur in the night. The surgeon, having been of late years a town man, hated the solitary midnight woodland. He was not altogether skilful with the reins, and it often occurred to his mind that if in some remote depths of the trees an accident were to happen, the fact of his being alone might be the death of him. Hence he made a practice of picking up any countryman or lad whom he chanced to pass by, and under the disguise of treating him to a nice drive, obtained his companionship on the journey, and his convenient assistance in opening gates. The doctor had started on his way out of the village on the night in question when the light of his lamps fell upon the musing form of Winterborne, walking leisurely along, as if he had no object in life. Winterborne was a better class of companion than the doctor usually could get, and he at once pulled up and asked him if he would like a drive through the wood that fine night. Giles seemed rather surprised at the doctor's friendliness, but said that he had no objection, and accordingly mounted beside Mr. Fitzpiers. They drove along under the black boughs which formed a network upon the stars, all the trees of a species alike in one respect, and no two of them alike in another. Looking up as they passed under a horizontal bough they sometimes saw objects like large tadpoles lodged diametrically across it, which Giles explained to be pheasants there at roost; and they sometimes heard the report of a gun, which reminded him that others knew what those tadpole shapes represented as well as he. Presently the doctor said what he had been going to say for some time: "Is there a young lady staying in this neighborhood--a very attractive girl--with a little white boa round her neck, and white fur round her gloves?" Winterborne of course knew in a moment that Grace, whom he had caught the doctor peering at, was represented by these accessaries. With a wary grimness, partly in his character, partly induced by the circumstances, he evaded an answer by saying, "I saw a young lady talking to Mrs. Charmond the other day; perhaps it was she." Fitzpiers concluded from this that Winterborne had not seen him looking over the hedge. "It might have been," he said. "She is quite a gentlewoman--the one I mean. She cannot be a permanent resident in Hintock or I should have seen her before. Nor does she look like one." "She is not staying at Hintock House?" "No; it is closed." "Then perhaps she is staying at one of the cottages, or farmhouses?" "Oh no--you mistake. She was a different sort of girl altogether." As Giles was nobody, Fitzpiers treated him accordingly, and apostrophized the night in continuation: "'She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness, A power, that from its objects scarcely drew One impulse of her being--in her lightness Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew, Which wanders through the waste air's pathless blue, To nourish some far desert: she did seem Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew, Like the bright shade of some immortal dream Which walks, when tempests sleep, the wave of life's dark stream.'" The consummate charm of the lines seemed to Winterborne, though he divined that they were a quotation, to be somehow the result of his lost love's charms upon Fitzpiers. "You seem to be mightily in love with her, sir," he said, with a sensation of heart-sickness, and more than ever resolved not to mention Grace by name. "Oh no--I am not that, Winterborne; people living insulated, as I do by the solitude of this place, get charged with emotive fluid like a Leyden-jar with electric, for want of some conductor at hand to disperse it. Human love is a subjective thing--the essence itself of man, as that great thinker Spinoza the philosopher says--ipsa hominis essentia--it is joy accompanied by an idea which we project against any suitable object in the line of our vision, just as the rainbow iris is projected against an oak, ash, or elm tree indifferently. So that if any other young lady had appeared instead of the one who did appear, I should have felt just the same interest in her, and have quoted precisely the same lines from Shelley about her, as about this one I saw. Such miserable creatures of circumstance are we all!" "Well, it is what we call being in love down in these parts, whether or no," said Winterborne. "You are right enough if you admit that I am in love with something in my own head, and no thing in itself outside it at all." "Is it part of a country doctor's duties to learn that view of things, may I ask, sir?" said Winterborne, adopting the Socratic {Greek word: irony} with such well-assumed simplicity that Fitzpiers answered, readily, "Oh no. The real truth is, Winterborne, that medical practice in places like this is a very rule-of-thumb matter; a bottle of bitter stuff for this and that old woman--the bitterer the better--compounded from a few simple stereotyped prescriptions; occasional attendance at births, where mere presence is almost sufficient, so healthy and strong are the people; and a lance for an abscess now and then. Investigation and experiment cannot be carried on without more appliances than one has here--though I have attempted it a little." Giles did not enter into this view of the case; what he had been struck with was the curious parallelism between Mr. Fitzpiers's manner and Grace's, as shown by the fact of both of them straying into a subject of discourse so engrossing to themselves that it made them forget it was foreign to him. Nothing further passed between himself and the doctor in relation to Grace till they were on their way back. They had stopped at a way-side inn for a glass of brandy and cider hot, and when they were again in motion, Fitzpiers, possibly a little warmed by the liquor, resumed the subject by saying, "I should like very much to know who that young lady was." "What difference can it make, if she's only the tree your rainbow falls on?" "Ha! ha! True." "You have no wife, sir?" "I have no wife, and no idea of one. I hope to do better things than marry and settle in Hintock. Not but that it is well for a medical man to be married, and sometimes, begad, 'twould be pleasant enough in this place, with the wind roaring round the house, and the rain and the boughs beating against it. I hear that you lost your life-holds by the death of South?" "I did. I lost in more ways than one." They had reached the top of Hintock Lane or Street, if it could be called such where three-quarters of the road-side consisted of copse and orchard. One of the first houses to be passed was Melbury's. A light was shining from a bedroom window facing lengthwise of the lane. Winterborne glanced at it, and saw what was coming. He had withheld an answer to the doctor's inquiry to hinder his knowledge of Grace; but, as he thought to himself, "who hath gathered the wind in his fists? who hath bound the waters in a garment?" he could not hinder what was doomed to arrive, and might just as well have been outspoken. As they came up to the house, Grace's figure was distinctly visible, drawing the two white curtains together which were used here instead of blinds. "Why, there she is!" said Fitzpiers. "How does she come there?" "In the most natural way in the world. It is her home. Mr. Melbury is her father." "Oh, indeed--indeed--indeed! How comes he to have a daughter of that stamp?" Winterborne laughed coldly. "Won't money do anything," he said, "if you've promising material to work upon? Why shouldn't a Hintock girl, taken early from home, and put under proper instruction, become as finished as any other young lady, if she's got brains and good looks to begin with?" "No reason at all why she shouldn't," murmured the surgeon, with reflective disappointment. "Only I didn't anticipate quite that kind of origin for her." "And you think an inch or two less of her now." There was a little tremor in Winterborne's voice as he spoke. "Well," said the doctor, with recovered warmth, "I am not so sure that I think less of her. At first it was a sort of blow; but, dammy! I'll stick up for her. She's charming, every inch of her!" "So she is," said Winterborne, "but not to me." From this ambiguous expression of the reticent woodlander's, Dr. Fitzpiers inferred that Giles disliked Miss Melbury because of some haughtiness in her bearing towards him, and had, on that account, withheld her name. The supposition did not tend to diminish his admiration for her. CHAPTER XVII. Grace's exhibition of herself, in the act of pulling-to the window-curtains, had been the result of an unfortunate incident in the house that day--nothing less than the illness of Grammer Oliver, a woman who had never till now lain down for such a reason in her life. Like others to whom unbroken years of health has made the idea of keeping their bed almost as repugnant as death itself, she had continued on foot till she literally fell on the floor; and though she had, as yet, been scarcely a day off duty, she had sickened into quite a different personage from the independent Grammer of the yard and spar-house. Ill as she was, on one point she was firm. On no account would she see a doctor; in other words, Fitzpiers. The room in which Grace had been discerned was not her own, but the old woman's. On the girl's way to bed she had received a message from Grammer, to the effect that she would much like to speak to her that night. Grace entered, and set the candle on a low chair beside the bed, so that the profile of Grammer as she lay cast itself in a keen shadow upon the whitened wall, her large head being still further magnified by an enormous turban, which was, really, her petticoat wound in a wreath round her temples. Grace put the room a little in order, and approaching the sick woman, said, "I am come, Grammer, as you wish. Do let us send for the doctor before it gets later." "I will not have him," said Grammer Oliver, decisively. "Then somebody to sit up with you." "Can't abear it! No; I wanted to see you, Miss Grace, because 'ch have something on my mind. Dear Miss Grace, I TOOK THAT MONEY OF THE DOCTOR, AFTER ALL!" "What money?" "The ten pounds." Grace did not quite understand. "The ten pounds he offered me for my head, because I've a large brain. I signed a paper when I took the money, not feeling concerned about it at all. I have not liked to tell ye that it was really settled with him, because you showed such horror at the notion. Well, having thought it over more at length, I wish I hadn't done it; and it weighs upon my mind. John South's death of fear about the tree makes me think that I shall die of this....'Ch have been going to ask him again to let me off, but I hadn't the face." "Why?" "I've spent some of the money--more'n two pounds o't. It do wherrit me terribly; and I shall die o' the thought of that paper I signed with my holy cross, as South died of his trouble." "If you ask him to burn the paper he will, I'm sure, and think no more of it." "'Ch have done it once already, miss. But he laughed cruel like. 'Yours is such a fine brain, Grammer,' 'er said, 'that science couldn't afford to lose you. Besides, you've taken my money.'...Don't let your father know of this, please, on no account whatever!" "No, no. I will let you have the money to return to him." Grammer rolled her head negatively upon the pillow. "Even if I should be well enough to take it to him, he won't like it. Though why he should so particular want to look into the works of a poor old woman's head-piece like mine when there's so many other folks about, I don't know. I know how he'll answer me: 'A lonely person like you, Grammer,' er woll say. 'What difference is it to you what becomes of ye when the breath's out of your body?' Oh, it do trouble me! If you only knew how he do chevy me round the chimmer in my dreams, you'd pity me. How I could do it I can't think! But 'ch was always so rackless!...If I only had anybody to plead for me!" "Mrs. Melbury would, I am sure." "Ay; but he wouldn't hearken to she! It wants a younger face than hers to work upon such as he." Grace started with comprehension. "You don't think he would do it for me?" she said. "Oh, wouldn't he!" "I couldn't go to him, Grammer, on any account. I don't know him at all." "Ah, if I were a young lady," said the artful Grammer, "and could save a poor old woman's skellington from a heathen doctor instead of a Christian grave, I would do it, and be glad to. But nobody will do anything for a poor old familiar friend but push her out of the way." "You are very ungrateful, Grammer, to say that. But you are ill, I know, and that's why you speak so. Now believe me, you are not going to die yet. Remember you told me yourself that you meant to keep him waiting many a year." "Ay, one can joke when one is well, even in old age; but in sickness one's gayety falters to grief; and that which seemed small looks large; and the grim far-off seems near." Grace's eyes had tears in them. "I don't like to go to him on such an errand, Grammer," she said, brokenly. "But I will, to ease your mind." It was with extreme reluctance that Grace cloaked herself next morning for the undertaking. She was all the more indisposed to the journey by reason of Grammer's allusion to the effect of a pretty face upon Dr. Fitzpiers; and hence she most illogically did that which, had the doctor never seen her, would have operated to stultify the sole motive of her journey; that is to say, she put on a woollen veil, which hid all her face except an occasional spark of her eyes. Her own wish that nothing should be known of this strange and grewsome proceeding, no less than Grammer Oliver's own desire, led Grace to take every precaution against being discovered. She went out by the garden door as the safest way, all the household having occupations at the other side. The morning looked forbidding enough when she stealthily opened it. The battle between frost and thaw was continuing in mid-air: the trees dripped on the garden-plots, where no vegetables would grow for the dripping, though they were planted year after year with that curious mechanical regularity of country people in the face of hopelessness; the moss which covered the once broad gravel terrace was swamped; and Grace stood irresolute. Then she thought of poor Grammer, and her dreams of the doctor running after her, scalpel in hand, and the possibility of a case so curiously similar to South's ending in the same way; thereupon she stepped out into the drizzle. The nature of her errand, and Grammer Oliver's account of the compact she had made, lent a fascinating horror to Grace's conception of Fitzpiers. She knew that he was a young man; but her single object in seeking an interview with him put all considerations of his age and social aspect from her mind. Standing as she stood, in Grammer Oliver's shoes, he was simply a remorseless Jove of the sciences, who would not have mercy, and would have sacrifice; a man whom, save for this, she would have preferred to avoid knowing. But since, in such a small village, it was improbable that any long time could pass without their meeting, there was not much to deplore in her having to meet him now. But, as need hardly be said, Miss Melbury's view of the doctor as a merciless, unwavering, irresistible scientist was not quite in accordance with fact. The real Dr. Fitzpiers was a man of too many hobbies to show likelihood of rising to any great eminence in the profession he had chosen, or even to acquire any wide practice in the rural district he had marked out as his field of survey for the present. In the course of a year his mind was accustomed to pass in a grand solar sweep through all the zodiacal signs of the intellectual heaven. Sometimes it was in the Ram, sometimes in the Bull; one month he would be immersed in alchemy, another in poesy; one month in the Twins of astrology and astronomy; then in the Crab of German literature and metaphysics. In justice to him it must be stated that he took such studies as were immediately related to his own profession in turn with the rest, and it had been in a month of anatomical ardor without the possibility of a subject that he had proposed to Grammer Oliver the terms she had mentioned to her mistress. As may be inferred from the tone of his conversation with Winterborne, he had lately plunged into abstract philosophy with much zest; perhaps his keenly appreciative, modern, unpractical mind found this a realm more to his taste than any other. Though his aims were desultory, Fitzpiers's mental constitution was not without its admirable side; a keen inquirer he honestly was, even if the midnight rays of his lamp, visible so far through the trees of Hintock, lighted rank literatures of emotion and passion as often as, or oftener than, the books and materiel of science. But whether he meditated the Muses or the philosophers, the loneliness of Hintock life was beginning to tell upon his impressionable nature. Winter in a solitary house in the country, without society, is tolerable, nay, even enjoyable and delightful, given certain conditions, but these are not the conditions which attach to the life of a professional man who drops down into such a place by mere accident. They were present to the lives of Winterborne, Melbury, and Grace; but not to the doctor's. They are old association--an almost exhaustive biographical or historical acquaintance with every object, animate and inanimate, within the observer's horizon. He must know all about those invisible ones of the days gone by, whose feet have traversed the fields which look so gray from his windows; recall whose creaking plough has turned those sods from time to time; whose hands planted the trees that form a crest to the opposite hill; whose horses and hounds have torn through that underwood; what birds affect that particular brake; what domestic dramas of love, jealousy, revenge, or disappointment have been enacted in the cottages, the mansion, the street, or on the green. The spot may have beauty, grandeur, salubrity, convenience; but if it lack memories it will ultimately pall upon him who settles there without opportunity of intercourse with his kind. In such circumstances, maybe, an old man dreams of an ideal friend, till he throws himself into the arms of any impostor who chooses to wear that title on his face. A young man may dream of an ideal friend likewise, but some humor of the blood will probably lead him to think rather of an ideal mistress, and at length the rustle of a woman's dress, the sound of her voice, or the transit of her form across the field of his vision, will enkindle his soul with a flame that blinds his eyes. The discovery of the attractive Grace's name and family would have been enough in other circumstances to lead the doctor, if not to put her personality out of his head, to change the character of his interest in her. Instead of treasuring her image as a rarity, he would at most have played with it as a toy. He was that kind of a man. But situated here he could not go so far as amative cruelty. He dismissed all reverential thought about her, but he could not help taking her seriously. He went on to imagine the impossible. So far, indeed, did he go in this futile direction that, as others are wont to do, he constructed dialogues and scenes in which Grace had turned out to be the mistress of Hintock Manor-house, the mysterious Mrs. Charmond, particularly ready and willing to be wooed by himself and nobody else. "Well, she isn't that," he said, finally. "But she's a very sweet, nice, exceptional girl." The next morning he breakfasted alone, as usual. It was snowing with a fine-flaked desultoriness just sufficient to make the woodland gray, without ever achieving whiteness. There was not a single letter for Fitzpiers, only a medical circular and a weekly newspaper. To sit before a large fire on such mornings, and read, and gradually acquire energy till the evening came, and then, with lamp alight, and feeling full of vigor, to pursue some engrossing subject or other till the small hours, had hitherto been his practice. But to-day he could not settle into his chair. That self-contained position he had lately occupied, in which the only attention demanded was the concentration of the inner eye, all outer regard being quite gratuitous, seemed to have been taken by insidious stratagem, and for the first time he had an interest outside the house. He walked from one window to another, and became aware that the most irksome of solitudes is not the solitude of remoteness, but that which is just outside desirable company. The breakfast hour went by heavily enough, and the next followed, in the same half-snowy, half-rainy style, the weather now being the inevitable relapse which sooner or later succeeds a time too radiant for the season, such as they had enjoyed in the late midwinter at Hintock. To people at home there these changeful tricks had their interests; the strange mistakes that some of the more sanguine trees had made in budding before their month, to be incontinently glued up by frozen thawings now; the similar sanguine errors of impulsive birds in framing nests that were now swamped by snow-water, and other such incidents, prevented any sense of wearisomeness in the minds of the natives. But these were features of a world not familiar to Fitzpiers, and the inner visions to which he had almost exclusively attended having suddenly failed in their power to absorb him, he felt unutterably dreary. He wondered how long Miss Melbury was going to stay in Hintock. The season was unpropitious for accidental encounters with her out-of-doors, and except by accident he saw not how they were to become acquainted. One thing was clear--any acquaintance with her could only, with a due regard to his future, be casual, at most of the nature of a flirtation; for he had high aims, and they would some day lead him into other spheres than this. Thus desultorily thinking he flung himself down upon the couch, which, as in many draughty old country houses, was constructed with a hood, being in fact a legitimate development from the settle. He tried to read as he reclined, but having sat up till three o'clock that morning, the book slipped from his hand and he fell asleep. CHAPTER XVIII. It was at this time that Grace approached the house. Her knock, always soft in virtue of her nature, was softer to-day by reason of her strange errand. However, it was heard by the farmer's wife who kept the house, and Grace was admitted. Opening the door of the doctor's room the housewife glanced in, and imagining Fitzpiers absent, asked Miss Melbury to enter and wait a few minutes while she should go and find him, believing him to be somewhere on the premises. Grace acquiesced, went in, and sat down close to the door. As soon as the door was shut upon her she looked round the room, and started at perceiving a handsome man snugly ensconced in the couch, like the recumbent figure within some canopied mural tomb of the fifteenth century, except that his hands were by no means clasped in prayer. She had no doubt that this was the doctor. Awaken him herself she could not, and her immediate impulse was to go and pull the broad ribbon with a brass rosette which hung at one side of the fireplace. But expecting the landlady to re-enter in a moment she abandoned this intention, and stood gazing in great embarrassment at the reclining philosopher. The windows of Fitzpiers's soul being at present shuttered, he probably appeared less impressive than in his hours of animation; but the light abstracted from his material presence by sleep was more than counterbalanced by the mysterious influence of that state, in a stranger, upon the consciousness of a beholder so sensitive. So far as she could criticise at all, she became aware that she had encountered a specimen of creation altogether unusual in that locality. The occasions on which Grace had observed men of this stamp were when she had been far removed away from Hintock, and even then such examples as had met her eye were at a distance, and mainly of coarser fibre than the one who now confronted her. She nervously wondered why the woman had not discovered her mistake and returned, and went again towards the bell-pull. Approaching the chimney her back was to Fitzpiers, but she could see him in the glass. An indescribable thrill passed through her as she perceived that the eyes of the reflected image were open, gazing wonderingly at her, and under the curious unexpectedness of the sight she became as if spellbound, almost powerless to turn her head and regard the original. However, by an effort she did turn, when there he lay asleep the same as before. Her startled perplexity as to what he could be meaning was sufficient to lead her to precipitately abandon her errand. She crossed quickly to the door, opened and closed it noiselessly, and went out of the house unobserved. By the time that she had gone down the path and through the garden door into the lane she had recovered her equanimity. Here, screened by the hedge, she stood and considered a while. Drip, drip, drip, fell the rain upon her umbrella and around; she had come out on such a morning because of the seriousness of the matter in hand; yet now she had allowed her mission to be stultified by a momentary tremulousness concerning an incident which perhaps had meant nothing after all. In the mean time her departure from the room, stealthy as it had been, had roused Fitzpiers, and he sat up. In the reflection from the mirror which Grace had beheld there was no mystery; he had opened his eyes for a few moments, but had immediately relapsed into unconsciousness, if, indeed, he had ever been positively awake. That somebody had just left the room he was certain, and that the lovely form which seemed to have visited him in a dream was no less than the real presentation of the person departed he could hardly doubt. Looking out of the window a few minutes later, down the box-edged gravel-path which led to the bottom, he saw the garden door gently open, and through it enter the young girl of his thoughts, Grace having just at this juncture determined to return and attempt the interview a second time. That he saw her coming instead of going made him ask himself if his first impression of her were not a dream indeed. She came hesitatingly along, carrying her umbrella so low over her head that he could hardly see her face. When she reached the point where the raspberry bushes ended and the strawberry bed began, she made a little pause. Fitzpiers feared that she might not be coming to him even now, and hastily quitting the room, he ran down the path to meet her. The nature of her errand he could not divine, but he was prepared to give her any amount of encouragement. "I beg pardon, Miss Melbury," he said. "I saw you from the window, and fancied you might imagine that I was not at home--if it is I you were coming for." "I was coming to speak one word to you, nothing more," she replied. "And I can say it here." "No, no. Please do come in. Well, then, if you will not come into the house, come as far as the porch." Thus pressed she went on to the porch, and they stood together inside it, Fitzpiers closing her umbrella for her. "I have merely a request or petition to make," she said. "My father's servant is ill--a woman you know--and her illness is serious." "I am sorry to hear it. You wish me to come and see her at once?" "No; I particularly wish you not to come." "Oh, indeed." "Yes; and she wishes the same. It would make her seriously worse if you were to come. It would almost kill her....My errand is of a peculiar and awkward nature. It is concerning a subject which weighs on her mind--that unfortunate arrangement she made with you, that you might have her body--after death." "Oh! Grammer Oliver, the old woman with the fine head. Seriously ill, is she!" "And SO disturbed by her rash compact! I have brought the money back--will you please return to her the agreement she signed?" Grace held out to him a couple of five-pound notes which she had kept ready tucked in her glove. Without replying or considering the notes, Fitzpiers allowed his thoughts to follow his eyes, and dwell upon Grace's personality, and the sudden close relation in which he stood to her. The porch was narrow; the rain increased. It ran off the porch and dripped on the creepers, and from the creepers upon the edge of Grace's cloak and skirts. "The rain is wetting your dress; please do come in," he said. "It really makes my heart ache to let you stay here." Immediately inside the front door was the door of his sitting-room; he flung it open, and stood in a coaxing attitude. Try how she would, Grace could not resist the supplicatory mandate written in the face and manner of this man, and distressful resignation sat on her as she glided past him into the room--brushing his coat with her elbow by reason of the narrowness. He followed her, shut the door--which she somehow had hoped he would leave open--and placing a chair for her, sat down. The concern which Grace felt at the development of these commonplace incidents was, of course, mainly owing to the strange effect upon her nerves of that view of him in the mirror gazing at her with open eyes when she had thought him sleeping, which made her fancy that his slumber might have been a feint based on inexplicable reasons. She again proffered the notes; he awoke from looking at her as at a piece of live statuary, and listened deferentially as she said, "Will you then reconsider, and cancel the bond which poor Grammer Oliver so foolishly gave?" "I'll cancel it without reconsideration. Though you will allow me to have my own opinion about her foolishness. Grammer is a very wise woman, and she was as wise in that as in other things. You think there was something very fiendish in the compact, do you not, Miss Melbury? But remember that the most eminent of our surgeons in past times have entered into such agreements." "Not fiendish--strange." "Yes, that may be, since strangeness is not in the nature of a thing, but in its relation to something extrinsic--in this case an unessential observer." He went to his desk, and searching a while found a paper, which be unfolded and brought to her. A thick cross appeared in ink at the bottom--evidently from the hand of Grammer. Grace put the paper in her pocket with a look of much relief. As Fitzpiers did not take up the money (half of which had come from Grace's own purse), she pushed it a little nearer to him. "No, no. I shall not take it from the old woman," he said. "It is more strange than the fact of a surgeon arranging to obtain a subject for dissection that our acquaintance should be formed out of it." "I am afraid you think me uncivil in showing my dislike to the notion. But I did not mean to be." "Oh no, no." He looked at her, as he had done before, with puzzled interest. "I cannot think, I cannot think," he murmured. "Something bewilders me greatly." He still reflected and hesitated. "Last night I sat up very late," he at last went on, "and on that account I fell into a little nap on that couch about half an hour ago. And during my few minutes of unconsciousness I dreamed--what do you think?--that you stood in the room." Should she tell? She merely blushed. "You may imagine," Fitzpiers continued, now persuaded that it had, indeed, been a dream, "that I should not have dreamed of you without considerable thinking about you first." He could not be acting; of that she felt assured. "I fancied in my vision that you stood there," he said, pointing to where she had paused. "I did not see you directly, but reflected in the glass. I thought, what a lovely creature! The design is for once carried out. Nature has at last recovered her lost union with the Idea! My thoughts ran in that direction because I had been reading the work of a transcendental philosopher last night; and I dare say it was the dose of Idealism that I received from it that made me scarcely able to distinguish between reality and fancy. I almost wept when I awoke, and found that you had appeared to me in Time, but not in Space, alas!" At moments there was something theatrical in the delivery of Fitzpiers's effusion; yet it would have been inexact to say that it was intrinsically theatrical. It often happens that in situations of unrestraint, where there is no thought of the eye of criticism, real feeling glides into a mode of manifestation not easily distinguishable from rodomontade. A veneer of affectation overlies a bulk of truth, with the evil consequence, if perceived, that the substance is estimated by the superficies, and the whole rejected. Grace, however, was no specialist in men's manners, and she admired the sentiment without thinking of the form. And she was embarrassed: "lovely creature" made explanation awkward to her gentle modesty. "But can it be," said he, suddenly, "that you really were here?" "I have to confess that I have been in the room once before," faltered she. "The woman showed me in, and went away to fetch you; but as she did not return, I left." "And you saw me asleep," he murmured, with the faintest show of humiliation. "Yes--IF you were asleep, and did not deceive me." "Why do you say if?" "I saw your eyes open in the glass, but as they were closed when I looked round upon you, I thought you were perhaps deceiving me. "Never," said Fitzpiers, fervently--"never could I deceive you." Foreknowledge to the distance of a year or so in either of them might have spoiled the effect of that pretty speech. Never deceive her! But they knew nothing, and the phrase had its day. Grace began now to be anxious to terminate the interview, but the compelling power of Fitzpiers's atmosphere still held her there. She was like an inexperienced actress who, having at last taken up her position on the boards, and spoken her speeches, does not know how to move off. The thought of Grammer occurred to her. "I'll go at once and tell poor Grammer of your generosity," she said. "It will relieve her at once." "Grammer's a nervous disease, too--how singular!" he answered, accompanying her to the door. "One moment; look at this--it is something which may interest you." He had thrown open the door on the other side of the passage, and she saw a microscope on the table of the confronting room. "Look into it, please; you'll be interested," he repeated. She applied her eye, and saw the usual circle of light patterned all over with a cellular tissue of some indescribable sort. "What do you think that is?" said Fitzpiers. She did not know. "That's a fragment of old John South's brain, which I am investigating." She started back, not with aversion, but with wonder as to how it should have got there. Fitzpiers laughed. "Here am I," he said, "endeavoring to carry on simultaneously the study of physiology and transcendental philosophy, the material world and the ideal, so as to discover if possible a point of contrast between them; and your finer sense is quite offended!" "Oh no, Mr. Fitzpiers," said Grace, earnestly. "It is not so at all. I know from seeing your light at night how deeply you meditate and work. Instead of condemning you for your studies, I admire you very much!" Her face, upturned from the microscope, was so sweet, sincere, and self-forgetful in its aspect that the susceptible Fitzpiers more than wished to annihilate the lineal yard which separated it from his own. Whether anything of the kind showed in his eyes or not, Grace remained no longer at the microscope, but quickly went her way into the rain. CHAPTER XIX. Instead of resuming his investigation of South's brain, which perhaps was not so interesting under the microscope as might have been expected from the importance of that organ in life, Fitzpiers reclined and ruminated on the interview. Grace's curious susceptibility to his presence, though it was as if the currents of her life were disturbed rather than attracted by him, added a special interest to her general charm. Fitzpiers was in a distinct degree scientific, being ready and zealous to interrogate all physical manifestations, but primarily he was an idealist. He believed that behind the imperfect lay the perfect; that rare things were to be discovered amid a bulk of commonplace; that results in a new and untried case might be different from those in other cases where the conditions had been precisely similar. Regarding his own personality as one of unbounded possibilities, because it was his own--notwithstanding that the factors of his life had worked out a sorry product for thousands--he saw nothing but what was regular in his discovery at Hintock of an altogether exceptional being of the other sex, who for nobody else would have had any existence. One habit of Fitzpiers's--commoner in dreamers of more advanced age than in men of his years--was that of talking to himself. He paced round his room with a selective tread upon the more prominent blooms of the carpet, and murmured, "This phenomenal girl will be the light of my life while I am at Hintock; and the special beauty of the situation is that our attitude and relations to each other will be purely spiritual. Socially we can never be intimate. Anything like matrimonial intentions towards her, charming as she is, would be absurd. They would spoil the ethereal character of my regard. And, indeed, I have other aims on the practical side of my life." Fitzpiers bestowed a regulation thought on the advantageous marriage he was bound to make with a woman of family as good as his own, and of purse much longer. But as an object of contemplation for the present, as objective spirit rather than corporeal presence, Grace Melbury would serve to keep his soul alive, and to relieve the monotony of his days. His first notion--acquired from the mere sight of her without converse--that of an idle and vulgar flirtation with a timber-merchant's pretty daughter, grated painfully upon him now that he had found what Grace intrinsically was. Personal intercourse with such as she could take no lower form than intellectual communion, and mutual explorations of the world of thought. Since he could not call at her father's, having no practical views, cursory encounters in the lane, in the wood, coming and going to and from church, or in passing her dwelling, were what the acquaintance would have to feed on. Such anticipated glimpses of her now and then realized themselves in the event. Rencounters of not more than a minute's duration, frequently repeated, will build up mutual interest, even an intimacy, in a lonely place. Theirs grew as imperceptibly as the tree-twigs budded. There never was a particular moment at which it could be said they became friends; yet a delicate understanding now existed between two who in the winter had been strangers. Spring weather came on rather suddenly, the unsealing of buds that had long been swollen accomplishing itself in the space of one warm night. The rush of sap in the veins of the trees could almost be heard. The flowers of late April took up a position unseen, and looked as if they had been blooming a long while, though there had been no trace of them the day before yesterday; birds began not to mind getting wet. In-door people said they had heard the nightingale, to which out-door people replied contemptuously that they had heard him a fortnight before. The young doctor's practice being scarcely so large as a London surgeon's, he frequently walked in the wood. Indeed such practice as he had he did not follow up with the assiduity that would have been necessary for developing it to exceptional proportions. One day, book in hand, he walked in a part of the wood where the trees were mainly oaks. It was a calm afternoon, and there was everywhere around that sign of great undertakings on the part of vegetable nature which is apt to fill reflective human beings who are not undertaking much themselves with a sudden uneasiness at the contrast. He heard in the distance a curious sound, something like the quack of a duck, which, though it was common enough here about this time, was not common to him. Looking through the trees Fitzpiers soon perceived the origin of the noise. The barking season had just commenced, and what he had heard was the tear of the ripping tool as it ploughed its way along the sticky parting between the trunk and the rind. Melbury did a large business in bark, and as he was Grace's father, and possibly might be found on the spot, Fitzpiers was attracted to the scene even more than he might have been by its intrinsic interest. When he got nearer he recognized among the workmen the two Timothys, and Robert Creedle, who probably had been "lent" by Winterborne; Marty South also assisted. Each tree doomed to this flaying process was first attacked by Creedle. With a small billhook he carefully freed the collar of the tree from twigs and patches of moss which incrusted it to a height of a foot or two above the ground, an operation comparable to the "little toilet" of the executioner's victim. After this it was barked in its erect position to a point as high as a man could reach. If a fine product of vegetable nature could ever be said to look ridiculous it was the case now, when the oak stood naked-legged, and as if ashamed, till the axe-man came and cut a ring round it, and the two Timothys finished the work with the crosscut-saw. As soon as it had fallen the barkers attacked it like locusts, and in a short time not a particle of rind was left on the trunk and larger limbs. Marty South was an adept at peeling the upper parts, and there she stood encaged amid the mass of twigs and buds like a great bird, running her tool into the smallest branches, beyond the farthest points to which the skill and patience of the men enabled them to proceed--branches which, in their lifetime, had swayed high above the bulk of the wood, and caught the latest and earliest rays of the sun and moon while the lower part of the forest was still in darkness. "You seem to have a better instrument than they, Marty," said Fitzpiers. "No, sir," she said, holding up the tool--a horse's leg-bone fitted into a handle and filed to an edge--"'tis only that they've less patience with the twigs, because their time is worth more than mine." A little shed had been constructed on the spot, of thatched hurdles and boughs, and in front of it was a fire, over which a kettle sung. Fitzpiers sat down inside the shelter, and went on with his reading, except when he looked up to observe the scene and the actors. The thought that he might settle here and become welded in with this sylvan life by marrying Grace Melbury crossed his mind for a moment. Why should he go farther into the world than where he was? The secret of quiet happiness lay in limiting the ideas and aspirations; these men's thoughts were conterminous with the margin of the Hintock woodlands, and why should not his be likewise limited--a small practice among the people around him being the bound of his desires? Presently Marty South discontinued her operations upon the quivering boughs, came out from the reclining oak, and prepared tea. When it was ready the men were called; and Fitzpiers being in a mood to join, sat down with them. The latent reason of his lingering here so long revealed itself when the faint creaking of the joints of a vehicle became audible, and one of the men said, "Here's he." Turning their heads they saw Melbury's gig approaching, the wheels muffled by the yielding moss. The timber-merchant was on foot leading the horse, looking back at every few steps to caution his daughter, who kept her seat, where and how to duck her head so as to avoid the overhanging branches. They stopped at the spot where the bark-ripping had been temporarily suspended; Melbury cursorily examined the heaps of bark, and drawing near to where the workmen were sitting down, accepted their shouted invitation to have a dish of tea, for which purpose he hitched the horse to a bough. Grace declined to take any of their beverage, and remained in her place in the vehicle, looking dreamily at the sunlight that came in thin threads through the hollies with which the oaks were interspersed. When Melbury stepped up close to the shelter, he for the first time perceived that the doctor was present, and warmly appreciated Fitzpiers's invitation to sit down on the log beside him. "Bless my heart, who would have thought of finding you here," he said, obviously much pleased at the circumstance. "I wonder now if my daughter knows you are so nigh at hand. I don't expect she do." He looked out towards the gig wherein Grace sat, her face still turned in the opposite direction. "She doesn't see us. Well, never mind: let her be." Grace was indeed quite unconscious of Fitzpiers's propinquity. She was thinking of something which had little connection with the scene before her--thinking of her friend, lost as soon as found, Mrs. Charmond; of her capricious conduct, and of the contrasting scenes she was possibly enjoying at that very moment in other climes, to which Grace herself had hoped to be introduced by her friend's means. She wondered if this patronizing lady would return to Hintock during the summer, and whether the acquaintance which had been nipped on the last occasion of her residence there would develop on the next. Melbury told ancient timber-stories as he sat, relating them directly to Fitzpiers, and obliquely to the men, who had heard them often before. Marty, who poured out tea, was just saying, "I think I'll take out a cup to Miss Grace," when they heard a clashing of the gig-harness, and turning round Melbury saw that the horse had become restless, and was jerking about the vehicle in a way which alarmed its occupant, though she refrained from screaming. Melbury jumped up immediately, but not more quickly than Fitzpiers; and while her father ran to the horse's head and speedily began to control him, Fitzpiers was alongside the gig assisting Grace to descend. Her surprise at his appearance was so great that, far from making a calm and independent descent, she was very nearly lifted down in his arms. He relinquished her when she touched ground, and hoped she was not frightened. "Oh no, not much," she managed to say. "There was no danger--unless he had run under the trees where the boughs are low enough to hit my head." "Which was by no means an impossibility, and justifies any amount of alarm." He referred to what he thought he saw written in her face, and she could not tell him that this had little to do with the horse, but much with himself. His contiguity had, in fact, the same effect upon her as on those former occasions when he had come closer to her than usual--that of producing in her an unaccountable tendency to tearfulness. Melbury soon put the horse to rights, and seeing that Grace was safe, turned again to the work-people. His daughter's nervous distress had passed off in a few moments, and she said quite gayly to Fitzpiers as she walked with him towards the group, "There's destiny in it, you see. I was doomed to join in your picnic, although I did not intend to do so." Marty prepared her a comfortable place, and she sat down in the circle, and listened to Fitzpiers while he drew from her father and the bark-rippers sundry narratives of their fathers', their grandfathers', and their own adventures in these woods; of the mysterious sights they had seen--only to be accounted for by supernatural agency; of white witches and black witches; and the standard story of the spirits of the two brothers who had fought and fallen, and had haunted Hintock House till they were exorcised by the priest, and compelled to retreat to a swamp in this very wood, whence they were returning to their old quarters at the rate of a cock's stride every New-year's Day, old style; hence the local saying, "On New-year's tide, a cock's stride." It was a pleasant time. The smoke from the little fire of peeled sticks rose between the sitters and the sunlight, and behind its blue veil stretched the naked arms of the prostrate trees. The smell of the uncovered sap mingled with the smell of the burning wood, and the sticky inner surface of the scattered bark glistened as it revealed its pale madder hues to the eye. Melbury was so highly satisfied at having Fitzpiers as a sort of guest that he would have sat on for any length of time, but Grace, on whom Fitzpiers's eyes only too frequently alighted, seemed to think it incumbent upon her to make a show of going; and her father thereupon accompanied her to the vehicle. As the doctor had helped her out of it he appeared to think that he had excellent reasons for helping her in, and performed the attention lingeringly enough. "What were you almost in tears about just now?" he asked, softly. "I don't know," she said: and the words were strictly true. Melbury mounted on the other side, and they drove on out of the grove, their wheels silently crushing delicate-patterned mosses, hyacinths, primroses, lords-and-ladies, and other strange and ordinary plants, and cracking up little sticks that lay across the track. Their way homeward ran along the crest of a lofty hill, whence on the right they beheld a wide valley, differing both in feature and atmosphere from that of the Hintock precincts. It was the cider country, which met the woodland district on the axis of this hill. Over the vale the air was blue as sapphire--such a blue as outside that apple-valley was never seen. Under the blue the orchards were in a blaze of bloom, some of the richly flowered trees running almost up to where they drove along. Over a gate which opened down the incline a man leaned on his arms, regarding this fair promise so intently that he did not observe their passing. "That was Giles," said Melbury, when they had gone by. "Was it? Poor Giles," said she. "All that blooth means heavy autumn work for him and his hands. If no blight happens before the setting the apple yield will be such as we have not had for years." Meanwhile, in the wood they had come from, the men had sat on so long that they were indisposed to begin work again that evening; they were paid by the ton, and their time for labor was as they chose. They placed the last gatherings of bark in rows for the curers, which led them farther and farther away from the shed; and thus they gradually withdrew as the sun went down. Fitzpiers lingered yet. He had opened his book again, though he could hardly see a word in it, and sat before the dying fire, scarcely knowing of the men's departure. He dreamed and mused till his consciousness seemed to occupy the whole space of the woodland around, so little was there of jarring sight or sound to hinder perfect unity with the sentiment of the place. The idea returned upon him of sacrificing all practical aims to live in calm contentment here, and instead of going on elaborating new conceptions with infinite pains, to accept quiet domesticity according to oldest and homeliest notions. These reflections detained him till the wood was embrowned with the coming night, and the shy little bird of this dusky time had begun to pour out all the intensity of his eloquence from a bush not very far off. Fitzpiers's eyes commanded as much of the ground in front as was open. Entering upon this he saw a figure, whose direction of movement was towards the spot where he sat. The surgeon was quite shrouded from observation by the recessed shadow of the hut, and there was no reason why he should move till the stranger had passed by. The shape resolved itself into a woman's; she was looking on the ground, and walking slowly as if searching for something that had been lost, her course being precisely that of Mr. Melbury's gig. Fitzpiers by a sort of divination jumped to the idea that the figure was Grace's; her nearer approach made the guess a certainty. Yes, she was looking for something; and she came round by the prostrate trees that would have been invisible but for the white nakedness which enabled her to avoid them easily. Thus she approached the heap of ashes, and acting upon what was suggested by a still shining ember or two, she took a stick and stirred the heap, which thereupon burst into a flame. On looking around by the light thus obtained she for the first time saw the illumined face of Fitzpiers, precisely in the spot where she had left him. Grace gave a start and a scream: the place had been associated with him in her thoughts, but she had not expected to find him there still. Fitzpiers lost not a moment in rising and going to her side. "I frightened you dreadfully, I know," he said. "I ought to have spoken; but I did not at first expect it to be you. I have been sitting here ever since." He was actually supporting her with his arm, as though under the impression that she was quite overcome, and in danger of falling. As soon as she could collect her ideas she gently withdrew from his grasp, and explained what she had returned for: in getting up or down from the gig, or when sitting by the hut fire, she had dropped her purse. "Now we will find it," said Fitzpiers. He threw an armful of last year's leaves on to the fire, which made the flame leap higher, and the encompassing shades to weave themselves into a denser contrast, turning eve into night in a moment. By this radiance they groped about on their hands and knees, till Fitzpiers rested on his elbow, and looked at Grace. "We must always meet in odd circumstances," he said; "and this is one of the oddest. I wonder if it means anything?" "Oh no, I am sure it doesn't," said Grace in haste, quickly assuming an erect posture. "Pray don't say it any more." "I hope there was not much money in the purse," said Fitzpiers, rising to his feet more slowly, and brushing the leaves from his trousers. "Scarcely any. I cared most about the purse itself, because it was given me. Indeed, money is of little more use at Hintock than on Crusoe's island; there's hardly any way of spending it." They had given up the search when Fitzpiers discerned something by his foot. "Here it is," he said, "so that your father, mother, friend, or ADMIRER will not have his or her feelings hurt by a sense of your negligence after all." "Oh, he knows nothing of what I do now." "The admirer?" said Fitzpiers, slyly. "I don't know if you would call him that," said Grace, with simplicity. "The admirer is a superficial, conditional creature, and this person is quite different." "He has all the cardinal virtues." "Perhaps--though I don't know them precisely." "You unconsciously practise them, Miss Melbury, which is better. According to Schleiermacher they are Self-control, Perseverance, Wisdom, and Love; and his is the best list that I know." "I am afraid poor--" She was going to say that she feared Winterborne--the giver of the purse years before--had not much perseverance, though he had all the other three; but she determined to go no further in this direction, and was silent. These half-revelations made a perceptible difference in Fitzpiers. His sense of personal superiority wasted away, and Grace assumed in his eyes the true aspect of a mistress in her lover's regard. "Miss Melbury," he said, suddenly, "I divine that this virtuous man you mention has been refused by you?" She could do no otherwise than admit it. "I do not inquire without good reason. God forbid that I should kneel in another's place at any shrine unfairly. But, my dear Miss Melbury, now that he is gone, may I draw near?" "I--I can't say anything about that!" she cried, quickly. "Because when a man has been refused you feel pity for him, and like him more than you did before." This increasing complication added still more value to Grace in the surgeon's eyes: it rendered her adorable. "But cannot you say?" he pleaded, distractedly. "I'd rather not--I think I must go home at once." "Oh yes," said Fitzpiers. But as he did not move she felt it awkward to walk straight away from him; and so they stood silently together. A diversion was created by the accident of two birds, that had either been roosting above their heads or nesting there, tumbling one over the other into the hot ashes at their feet, apparently engrossed in a desperate quarrel that prevented the use of their wings. They speedily parted, however, and flew up, and were seen no more. "That's the end of what is called love!" said some one. The speaker was neither Grace nor Fitzpiers, but Marty South, who approached with her face turned up to the sky in her endeavor to trace the birds. Suddenly perceiving Grace, she exclaimed, "Oh, Miss Melbury! I have been following they pigeons, and didn't see you. And here's Mr. Winterborne!" she continued, shyly, as she looked towards Fitzpiers, who stood in the background. "Marty," Grace interrupted. "I want you to walk home with me--will you? Come along." And without lingering longer she took hold of Marty's arm and led her away. They went between the spectral arms of the peeled trees as they lay, and onward among the growing trees, by a path where there were no oaks, and no barking, and no Fitzpiers--nothing but copse-wood, between which the primroses could be discerned in pale bunches. "I didn't know Mr. Winterborne was there," said Marty, breaking the silence when they had nearly reached Grace's door. "Nor was he," said Grace. "But, Miss Melbury, I saw him." "No," said Grace. "It was somebody else. Giles Winterborne is nothing to me." CHAPTER XX. The leaves over Hintock grew denser in their substance, and the woodland seemed to change from an open filigree to a solid opaque body of infinitely larger shape and importance. The boughs cast green shades, which hurt the complexion of the girls who walked there; and a fringe of them which overhung Mr. Melbury's garden dripped on his seed-plots when it rained, pitting their surface all over as with pock-marks, till Melbury declared that gardens in such a place were no good at all. The two trees that had creaked all the winter left off creaking, the whir of the night-jar, however, forming a very satisfactory continuation of uncanny music from that quarter. Except at mid-day the sun was not seen complete by the Hintock people, but rather in the form of numerous little stars staring through the leaves. Such an appearance it had on Midsummer Eve of this year, and as the hour grew later, and nine o'clock drew on, the irradiation of the daytime became broken up by weird shadows and ghostly nooks of indistinctness. Imagination could trace upon the trunks and boughs strange faces and figures shaped by the dying lights; the surfaces of the holly-leaves would here and there shine like peeping eyes, while such fragments of the sky as were visible between the trunks assumed the aspect of sheeted forms and cloven tongues. This was before the moonrise. Later on, when that planet was getting command of the upper heaven, and consequently shining with an unbroken face into such open glades as there were in the neighborhood of the hamlet, it became apparent that the margin of the wood which approached the timber-merchant's premises was not to be left to the customary stillness of that reposeful time. Fitzpiers having heard a voice or voices, was looking over his garden gate--where he now looked more frequently than into his books--fancying that Grace might be abroad with some friends. He was now irretrievably committed in heart to Grace Melbury, though he was by no means sure that she was so far committed to him. That the Idea had for once completely fulfilled itself in the objective substance--which he had hitherto deemed an impossibility--he was enchanted enough to fancy must be the case at last. It was not Grace who had passed, however, but several of the ordinary village girls in a group--some steadily walking, some in a mood of wild gayety. He quietly asked his landlady, who was also in the garden, what these girls were intending, and she informed him that it being Old Midsummer Eve, they were about to attempt some spell or enchantment which would afford them a glimpse of their future partners for life. She declared it to be an ungodly performance, and one which she for her part would never countenance; saying which, she entered her house and retired to bed. The young man lit a cigar and followed the bevy of maidens slowly up the road. They had turned into the wood at an opening between Melbury's and Marty South's; but Fitzpiers could easily track them by their voices, low as they endeavored to keep their tones. In the mean time other inhabitants of Little Hintock had become aware of the nocturnal experiment about to be tried, and were also sauntering stealthily after the frisky maidens. Miss Melbury had been informed by Marty South during the day of the proposed peep into futurity, and, being only a girl like the rest, she was sufficiently interested to wish to see the issue. The moon was so bright and the night so calm that she had no difficulty in persuading Mrs. Melbury to accompany her; and thus, joined by Marty, these went onward in the same direction. Passing Winterborne's house, they heard a noise of hammering. Marty explained it. This was the last night on which his paternal roof would shelter him, the days of grace since it fell into hand having expired; and Giles was taking down his cupboards and bedsteads with a view to an early exit next morning. His encounter with Mrs. Charmond had cost him dearly. When they had proceeded a little farther Marty was joined by Grammer Oliver (who was as young as the youngest in such matters), and Grace and Mrs. Melbury went on by themselves till they had arrived at the spot chosen by the village daughters, whose primary intention of keeping their expedition a secret had been quite defeated. Grace and her step-mother paused by a holly-tree; and at a little distance stood Fitzpiers under the shade of a young oak, intently observing Grace, who was in the full rays of the moon. He watched her without speaking, and unperceived by any but Marty and Grammer, who had drawn up on the dark side of the same holly which sheltered Mrs. and Miss Melbury on its bright side. The two former conversed in low tones. "If they two come up in Wood next Midsummer Night they'll come as one," said Grammer, signifying Fitzpiers and Grace. "Instead of my skellington he'll carry home her living carcass before long. But though she's a lady in herself, and worthy of any such as he, it do seem to me that he ought to marry somebody more of the sort of Mrs. Charmond, and that Miss Grace should make the best of Winterborne." Marty returned no comment; and at that minute the girls, some of whom were from Great Hintock, were seen advancing to work the incantation, it being now about midnight. "Directly we see anything we'll run home as fast as we can," said one, whose courage had begun to fail her. To this the rest assented, not knowing that a dozen neighbors lurked in the bushes around. "I wish we had not thought of trying this," said another, "but had contented ourselves with the hole-digging to-morrow at twelve, and hearing our husbands' trades. It is too much like having dealings with the Evil One to try to raise their forms." However, they had gone too far to recede, and slowly began to march forward in a skirmishing line through the trees towards the deeper recesses of the wood. As far as the listeners could gather, the particular form of black-art to be practised on this occasion was one connected with the sowing of hemp-seed, a handful of which was carried by each girl. At the moment of their advance they looked back, and discerned the figure of Miss Melbury, who, alone of all the observers, stood in the full face of the moonlight, deeply engrossed in the proceedings. By contrast with her life of late years they made her feel as if she had receded a couple of centuries in the world's history. She was rendered doubly conspicuous by her light dress, and after a few whispered words, one of the girls--a bouncing maiden, plighted to young Timothy Tangs--asked her if she would join in. Grace, with some excitement, said that she would, and moved on a little in the rear of the rest. Soon the listeners could hear nothing of their proceedings beyond the faintest occasional rustle of leaves. Grammer whispered again to Marty: "Why didn't ye go and try your luck with the rest of the maids?" "I don't believe in it," said Marty, shortly. "Why, half the parish is here--the silly hussies should have kept it quiet. I see Mr. Winterborne through the leaves, just come up with Robert Creedle. Marty, we ought to act the part o' Providence sometimes. Do go and tell him that if he stands just behind the bush at the bottom of the slope, Miss Grace must pass down it when she comes back, and she will most likely rush into his arms; for as soon as the clock strikes, they'll bundle back home--along like hares. I've seen such larries before." "Do you think I'd better?" said Marty, reluctantly. "Oh yes, he'll bless ye for it." "I don't want that kind of blessing." But after a moment's thought she went and delivered the information; and Grammer had the satisfaction of seeing Giles walk slowly to the bend in the leafy defile along which Grace would have to return. Meanwhile Mrs. Melbury, deserted by Grace, had perceived Fitzpiers and Winterborne, and also the move of the latter. An improvement on Grammer's idea entered the mind of Mrs. Melbury, for she had lately discerned what her husband had not--that Grace was rapidly fascinating the surgeon. She therefore drew near to Fitzpiers. "You should be where Mr. Winterborne is standing," she said to him, significantly. "She will run down through that opening much faster than she went up it, if she is like the rest of the girls." Fitzpiers did not require to be told twice. He went across to Winterborne and stood beside him. Each knew the probable purpose of the other in standing there, and neither spoke, Fitzpiers scorning to look upon Winterborne as a rival, and Winterborne adhering to the off-hand manner of indifference which had grown upon him since his dismissal. Neither Grammer nor Marty South had seen the surgeon's manoeuvre, and, still to help Winterborne, as she supposed, the old woman suggested to the wood-girl that she should walk forward at the heels of Grace, and "tole" her down the required way if she showed a tendency to run in another direction. Poor Marty, always doomed to sacrifice desire to obligation, walked forward accordingly, and waited as a beacon, still and silent, for the retreat of Grace and her giddy companions, now quite out of hearing. The first sound to break the silence was the distant note of Great Hintock clock striking the significant hour. About a minute later that quarter of the wood to which the girls had wandered resounded with the flapping of disturbed birds; then two or three hares and rabbits bounded down the glade from the same direction, and after these the rustling and crackling of leaves and dead twigs denoted the hurried approach of the adventurers, whose fluttering gowns soon became visible. Miss Melbury, having gone forward quite in the rear of the rest, was one of the first to return, and the excitement being contagious, she ran laughing towards Marty, who still stood as a hand-post to guide her; then, passing on, she flew round the fatal bush where the undergrowth narrowed to a gorge. Marty arrived at her heels just in time to see the result. Fitzpiers had quickly stepped forward in front of Winterborne, who, disdaining to shift his position, had turned on his heel, and then the surgeon did what he would not have thought of doing but for Mrs. Melbury's encouragement and the sentiment of an eve which effaced conventionality. Stretching out his arms as the white figure burst upon him, he captured her in a moment, as if she had been a bird. "Oh!" cried Grace, in her fright. "You are in my arms, dearest," said Fitzpiers, "and I am going to claim you, and keep you there all our two lives!" She rested on him like one utterly mastered, and it was several seconds before she recovered from this helplessness. Subdued screams and struggles, audible from neighboring brakes, revealed that there had been other lurkers thereabout for a similar purpose. Grace, unlike most of these companions of hers, instead of gasping and writhing, said in a trembling voice, "Mr. Fitzpiers, will you let me go?" "Certainly," he said, laughing; "as soon as you have recovered." She waited another few moments, then quietly and firmly pushed him aside, and glided on her path, the moon whitening her hot blush away. But it had been enough--new relations between them had begun. The case of the other girls was different, as has been said. They wrestled and tittered, only escaping after a desperate struggle. Fitzpiers could hear these enactments still going on after Grace had left him, and he remained on the spot where he had caught her, Winterborne having gone away. On a sudden another girl came bounding down the same descent that had been followed by Grace--a fine-framed young woman with naked arms. Seeing Fitzpiers standing there, she said, with playful effrontery, "May'st kiss me if 'canst catch me, Tim!" Fitzpiers recognized her as Suke Damson, a hoydenish damsel of the hamlet, who was plainly mistaking him for her lover. He was impulsively disposed to profit by her error, and as soon as she began racing away he started in pursuit. On she went under the boughs, now in light, now in shade, looking over her shoulder at him every few moments and kissing her hand; but so cunningly dodging about among the trees and moon-shades that she never allowed him to get dangerously near her. Thus they ran and doubled, Fitzpiers warming with the chase, till the sound of their companions had quite died away. He began to lose hope of ever overtaking her, when all at once, by way of encouragement, she turned to a fence in which there was a stile and leaped over it. Outside the scene was a changed one--a meadow, where the half-made hay lay about in heaps, in the uninterrupted shine of the now high moon. Fitzpiers saw in a moment that, having taken to open ground, she had placed herself at his mercy, and he promptly vaulted over after her. She flitted a little way down the mead, when all at once her light form disappeared as if it had sunk into the earth. She had buried herself in one of the hay-cocks. Fitzpiers, now thoroughly excited, was not going to let her escape him thus. He approached, and set about turning over the heaps one by one. As soon as he paused, tantalized and puzzled, he was directed anew by an imitative kiss which came from her hiding-place, and by snatches of a local ballad in the smallest voice she could assume: "O come in from the foggy, foggy dew." In a minute or two he uncovered her. "Oh, 'tis not Tim!" said she, burying her face. Fitzpiers, however, disregarded her resistance by reason of its mildness, stooped and imprinted the purposed kiss, then sunk down on the next hay-cock, panting with his race. "Whom do you mean by Tim?" he asked, presently. "My young man, Tim Tangs," said she. "Now, honor bright, did you really think it was he?" "I did at first." "But you didn't at last?" "I didn't at last." "Do you much mind that it was not?" "No," she answered, slyly. Fitzpiers did not pursue his questioning. In the moonlight Suke looked very beautiful, the scratches and blemishes incidental to her out-door occupation being invisible under these pale rays. While they remain silent the coarse whir of the eternal night-jar burst sarcastically from the top of a tree at the nearest corner of the wood. Besides this not a sound of any kind reached their ears, the time of nightingales being now past, and Hintock lying at a distance of two miles at least. In the opposite direction the hay-field stretched away into remoteness till it was lost to the eye in a soft mist. CHAPTER XXI. When the general stampede occurred Winterborne had also been looking on, and encountering one of the girls, had asked her what caused them all to fly. She said with solemn breathlessness that they had seen something very different from what they had hoped to see, and that she for one would never attempt such unholy ceremonies again. "We saw Satan pursuing us with his hour-glass. It was terrible!" This account being a little incoherent, Giles went forward towards the spot from which the girls had retreated. After listening there a few minutes he heard slow footsteps rustling over the leaves, and looking through a tangled screen of honeysuckle which hung from a bough, he saw in the open space beyond a short stout man in evening-dress, carrying on one arm a light overcoat and also his hat, so awkwardly arranged as possibly to have suggested the "hour-glass" to his timid observers--if this were the person whom the girls had seen. With the other hand he silently gesticulated and the moonlight falling upon his bare brow showed him to have dark hair and a high forehead of the shape seen oftener in old prints and paintings than in real life. His curious and altogether alien aspect, his strange gestures, like those of one who is rehearsing a scene to himself, and the unusual place and hour, were sufficient to account for any trepidation among the Hintock daughters at encountering him. He paused, and looked round, as if he had forgotten where he was; not observing Giles, who was of the color of his environment. The latter advanced into the light. The gentleman held up his hand and came towards Giles, the two meeting half-way. "I have lost my way," said the stranger. "Perhaps you can put me in the path again." He wiped his forehead with the air of one suffering under an agitation more than that of simple fatigue. "The turnpike-road is over there," said Giles "I don't want the turnpike-road," said the gentleman, impatiently. "I came from that. I want Hintock House. Is there not a path to it across here?" "Well, yes, a sort of path. But it is hard to find from this point. I'll show you the way, sir, with great pleasure." "Thanks, my good friend. The truth is that I decided to walk across the country after dinner from the hotel at Sherton, where I am staying for a day or two. But I did not know it was so far." "It is about a mile to the house from here." They walked on together. As there was no path, Giles occasionally stepped in front and bent aside the underboughs of the trees to give his companion a passage, saying every now and then when the twigs, on being released, flew back like whips, "Mind your eyes, sir." To which the stranger replied, "Yes, yes," in a preoccupied tone. So they went on, the leaf-shadows running in their usual quick succession over the forms of the pedestrians, till the stranger said, "Is it far?" "Not much farther," said Winterborne. "The plantation runs up into a corner here, close behind the house." He added with hesitation, "You know, I suppose, sir, that Mrs. Charmond is not at home?" "You mistake," said the other, quickly. "Mrs. Charmond has been away for some time, but she's at home now." Giles did not contradict him, though he felt sure that the gentleman was wrong. "You are a native of this place?" the stranger said. "Yes." "Well, you are happy in having a home. It is what I don't possess." "You come from far, seemingly?" "I come now from the south of Europe." "Oh, indeed, sir. You are an Italian, or Spanish, or French gentleman, perhaps?" "I am not either." Giles did not fill the pause which ensued, and the gentleman, who seemed of an emotional nature, unable to resist friendship, at length answered the question. "I am an Italianized American, a South Carolinian by birth," he said. "I left my native country on the failure of the Southern cause, and have never returned to it since." He spoke no more about himself, and they came to the verge of the wood. Here, striding over the fence out upon the upland sward, they could at once see the chimneys of the house in the gorge immediately beneath their position, silent, still, and pale. "Can you tell me the time?" the gentleman asked. "My watch has stopped." "It is between twelve and one," said Giles. His companion expressed his astonishment. "I thought it between nine and ten at latest! Dear me--dear me!" He now begged Giles to return, and offered him a gold coin, which looked like a sovereign, for the assistance rendered. Giles declined to accept anything, to the surprise of the stranger, who, on putting the money back into his pocket, said, awkwardly, "I offered it because I want you to utter no word about this meeting with me. Will you promise?" Winterborne promised readily. He thereupon stood still while the other ascended the slope. At the bottom he looked back dubiously. Giles would no longer remain when he was so evidently desired to leave, and returned through the boughs to Hintock. He suspected that this man, who seemed so distressed and melancholy, might be that lover and persistent wooer of Mrs. Charmond whom he had heard so frequently spoken of, and whom it was said she had treated cavalierly. But he received no confirmation of his suspicion beyond a report which reached him a few days later that a gentleman had called up the servants who were taking care of Hintock House at an hour past midnight; and on learning that Mrs. Charmond, though returned from abroad, was as yet in London, he had sworn bitterly, and gone away without leaving a card or any trace of himself. The girls who related the story added that he sighed three times before he swore, but this part of the narrative was not corroborated. Anyhow, such a gentleman had driven away from the hotel at Sherton next day in a carriage hired at that inn. CHAPTER XXII. The sunny, leafy week which followed the tender doings of Midsummer Eve brought a visitor to Fitzpiers's door; a voice that he knew sounded in the passage. Mr. Melbury had called. At first he had a particular objection to enter the parlor, because his boots were dusty, but as the surgeon insisted he waived the point and came in. Looking neither to the right nor to the left, hardly at Fitzpiers himself, he put his hat under his chair, and with a preoccupied gaze at the floor, he said, "I've called to ask you, doctor, quite privately, a question that troubles me. I've a daughter, Grace, an only daughter, as you may have heard. Well, she's been out in the dew--on Midsummer Eve in particular she went out in thin slippers to watch some vagary of the Hintock maids--and she's got a cough, a distinct hemming and hacking, that makes me uneasy. Now, I have decided to send her away to some seaside place for a change--" "Send her away!" Fitzpiers's countenance had fallen. "Yes. And the question is, where would you advise me to send her?" The timber-merchant had happened to call at a moment when Fitzpiers was at the spring-tide of a sentiment that Grace was a necessity of his existence. The sudden pressure of her form upon his breast as she came headlong round the bush had never ceased to linger with him, ever since he adopted the manoeuvre for which the hour and the moonlight and the occasion had been the only excuse. Now she was to be sent away. Ambition? it could be postponed. Family? culture and reciprocity of tastes had taken the place of family nowadays. He allowed himself to be carried forward on the wave of his desire. "How strange, how very strange it is," he said, "that you should have come to me about her just now. I have been thinking every day of coming to you on the very same errand." "Ah!--you have noticed, too, that her health----" "I have noticed nothing the matter with her health, because there is nothing. But, Mr. Melbury, I have seen your daughter several times by accident. I have admired her infinitely, and I was coming to ask you if I may become better acquainted with her--pay my addresses to her?" Melbury was looking down as he listened, and did not see the air of half-misgiving at his own rashness that spread over Fitzpiers's face as he made this declaration. "You have--got to know her?" said Melbury, a spell of dead silence having preceded his utterance, during which his emotion rose with almost visible effect. "Yes," said Fitzpiers. "And you wish to become better acquainted with her? You mean with a view to marriage--of course that is what you mean?" "Yes," said the young man. "I mean, get acquainted with her, with a view to being her accepted lover; and if we suited each other, what would naturally follow." The timber-merchant was much surprised, and fairly agitated; his hand trembled as he laid by his walking-stick. "This takes me unawares," said he, his voice wellnigh breaking down. "I don't mean that there is anything unexpected in a gentleman being attracted by her; but it did not occur to me that it would be you. I always said," continued he, with a lump in his throat, "that my Grace would make a mark at her own level some day. That was why I educated her. I said to myself, 'I'll do it, cost what it may;' though her mother-law was pretty frightened at my paying out so much money year after year. I knew it would tell in the end. 'Where you've not good material to work on, such doings would be waste and vanity,' I said. 'But where you have that material it is sure to be worth while.'" "I am glad you don't object," said Fitzpiers, almost wishing that Grace had not been quite so cheap for him. "If she is willing I don't object, certainly. Indeed," added the honest man, "it would be deceit if I were to pretend to feel anything else than highly honored personally; and it is a great credit to her to have drawn to her a man of such good professional station and venerable old family. That huntsman-fellow little thought how wrong he was about her! Take her and welcome, sir." "I'll endeavor to ascertain her mind." "Yes, yes. But she will be agreeable, I should think. She ought to be." "I hope she may. Well, now you'll expect to see me frequently." "Oh yes. But, name it all--about her cough, and her going away. I had quite forgot that that was what I came about." "I assure you," said the surgeon, "that her cough can only be the result of a slight cold, and it is not necessary to banish her to any seaside place at all." Melbury looked unconvinced, doubting whether he ought to take Fitzpiers's professional opinion in circumstances which naturally led him to wish to keep her there. The doctor saw this, and honestly dreading to lose sight of her, he said, eagerly, "Between ourselves, if I am successful with her I will take her away myself for a month or two, as soon as we are married, which I hope will be before the chilly weather comes on. This will be so very much better than letting her go now." The proposal pleased Melbury much. There could be hardly any danger in postponing any desirable change of air as long as the warm weather lasted, and for such a reason. Suddenly recollecting himself, he said, "Your time must be precious, doctor. I'll get home-along. I am much obliged to ye. As you will see her often, you'll discover for yourself if anything serious is the matter." "I can assure you it is nothing," said Fitzpiers, who had seen Grace much oftener already than her father knew of. When he was gone Fitzpiers paused, silent, registering his sensations, like a man who has made a plunge for a pearl into a medium of which he knows not the density or temperature. But he had done it, and Grace was the sweetest girl alive. As for the departed visitor, his own last words lingered in Melbury's ears as he walked homeward; he felt that what he had said in the emotion of the moment was very stupid, ungenteel, and unsuited to a dialogue with an educated gentleman, the smallness of whose practice was more than compensated by the former greatness of his family. He had uttered thoughts before they were weighed, and almost before they were shaped. They had expressed in a certain sense his feeling at Fitzpiers's news, but yet they were not right. Looking on the ground, and planting his stick at each tread as if it were a flag-staff, he reached his own precincts, where, as he passed through the court, he automatically stopped to look at the men working in the shed and around. One of them asked him a question about wagon-spokes. "Hey?" said Melbury, looking hard at him. The man repeated the words. Melbury stood; then turning suddenly away without answering, he went up the court and entered the house. As time was no object with the journeymen, except as a thing to get past, they leisurely surveyed the door through which he had disappeared. "What maggot has the gaffer got in his head now?" said Tangs the elder. "Sommit to do with that chiel of his! When you've got a maid of yer own, John Upjohn, that costs ye what she costs him, that will take the squeak out of your Sunday shoes, John! But you'll never be tall enough to accomplish such as she; and 'tis a lucky thing for ye, John, as things be. Well, he ought to have a dozen--that would bring him to reason. I see 'em walking together last Sunday, and when they came to a puddle he lifted her over like a halfpenny doll. He ought to have a dozen; he'd let 'em walk through puddles for themselves then." Meanwhile Melbury had entered the house with the look of a man who sees a vision before him. His wife was in the room. Without taking off his hat he sat down at random. "Luce--we've done it!" he said. "Yes--the thing is as I expected. The spell, that I foresaw might be worked, has worked. She's done it, and done it well. Where is she--Grace, I mean?" "Up in her room--what has happened!" Mr. Melbury explained the circumstances as coherently as he could. "I told you so," he said. "A maid like her couldn't stay hid long, even in a place like this. But where is Grace? Let's have her down. Here--Gra-a-ace!" She appeared after a reasonable interval, for she was sufficiently spoiled by this father of hers not to put herself in a hurry, however impatient his tones. "What is it, father?" said she, with a smile. "Why, you scamp, what's this you've been doing? Not home here more than six months, yet, instead of confining yourself to your father's rank, making havoc in the educated classes." Though accustomed to show herself instantly appreciative of her father's meanings, Grace was fairly unable to look anyhow but at a loss now. "No, no--of course you don't know what I mean, or you pretend you don't; though, for my part, I believe women can see these things through a double hedge. But I suppose I must tell ye. Why, you've flung your grapnel over the doctor, and he's coming courting forthwith." "Only think of that, my dear! Don't you feel it a triumph?" said Mrs. Melbury. "Coming courting! I've done nothing to make him," Grace exclaimed. "'Twasn't necessary that you should, 'Tis voluntary that rules in these things....Well, he has behaved very honorably, and asked my consent. You'll know what to do when he gets here, I dare say. I needn't tell you to make it all smooth for him." "You mean, to lead him on to marry me?" "I do. Haven't I educated you for it?" Grace looked out of the window and at the fireplace with no animation in her face. "Why is it settled off-hand in this way?" said she, coquettishly. "You'll wait till you hear what I think of him, I suppose?" "Oh yes, of course. But you see what a good thing it will be." She weighed the statement without speaking. "You will be restored to the society you've been taken away from," continued her father; "for I don't suppose he'll stay here long." She admitted the advantage; but it was plain that though Fitzpiers exercised a certain fascination over her when he was present, or even more, an almost psychic influence, and though his impulsive act in the wood had stirred her feelings indescribably, she had never regarded him in the light of a destined husband. "I don't know what to answer," she said. "I have learned that he is very clever." "He's all right, and he's coming here to see you." A premonition that she could not resist him if he came strangely moved her. "Of course, father, you remember that it is only lately that Giles--" "You know that you can't think of him. He has given up all claim to you." She could not explain the subtleties of her feeling as he could state his opinion, even though she had skill in speech, and her father had none. That Fitzpiers acted upon her like a dram, exciting her, throwing her into a novel atmosphere which biassed her doings until the influence was over, when she felt something of the nature of regret for the mood she had experienced--still more if she reflected on the silent, almost sarcastic, criticism apparent in Winterborne's air towards her--could not be told to this worthy couple in words. It so happened that on this very day Fitzpiers was called away from Hintock by an engagement to attend some medical meetings, and his visits, therefore, did not begin at once. A note, however, arrived from him addressed to Grace, deploring his enforced absence. As a material object this note was pretty and superfine, a note of a sort that she had been unaccustomed to see since her return to Hintock, except when a school friend wrote to her--a rare instance, for the girls were respecters of persons, and many cooled down towards the timber-dealer's daughter when she was out of sight. Thus the receipt of it pleased her, and she afterwards walked about with a reflective air. In the evening her father, who knew that the note had come, said, "Why be ye not sitting down to answer your letter? That's what young folks did in my time." She replied that it did not require an answer. "Oh, you know best," he said. Nevertheless, he went about his business doubting if she were right in not replying; possibly she might be so mismanaging matters as to risk the loss of an alliance which would bring her much happiness. Melbury's respect for Fitzpiers was based less on his professional position, which was not much, than on the standing of his family in the county in by-gone days. That implicit faith in members of long-established families, as such, irrespective of their personal condition or character, which is still found among old-fashioned people in the rural districts reached its full intensity in Melbury. His daughter's suitor was descended from a family he had heard of in his grandfather's time as being once great, a family which had conferred its name upon a neighboring village; how, then, could anything be amiss in this betrothal? "I must keep her up to this," he said to his wife. "She sees it is for her happiness; but still she's young, and may want a little prompting from an older tongue." CHAPTER XXIII. With this in view he took her out for a walk, a custom of his when he wished to say anything specially impressive. Their way was over the top of that lofty ridge dividing their woodland from the cider district, whence they had in the spring beheld the miles of apple-trees in bloom. All was now deep green. The spot recalled to Grace's mind the last occasion of her presence there, and she said, "The promise of an enormous apple-crop is fulfilling itself, is it not? I suppose Giles is getting his mills and presses ready." This was just what her father had not come there to talk about. Without replying he raised his arm, and moved his finger till he fixed it at a point. "There," he said, "you see that plantation reaching over the hill like a great slug, and just behind the hill a particularly green sheltered bottom? That's where Mr. Fitzpiers's family were lords of the manor for I don't know how many hundred years, and there stands the village of Buckbury Fitzpiers. A wonderful property 'twas--wonderful!" "But they are not lords of the manor there now." "Why, no. But good and great things die as well as little and foolish. The only ones representing the family now, I believe, are our doctor and a maiden lady living I don't know where. You can't help being happy, Grace, in allying yourself with such a romantical family. You'll feel as if you've stepped into history." "We've been at Hintock as long as they've been at Buckbury; is it not so? You say our name occurs in old deeds continually." "Oh yes--as yeomen, copyholders, and such like. But think how much better this will be for 'ee. You'll be living a high intellectual life, such as has now become natural to you; and though the doctor's practice is small here, he'll no doubt go to a dashing town when he's got his hand in, and keep a stylish carriage, and you'll be brought to know a good many ladies of excellent society. If you should ever meet me then, Grace, you can drive past me, looking the other way. I shouldn't expect you to speak to me, or wish such a thing, unless it happened to be in some lonely, private place where 'twouldn't lower ye at all. Don't think such men as neighbor Giles your equal. He and I shall be good friends enough, but he's not for the like of you. He's lived our rough and homely life here, and his wife's life must be rough and homely likewise." So much pressure could not but produce some displacement. As Grace was left very much to herself, she took advantage of one fine day before Fitzpiers's return to drive into the aforesaid vale where stood the village of Buckbury Fitzpiers. Leaving her father's man at the inn with the horse and gig, she rambled onward to the ruins of a castle, which stood in a field hard by. She had no doubt that it represented the ancient stronghold of the Fitzpiers family. The remains were few, and consisted mostly of remnants of the lower vaulting, supported on low stout columns surmounted by the crochet capital of the period. The two or three arches of these vaults that were still in position were utilized by the adjoining farmer as shelter for his calves, the floor being spread with straw, amid which the young creatures rustled, cooling their thirsty tongues by licking the quaint Norman carving, which glistened with the moisture. It was a degradation of even such a rude form of art as this to be treatad so grossly, she thought, and for the first time the family of Fitzpiers assumed in her imagination the hues of a melancholy romanticism. It was soon time to drive home, and she traversed the distance with a preoccupied mind. The idea of so modern a man in science and aesthetics as the young surgeon springing out of relics so ancient was a kind of novelty she had never before experienced. The combination lent him a social and intellectual interest which she dreaded, so much weight did it add to the strange influence he exercised upon her whenever he came near her. In an excitement which was not love, not ambition, rather a fearful consciousness of hazard in the air, she awaited his return. Meanwhile her father was awaiting him also. In his house there was an old work on medicine, published towards the end of the last century, and to put himself in harmony with events Melbury spread this work on his knees when he had done his day's business, and read about Galen, Hippocrates, and Herophilus--of the dogmatic, the empiric, the hermetical, and other sects of practitioners that have arisen in history; and thence proceeded to the classification of maladies and the rules for their treatment, as laid down in this valuable book with absolute precision. Melbury regretted that the treatise was so old, fearing that he might in consequence be unable to hold as complete a conversation as he could wish with Mr. Fitzpiers, primed, no doubt, with more recent discoveries. The day of Fitzpiers's return arrived, and he sent to say that he would call immediately. In the little time that was afforded for putting the house in order the sweeping of Melbury's parlor was as the sweeping of the parlor at the Interpreter's which wellnigh choked the Pilgrim. At the end of it Mrs. Melbury sat down, folded her hands and lips, and waited. Her husband restlessly walked in and out from the timber-yard, stared at the interior of the room, jerked out "ay, ay," and retreated again. Between four and five Fitzpiers arrived, hitching his horse to the hook outside the door. As soon as he had walked in and perceived that Grace was not in the room, he seemed to have a misgiving. Nothing less than her actual presence could long keep him to the level of this impassioned enterprise, and that lacking he appeared as one who wished to retrace his steps. He mechanically talked at what he considered a woodland matron's level of thought till a rustling was heard on the stairs, and Grace came in. Fitzpiers was for once as agitated as she. Over and above the genuine emotion which she raised in his heart there hung the sense that he was casting a die by impulse which he might not have thrown by judgment. Mr. Melbury was not in the room. Having to attend to matters in the yard, he had delayed putting on his afternoon coat and waistcoat till the doctor's appearance, when, not wishing to be backward in receiving him, he entered the parlor hastily buttoning up those garments. Grace's fastidiousness was a little distressed that Fitzpiers should see by this action the strain his visit was putting upon her father; and to make matters worse for her just then, old Grammer seemed to have a passion for incessantly pumping in the back kitchen, leaving the doors open so that the banging and splashing were distinct above the parlor conversation. Whenever the chat over the tea sank into pleasant desultoriness Mr. Melbury broke in with speeches of labored precision on very remote topics, as if he feared to let Fitzpiers's mind dwell critically on the subject nearest the hearts of all. In truth a constrained manner was natural enough in Melbury just now, for the greatest interest of his life was reaching its crisis. Could the real have been beheld instead of the corporeal merely, the corner of the room in which he sat would have been filled with a form typical of anxious suspense, large-eyed, tight-lipped, awaiting the issue. That paternal hopes and fears so intense should be bound up in the person of one child so peculiarly circumstanced, and not have dispersed themselves over the larger field of a whole family, involved dangerous risks to future happiness. Fitzpiers did not stay more than an hour, but that time had apparently advanced his sentiments towards Grace, once and for all, from a vaguely liquescent to an organic shape. She would not have accompanied him to the door in response to his whispered "Come!" if her mother had not said in a matter-of-fact way, "Of course, Grace; go to the door with Mr. Fitzpiers." Accordingly Grace went, both her parents remaining in the room. When the young pair were in the great brick-floored hall the lover took the girl's hand in his, drew it under his arm, and thus led her on to the door, where he stealthily kissed her. She broke from him trembling, blushed and turned aside, hardly knowing how things had advanced to this. Fitzpiers drove off, kissing his hand to her, and waving it to Melbury who was visible through the window. Her father returned the surgeon's action with a great flourish of his own hand and a satisfied smile. The intoxication that Fitzpiers had, as usual, produced in Grace's brain during the visit passed off somewhat with his withdrawal. She felt like a woman who did not know what she had been doing for the previous hour, but supposed with trepidation that the afternoon's proceedings, though vague, had amounted to an engagement between herself and the handsome, coercive, irresistible Fitzpiers. This visit was a type of many which followed it during the long summer days of that year. Grace was borne along upon a stream of reasonings, arguments, and persuasions, supplemented, it must be added, by inclinations of her own at times. No woman is without aspirations, which may be innocent enough within certain limits; and Grace had been so trained socially, and educated intellectually, as to see clearly enough a pleasure in the position of wife to such a man as Fitzpiers. His material standing of itself, either present or future, had little in it to give her ambition, but the possibilities of a refined and cultivated inner life, of subtle psychological intercourse, had their charm. It was this rather than any vulgar idea of marrying well which caused her to float with the current, and to yield to the immense influence which Fitzpiers exercised over her whenever she shared his society. Any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in time. One evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies of Hintock House--still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. Grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the stone sills--still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon them all the afternoon. "This place would just do for us, would it not, dearest," said her betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade. "Oh yes," said Grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever crossed her mind. "She is away from home still," Grace added in a minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower. "Who is?--oh, you mean Mrs. Charmond. Do you know, dear, that at one time I thought you lived here." "Indeed!" said Grace. "How was that?" He explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: "Well, never mind that. Now I want to ask you something. There is one detail of our wedding which I am sure you will leave to me. My inclination is not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels staring round at us, and a droning parson reading." "Where, then, can it be? At a church in town?" "No. Not at a church at all. At a registry office. It is a quieter, snugger, and more convenient place in every way." "Oh," said she, with real distress. "How can I be married except at church, and with all my dear friends round me?" "Yeoman Winterborne among them." "Yes--why not? You know there was nothing serious between him and me." "You see, dear, a noisy bell-ringing marriage at church has this objection in our case: it would be a thing of report a long way round. Now I would gently, as gently as possible, indicate to you how inadvisable such publicity would be if we leave Hintock, and I purchase the practice that I contemplate purchasing at Budmouth--hardly more than twenty miles off. Forgive my saying that it will be far better if nobody there knows where you come from, nor anything about your parents. Your beauty and knowledge and manners will carry you anywhere if you are not hampered by such retrospective criticism." "But could it not be a quiet ceremony, even at church?" she pleaded. "I don't see the necessity of going there!" he said, a trifle impatiently. "Marriage is a civil contract, and the shorter and simpler it is made the better. People don't go to church when they take a house, or even when they make a will." "Oh, Edgar--I don't like to hear you speak like that." "Well, well--I didn't mean to. But I have mentioned as much to your father, who has made no objection; and why should you?" She gave way, deeming the point one on which she ought to allow sentiment to give way to policy--if there were indeed policy in his plan. But she was indefinably depressed as they walked homeward. CHAPTER XXIV. He left her at the door of her father's house. As he receded, and was clasped out of sight by the filmy shades, he impressed Grace as a man who hardly appertained to her existence at all. Cleverer, greater than herself, one outside her mental orbit, as she considered him, he seemed to be her ruler rather than her equal, protector, and dear familiar friend. The disappointment she had experienced at his wish, the shock given to her girlish sensibilities by his irreverent views of marriage, together with the sure and near approach of the day fixed for committing her future to his keeping, made her so restless that she could scarcely sleep at all that night. She rose when the sparrows began to walk out of the roof-holes, sat on the floor of her room in the dim light, and by-and-by peeped out behind the window-curtains. It was even now day out-of-doors, though the tones of morning were feeble and wan, and it was long before the sun would be perceptible in this overshadowed vale. Not a sound came from any of the out-houses as yet. The tree-trunks, the road, the out-buildings, the garden, every object wore that aspect of mesmeric fixity which the suspensive quietude of daybreak lends to such scenes. Outside her window helpless immobility seemed to be combined with intense consciousness; a meditative inertness possessed all things, oppressively contrasting with her own active emotions. Beyond the road were some cottage roofs and orchards; over these roofs and over the apple-trees behind, high up the slope, and backed by the plantation on the crest, was the house yet occupied by her future husband, the rough-cast front showing whitely through its creepers. The window-shutters were closed, the bedroom curtains closely drawn, and not the thinnest coil of smoke rose from the rugged chimneys. Something broke the stillness. The front door of the house she was gazing at opened softly, and there came out into the porch a female figure, wrapped in a large shawl, beneath which was visible the white skirt of a long loose garment. A gray arm, stretching from within the porch, adjusted the shawl over the woman's shoulders; it was withdrawn and disappeared, the door closing behind her. The woman went quickly down the box-edged path between the raspberries and currants, and as she walked her well-developed form and gait betrayed her individuality. It was Suke Damson, the affianced one of simple young Tim Tangs. At the bottom of the garden she entered the shelter of the tall hedge, and only the top of her head could be seen hastening in the direction of her own dwelling. Grace had recognized, or thought she recognized, in the gray arm stretching from the porch, the sleeve of a dressing-gown which Mr. Fitzpiers had been wearing on her own memorable visit to him. Her face fired red. She had just before thought of dressing herself and taking a lonely walk under the trees, so coolly green this early morning; but she now sat down on her bed and fell into reverie. It seemed as if hardly any time had passed when she heard the household moving briskly about, and breakfast preparing down-stairs; though, on rousing herself to robe and descend, she found that the sun was throwing his rays completely over the tree-tops, a progress of natural phenomena denoting that at least three hours had elapsed since she last looked out of the window. When attired she searched about the house for her father; she found him at last in the garden, stooping to examine the potatoes for signs of disease. Hearing her rustle, he stood up and stretched his back and arms, saying, "Morning t'ye, Gracie. I congratulate ye. It is only a month to-day to the time!" She did not answer, but, without lifting her dress, waded between the dewy rows of tall potato-green into the middle of the plot where he was. "I have been thinking very much about my position this morning--ever since it was light," she began, excitedly, and trembling so that she could hardly stand. "And I feel it is a false one. I wish not to marry Mr. Fitzpiers. I wish not to marry anybody; but I'll marry Giles Winterborne if you say I must as an alternative." Her father's face settled into rigidity, he turned pale, and came deliberately out of the plot before he answered her. She had never seen him look so incensed before. "Now, hearken to me," he said. "There's a time for a woman to alter her mind; and there's a time when she can no longer alter it, if she has any right eye to her parents' honor and the seemliness of things. That time has come. I won't say to ye, you SHALL marry him. But I will say that if you refuse, I shall forever be ashamed and a-weary of ye as a daughter, and shall look upon you as the hope of my life no more. What do you know about life and what it can bring forth, and how you ought to act to lead up to best ends? Oh, you are an ungrateful maid, Grace; you've seen that fellow Giles, and he has got over ye; that's where the secret lies, I'll warrant me!" "No, father, no! It is not Giles--it is something I cannot tell you of--" "Well, make fools of us all; make us laughing-stocks; break it off; have your own way." "But who knows of the engagement as yet? how can breaking it disgrace you?" Melbury then by degrees admitted that he had mentioned the engagement to this acquaintance and to that, till she perceived that in his restlessness and pride he had published it everywhere. She went dismally away to a bower of laurel at the top of the garden. Her father followed her. "It is that Giles Winterborne!" he said, with an upbraiding gaze at her. "No, it is not; though for that matter you encouraged him once," she said, troubled to the verge of despair. "It is not Giles, it is Mr. Fitzpiers." "You've had a tiff--a lovers' tiff--that's all, I suppose!" "It is some woman--" "Ay, ay; you are jealous. The old story. Don't tell me. Now do you bide here. I'll send Fitzpiers to you. I saw him smoking in front of his house but a minute by-gone." He went off hastily out of the garden-gate and down the lane. But she would not stay where she was; and edging through a slit in the garden-fence, walked away into the wood. Just about here the trees were large and wide apart, and there was no undergrowth, so that she could be seen to some distance; a sylph-like, greenish-white creature, as toned by the sunlight and leafage. She heard a foot-fall crushing dead leaves behind her, and found herself reconnoitered by Fitzpiers himself, approaching gay and fresh as the morning around them. His remote gaze at her had been one of mild interest rather than of rapture. But she looked so lovely in the green world about her, her pink cheeks, her simple light dress, and the delicate flexibility of her movement acquired such rarity from their wild-wood setting, that his eyes kindled as he drew near. "My darling, what is it? Your father says you are in the pouts, and jealous, and I don't know what. Ha! ha! ha! as if there were any rival to you, except vegetable nature, in this home of recluses! We know better." "Jealous; oh no, it is not so," said she, gravely. "That's a mistake of his and yours, sir. I spoke to him so closely about the question of marriage with you that he did not apprehend my state of mind." "But there's something wrong--eh?" he asked, eying her narrowly, and bending to kiss her. She shrank away, and his purposed kiss miscarried. "What is it?" he said, more seriously for this little defeat. She made no answer beyond, "Mr. Fitzpiers, I have had no breakfast, I must go in." "Come," he insisted, fixing his eyes upon her. "Tell me at once, I say." It was the greater strength against the smaller; but she was mastered less by his manner than by her own sense of the unfairness of silence. "I looked out of the window," she said, with hesitation. "I'll tell you by-and-by. I must go in-doors. I have had no breakfast." By a sort of divination his conjecture went straight to the fact. "Nor I," said he, lightly. "Indeed, I rose late to-day. I have had a broken night, or rather morning. A girl of the village--I don't know her name--came and rang at my bell as soon as it was light--between four and five, I should think it was--perfectly maddened with an aching tooth. As no-body heard her ring, she threw some gravel at my window, till at last I heard her and slipped on my dressing-gown and went down. The poor thing begged me with tears in her eyes to take out her tormentor, if I dragged her head off. Down she sat and out it came--a lovely molar, not a speck upon it; and off she went with it in her handkerchief, much contented, though it would have done good work for her for fifty years to come." It was all so plausible--so completely explained. Knowing nothing of the incident in the wood on old Midsummer-eve, Grace felt that her suspicions were unworthy and absurd, and with the readiness of an honest heart she jumped at the opportunity of honoring his word. At the moment of her mental liberation the bushes about the garden had moved, and her father emerged into the shady glade. "Well, I hope it is made up?" he said, cheerily. "Oh yes," said Fitzpiers, with his eyes fixed on Grace, whose eyes were shyly bent downward. "Now," said her father, "tell me, the pair of ye, that you still mean to take one another for good and all; and on the strength o't you shall have another couple of hundred paid down. I swear it by the name." Fitzpiers took her hand. "We declare it, do we not, my dear Grace?" said he. Relieved of her doubt, somewhat overawed, and ever anxious to please, she was disposed to settle the matter; yet, womanlike, she would not relinquish her opportunity of asking a concession of some sort. "If our wedding can be at church, I say yes," she answered, in a measured voice. "If not, I say no." Fitzpiers was generous in his turn. "It shall be so," he rejoined, gracefully. "To holy church we'll go, and much good may it do us." They returned through the bushes indoors, Grace walking, full of thought between the other two, somewhat comforted, both by Fitzpiers's ingenious explanation and by the sense that she was not to be deprived of a religious ceremony. "So let it be," she said to herself. "Pray God it is for the best." From this hour there was no serious attempt at recalcitration on her part. Fitzpiers kept himself continually near her, dominating any rebellious impulse, and shaping her will into passive concurrence with all his desires. Apart from his lover-like anxiety to possess her, the few golden hundreds of the timber-dealer, ready to hand, formed a warm background to Grace's lovely face, and went some way to remove his uneasiness at the prospect of endangering his professional and social chances by an alliance with the family of a simple countryman. The interim closed up its perspective surely and silently. Whenever Grace had any doubts of her position, the sense of contracting time was like a shortening chamber: at other moments she was comparatively blithe. Day after day waxed and waned; the one or two woodmen who sawed, shaped, spokeshaved on her father's premises at this inactive season of the year, regularly came and unlocked the doors in the morning, locked them in the evening, supped, leaned over their garden-gates for a whiff of evening air, and to catch any last and farthest throb of news from the outer world, which entered and expired at Little Hintock like the exhausted swell of a wave in some innermost cavern of some innermost creek of an embayed sea; yet no news interfered with the nuptial purpose at their neighbor's house. The sappy green twig-tips of the season's growth would not, she thought, be appreciably woodier on the day she became a wife, so near was the time; the tints of the foliage would hardly have changed. Everything was so much as usual that no itinerant stranger would have supposed a woman's fate to be hanging in the balance at that summer's decline. But there were preparations, imaginable readily enough by those who had special knowledge. In the remote and fashionable town of Sandbourne something was growing up under the hands of several persons who had never seen Grace Melbury, never would see her, or care anything about her at all, though their creation had such interesting relation to her life that it would enclose her very heart at a moment when that heart would beat, if not with more emotional ardor, at least with more emotional turbulence than at any previous time. Why did Mrs. Dollery's van, instead of passing along at the end of the smaller village to Great Hintock direct, turn one Saturday night into Little Hintock Lane, and never pull up till it reached Mr. Melbury's gates? The gilding shine of evening fell upon a large, flat box not less than a yard square, and safely tied with cord, as it was handed out from under the tilt with a great deal of care. But it was not heavy for its size; Mrs. Dollery herself carried it into the house. Tim Tangs, the hollow-turner, Bawtree, Suke Damson, and others, looked knowing, and made remarks to each other as they watched its entrance. Melbury stood at the door of the timber-shed in the attitude of a man to whom such an arrival was a trifling domestic detail with which he did not condescend to be concerned. Yet he well divined the contents of that box, and was in truth all the while in a pleasant exaltation at the proof that thus far, at any rate, no disappointment had supervened. While Mrs. Dollery remained--which was rather long, from her sense of the importance of her errand--he went into the out-house; but as soon as she had had her say, been paid, and had rumbled away, he entered the dwelling, to find there what he knew he should find--his wife and daughter in a flutter of excitement over the wedding-gown, just arrived from the leading dress-maker of Sandbourne watering-place aforesaid. During these weeks Giles Winterborne was nowhere to be seen or heard of. At the close of his tenure in Hintock he had sold some of his furniture, packed up the rest--a few pieces endeared by associations, or necessary to his occupation--in the house of a friendly neighbor, and gone away. People said that a certain laxity had crept into his life; that he had never gone near a church latterly, and had been sometimes seen on Sundays with unblacked boots, lying on his elbow under a tree, with a cynical gaze at surrounding objects. He was likely to return to Hintock when the cider-making season came round, his apparatus being stored there, and travel with his mill and press from village to village. The narrow interval that stood before the day diminished yet. There was in Grace's mind sometimes a certain anticipative satisfaction, the satisfaction of feeling that she would be the heroine of an hour; moreover, she was proud, as a cultivated woman, to be the wife of a cultivated man. It was an opportunity denied very frequently to young women in her position, nowadays not a few; those in whom parental discovery of the value of education has implanted tastes which parental circles fail to gratify. But what an attenuation was this cold pride of the dream of her youth, in which she had pictured herself walking in state towards the altar, flushed by the purple light and bloom of her own passion, without a single misgiving as to the sealing of the bond, and fervently receiving as her due "The homage of a thousand hearts; the fond, deep love of one." Everything had been clear then, in imagination; now something was undefined. She had little carking anxieties; a curious fatefulness seemed to rule her, and she experienced a mournful want of some one to confide in. The day loomed so big and nigh that her prophetic ear could, in fancy, catch the noise of it, hear the murmur of the villagers as she came out of church, imagine the jangle of the three thin-toned Hintock bells. The dialogues seemed to grow louder, and the ding-ding-dong of those three crazed bells more persistent. She awoke: the morning had come. Five hours later she was the wife of Fitzpiers. CHAPTER XXV. The chief hotel at Sherton-Abbas was an old stone-fronted inn with a yawning arch, under which vehicles were driven by stooping coachmen to back premises of wonderful commodiousness. The windows to the street were mullioned into narrow lights, and only commanded a view of the opposite houses; hence, perhaps, it arose that the best and most luxurious private sitting-room that the inn could afford over-looked the nether parts of the establishment, where beyond the yard were to be seen gardens and orchards, now bossed, nay incrusted, with scarlet and gold fruit, stretching to infinite distance under a luminous lavender mist. The time was early autumn, "When the fair apples, red as evening sky, Do bend the tree unto the fruitful ground, When juicy pears, and berries of black dye, Do dance in air, and call the eyes around." The landscape confronting the window might, indeed, have been part of the identical stretch of country which the youthful Chatterton had in his mind. In this room sat she who had been the maiden Grace Melbury till the finger of fate touched her and turned her to a wife. It was two months after the wedding, and she was alone. Fitzpiers had walked out to see the abbey by the light of sunset, but she had been too fatigued to accompany him. They had reached the last stage of a long eight-weeks' tour, and were going on to Hintock that night. In the yard, between Grace and the orchards, there progressed a scene natural to the locality at this time of the year. An apple-mill and press had been erected on the spot, to which some men were bringing fruit from divers points in mawn-baskets, while others were grinding them, and others wringing down the pomace, whose sweet juice gushed forth into tubs and pails. The superintendent of these proceedings, to whom the others spoke as master, was a young yeoman of prepossessing manner and aspect, whose form she recognized in a moment. He had hung his coat to a nail of the out-house wall, and wore his shirt-sleeves rolled up beyond his elbows, to keep them unstained while he rammed the pomace into the bags of horse-hair. Fragments of apple-rind had alighted upon the brim of his hat--probably from the bursting of a bag--while brown pips of the same fruit were sticking among the down upon his fine, round arms. She realized in a moment how he had come there. Down in the heart of the apple country nearly every farmer kept up a cider-making apparatus and wring-house for his own use, building up the pomace in great straw "cheeses," as they were called; but here, on the margin of Pomona's plain, was a debatable land neither orchard nor sylvan exclusively, where the apple produce was hardly sufficient to warrant each proprietor in keeping a mill of his own. This was the field of the travelling cider-maker. His press and mill were fixed to wheels instead of being set up in a cider-house; and with a couple of horses, buckets, tubs, strainers, and an assistant or two, he wandered from place to place, deriving very satisfactory returns for his trouble in such a prolific season as the present. The back parts of the town were just now abounding with apple-gatherings. They stood in the yards in carts, baskets, and loose heaps; and the blue, stagnant air of autumn which hung over everything was heavy with a sweet cidery smell. Cakes of pomace lay against the walls in the yellow sun, where they were drying to be used as fuel. Yet it was not the great make of the year as yet; before the standard crop came in there accumulated, in abundant times like this, a large superfluity of early apples, and windfalls from the trees of later harvest, which would not keep long. Thus, in the baskets, and quivering in the hopper of the mill, she saw specimens of mixed dates, including the mellow countenances of streaked-jacks, codlins, costards, stubbards, ratheripes, and other well-known friends of her ravenous youth. Grace watched the head-man with interest. The slightest sigh escaped her. Perhaps she thought of the day--not so far distant--when that friend of her childhood had met her by her father's arrangement in this same town, warm with hope, though diffident, and trusting in a promise rather implied than given. Or she might have thought of days earlier yet--days of childhood--when her mouth was somewhat more ready to receive a kiss from his than was his to bestow one. However, all that was over. She had felt superior to him then, and she felt superior to him now. She wondered why he never looked towards her open window. She did not know that in the slight commotion caused by their arrival at the inn that afternoon Winterborne had caught sight of her through the archway, had turned red, and was continuing his work with more concentrated attention on the very account of his discovery. Robert Creedle, too, who travelled with Giles, had been incidentally informed by the hostler that Dr. Fitzpiers and his young wife were in the hotel, after which news Creedle kept shaking his head and saying to himself, "Ah!" very audibly, between his thrusts at the screw of the cider-press. "Why the deuce do you sigh like that, Robert?" asked Winterborne, at last. "Ah, maister--'tis my thoughts--'tis my thoughts!...Yes, ye've lost a hundred load o' timber well seasoned; ye've lost five hundred pound in good money; ye've lost the stone-windered house that's big enough to hold a dozen families; ye've lost your share of half a dozen good wagons and their horses--all lost!--through your letting slip she that was once yer own!" "Good God, Creedle, you'll drive me mad!" said Giles, sternly. "Don't speak of that any more!" Thus the subject had ended in the yard. Meanwhile, the passive cause of all this loss still regarded the scene. She was beautifully dressed; she was seated in the most comfortable room that the inn afforded; her long journey had been full of variety, and almost luxuriously performed--for Fitzpiers did not study economy where pleasure was in question. Hence it perhaps arose that Giles and all his belongings seemed sorry and common to her for the moment--moving in a plane so far removed from her own of late that she could scarcely believe she had ever found congruity therein. "No--I could never have married him!" she said, gently shaking her head. "Dear father was right. It would have been too coarse a life for me." And she looked at the rings of sapphire and opal upon her white and slender fingers that had been gifts from Fitzpiers. Seeing that Giles still kept his back turned, and with a little of the above-described pride of life--easily to be understood, and possibly excused, in a young, inexperienced woman who thought she had married well--she said at last, with a smile on her lips, "Mr. Winterborne!" He appeared to take no heed, and she said a second time, "Mr. Winterborne!" Even now he seemed not to hear, though a person close enough to him to see the expression of his face might have doubted it; and she said a third time, with a timid loudness, "Mr. Winterborne! What, have you forgotten my voice?" She remained with her lips parted in a welcoming smile. He turned without surprise, and came deliberately towards the window. "Why do you call me?" he said, with a sternness that took her completely unawares, his face being now pale. "Is it not enough that you see me here moiling and muddling for my daily bread while you are sitting there in your success, that you can't refrain from opening old wounds by calling out my name?" She flushed, and was struck dumb for some moments; but she forgave his unreasoning anger, knowing so well in what it had its root. "I am sorry I offended you by speaking," she replied, meekly. "Believe me, I did not intend to do that. I could hardly sit here so near you without a word of recognition." Winterborne's heart had swollen big, and his eyes grown moist by this time, so much had the gentle answer of that familiar voice moved him. He assured her hurriedly, and without looking at her, that he was not angry. He then managed to ask her, in a clumsy, constrained way, if she had had a pleasant journey, and seen many interesting sights. She spoke of a few places that she had visited, and so the time passed till he withdrew to take his place at one of the levers which pulled round the screw. Forgotten her voice! Indeed, he had not forgotten her voice, as his bitterness showed. But though in the heat of the moment he had reproached her keenly, his second mood was a far more tender one--that which could regard her renunciation of such as he as her glory and her privilege, his own fidelity notwithstanding. He could have declared with a contemporary poet-- "If I forget, The salt creek may forget the ocean; If I forget The heart whence flows my heart's bright motion, May I sink meanlier than the worst Abandoned, outcast, crushed, accurst, If I forget. "Though you forget, No word of mine shall mar your pleasure; Though you forget, You filled my barren life with treasure, You may withdraw the gift you gave; You still are queen, I still am slave, Though you forget." She had tears in her eyes at the thought that she could not remind him of what he ought to have remembered; that not herself but the pressure of events had dissipated the dreams of their early youth. Grace was thus unexpectedly worsted in her encounter with her old friend. She had opened the window with a faint sense of triumph, but he had turned it into sadness; she did not quite comprehend the reason why. In truth it was because she was not cruel enough in her cruelty. If you have to use the knife, use it, say the great surgeons; and for her own peace Grace should have contemned Winterborne thoroughly or not at all. As it was, on closing the window an indescribable, some might have said dangerous, pity quavered in her bosom for him. Presently her husband entered the room, and told her what a wonderful sunset there was to be seen. "I have not noticed it. But I have seen somebody out there that we know," she replied, looking into the court. Fitzpiers followed the direction of her eyes, and said he did not recognize anybody. "Why, Mr. Winterborne--there he is, cider-making. He combines that with his other business, you know." "Oh--that fellow," said Fitzpiers, his curiosity becoming extinct. She, reproachfully: "What, call Mr. Winterborne a fellow, Edgar? It is true I was just saying to myself that I never could have married him; but I have much regard for him, and always shall." "Well, do by all means, my dear one. I dare say I am inhuman, and supercilious, and contemptibly proud of my poor old ramshackle family; but I do honestly confess to you that I feel as if I belonged to a different species from the people who are working in that yard." "And from me too, then. For my blood is no better than theirs." He looked at her with a droll sort of awakening. It was, indeed, a startling anomaly that this woman of the tribe without should be standing there beside him as his wife, if his sentiments were as he had said. In their travels together she had ranged so unerringly at his level in ideas, tastes, and habits that he had almost forgotten how his heart had played havoc with his principles in taking her to him. "Ah YOU--you are refined and educated into something quite different," he said, self-assuringly. "I don't quite like to think that," she murmured with soft regret. "And I think you underestimate Giles Winterborne. Remember, I was brought up with him till I was sent away to school, so I cannot be radically different. At any rate, I don't feel so. That is, no doubt, my fault, and a great blemish in me. But I hope you will put up with it, Edgar." Fitzpiers said that he would endeavor to do so; and as it was now getting on for dusk, they prepared to perform the last stage of their journey, so as to arrive at Hintock before it grew very late. In less than half an hour they started, the cider-makers in the yard having ceased their labors and gone away, so that the only sounds audible there now were the trickling of the juice from the tightly screwed press, and the buzz of a single wasp, which had drunk itself so tipsy that it was unconscious of nightfall. Grace was very cheerful at the thought of being soon in her sylvan home, but Fitzpiers sat beside her almost silent. An indescribable oppressiveness had overtaken him with the near approach of the journey's end and the realities of life that lay there. "You don't say a word, Edgar," she observed. "Aren't you glad to get back? I am." "You have friends here. I have none." "But my friends are yours." "Oh yes--in that sense." The conversation languished, and they drew near the end of Hintock Lane. It had been decided that they should, at least for a time, take up their abode in her father's roomy house, one wing of which was quite at their service, being almost disused by the Melburys. Workmen had been painting, papering, and whitewashing this set of rooms in the wedded pair's absence; and so scrupulous had been the timber-dealer that there should occur no hitch or disappointment on their arrival, that not the smallest detail remained undone. To make it all complete a ground-floor room had been fitted up as a surgery, with an independent outer door, to which Fitzpiers's brass plate was screwed--for mere ornament, such a sign being quite superfluous where everybody knew the latitude and longitude of his neighbors for miles round. Melbury and his wife welcomed the twain with affection, and all the house with deference. They went up to explore their rooms, that opened from a passage on the left hand of the staircase, the entrance to which could be shut off on the landing by a door that Melbury had hung for the purpose. A friendly fire was burning in the grate, although it was not cold. Fitzpiers said it was too soon for any sort of meal, they only having dined shortly before leaving Sherton-Abbas. He would walk across to his old lodging, to learn how his locum tenens had got on in his absence. In leaving Melbury's door he looked back at the house. There was economy in living under that roof, and economy was desirable, but in some way he was dissatisfied with the arrangement; it immersed him so deeply in son-in-lawship to Melbury. He went on to his former residence. His deputy was out, and Fitzpiers fell into conversation with his former landlady. "Well, Mrs. Cox, what's the best news?" he asked of her, with cheery weariness. She was a little soured at losing by his marriage so profitable a tenant as the surgeon had proved to be during his residence under her roof; and the more so in there being hardly the remotest chance of her getting such another settler in the Hintock solitudes. "'Tis what I don't wish to repeat, sir; least of all to you," she mumbled. "Never mind me, Mrs. Cox; go ahead." "It is what people say about your hasty marrying, Dr. Fitzpiers. Whereas they won't believe you know such clever doctrines in physic as they once supposed of ye, seeing as you could marry into Mr. Melbury's family, which is only Hintock-born, such as me." "They are kindly welcome to their opinion," said Fitzpiers, not allowing himself to recognize that he winced. "Anything else?" "Yes; SHE'S come home at last." "Who's she?" "Mrs. Charmond." "Oh, indeed!" said Fitzpiers, with but slight interest. "I've never seen her." "She has seen you, sir, whether or no." "Never." "Yes; she saw you in some hotel or street for a minute or two while you were away travelling, and accidentally heard your name; and when she made some remark about you, Miss Ellis--that's her maid--told her you was on your wedding-tower with Mr. Melbury's daughter; and she said, 'He ought to have done better than that. I fear he has spoiled his chances,' she says." Fitzpiers did not talk much longer to this cheering housewife, and walked home with no very brisk step. He entered the door quietly, and went straight up-stairs to the drawing-room extemporized for their use by Melbury in his and his bride's absence, expecting to find her there as he had left her. The fire was burning still, but there were no lights. He looked into the next apartment, fitted up as a little dining-room, but no supper was laid. He went to the top of the stairs, and heard a chorus of voices in the timber-merchant's parlor below, Grace's being occasionally intermingled. Descending, and looking into the room from the door-way, he found quite a large gathering of neighbors and other acquaintances, praising and congratulating Mrs. Fitzpiers on her return, among them being the dairyman, Farmer Bawtree, and the master-blacksmith from Great Hintock; also the cooper, the hollow-turner, the exciseman, and some others, with their wives, who lived hard by. Grace, girl that she was, had quite forgotten her new dignity and her husband's; she was in the midst of them, blushing, and receiving their compliments with all the pleasure of old-comradeship. Fitzpiers experienced a profound distaste for the situation. Melbury was nowhere in the room, but Melbury's wife, perceiving the doctor, came to him. "We thought, Grace and I," she said, "that as they have called, hearing you were come, we could do no less than ask them to supper; and then Grace proposed that we should all sup together, as it is the first night of your return." By this time Grace had come round to him. "Is it not good of them to welcome me so warmly?" she exclaimed, with tears of friendship in her eyes. "After so much good feeling I could not think of our shutting ourselves up away from them in our own dining-room." "Certainly not--certainly not," said Fitzpiers; and he entered the room with the heroic smile of a martyr. As soon as they sat down to table Melbury came in, and seemed to see at once that Fitzpiers would much rather have received no such demonstrative reception. He thereupon privately chid his wife for her forwardness in the matter. Mrs. Melbury declared that it was as much Grace's doing as hers, after which there was no more to be said by that young woman's tender father. By this time Fitzpiers was making the best of his position among the wide-elbowed and genial company who sat eating and drinking and laughing and joking around him; and getting warmed himself by the good cheer, was obliged to admit that, after all, the supper was not the least enjoyable he had ever known. At times, however, the words about his having spoiled his opportunities, repeated to him as those of Mrs. Charmond, haunted him like a handwriting on the wall. Then his manner would become suddenly abstracted. At one moment he would mentally put an indignant query why Mrs. Charmond or any other woman should make it her business to have opinions about his opportunities; at another he thought that he could hardly be angry with her for taking an interest in the doctor of her own parish. Then he would drink a glass of grog and so get rid of the misgiving. These hitches and quaffings were soon perceived by Grace as well as by her father; and hence both of them were much relieved when the first of the guests to discover that the hour was growing late rose and declared that he must think of moving homeward. At the words Melbury rose as alertly as if lifted by a spring, and in ten minutes they were gone. "Now, Grace," said her husband as soon as he found himself alone with her in their private apartments, "we've had a very pleasant evening, and everybody has been very kind. But we must come to an understanding about our way of living here. If we continue in these rooms there must be no mixing in with your people below. I can't stand it, and that's the truth." She had been sadly surprised at the suddenness of his distaste for those old-fashioned woodland forms of life which in his courtship he had professed to regard with so much interest. But she assented in a moment. "We must be simply your father's tenants," he continued, "and our goings and comings must be as independent as if we lived elsewhere." "Certainly, Edgar--I quite see that it must be so." "But you joined in with all those people in my absence, without knowing whether I should approve or disapprove. When I came I couldn't help myself at all." She, sighing: "Yes--I see I ought to have waited; though they came unexpectedly, and I thought I had acted for the best." Thus the discussion ended, and the next day Fitzpiers went on his old rounds as usual. But it was easy for so super-subtle an eye as his to discern, or to think he discerned, that he was no longer regarded as an extrinsic, unfathomed gentleman of limitless potentiality, scientific and social; but as Mr. Melbury's compeer, and therefore in a degree only one of themselves. The Hintock woodlandlers held with all the strength of inherited conviction to the aristocratic principle, and as soon as they had discovered that Fitzpiers was one of the old Buckbury Fitzpierses they had accorded to him for nothing a touching of hat-brims, promptness of service, and deference of approach, which Melbury had to do without, though he paid for it over and over. But now, having proved a traitor to his own cause by this marriage, Fitzpiers was believed in no more as a superior hedged by his own divinity; while as doctor he began to be rated no higher than old Jones, whom they had so long despised. His few patients seemed in his two months' absence to have dwindled considerably in number, and no sooner had he returned than there came to him from the Board of Guardians a complaint that a pauper had been neglected by his substitute. In a fit of pride Fitzpiers resigned his appointment as one of the surgeons to the union, which had been the nucleus of his practice here. At the end of a fortnight he came in-doors one evening to Grace more briskly than usual. "They have written to me again about that practice in Budmouth that I once negotiated for," he said to her. "The premium asked is eight hundred pounds, and I think that between your father and myself it ought to be raised. Then we can get away from this place forever." The question had been mooted between them before, and she was not unprepared to consider it. They had not proceeded far with the discussion when a knock came to the door, and in a minute Grammer ran up to say that a message had arrived from Hintock House requesting Dr. Fitzpiers to attend there at once. Mrs. Charmond had met with a slight accident through the overturning of her carriage. "This is something, anyhow," said Fitzpiers, rising with an interest which he could not have defined. "I have had a presentiment that this mysterious woman and I were to be better acquainted." The latter words were murmured to himself alone. "Good-night," said Grace, as soon as he was ready. "I shall be asleep, probably, when you return." "Good-night," he replied, inattentively, and went down-stairs. It was the first time since their marriage that he had left her without a kiss. CHAPTER XXVI. Winterborne's house had been pulled down. On this account his face had been seen but fitfully in Hintock; and he would probably have disappeared from the place altogether but for his slight business connection with Melbury, on whose premises Giles kept his cider-making apparatus, now that he had no place of his own to stow it in. Coming here one evening on his way to a hut beyond the wood where he now slept, he noticed that the familiar brown-thatched pinion of his paternal roof had vanished from its site, and that the walls were levelled. In present circumstances he had a feeling for the spot that might have been called morbid, and when he had supped in the hut aforesaid he made use of the spare hour before bedtime to return to Little Hintock in the twilight and ramble over the patch of ground on which he had first seen the day. He repeated this evening visit on several like occasions. Even in the gloom he could trace where the different rooms had stood; could mark the shape of the kitchen chimney-corner, in which he had roasted apples and potatoes in his boyhood, cast his bullets, and burned his initials on articles that did and did not belong to him. The apple-trees still remained to show where the garden had been, the oldest of them even now retaining the crippled slant to north-east given them by the great November gale of 1824, which carried a brig bodily over the Chesil Bank. They were at present bent to still greater obliquity by the heaviness of their produce. Apples bobbed against his head, and in the grass beneath he crunched scores of them as he walked. There was nobody to gather them now. It was on the evening under notice that, half sitting, half leaning against one of these inclined trunks, Winterborne had become lost in his thoughts, as usual, till one little star after another had taken up a position in the piece of sky which now confronted him where his walls and chimneys had formerly raised their outlines. The house had jutted awkwardly into the road, and the opening caused by its absence was very distinct. In the silence the trot of horses and the spin of carriage-wheels became audible; and the vehicle soon shaped itself against the blank sky, bearing down upon him with the bend in the lane which here occurred, and of which the house had been the cause. He could discern the figure of a woman high up on the driving-seat of a phaeton, a groom being just visible behind. Presently there was a slight scrape, then a scream. Winterborne went across to the spot, and found the phaeton half overturned, its driver sitting on the heap of rubbish which had once been his dwelling, and the man seizing the horses' heads. The equipage was Mrs. Charmond's, and the unseated charioteer that lady herself. To his inquiry if she were hurt she made some incoherent reply to the effect that she did not know. The damage in other respects was little or none: the phaeton was righted, Mrs. Charmond placed in it, and the reins given to the servant. It appeared that she had been deceived by the removal of the house, imagining the gap caused by the demolition to be the opening of the road, so that she turned in upon the ruins instead of at the bend a few yards farther on. "Drive home--drive home!" cried the lady, impatiently; and they started on their way. They had not, however, gone many paces when, the air being still, Winterborne heard her say "Stop; tell that man to call the doctor--Mr. Fitzpiers--and send him on to the House. I find I am hurt more seriously than I thought." Winterborne took the message from the groom and proceeded to the doctor's at once. Having delivered it, he stepped back into the darkness, and waited till he had seen Fitzpiers leave the door. He stood for a few minutes looking at the window which by its light revealed the room where Grace was sitting, and went away under the gloomy trees. Fitzpiers duly arrived at Hintock House, whose doors he now saw open for the first time. Contrary to his expectation there was visible no sign of that confusion or alarm which a serious accident to the mistress of the abode would have occasioned. He was shown into a room at the top of the staircase, cosily and femininely draped, where, by the light of the shaded lamp, he saw a woman of full round figure reclining upon a couch in such a position as not to disturb a pile of magnificent hair on the crown of her head. A deep purple dressing-gown formed an admirable foil to the peculiarly rich brown of her hair-plaits; her left arm, which was naked nearly up to the shoulder, was thrown upward, and between the fingers of her right hand she held a cigarette, while she idly breathed from her plump lips a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling. The doctor's first feeling was a sense of his exaggerated prevision in having brought appliances for a serious case; the next, something more curious. While the scene and the moment were new to him and unanticipated, the sentiment and essence of the moment were indescribably familiar. What could be the cause of it? Probably a dream. Mrs. Charmond did not move more than to raise her eyes to him, and he came and stood by her. She glanced up at his face across her brows and forehead, and then he observed a blush creep slowly over her decidedly handsome cheeks. Her eyes, which had lingered upon him with an inquiring, conscious expression, were hastily withdrawn, and she mechanically applied the cigarette again to her lips. For a moment he forgot his errand, till suddenly arousing himself he addressed her, formally condoled with her, and made the usual professional inquiries about what had happened to her, and where she was hurt. "That's what I want you to tell me," she murmured, in tones of indefinable reserve. "I quite believe in you, for I know you are very accomplished, because you study so hard." "I'll do my best to justify your good opinion," said the young man, bowing. "And none the less that I am happy to find the accident has not been serious." "I am very much shaken," she said. "Oh yes," he replied; and completed his examination, which convinced him that there was really nothing the matter with her, and more than ever puzzled him as to why he had been fetched, since she did not appear to be a timid woman. "You must rest a while, and I'll send something," he said. "Oh, I forgot," she returned. "Look here." And she showed him a little scrape on her arm--the full round arm that was exposed. "Put some court-plaster on that, please." He obeyed. "And now," she said, "before you go I want to put a question to you. Sit round there in front of me, on that low chair, and bring the candles, or one, to the little table. Do you smoke? Yes? That's right--I am learning. Take one of these; and here's a light." She threw a matchbox across. Fitzpiers caught it, and having lit up, regarded her from his new position, which, with the shifting of the candles, for the first time afforded him a full view of her face. "How many years have passed since first we met!" she resumed, in a voice which she mainly endeavored to maintain at its former pitch of composure, and eying him with daring bashfulness. "WE met, do you say?" She nodded. "I saw you recently at an hotel in London, when you were passing through, I suppose, with your bride, and I recognized you as one I had met in my girlhood. Do you remember, when you were studying at Heidelberg, an English family that was staying there, who used to walk--" "And the young lady who wore a long tail of rare-colored hair--ah, I see it before my eyes!--who lost her gloves on the Great Terrace--who was going back in the dusk to find them--to whom I said, 'I'll go for them,' and you said, 'Oh, they are not worth coming all the way up again for.' I DO remember, and how very long we stayed talking there! I went next morning while the dew was on the grass: there they lay--the little fingers sticking out damp and thin. I see them now! I picked them up, and then--" "Well?" "I kissed them," he rejoined, rather shamefacedly. "But you had hardly ever seen me except in the dusk?" "Never mind. I was young then, and I kissed them. I wondered how I could make the most of my trouvaille, and decided that I would call at your hotel with them that afternoon. It rained, and I waited till next day. I called, and you were gone." "Yes," answered she, with dry melancholy. "My mother, knowing my disposition, said she had no wish for such a chit as me to go falling in love with an impecunious student, and spirited me away to Baden. As it is all over and past I'll tell you one thing: I should have sent you a line passing warm had I known your name. That name I never knew till my maid said, as you passed up the hotel stairs a month ago, 'There's Dr. Fitzpiers.'" "Good Heaven!" said Fitzpiers, musingly. "How the time comes back to me! The evening, the morning, the dew, the spot. When I found that you really were gone it was as if a cold iron had been passed down my back. I went up to where you had stood when I last saw you--I flung myself on the grass, and--being not much more than a boy--my eyes were literally blinded with tears. Nameless, unknown to me as you were, I couldn't forget your voice." "For how long?" "Oh--ever so long. Days and days." "Days and days! ONLY days and days? Oh, the heart of a man! Days and days!" "But, my dear madam, I had not known you more than a day or two. It was not a full-blown love--it was the merest bud--red, fresh, vivid, but small. It was a colossal passion in posse, a giant in embryo. It never matured." "So much the better, perhaps." "Perhaps. But see how powerless is the human will against predestination. We were prevented meeting; we have met. One feature of the case remains the same amid many changes. You are still rich, and I am still poor. Better than that, you have (judging by your last remark) outgrown the foolish, impulsive passions of your early girl-hood. I have not outgrown mine." "I beg your pardon," said she, with vibrations of strong feeling in her words. "I have been placed in a position which hinders such outgrowings. Besides, I don't believe that the genuine subjects of emotion do outgrow them; I believe that the older such people get the worse they are. Possibly at ninety or a hundred they may feel they are cured; but a mere threescore and ten won't do it--at least for me." He gazed at her in undisguised admiration. Here was a soul of souls! "Mrs. Charmond, you speak truly," he exclaimed. "But you speak sadly as well. Why is that?" "I always am sad when I come here," she said, dropping to a low tone with a sense of having been too demonstrative. "Then may I inquire why you came?" "A man brought me. Women are always carried about like corks upon the waves of masculine desires....I hope I have not alarmed you; but Hintock has the curious effect of bottling up the emotions till one can no longer hold them; I am often obliged to fly away and discharge my sentiments somewhere, or I should die outright." "There is very good society in the county for those who have the privilege of entering it." "Perhaps so. But the misery of remote country life is that your neighbors have no toleration for difference of opinion and habit. My neighbors think I am an atheist, except those who think I am a Roman Catholic; and when I speak disrespectfully of the weather or the crops they think I am a blasphemer." She broke into a low musical laugh at the idea. "You don't wish me to stay any longer?" he inquired, when he found that she remained musing. "No--I think not." "Then tell me that I am to be gone." "Why? Cannot you go without?" "I may consult my own feelings only, if left to myself." "Well, if you do, what then? Do you suppose you'll be in my way?" "I feared it might be so." "Then fear no more. But good-night. Come to-morrow and see if I am going on right. This renewal of acquaintance touches me. I have already a friendship for you." "If it depends upon myself it shall last forever." "My best hopes that it may. Good-by." Fitzpiers went down the stairs absolutely unable to decide whether she had sent for him in the natural alarm which might have followed her mishap, or with the single view of making herself known to him as she had done, for which the capsize had afforded excellent opportunity. Outside the house he mused over the spot under the light of the stars. It seemed very strange that he should have come there more than once when its inhabitant was absent, and observed the house with a nameless interest; that he should have assumed off-hand before he knew Grace that it was here she lived; that, in short, at sundry times and seasons the individuality of Hintock House should have forced itself upon him as appertaining to some existence with which he was concerned. The intersection of his temporal orbit with Mrs. Charmond's for a day or two in the past had created a sentimental interest in her at the time, but it had been so evanescent that in the ordinary onward roll of affairs he would scarce ever have recalled it again. To find her here, however, in these somewhat romantic circumstances, magnified that by-gone and transitory tenderness to indescribable proportions. On entering Little Hintock he found himself regarding it in a new way--from the Hintock House point of view rather than from his own and the Melburys'. The household had all gone to bed, and as he went up-stairs he heard the snore of the timber-merchant from his quarter of the building, and turned into the passage communicating with his own rooms in a strange access of sadness. A light was burning for him in the chamber; but Grace, though in bed, was not asleep. In a moment her sympathetic voice came from behind the curtains. "Edgar, is she very seriously hurt?" Fitzpiers had so entirely lost sight of Mrs. Charmond as a patient that he was not on the instant ready with a reply. "Oh no," he said. "There are no bones broken, but she is shaken. I am going again to-morrow." Another inquiry or two, and Grace said, "Did she ask for me?" "Well--I think she did--I don't quite remember; but I am under the impression that she spoke of you." "Cannot you recollect at all what she said?" "I cannot, just this minute." "At any rate she did not talk much about me?" said Grace with disappointment. "Oh no." "But you did, perhaps," she added, innocently fishing for a compliment. "Oh yes--you may depend upon that!" replied he, warmly, though scarcely thinking of what he was saying, so vividly was there present to his mind the personality of Mrs. Charmond. CHAPTER XXVII. The doctor's professional visit to Hintock House was promptly repeated the next day and the next. He always found Mrs. Charmond reclining on a sofa, and behaving generally as became a patient who was in no great hurry to lose that title. On each occasion he looked gravely at the little scratch on her arm, as if it had been a serious wound. He had also, to his further satisfaction, found a slight scar on her temple, and it was very convenient to put a piece of black plaster on this conspicuous part of her person in preference to gold-beater's skin, so that it might catch the eyes of the servants, and make his presence appear decidedly necessary, in case there should be any doubt of the fact. "Oh--you hurt me!" she exclaimed one day. He was peeling off the bit of plaster on her arm, under which the scrape had turned the color of an unripe blackberry previous to vanishing altogether. "Wait a moment, then--I'll damp it," said Fitzpiers. He put his lips to the place and kept them there till the plaster came off easily. "It was at your request I put it on," said he. "I know it," she replied. "Is that blue vein still in my temple that used to show there? The scar must be just upon it. If the cut had been a little deeper it would have spilt my hot blood indeed!" Fitzpiers examined so closely that his breath touched her tenderly, at which their eyes rose to an encounter--hers showing themselves as deep and mysterious as interstellar space. She turned her face away suddenly. "Ah! none of that! none of that--I cannot coquet with you!" she cried. "Don't suppose I consent to for one moment. Our poor, brief, youthful hour of love-making was too long ago to bear continuing now. It is as well that we should understand each other on that point before we go further." "Coquet! Nor I with you. As it was when I found the historic gloves, so it is now. I might have been and may be foolish; but I am no trifler. I naturally cannot forget that little space in which I flitted across the field of your vision in those days of the past, and the recollection opens up all sorts of imaginings." "Suppose my mother had not taken me away?" she murmured, her dreamy eyes resting on the swaying tip of a distant tree. "I should have seen you again." "And then?" "Then the fire would have burned higher and higher. What would have immediately followed I know not; but sorrow and sickness of heart at last." "Why?" "Well--that's the end of all love, according to Nature's law. I can give no other reason." "Oh, don't speak like that," she exclaimed. "Since we are only picturing the possibilities of that time, don't, for pity's sake, spoil the picture." Her voice sank almost to a whisper as she added, with an incipient pout upon her full lips, "Let me think at least that if you had really loved me at all seriously, you would have loved me for ever and ever!" "You are right--think it with all your heart," said he. "It is a pleasant thought, and costs nothing." She weighed that remark in silence a while. "Did you ever hear anything of me from then till now?" she inquired. "Not a word." "So much the better. I had to fight the battle of life as well as you. I may tell you about it some day. But don't ever ask me to do it, and particularly do not press me to tell you now." Thus the two or three days that they had spent in tender acquaintance on the romantic slopes above the Neckar were stretched out in retrospect to the length and importance of years; made to form a canvas for infinite fancies, idle dreams, luxurious melancholies, and sweet, alluring assertions which could neither be proved nor disproved. Grace was never mentioned between them, but a rumor of his proposed domestic changes somehow reached her ears. "Doctor, you are going away," she exclaimed, confronting him with accusatory reproach in her large dark eyes no less than in her rich cooing voice. "Oh yes, you are," she went on, springing to her feet with an air which might almost have been called passionate. "It is no use denying it. You have bought a practice at Budmouth. I don't blame you. Nobody can live at Hintock--least of all a professional man who wants to keep abreast of recent discovery. And there is nobody here to induce such a one to stay for other reasons. That's right, that's right--go away!" "But no, I have not actually bought the practice as yet, though I am indeed in treaty for it. And, my dear friend, if I continue to feel about the business as I feel at this moment--perhaps I may conclude never to go at all." "But you hate Hintock, and everybody and everything in it that you don't mean to take away with you?" Fitzpiers contradicted this idea in his most vibratory tones, and she lapsed into the frivolous archness under which she hid passions of no mean strength--strange, smouldering, erratic passions, kept down like a stifled conflagration, but bursting out now here, now there--the only certain element in their direction being its unexpectedness. If one word could have expressed her it would have been Inconsequence. She was a woman of perversities, delighting in frequent contrasts. She liked mystery, in her life, in her love, in her history. To be fair to her, there was nothing in the latter which she had any great reason to be ashamed of, and many things of which she might have been proud; but it had never been fathomed by the honest minds of Hintock, and she rarely volunteered her experiences. As for her capricious nature, the people on her estates grew accustomed to it, and with that marvellous subtlety of contrivance in steering round odd tempers, that is found in sons of the soil and dependants generally, they managed to get along under her government rather better than they would have done beneath a more equable rule. Now, with regard to the doctor's notion of leaving Hintock, he had advanced further towards completing the purchase of the Budmouth surgeon's good-will than he had admitted to Mrs. Charmond. The whole matter hung upon what he might do in the ensuing twenty-four hours. The evening after leaving her he went out into the lane, and walked and pondered between the high hedges, now greenish-white with wild clematis--here called "old-man's beard," from its aspect later in the year. The letter of acceptance was to be written that night, after which his departure from Hintock would be irrevocable. But could he go away, remembering what had just passed? The trees, the hills, the leaves, the grass--each had been endowed and quickened with a subtle charm since he had discovered the person and history, and, above all, mood of their owner. There was every temporal reason for leaving; it would be entering again into a world which he had only quitted in a passion for isolation, induced by a fit of Achillean moodiness after an imagined slight. His wife herself saw the awkwardness of their position here, and cheerfully welcomed the purposed change, towards which every step had been taken but the last. But could he find it in his heart--as he found it clearly enough in his conscience--to go away? He drew a troubled breath, and went in-doors. Here he rapidly penned a letter, wherein he withdrew once for all from the treaty for the Budmouth practice. As the postman had already left Little Hintock for that night, he sent one of Melbury's men to intercept a mail-cart on another turnpike-road, and so got the letter off. The man returned, met Fitzpiers in the lane, and told him the thing was done. Fitzpiers went back to his house musing. Why had he carried out this impulse--taken such wild trouble to effect a probable injury to his own and his young wife's prospects? His motive was fantastic, glowing, shapeless as the fiery scenery about the western sky. Mrs. Charmond could overtly be nothing more to him than a patient now, and to his wife, at the outside, a patron. In the unattached bachelor days of his first sojourning here how highly proper an emotional reason for lingering on would have appeared to troublesome dubiousness. Matrimonial ambition is such an honorable thing. "My father has told me that you have sent off one of the men with a late letter to Budmouth," cried Grace, coming out vivaciously to meet him under the declining light of the sky, wherein hung, solitary, the folding star. "I said at once that you had finally agreed to pay the premium they ask, and that the tedious question had been settled. When do we go, Edgar?" "I have altered my mind," said he. "They want too much--seven hundred and fifty is too large a sum--and in short, I have declined to go further. We must wait for another opportunity. I fear I am not a good business-man." He spoke the last words with a momentary faltering at the great foolishness of his act; for, as he looked in her fair and honorable face, his heart reproached him for what he had done. Her manner that evening showed her disappointment. Personally she liked the home of her childhood much, and she was not ambitious. But her husband had seemed so dissatisfied with the circumstances hereabout since their marriage that she had sincerely hoped to go for his sake. It was two or three days before he visited Mrs. Charmond again. The morning had been windy, and little showers had sowed themselves like grain against the walls and window-panes of the Hintock cottages. He went on foot across the wilder recesses of the park, where slimy streams of green moisture, exuding from decayed holes caused by old amputations, ran down the bark of the oaks and elms, the rind below being coated with a lichenous wash as green as emerald. They were stout-trunked trees, that never rocked their stems in the fiercest gale, responding to it entirely by crooking their limbs. Wrinkled like an old crone's face, and antlered with dead branches that rose above the foliage of their summits, they were nevertheless still green--though yellow had invaded the leaves of other trees. She was in a little boudoir or writing-room on the first floor, and Fitzpiers was much surprised to find that the window-curtains were closed and a red-shaded lamp and candles burning, though out-of-doors it was broad daylight. Moreover, a large fire was burning in the grate, though it was not cold. "What does it all mean?" he asked. She sat in an easy-chair, her face being turned away. "Oh," she murmured, "it is because the world is so dreary outside. Sorrow and bitterness in the sky, and floods of agonized tears beating against the panes. I lay awake last night, and I could hear the scrape of snails creeping up the window-glass; it was so sad! My eyes were so heavy this morning that I could have wept my life away. I cannot bear you to see my face; I keep it away from you purposely. Oh! why were we given hungry hearts and wild desires if we have to live in a world like this? Why should Death only lend what Life is compelled to borrow--rest? Answer that, Dr. Fitzpiers." "You must eat of a second tree of knowledge before you can do it, Felice Charmond." "Then, when my emotions have exhausted themselves, I become full of fears, till I think I shall die for very fear. The terrible insistencies of society--how severe they are, and cold and inexorable--ghastly towards those who are made of wax and not of stone. Oh, I am afraid of them; a stab for this error, and a stab for that--correctives and regulations framed that society may tend to perfection--an end which I don't care for in the least. Yet for this, all I do care for has to be stunted and starved." Fitzpiers had seated himself near her. "What sets you in this mournful mood?" he asked, gently. (In reality he knew that it was the result of a loss of tone from staying in-doors so much, but he did not say so.) "My reflections. Doctor, you must not come here any more. They begin to think it a farce already. I say you must come no more. There--don't be angry with me;" and she jumped up, pressed his hand, and looked anxiously at him. "It is necessary. It is best for both you and me." "But," said Fitzpiers, gloomily, "what have we done?" "Done--we have done nothing. Perhaps we have thought the more. However, it is all vexation. I am going away to Middleton Abbey, near Shottsford, where a relative of my late husband lives, who is confined to her bed. The engagement was made in London, and I can't get out of it. Perhaps it is for the best that I go there till all this is past. When are you going to enter on your new practice, and leave Hintock behind forever, with your pretty wife on your arm?" "I have refused the opportunity. I love this place too well to depart." "You HAVE?" she said, regarding him with wild uncertainty. "Why do you ruin yourself in that way? Great Heaven, what have I done!" "Nothing. Besides, you are going away." "Oh yes; but only to Middleton Abbey for a month or two. Yet perhaps I shall gain strength there--particularly strength of mind--I require it. And when I come back I shall be a new woman; and you can come and see me safely then, and bring your wife with you, and we'll be friends--she and I. Oh, how this shutting up of one's self does lead to indulgence in idle sentiments. I shall not wish you to give your attendance to me after to-day. But I am glad that you are not going away--if your remaining does not injure your prospects at all." As soon as he had left the room the mild friendliness she had preserved in her tone at parting, the playful sadness with which she had conversed with him, equally departed from her. She became as heavy as lead--just as she had been before he arrived. Her whole being seemed to dissolve in a sad powerlessness to do anything, and the sense of it made her lips tremulous and her closed eyes wet. His footsteps again startled her, and she turned round. "I returned for a moment to tell you that the evening is going to be fine. The sun is shining; so do open your curtains and put out those lights. Shall I do it for you?" "Please--if you don't mind." He drew back the window-curtains, whereupon the red glow of the lamp and the two candle-flames became almost invisible with the flood of late autumn sunlight that poured in. "Shall I come round to you?" he asked, her back being towards him. "No," she replied. "Why not?" "Because I am crying, and I don't want to see you." He stood a moment irresolute, and regretted that he had killed the rosy, passionate lamplight by opening the curtains and letting in garish day. "Then I am going," he said. "Very well," she answered, stretching one hand round to him, and patting her eyes with a handkerchief held in the other. "Shall I write a line to you at--" "No, no." A gentle reasonableness came into her tone as she added, "It must not be, you know. It won't do." "Very well. Good-by." The next moment he was gone. In the evening, with listless adroitness, she encouraged the maid who dressed her for dinner to speak of Dr. Fitzpiers's marriage. "Mrs. Fitzpiers was once supposed to favor Mr. Winterborne," said the young woman. "And why didn't she marry him?" said Mrs. Charmond. "Because, you see, ma'am, he lost his houses." "Lost his houses? How came he to do that?" "The houses were held on lives, and the lives dropped, and your agent wouldn't renew them, though it is said that Mr. Winterborne had a very good claim. That's as I've heard it, ma'am, and it was through it that the match was broke off." Being just then distracted by a dozen emotions, Mrs. Charmond sunk into a mood of dismal self-reproach. "In refusing that poor man his reasonable request," she said to herself, "I foredoomed my rejuvenated girlhood's romance. Who would have thought such a business matter could have nettled my own heart like this? Now for a winter of regrets and agonies and useless wishes, till I forget him in the spring. Oh! I am glad I am going away." She left her chamber and went down to dine with a sigh. On the stairs she stood opposite the large window for a moment, and looked out upon the lawn. It was not yet quite dark. Half-way up the steep green slope confronting her stood old Timothy Tangs, who was shortening his way homeward by clambering here where there was no road, and in opposition to express orders that no path was to be made there. Tangs had momentarily stopped to take a pinch of snuff; but observing Mrs. Charmond gazing at him, he hastened to get over the top out of hail. His precipitancy made him miss his footing, and he rolled like a barrel to the bottom, his snuffbox rolling in front of him. Her indefinite, idle, impossible passion for Fitzpiers; her constitutional cloud of misery; the sorrowful drops that still hung upon her eyelashes, all made way for the incursive mood started by the spectacle. She burst into an immoderate fit of laughter, her very gloom of the previous hour seeming to render it the more uncontrollable. It had not died out of her when she reached the dining-room; and even here, before the servants, her shoulders suddenly shook as the scene returned upon her; and the tears of her hilarity mingled with the remnants of those engendered by her grief. She resolved to be sad no more. She drank two glasses of champagne, and a little more still after those, and amused herself in the evening with singing little amatory songs. "I must do something for that poor man Winterborne, however," she said. CHAPTER XXVIII. A week had passed, and Mrs. Charmond had left Hintock House. Middleton Abbey, the place of her sojourn, was about twenty miles distant by road, eighteen by bridle-paths and footways. Grace observed, for the first time, that her husband was restless, that at moments he even was disposed to avoid her. The scrupulous civility of mere acquaintanceship crept into his manner; yet, when sitting at meals, he seemed hardly to hear her remarks. Her little doings interested him no longer, while towards her father his bearing was not far from supercilious. It was plain that his mind was entirely outside her life, whereabouts outside it she could not tell; in some region of science, possibly, or of psychological literature. But her hope that he was again immersing himself in those lucubrations which before her marriage had made his light a landmark in Hintock, was founded simply on the slender fact that he often sat up late. One evening she discovered him leaning over a gate on Rub-Down Hill, the gate at which Winterborne had once been standing, and which opened on the brink of a steep, slanting down directly into Blackmoor Vale, or the Vale of the White Hart, extending beneath the eye at this point to a distance of many miles. His attention was fixed on the landscape far away, and Grace's approach was so noiseless that he did not hear her. When she came close she could see his lips moving unconsciously, as to some impassioned visionary theme. She spoke, and Fitzpiers started. "What are you looking at?" she asked. "Oh! I was contemplating our old place of Buckbury, in my idle way," he said. It had seemed to her that he was looking much to the right of that cradle and tomb of his ancestral dignity; but she made no further observation, and taking his arm walked home beside him almost in silence. She did not know that Middleton Abbey lay in the direction of his gaze. "Are you going to have out Darling this afternoon?" she asked, presently. Darling being the light-gray mare which Winterborne had bought for Grace, and which Fitzpiers now constantly used, the animal having turned out a wonderful bargain, in combining a perfect docility with an almost human intelligence; moreover, she was not too young. Fitzpiers was unfamiliar with horses, and he valued these qualities. "Yes," he replied, "but not to drive. I am riding her. I practise crossing a horse as often as I can now, for I find that I can take much shorter cuts on horseback." He had, in fact, taken these riding exercises for about a week, only since Mrs. Charmond's absence, his universal practice hitherto having been to drive. Some few days later, Fitzpiers started on the back of this horse to see a patient in the aforesaid Vale. It was about five o'clock in the evening when he went away, and at bedtime he had not reached home. There was nothing very singular in this, though she was not aware that he had any patient more than five or six miles distant in that direction. The clock had struck one before Fitzpiers entered the house, and he came to his room softly, as if anxious not to disturb her. The next morning she was stirring considerably earlier than he. In the yard there was a conversation going on about the mare; the man who attended to the horses, Darling included, insisted that the latter was "hag-rid;" for when he had arrived at the stable that morning she was in such a state as no horse could be in by honest riding. It was true that the doctor had stabled her himself when he got home, so that she was not looked after as she would have been if he had groomed and fed her; but that did not account for the appearance she presented, if Mr. Fitzpiers's journey had been only where he had stated. The phenomenal exhaustion of Darling, as thus related, was sufficient to develop a whole series of tales about riding witches and demons, the narration of which occupied a considerable time. Grace returned in-doors. In passing through the outer room she picked up her husband's overcoat which he had carelessly flung down across a chair. A turnpike ticket fell out of the breast-pocket, and she saw that it had been issued at Middleton Gate. He had therefore visited Middleton the previous night, a distance of at least five-and-thirty miles on horseback, there and back. During the day she made some inquiries, and learned for the first time that Mrs. Charmond was staying at Middleton Abbey. She could not resist an inference--strange as that inference was. A few days later he prepared to start again, at the same time and in the same direction. She knew that the state of the cottager who lived that way was a mere pretext; she was quite sure he was going to Mrs. Charmond. Grace was amazed at the mildness of the passion which the suspicion engendered in her. She was but little excited, and her jealousy was languid even to death. It told tales of the nature of her affection for him. In truth, her antenuptial regard for Fitzpiers had been rather of the quality of awe towards a superior being than of tender solicitude for a lover. It had been based upon mystery and strangeness--the mystery of his past, of his knowledge, of his professional skill, of his beliefs. When this structure of ideals was demolished by the intimacy of common life, and she found him as merely human as the Hintock people themselves, a new foundation was in demand for an enduring and stanch affection--a sympathetic interdependence, wherein mutual weaknesses were made the grounds of a defensive alliance. Fitzpiers had furnished none of that single-minded confidence and truth out of which alone such a second union could spring; hence it was with a controllable emotion that she now watched the mare brought round. "I'll walk with you to the hill if you are not in a great hurry," she said, rather loath, after all, to let him go. "Do; there's plenty of time," replied her husband. Accordingly he led along the horse, and walked beside her, impatient enough nevertheless. Thus they proceeded to the turnpike road, and ascended Rub-Down Hill to the gate he had been leaning over when she surprised him ten days before. This was the end of her excursion. Fitzpiers bade her adieu with affection, even with tenderness, and she observed that he looked weary-eyed. "Why do you go to-night?" she said. "You have been called up two nights in succession already." "I must go," he answered, almost gloomily. "Don't wait up for me." With these words he mounted his horse, passed through the gate which Grace held open for him, and ambled down the steep bridle-track to the valley. She closed the gate and watched his descent, and then his journey onward. His way was east, the evening sun which stood behind her back beaming full upon him as soon as he got out from the shade of the hill. Notwithstanding this untoward proceeding she was determined to be loyal if he proved true; and the determination to love one's best will carry a heart a long way towards making that best an ever-growing thing. The conspicuous coat of the active though blanching mare made horse and rider easy objects for the vision. Though Darling had been chosen with such pains by Winterborne for Grace, she had never ridden the sleek creature; but her husband had found the animal exceedingly convenient, particularly now that he had taken to the saddle, plenty of staying power being left in Darling yet. Fitzpiers, like others of his character, while despising Melbury and his station, did not at all disdain to spend Melbury's money, or appropriate to his own use the horse which belonged to Melbury's daughter. And so the infatuated young surgeon went along through the gorgeous autumn landscape of White Hart Vale, surrounded by orchards lustrous with the reds of apple-crops, berries, and foliage, the whole intensified by the gilding of the declining sun. The earth this year had been prodigally bountiful, and now was the supreme moment of her bounty. In the poorest spots the hedges were bowed with haws and blackberries; acorns cracked underfoot, and the burst husks of chestnuts lay exposing their auburn contents as if arranged by anxious sellers in a fruit-market. In all this proud show some kernels were unsound as her own situation, and she wondered if there were one world in the universe where the fruit had no worm, and marriage no sorrow. Herr Tannhauser still moved on, his plodding steed rendering him distinctly visible yet. Could she have heard Fitzpiers's voice at that moment she would have found him murmuring-- "...Towards the loadstar of my one desire I flitted, even as a dizzy moth in the owlet light." But he was a silent spectacle to her now. Soon he rose out of the valley, and skirted a high plateau of the chalk formation on his right, which rested abruptly upon the fruity district of loamy clay, the character and herbage of the two formations being so distinct that the calcareous upland appeared but as a deposit of a few years' antiquity upon the level vale. He kept along the edge of this high, unenclosed country, and the sky behind him being deep violet, she could still see white Darling in relief upon it--a mere speck now--a Wouvermans eccentricity reduced to microscopic dimensions. Upon this high ground he gradually disappeared. Thus she had beheld the pet animal purchased for her own use, in pure love of her, by one who had always been true, impressed to convey her husband away from her to the side of a new-found idol. While she was musing on the vicissitudes of horses and wives, she discerned shapes moving up the valley towards her, quite near at hand, though till now hidden by the hedges. Surely they were Giles Winterborne, with his two horses and cider-apparatus, conducted by Robert Creedle. Up, upward they crept, a stray beam of the sun alighting every now and then like a star on the blades of the pomace-shovels, which had been converted to steel mirrors by the action of the malic acid. She opened the gate when he came close, and the panting horses rested as they achieved the ascent. "How do you do, Giles?" said she, under a sudden impulse to be familiar with him. He replied with much more reserve. "You are going for a walk, Mrs. Fitzpiers?" he added. "It is pleasant just now." "No, I am returning," said she. The vehicles passed through, the gate slammed, and Winterborne walked by her side in the rear of the apple-mill. He looked and smelt like Autumn's very brother, his face being sunburnt to wheat-color, his eyes blue as corn-flowers, his boots and leggings dyed with fruit-stains, his hands clammy with the sweet juice of apples, his hat sprinkled with pips, and everywhere about him that atmosphere of cider which at its first return each season has such an indescribable fascination for those who have been born and bred among the orchards. Her heart rose from its late sadness like a released spring; her senses revelled in the sudden lapse back to nature unadorned. The consciousness of having to be genteel because of her husband's profession, the veneer of artificiality which she had acquired at the fashionable schools, were thrown off, and she became the crude, country girl of her latent, earliest instincts. Nature was bountiful, she thought. No sooner had she been starved off by Edgar Fitzpiers than another being, impersonating bare and undiluted manliness, had arisen out of the earth, ready to hand. This was an excursion of the imagination which she did not encourage, and she said suddenly, to disguise the confused regard which had followed her thoughts, "Did you meet my husband?" Winterborne, with some hesitation, "Yes." "Where did you meet him?" "At Calfhay Cross. I come from Middleton Abbey; I have been making there for the last week." "Haven't they a mill of their own?" "Yes, but it's out of repair." "I think--I heard that Mrs. Charmond had gone there to stay?" "Yes. I have seen her at the windows once or twice." Grace waited an interval before she went on: "Did Mr. Fitzpiers take the way to Middleton?" "Yes...I met him on Darling." As she did not reply, he added, with a gentler inflection, "You know why the mare was called that?" "Oh yes--of course," she answered, quickly. They had risen so far over the crest of the hill that the whole west sky was revealed. Between the broken clouds they could see far into the recesses of heaven, the eye journeying on under a species of golden arcades, and past fiery obstructions, fancied cairns, logan-stones, stalactites and stalagmite of topaz. Deeper than this their gaze passed thin flakes of incandescence, till it plunged into a bottomless medium of soft green fire. Her abandonment to the luscious time after her sense of ill-usage, her revolt for the nonce against social law, her passionate desire for primitive life, may have showed in her face. Winterborne was looking at her, his eyes lingering on a flower that she wore in her bosom. Almost with the abstraction of a somnambulist he stretched out his hand and gently caressed the flower. She drew back. "What are you doing, Giles Winterborne!" she exclaimed, with a look of severe surprise. The evident absence of all premeditation from the act, however, speedily led her to think that it was not necessary to stand upon her dignity here and now. "You must bear in mind, Giles," she said, kindly, "that we are not as we were; and some people might have said that what you did was taking a liberty." It was more than she need have told him; his action of forgetfulness had made him so angry with himself that he flushed through his tan. "I don't know what I am coming to!" he exclaimed, savagely. "Ah--I was not once like this!" Tears of vexation were in his eyes. "No, now--it was nothing. I was too reproachful." "It would not have occurred to me if I had not seen something like it done elsewhere--at Middleton lately," he said, thoughtfully, after a while. "By whom?" "Don't ask it." She scanned him narrowly. "I know quite well enough," she returned, indifferently. "It was by my husband, and the woman was Mrs. Charmond. Association of ideas reminded you when you saw me....Giles--tell me all you know about that--please do, Giles! But no--I won't hear it. Let the subject cease. And as you are my friend, say nothing to my father." They reached a place where their ways divided. Winterborne continued along the highway which kept outside the copse, and Grace opened a gate that entered it. CHAPTER XXIX. She walked up the soft grassy ride, screened on either hand by nut-bushes, just now heavy with clusters of twos and threes and fours. A little way on, the track she pursued was crossed by a similar one at right angles. Here Grace stopped; some few yards up the transverse ride the buxom Suke Damson was visible--her gown tucked up high through her pocket-hole, and no bonnet on her head--in the act of pulling down boughs from which she was gathering and eating nuts with great rapidity, her lover Tim Tangs standing near her engaged in the same pleasant meal. Crack, crack went Suke's jaws every second or two. By an automatic chain of thought Grace's mind reverted to the tooth-drawing scene described by her husband; and for the first time she wondered if that narrative were really true, Susan's jaws being so obviously sound and strong. Grace turned up towards the nut-gatherers, and conquered her reluctance to speak to the girl who was a little in advance of Tim. "Good-evening, Susan," she said. "Good-evening, Miss Melbury" (crack). "Mrs. Fitzpiers." "Oh yes, ma'am--Mrs. Fitzpiers," said Suke, with a peculiar smile. Grace, not to be daunted, continued: "Take care of your teeth, Suke. That accounts for the toothache." "I don't know what an ache is, either in tooth, ear, or head, thank the Lord" (crack). "Nor the loss of one, either?" "See for yourself, ma'am." She parted her red lips, and exhibited the whole double row, full up and unimpaired. "You have never had one drawn?" "Never." "So much the better for your stomach," said Mrs. Fitzpiers, in an altered voice. And turning away quickly, she went on. As her husband's character thus shaped itself under the touch of time, Grace was almost startled to find how little she suffered from that jealous excitement which is conventionally attributed to all wives in such circumstances. But though possessed by none of that feline wildness which it was her moral duty to experience, she did not fail to know that she had made a frightful mistake in her marriage. Acquiescence in her father's wishes had been degradation to herself. People are not given premonitions for nothing; she should have obeyed her impulse on that early morning, and steadfastly refused her hand. Oh, that plausible tale which her then betrothed had told her about Suke--the dramatic account of her entreaties to him to draw the aching enemy, and the fine artistic touch he had given to the story by explaining that it was a lovely molar without a flaw! She traced the remainder of the woodland track dazed by the complications of her position. If his protestations to her before their marriage could be believed, her husband had felt affection of some sort for herself and this woman simultaneously; and was now again spreading the same emotion over Mrs. Charmond and herself conjointly, his manner being still kind and fond at times. But surely, rather than that, he must have played the hypocrite towards her in each case with elaborate completeness; and the thought of this sickened her, for it involved the conjecture that if he had not loved her, his only motive for making her his wife must have been her little fortune. Yet here Grace made a mistake, for the love of men like Fitzpiers is unquestionably of such quality as to bear division and transference. He had indeed, once declared, though not to her, that on one occasion he had noticed himself to be possessed by five distinct infatuations at the same time. Therein it differed from the highest affection as the lower orders of the animal world differ from advanced organisms, partition causing, not death, but a multiplied existence. He had loved her sincerely, and had by no means ceased to love her now. But such double and treble barrelled hearts were naturally beyond her conception. Of poor Suke Damson, Grace thought no more. She had had her day. "If he does not love me I will not love him!" said Grace, proudly. And though these were mere words, it was a somewhat formidable thing for Fitzpiers that her heart was approximating to a state in which it might be possible to carry them out. That very absence of hot jealousy which made his courses so easy, and on which, indeed, he congratulated himself, meant, unknown to either wife or husband, more mischief than the inconvenient watchfulness of a jaundiced eye. Her sleep that night was nervous. The wing allotted to her and her husband had never seemed so lonely. At last she got up, put on her dressing-gown, and went down-stairs. Her father, who slept lightly, heard her descend, and came to the stair-head. "Is that you, Grace? What's the matter?" he said. "Nothing more than that I am restless. Edgar is detained by a case at Owlscombe in White Hart Vale." "But how's that? I saw the woman's husband at Great Hintock just afore bedtime; and she was going on well, and the doctor gone then." "Then he's detained somewhere else," said Grace. "Never mind me; he will soon be home. I expect him about one." She went back to her room, and dozed and woke several times. One o'clock had been the hour of his return on the last occasion; but it passed now by a long way, and Fitzpiers did not come. Just before dawn she heard the men stirring in the yard; and the flashes of their lanterns spread every now and then through her window-blind. She remembered that her father had told her not to be disturbed if she noticed them, as they would be rising early to send off four loads of hurdles to a distant sheep-fair. Peeping out, she saw them bustling about, the hollow-turner among the rest; he was loading his wares--wooden-bowls, dishes, spigots, spoons, cheese-vats, funnels, and so on--upon one of her father's wagons, who carried them to the fair for him every year out of neighborly kindness. The scene and the occasion would have enlivened her but that her husband was still absent; though it was now five o'clock. She could hardly suppose him, whatever his infatuation, to have prolonged to a later hour than ten an ostensibly professional call on Mrs. Charmond at Middleton; and he could have ridden home in two hours and a half. What, then, had become of him? That he had been out the greater part of the two preceding nights added to her uneasiness. She dressed herself, descended, and went out, the weird twilight of advancing day chilling the rays from the lanterns, and making the men's faces wan. As soon as Melbury saw her he came round, showing his alarm. "Edgar is not come," she said. "And I have reason to know that he's not attending anybody. He has had no rest for two nights before this. I was going to the top of the hill to look for him." "I'll come with you," said Melbury. She begged him not to hinder himself; but he insisted, for he saw a peculiar and rigid gloom in her face over and above her uneasiness, and did not like the look of it. Telling the men he would be with them again soon, he walked beside her into the turnpike-road, and partly up the hill whence she had watched Fitzpiers the night before across the Great White Hart or Blackmoor Valley. They halted beneath a half-dead oak, hollow, and disfigured with white tumors, its roots spreading out like accipitrine claws grasping the ground. A chilly wind circled round them, upon whose currents the seeds of a neighboring lime-tree, supported parachute-wise by the wing attached, flew out of the boughs downward like fledglings from their nest. The vale was wrapped in a dim atmosphere of unnaturalness, and the east was like a livid curtain edged with pink. There was no sign nor sound of Fitzpiers. "It is no use standing here," said her father. "He may come home fifty ways...why, look here!--here be Darling's tracks--turned homeward and nearly blown dry and hard! He must have come in hours ago without your seeing him." "He has not done that," said she. They went back hastily. On entering their own gates they perceived that the men had left the wagons, and were standing round the door of the stable which had been appropriated to the doctor's use. "Is there anything the matter?" cried Grace. "Oh no, ma'am. All's well that ends well," said old Timothy Tangs. "I've heard of such things before--among workfolk, though not among your gentle people--that's true." They entered the stable, and saw the pale shape of Darling standing in the middle of her stall, with Fitzpiers on her back, sound asleep. Darling was munching hay as well as she could with the bit in her month, and the reins, which had fallen from Fitzpiers's hand, hung upon her neck. Grace went and touched his hand; shook it before she could arouse him. He moved, started, opened his eyes, and exclaimed, "Ah, Felice!...Oh, it's Grace. I could not see in the gloom. What--am I in the saddle?" "Yes," said she. "How do you come here?" He collected his thoughts, and in a few minutes stammered, "I was riding along homeward through the vale, very, very sleepy, having been up so much of late. When I came opposite Holywell spring the mare turned her head that way, as if she wanted to drink. I let her go in, and she drank; I thought she would never finish. While she was drinking, the clock of Owlscombe Church struck twelve. I distinctly remember counting the strokes. From that moment I positively recollect nothing till I saw you here by my side." "The name! If it had been any other horse he'd have had a broken neck!" murmured Melbury. "'Tis wonderful, sure, how a quiet hoss will bring a man home at such times!" said John Upjohn. "And what's more wonderful than keeping your seat in a deep, slumbering sleep? I've knowed men drowze off walking home from randies where the mead and other liquors have gone round well, and keep walking for more than a mile on end without waking. Well, doctor, I don't care who the man is, 'tis a mercy you wasn't a drownded, or a splintered, or a hanged up to a tree like Absalom--also a handsome gentleman like yerself, as the prophets say." "True," murmured old Timothy. "From the soul of his foot to the crown of his head there was no blemish in him." "Or leastwise you might ha' been a-wownded into tatters a'most, and no doctor to jine your few limbs together within seven mile!" While this grim address was proceeding, Fitzpiers had dismounted, and taking Grace's arm walked stiffly in-doors with her. Melbury stood staring at the horse, which, in addition to being very weary, was spattered with mud. There was no mud to speak of about the Hintocks just now--only in the clammy hollows of the vale beyond Owlscombe, the stiff soil of which retained moisture for weeks after the uplands were dry. While they were rubbing down the mare, Melbury's mind coupled with the foreign quality of the mud the name he had heard unconsciously muttered by the surgeon when Grace took his hand--"Felice." Who was Felice? Why, Mrs. Charmond; and she, as he knew, was staying at Middleton. Melbury had indeed pounced upon the image that filled Fitzpiers's half-awakened soul--wherein there had been a picture of a recent interview on a lawn with a capriciously passionate woman who had begged him not to come again in tones whose vibration incited him to disobey. "What are you doing here? Why do you pursue me? Another belongs to you. If they were to see you they would seize you as a thief!" And she had turbulently admitted to his wringing questions that her visit to Middleton had been undertaken less because of the invalid relative than in shamefaced fear of her own weakness if she remained near his home. A triumph then it was to Fitzpiers, poor and hampered as he had become, to recognize his real conquest of this beauty, delayed so many years. His was the selfish passion of Congreve's Millamont, to whom love's supreme delight lay in "that heart which others bleed for, bleed for me." When the horse had been attended to Melbury stood uneasily here and there about his premises; he was rudely disturbed in the comfortable views which had lately possessed him on his domestic concerns. It is true that he had for some days discerned that Grace more and more sought his company, preferred supervising his kitchen and bakehouse with her step-mother to occupying herself with the lighter details of her own apartments. She seemed no longer able to find in her own hearth an adequate focus for her life, and hence, like a weak queen-bee after leading off to an independent home, had hovered again into the parent hive. But he had not construed these and other incidents of the kind till now. Something was wrong in the dove-cot. A ghastly sense that he alone would be responsible for whatever unhappiness should be brought upon her for whom he almost solely lived, whom to retain under his roof he had faced the numerous inconveniences involved in giving up the best part of his house to Fitzpiers. There was no room for doubt that, had he allowed events to take their natural course, she would have accepted Winterborne, and realized his old dream of restitution to that young man's family. That Fitzpiers could allow himself to look on any other creature for a moment than Grace filled Melbury with grief and astonishment. In the pure and simple life he had led it had scarcely occurred to him that after marriage a man might be faithless. That he could sweep to the heights of Mrs. Charmond's position, lift the veil of Isis, so to speak, would have amazed Melbury by its audacity if he had not suspected encouragement from that quarter. What could he and his simple Grace do to countervail the passions of such as those two sophisticated beings--versed in the world's ways, armed with every apparatus for victory? In such an encounter the homely timber-dealer felt as inferior as a bow-and-arrow savage before the precise weapons of modern warfare. Grace came out of the house as the morning drew on. The village was silent, most of the folk having gone to the fair. Fitzpiers had retired to bed, and was sleeping off his fatigue. She went to the stable and looked at poor Darling: in all probability Giles Winterborne, by obtaining for her a horse of such intelligence and docility, had been the means of saving her husband's life. She paused over the strange thought; and then there appeared her father behind her. She saw that he knew things were not as they ought to be, from the troubled dulness of his eye, and from his face, different points of which had independent motions, twitchings, and tremblings, unknown to himself, and involuntary. "He was detained, I suppose, last night?" said Melbury. "Oh yes; a bad case in the vale," she replied, calmly. "Nevertheless, he should have stayed at home." "But he couldn't, father." Her father turned away. He could hardly bear to see his whilom truthful girl brought to the humiliation of having to talk like that. That night carking care sat beside Melbury's pillow, and his stiff limbs tossed at its presence. "I can't lie here any longer," he muttered. Striking a light, he wandered about the room. "What have I done--what have I done for her?" he said to his wife, who had anxiously awakened. "I had long planned that she should marry the son of the man I wanted to make amends to; do ye mind how I told you all about it, Lucy, the night before she came home? Ah! but I was not content with doing right, I wanted to do more!" "Don't raft yourself without good need, George," she replied. "I won't quite believe that things are so much amiss. I won't believe that Mrs. Charmond has encouraged him. Even supposing she has encouraged a great many, she can have no motive to do it now. What so likely as that she is not yet quite well, and doesn't care to let another doctor come near her?" He did not heed. "Grace used to be so busy every day, with fixing a curtain here and driving a tin-tack there; but she cares for no employment now!" "Do you know anything of Mrs. Charmond's past history? Perhaps that would throw some light upon things. Before she came here as the wife of old Charmond four or five years ago, not a soul seems to have heard aught of her. Why not make inquiries? And then do ye wait and see more; there'll be plenty of opportunity. Time enough to cry when you know 'tis a crying matter; and 'tis bad to meet troubles half-way." There was some good-sense in the notion of seeing further. Melbury resolved to inquire and wait, hoping still, but oppressed between-whiles with much fear. CHAPTER XXX. Examine Grace as her father might, she would admit nothing. For the present, therefore, he simply watched. The suspicion that his darling child was being slighted wrought almost a miraculous change in Melbury's nature. No man so furtive for the time as the ingenuous countryman who finds that his ingenuousness has been abused. Melbury's heretofore confidential candor towards his gentlemanly son-in-law was displaced by a feline stealth that did injury to his every action, thought, and mood. He knew that a woman once given to a man for life took, as a rule, her lot as it came and made the best of it, without external interference; but for the first time he asked himself why this so generally should be so. Moreover, this case was not, he argued, like ordinary cases. Leaving out the question of Grace being anything but an ordinary woman, her peculiar situation, as it were in mid-air between two planes of society, together with the loneliness of Hintock, made a husband's neglect a far more tragical matter to her than it would be to one who had a large circle of friends to fall back upon. Wisely or unwisely, and whatever other fathers did, he resolved to fight his daughter's battle still. Mrs. Charmond had returned. But Hintock House scarcely gave forth signs of life, so quietly had she reentered it. He went to church at Great Hintock one afternoon as usual, there being no service at the smaller village. A few minutes before his departure, he had casually heard Fitzpiers, who was no church-goer, tell his wife that he was going to walk in the wood. Melbury entered the building and sat down in his pew; the parson came in, then Mrs. Charmond, then Mr. Fitzpiers. The service proceeded, and the jealous father was quite sure that a mutual consciousness was uninterruptedly maintained between those two; he fancied that more than once their eyes met. At the end, Fitzpiers so timed his movement into the aisle that it exactly coincided with Felice Charmond's from the opposite side, and they walked out with their garments in contact, the surgeon being just that two or three inches in her rear which made it convenient for his eyes to rest upon her cheek. The cheek warmed up to a richer tone. This was a worse feature in the flirtation than he had expected. If she had been playing with him in an idle freak the game might soon have wearied her; but the smallest germ of passion--and women of the world do not change color for nothing--was a threatening development. The mere presence of Fitzpiers in the building, after his statement, was wellnigh conclusive as far as he was concerned; but Melbury resolved yet to watch. He had to wait long. Autumn drew shiveringly to its end. One day something seemed to be gone from the gardens; the tenderer leaves of vegetables had shrunk under the first smart frost, and hung like faded linen rags; then the forest leaves, which had been descending at leisure, descended in haste and in multitudes, and all the golden colors that had hung overhead were now crowded together in a degraded mass underfoot, where the fallen myriads got redder and hornier, and curled themselves up to rot. The only suspicious features in Mrs. Charmond's existence at this season were two: the first, that she lived with no companion or relative about her, which, considering her age and attractions, was somewhat unusual conduct for a young widow in a lonely country-house; the other, that she did not, as in previous years, start from Hintock to winter abroad. In Fitzpiers, the only change from his last autumn's habits lay in his abandonment of night study--his lamp never shone from his new dwelling as from his old. If the suspected ones met, it was by such adroit contrivances that even Melbury's vigilance could not encounter them together. A simple call at her house by the doctor had nothing irregular about it, and that he had paid two or three such calls was certain. What had passed at those interviews was known only to the parties themselves; but that Felice Charmond was under some one's influence Melbury soon had opportunity of perceiving. Winter had come on. Owls began to be noisy in the mornings and evenings, and flocks of wood-pigeons made themselves prominent again. One day in February, about six months after the marriage of Fitzpiers, Melbury was returning from Great Hintock on foot through the lane, when he saw before him the surgeon also walking. Melbury would have overtaken him, but at that moment Fitzpiers turned in through a gate to one of the rambling drives among the trees at this side of the wood, which led to nowhere in particular, and the beauty of whose serpentine curves was the only justification of their existence. Felice almost simultaneously trotted down the lane towards the timber-dealer, in a little basket-carriage which she sometimes drove about the estate, unaccompanied by a servant. She turned in at the same place without having seen either Melbury or apparently Fitzpiers. Melbury was soon at the spot, despite his aches and his sixty years. Mrs. Charmond had come up with the doctor, who was standing immediately behind the carriage. She had turned to him, her arm being thrown carelessly over the back of the seat. They looked in each other's faces without uttering a word, an arch yet gloomy smile wreathing her lips. Fitzpiers clasped her hanging hand, and, while she still remained in the same listless attitude, looking volumes into his eyes, he stealthily unbuttoned her glove, and stripped her hand of it by rolling back the gauntlet over the fingers, so that it came off inside out. He then raised her hand to his month, she still reclining passively, watching him as she might have watched a fly upon her dress. At last she said, "Well, sir, what excuse for this disobedience?" "I make none." "Then go your way, and let me go mine." She snatched away her hand, touched the pony with the whip, and left him standing there, holding the reversed glove. Melbury's first impulse was to reveal his presence to Fitzpiers, and upbraid him bitterly. But a moment's thought was sufficient to show him the futility of any such simple proceeding. There was not, after all, so much in what he had witnessed as in what that scene might be the surface and froth of--probably a state of mind on which censure operates as an aggravation rather than as a cure. Moreover, he said to himself that the point of attack should be the woman, if either. He therefore kept out of sight, and musing sadly, even tearfully--for he was meek as a child in matters concerning his daughter--continued his way towards Hintock. The insight which is bred of deep sympathy was never more finely exemplified than in this instance. Through her guarded manner, her dignified speech, her placid countenance, he discerned the interior of Grace's life only too truly, hidden as were its incidents from every outer eye. These incidents had become painful enough. Fitzpiers had latterly developed an irritable discontent which vented itself in monologues when Grace was present to hear them. The early morning of this day had been dull, after a night of wind, and on looking out of the window Fitzpiers had observed some of Melbury's men dragging away a large limb which had been snapped off a beech-tree. Everything was cold and colorless. "My good Heaven!" he said, as he stood in his dressing-gown. "This is life!" He did not know whether Grace was awake or not, and he would not turn his head to ascertain. "Ah, fool," he went on to himself, "to clip your own wings when you were free to soar!...But I could not rest till I had done it. Why do I never recognize an opportunity till I have missed it, nor the good or ill of a step till it is irrevocable!...I fell in love....Love, indeed!-- "'Love's but the frailty of the mind When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame which if not fed, expires, And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires!' Ah, old author of 'The Way of the World,' you knew--you knew!" Grace moved. He thought she had heard some part of his soliloquy. He was sorry--though he had not taken any precaution to prevent her. He expected a scene at breakfast, but she only exhibited an extreme reserve. It was enough, however, to make him repent that he should have done anything to produce discomfort; for he attributed her manner entirely to what he had said. But Grace's manner had not its cause either in his sayings or in his doings. She had not heard a single word of his regrets. Something even nearer home than her husband's blighted prospects--if blighted they were--was the origin of her mood, a mood that was the mere continuation of what her father had noticed when he would have preferred a passionate jealousy in her, as the more natural. She had made a discovery--one which to a girl of honest nature was almost appalling. She had looked into her heart, and found that her early interest in Giles Winterborne had become revitalized into luxuriant growth by her widening perceptions of what was great and little in life. His homeliness no longer offended her acquired tastes; his comparative want of so-called culture did not now jar on her intellect; his country dress even pleased her eye; his exterior roughness fascinated her. Having discovered by marriage how much that was humanly not great could co-exist with attainments of an exceptional order, there was a revulsion in her sentiments from all that she had formerly clung to in this kind: honesty, goodness, manliness, tenderness, devotion, for her only existed in their purity now in the breasts of unvarnished men; and here was one who had manifested them towards her from his youth up. There was, further, that never-ceasing pity in her soul for Giles as a man whom she had wronged--a man who had been unfortunate in his worldly transactions; while, not without a touch of sublimity, he had, like Horatio, borne himself throughout his scathing "As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing." It was these perceptions, and no subtle catching of her husband's murmurs, that had bred the abstraction visible in her. When her father approached the house after witnessing the interview between Fitzpiers and Mrs. Charmond, Grace was looking out of her sitting-room window, as if she had nothing to do, or think of, or care for. He stood still. "Ah, Grace," he said, regarding her fixedly. "Yes, father," she murmured. "Waiting for your dear husband?" he inquired, speaking with the sarcasm of pitiful affection. "Oh no--not especially. He has a great many patients to see this afternoon." Melbury came quite close. "Grace, what's the use of talking like that, when you know--Here, come down and walk with me out in the garden, child." He unfastened the door in the ivy-laced wall, and waited. This apparent indifference alarmed him. He would far rather that she had rushed in all the fire of jealousy to Hintock House, regardless of conventionality, confronted and attacked Felice Charmond _unguibus et rostro_, and accused her even in exaggerated shape of stealing away her husband. Such a storm might have cleared the air. She emerged in a minute or two, and they went inside together. "You know as well as I do," he resumed, "that there is something threatening mischief to your life; and yet you pretend you do not. Do you suppose I don't see the trouble in your face every day? I am very sure that this quietude is wrong conduct in you. You should look more into matters." "I am quiet because my sadness is not of a nature to stir me to action." Melbury wanted to ask her a dozen questions--did she not feel jealous? was she not indignant? but a natural delicacy restrained him. "You are very tame and let-alone, I am bound to say," he remarked, pointedly. "I am what I feel, father," she repeated. He glanced at her, and there returned upon his mind the scene of her offering to wed Winterborne instead of Fitzpiers in the last days before her marriage; and he asked himself if it could be the fact that she loved Winterborne, now that she had lost him, more than she had ever done when she was comparatively free to choose him. "What would you have me do?" she asked, in a low voice. He recalled his mind from the retrospective pain to the practical matter before them. "I would have you go to Mrs. Charmond," he said. "Go to Mrs. Charmond--what for?" said she. "Well--if I must speak plain, dear Grace--to ask her, appeal to her in the name of your common womanhood, and your many like sentiments on things, not to make unhappiness between you and your husband. It lies with her entirely to do one or the other--that I can see." Grace's face had heated at her father's words, and the very rustle of her skirts upon the box-edging bespoke hauteur. "I shall not think of going to her, father--of course I could not!" she answered. "Why--don't 'ee want to be happier than you be at present?" said Melbury, more moved on her account than she was herself. "I don't wish to be more humiliated. If I have anything to bear I can bear it in silence." "But, my dear maid, you are too young--you don't know what the present state of things may lead to. Just see the harm done a'ready! Your husband would have gone away to Budmouth to a bigger practice if it had not been for this. Although it has gone such a little way, it is poisoning your future even now. Mrs. Charmond is thoughtlessly bad, not bad by calculation; and just a word to her now might save 'ee a peck of woes." "Ah, I loved her once," said Grace, with a broken articulation, "and she would not care for me then! Now I no longer love her. Let her do her worst: I don't care." "You ought to care. You have got into a very good position to start with. You have been well educated, well tended, and you have become the wife of a professional man of unusually good family. Surely you ought to make the best of your position." "I don't see that I ought. I wish I had never got into it. I wish you had never, never thought of educating me. I wish I worked in the woods like Marty South. I hate genteel life, and I want to be no better than she." "Why?" said her amazed father. "Because cultivation has only brought me inconveniences and troubles. I say again, I wish you had never sent me to those fashionable schools you set your mind on. It all arose out of that, father. If I had stayed at home I should have married--" She closed up her mouth suddenly and was silent; and he saw that she was not far from crying. Melbury was much grieved. "What, and would you like to have grown up as we be here in Hintock--knowing no more, and with no more chance of seeing good life than we have here?" "Yes. I have never got any happiness outside Hintock that I know of, and I have suffered many a heartache at being sent away. Oh, the misery of those January days when I had got back to school, and left you all here in the wood so happy. I used to wonder why I had to bear it. And I was always a little despised by the other girls at school, because they knew where I came from, and that my parents were not in so good a station as theirs." Her poor father was much hurt at what he thought her ingratitude and intractability. He had admitted to himself bitterly enough that he should have let young hearts have their way, or rather should have helped on her affection for Winterborne, and given her to him according to his original plan; but he was not prepared for her deprecation of those attainments whose completion had been a labor of years, and a severe tax upon his purse. "Very well," he said, with much heaviness of spirit. "If you don't like to go to her I don't wish to force you." And so the question remained for him still: how should he remedy this perilous state of things? For days he sat in a moody attitude over the fire, a pitcher of cider standing on the hearth beside him, and his drinking-horn inverted upon the top of it. He spent a week and more thus composing a letter to the chief offender, which he would every now and then attempt to complete, and suddenly crumple up in his hand. CHAPTER XXXI. As February merged in March, and lighter evenings broke the gloom of the woodmen's homeward journey, the Hintocks Great and Little began to have ears for a rumor of the events out of which had grown the timber-dealer's troubles. It took the form of a wide sprinkling of conjecture, wherein no man knew the exact truth. Tantalizing phenomena, at once showing and concealing the real relationship of the persons concerned, caused a diffusion of excited surprise. Honest people as the woodlanders were, it was hardly to be expected that they could remain immersed in the study of their trees and gardens amid such circumstances, or sit with their backs turned like the good burghers of Coventry at the passage of the beautiful lady. Rumor, for a wonder, exaggerated little. There were, in fact, in this case as in thousands, the well-worn incidents, old as the hills, which, with individual variations, made a mourner of Ariadne, a by-word of Vashti, and a corpse of the Countess Amy. There were rencounters accidental and contrived, stealthy correspondence, sudden misgivings on one side, sudden self-reproaches on the other. The inner state of the twain was one as of confused noise that would not allow the accents of calmer reason to be heard. Determinations to go in this direction, and headlong plunges in that; dignified safeguards, undignified collapses; not a single rash step by deliberate intention, and all against judgment. It was all that Melbury had expected and feared. It was more, for he had overlooked the publicity that would be likely to result, as it now had done. What should he do--appeal to Mrs. Charmond himself, since Grace would not? He bethought himself of Winterborne, and resolved to consult him, feeling the strong need of some friend of his own sex to whom he might unburden his mind. He had entirely lost faith in his own judgment. That judgment on which he had relied for so many years seemed recently, like a false companion unmasked, to have disclosed unexpected depths of hypocrisy and speciousness where all had seemed solidity. He felt almost afraid to form a conjecture on the weather, or the time, or the fruit-promise, so great was his self-abasement. It was a rimy evening when he set out to look for Giles. The woods seemed to be in a cold sweat; beads of perspiration hung from every bare twig; the sky had no color, and the trees rose before him as haggard, gray phantoms, whose days of substantiality were passed. Melbury seldom saw Winterborne now, but he believed him to be occupying a lonely hut just beyond the boundary of Mrs. Charmond's estate, though still within the circuit of the woodland. The timber-merchant's thin legs stalked on through the pale, damp scenery, his eyes on the dead leaves of last year; while every now and then a hasty "Ay?" escaped his lips in reply to some bitter proposition. His notice was attracted by a thin blue haze of smoke, behind which arose sounds of voices and chopping: bending his steps that way, he saw Winterborne just in front of him. It just now happened that Giles, after being for a long time apathetic and unemployed, had become one of the busiest men in the neighborhood. It is often thus; fallen friends, lost sight of, we expect to find starving; we discover them going on fairly well. Without any solicitation, or desire for profit on his part, he had been asked to execute during that winter a very large order for hurdles and other copse-ware, for which purpose he had been obliged to buy several acres of brushwood standing. He was now engaged in the cutting and manufacture of the same, proceeding with the work daily like an automaton. The hazel-tree did not belie its name to-day. The whole of the copse-wood where the mist had cleared returned purest tints of that hue, amid which Winterborne himself was in the act of making a hurdle, the stakes being driven firmly into the ground in a row, over which he bent and wove the twigs. Beside him was a square, compact pile like the altar of Cain, formed of hurdles already finished, which bristled on all sides with the sharp points of their stakes. At a little distance the men in his employ were assisting him to carry out his contract. Rows of copse-wood lay on the ground as it had fallen under the axe; and a shelter had been constructed near at hand, in front of which burned the fire whose smoke had attracted him. The air was so dank that the smoke hung heavy, and crept away amid the bushes without rising from the ground. After wistfully regarding Winterborne a while, Melbury drew nearer, and briefly inquired of Giles how he came to be so busily engaged, with an undertone of slight surprise that Winterborne could seem so thriving after being deprived of Grace. Melbury was not without emotion at the meeting; for Grace's affairs had divided them, and ended their intimacy of old times. Winterborne explained just as briefly, without raising his eyes from his occupation of chopping a bough that he held in front of him. "'Twill be up in April before you get it all cleared," said Melbury. "Yes, there or thereabouts," said Winterborne, a chop of the billhook jerking the last word into two pieces. There was another interval; Melbury still looked on, a chip from Winterborne's hook occasionally flying against the waistcoat and legs of his visitor, who took no heed. "Ah, Giles--you should have been my partner. You should have been my son-in-law," the old man said at last. "It would have been far better for her and for me." Winterborne saw that something had gone wrong with his former friend, and throwing down the switch he was about to interweave, he responded only too readily to the mood of the timber-dealer. "Is she ill?" he said, hurriedly. "No, no." Melbury stood without speaking for some minutes, and then, as though he could not bring himself to proceed, turned to go away. Winterborne told one of his men to pack up the tools for the night and walked after Melbury. "Heaven forbid that I should seem too inquisitive, sir," he said, "especially since we don't stand as we used to stand to one another; but I hope it is well with them all over your way?" "No," said Melbury--"no." He stopped, and struck the smooth trunk of a young ash-tree with the flat of his hand. "I would that his ear had been where that rind is!" he exclaimed; "I should have treated him to little compared wi what he deserves." "Now," said Winterborne, "don't be in a hurry to go home. I've put some cider down to warm in my shelter here, and we'll sit and drink it and talk this over." Melbury turned unresistingly as Giles took his arm, and they went back to where the fire was, and sat down under the screen, the other woodmen having gone. He drew out the cider-mug from the ashes and they drank together. "Giles, you ought to have had her, as I said just now," repeated Melbury. "I'll tell you why for the first time." He thereupon told Winterborne, as with great relief, the story of how he won away Giles's father's chosen one--by nothing worse than a lover's cajoleries, it is true, but by means which, except in love, would certainly have been pronounced cruel and unfair. He explained how he had always intended to make reparation to Winterborne the father by giving Grace to Winterborne the son, till the devil tempted him in the person of Fitzpiers, and he broke his virtuous vow. "How highly I thought of that man, to be sure! Who'd have supposed he'd have been so weak and wrong-headed as this! You ought to have had her, Giles, and there's an end on't." Winterborne knew how to preserve his calm under this unconsciously cruel tearing of a healing wound to which Melbury's concentration on the more vital subject had blinded him. The young man endeavored to make the best of the case for Grace's sake. "She would hardly have been happy with me," he said, in the dry, unimpassioned voice under which he hid his feelings. "I was not well enough educated: too rough, in short. I couldn't have surrounded her with the refinements she looked for, anyhow, at all." "Nonsense--you are quite wrong there," said the unwise old man, doggedly. "She told me only this day that she hates refinements and such like. All that my trouble and money bought for her in that way is thrown away upon her quite. She'd fain be like Marty South--think o' that! That's the top of her ambition! Perhaps she's right. Giles, she loved you--under the rind; and, what's more, she loves ye still--worse luck for the poor maid!" If Melbury only had known what fires he was recklessly stirring up he might have held his peace. Winterborne was silent a long time. The darkness had closed in round them, and the monotonous drip of the fog from the branches quickened as it turned to fine rain. "Oh, she never cared much for me," Giles managed to say, as he stirred the embers with a brand. "She did, and does, I tell ye," said the other, obstinately. "However, all that's vain talking now. What I come to ask you about is a more practical matter--how to make the best of things as they are. I am thinking of a desperate step--of calling on the woman Charmond. I am going to appeal to her, since Grace will not. 'Tis she who holds the balance in her hands--not he. While she's got the will to lead him astray he will follow--poor, unpractical, lofty-notioned dreamer--and how long she'll do it depends upon her whim. Did ye ever hear anything about her character before she came to Hintock?" "She's been a bit of a charmer in her time, I believe," replied Giles, with the same level quietude, as he regarded the red coals. "One who has smiled where she has not loved and loved where she has not married. Before Mr. Charmond made her his wife she was a play-actress." "Hey? But how close you have kept all this, Giles! What besides?" "Mr. Charmond was a rich man, engaged in the iron trade in the north, twenty or thirty years older than she. He married her and retired, and came down here and bought this property, as they do nowadays." "Yes, yes--I know all about that; but the other I did not know. I fear it bodes no good. For how can I go and appeal to the forbearance of a woman in this matter who has made cross-loves and crooked entanglements her trade for years? I thank ye, Giles, for finding it out; but it makes my plan the harder that she should have belonged to that unstable tribe." Another pause ensued, and they looked gloomily at the smoke that beat about the hurdles which sheltered them, through whose weavings a large drop of rain fell at intervals and spat smartly into the fire. Mrs. Charmond had been no friend to Winterborne, but he was manly, and it was not in his heart to let her be condemned without a trial. "She is said to be generous," he answered. "You might not appeal to her in vain." "It shall be done," said Melbury, rising. "For good or for evil, to Mrs. Charmond I'll go." CHAPTER XXXII. At nine o'clock the next morning Melbury dressed himself up in shining broadcloth, creased with folding and smelling of camphor, and started for Hintock House. He was the more impelled to go at once by the absence of his son-in-law in London for a few days, to attend, really or ostensibly, some professional meetings. He said nothing of his destination either to his wife or to Grace, fearing that they might entreat him to abandon so risky a project, and went out unobserved. He had chosen his time with a view, as he supposed, of conveniently catching Mrs. Charmond when she had just finished her breakfast, before any other business people should be about, if any came. Plodding thoughtfully onward, he crossed a glade lying between Little Hintock Woods and the plantation which abutted on the park; and the spot being open, he was discerned there by Winterborne from the copse on the next hill, where he and his men were working. Knowing his mission, the younger man hastened down from the copse and managed to intercept the timber-merchant. "I have been thinking of this, sir," he said, "and I am of opinion that it would be best to put off your visit for the present." But Melbury would not even stop to hear him. His mind was made up, the appeal was to be made; and Winterborne stood and watched him sadly till he entered the second plantation and disappeared. Melbury rang at the tradesmen's door of the manor-house, and was at once informed that the lady was not yet visible, as indeed he might have guessed had he been anybody but the man he was. Melbury said he would wait, whereupon the young man informed him in a neighborly way that, between themselves, she was in bed and asleep. "Never mind," said Melbury, retreating into the court, "I'll stand about here." Charged so fully with his mission, he shrank from contact with anybody. But he walked about the paved court till he was tired, and still nobody came to him. At last he entered the house and sat down in a small waiting-room, from which he got glimpses of the kitchen corridor, and of the white-capped maids flitting jauntily hither and thither. They had heard of his arrival, but had not seen him enter, and, imagining him still in the court, discussed freely the possible reason of his calling. They marvelled at his temerity; for though most of the tongues which had been let loose attributed the chief blame-worthiness to Fitzpiers, these of her household preferred to regard their mistress as the deeper sinner. Melbury sat with his hands resting on the familiar knobbed thorn walking-stick, whose growing he had seen before he enjoyed its use. The scene to him was not the material environment of his person, but a tragic vision that travelled with him like an envelope. Through this vision the incidents of the moment but gleamed confusedly here and there, as an outer landscape through the high-colored scenes of a stained window. He waited thus an hour, an hour and a half, two hours. He began to look pale and ill, whereupon the butler, who came in, asked him to have a glass of wine. Melbury roused himself and said, "No, no. Is she almost ready?" "She is just finishing breakfast," said the butler. "She will soon see you now. I am just going up to tell her you are here." "What! haven't you told her before?" said Melbury. "Oh no," said the other. "You see you came so very early." At last the bell rang: Mrs. Charmond could see him. She was not in her private sitting-room when he reached it, but in a minute he heard her coming from the front staircase, and she entered where he stood. At this time of the morning Mrs. Charmond looked her full age and more. She might almost have been taken for the typical femme de trente ans, though she was really not more than seven or eight and twenty. There being no fire in the room, she came in with a shawl thrown loosely round her shoulders, and obviously without the least suspicion that Melbury had called upon any other errand than timber. Felice was, indeed, the only woman in the parish who had not heard the rumor of her own weaknesses; she was at this moment living in a fool's paradise in respect of that rumor, though not in respect of the weaknesses themselves, which, if the truth be told, caused her grave misgivings. "Do sit down, Mr. Melbury. You have felled all the trees that were to be purchased by you this season, except the oaks, I believe." "Yes," said Melbury. "How very nice! It must be so charming to work in the woods just now!" She was too careless to affect an interest in an extraneous person's affairs so consummately as to deceive in the manner of the perfect social machine. Hence her words "very nice," "so charming," were uttered with a perfunctoriness that made them sound absurdly unreal. "Yes, yes," said Melbury, in a reverie. He did not take a chair, and she also remained standing. Resting upon his stick, he began: "Mrs. Charmond, I have called upon a more serious matter--at least to me--than tree-throwing. And whatever mistakes I make in my manner of speaking upon it to you, madam, do me the justice to set 'em down to my want of practice, and not to my want of care." Mrs. Charmond looked ill at ease. She might have begun to guess his meaning; but apart from that, she had such dread of contact with anything painful, harsh, or even earnest, that his preliminaries alone were enough to distress her. "Yes, what is it?" she said. "I am an old man," said Melbury, "whom, somewhat late in life, God thought fit to bless with one child, and she a daughter. Her mother was a very dear wife to me, but she was taken away from us when the child was young, and the child became precious as the apple of my eye to me, for she was all I had left to love. For her sake entirely I married as second wife a homespun woman who had been kind as a mother to her. In due time the question of her education came on, and I said, 'I will educate the maid well, if I live upon bread to do it.' Of her possible marriage I could not bear to think, for it seemed like a death that she should cleave to another man, and grow to think his house her home rather than mine. But I saw it was the law of nature that this should be, and that it was for the maid's happiness that she should have a home when I was gone; and I made up my mind without a murmur to help it on for her sake. In my youth I had wronged my dead friend, and to make amends I determined to give her, my most precious possession, to my friend's son, seeing that they liked each other well. Things came about which made me doubt if it would be for my daughter's happiness to do this, inasmuch as the young man was poor, and she was delicately reared. Another man came and paid court to her--one her equal in breeding and accomplishments; in every way it seemed to me that he only could give her the home which her training had made a necessity almost. I urged her on, and she married him. But, ma'am, a fatal mistake was at the root of my reckoning. I found that this well-born gentleman I had calculated on so surely was not stanch of heart, and that therein lay a danger of great sorrow for my daughter. Madam, he saw you, and you know the rest....I have come to make no demands--to utter no threats; I have come simply as a father in great grief about this only child, and I beseech you to deal kindly with my daughter, and to do nothing which can turn her husband's heart away from her forever. Forbid him your presence, ma'am, and speak to him on his duty as one with your power over him well can do, and I am hopeful that the rent between them may be patched up. For it is not as if you would lose by so doing; your course is far higher than the courses of a simple professional man, and the gratitude you would win from me and mine by your kindness is more than I can say." Mrs. Charmond had first rushed into a mood of indignation on comprehending Melbury's story; hot and cold by turns, she had murmured, "Leave me, leave me!" But as he seemed to take no notice of this, his words began to influence her, and when he ceased speaking she said, with hurried, hot breath, "What has led you to think this of me? Who says I have won your daughter's husband away from her? Some monstrous calumnies are afloat--of which I have known nothing until now!" Melbury started, and looked at her simply. "But surely, ma'am, you know the truth better than I?" Her features became a little pinched, and the touches of powder on her handsome face for the first time showed themselves as an extrinsic film. "Will you leave me to myself?" she said, with a faintness which suggested a guilty conscience. "This is so utterly unexpected--you obtain admission to my presence by misrepresentation--" "As God's in heaven, ma'am, that's not true. I made no pretence; and I thought in reason you would know why I had come. This gossip--" "I have heard nothing of it. Tell me of it, I say." "Tell you, ma'am--not I. What the gossip is, no matter. What really is, you know. Set facts right, and the scandal will right of itself. But pardon me--I speak roughly; and I came to speak gently, to coax you, beg you to be my daughter's friend. She loved you once, ma'am; you began by liking her. Then you dropped her without a reason, and it hurt her warm heart more than I can tell ye. But you were within your right as the superior, no doubt. But if you would consider her position now--surely, surely, you would do her no harm!" "Certainly I would do her no harm--I--" Melbury's eye met hers. It was curious, but the allusion to Grace's former love for her seemed to touch her more than all Melbury's other arguments. "Oh, Melbury," she burst out, "you have made me so unhappy! How could you come to me like this! It is too dreadful! Now go away--go, go!" "I will," he said, in a husky tone. As soon as he was out of the room she went to a corner and there sat and writhed under an emotion in which hurt pride and vexation mingled with better sentiments. Mrs. Charmond's mobile spirit was subject to these fierce periods of stress and storm. She had never so clearly perceived till now that her soul was being slowly invaded by a delirium which had brought about all this; that she was losing judgment and dignity under it, becoming an animated impulse only, a passion incarnate. A fascination had led her on; it was as if she had been seized by a hand of velvet; and this was where she found herself--overshadowed with sudden night, as if a tornado had passed by. While she sat, or rather crouched, unhinged by the interview, lunch-time came, and then the early afternoon, almost without her consciousness. Then "a strange gentleman who says it is not necessary to give his name," was suddenly announced. "I cannot see him, whoever he may be. I am not at home to anybody." She heard no more of her visitor; and shortly after, in an attempt to recover some mental serenity by violent physical exercise, she put on her hat and cloak and went out-of-doors, taking a path which led her up the slopes to the nearest spur of the wood. She disliked the woods, but they had the advantage of being a place in which she could walk comparatively unobserved. CHAPTER XXXIII. There was agitation to-day in the lives of all whom these matters concerned. It was not till the Hintock dinner-time--one o'clock--that Grace discovered her father's absence from the house after a departure in the morning under somewhat unusual conditions. By a little reasoning and inquiry she was able to come to a conclusion on his destination, and to divine his errand. Her husband was absent, and her father did not return. He had, in truth, gone on to Sherton after the interview, but this Grace did not know. In an indefinite dread that something serious would arise out of Melbury's visit by reason of the inequalities of temper and nervous irritation to which he was subject, something possibly that would bring her much more misery than accompanied her present negative state of mind, she left the house about three o'clock, and took a loitering walk in the woodland track by which she imagined he would come home. This track under the bare trees and over the cracking sticks, screened and roofed in from the outer world of wind and cloud by a net-work of boughs, led her slowly on till in time she had left the larger trees behind her and swept round into the coppice where Winterborne and his men were clearing the undergrowth. Had Giles's attention been concentrated on his hurdles he would not have seen her; but ever since Melbury's passage across the opposite glade in the morning he had been as uneasy and unsettled as Grace herself; and her advent now was the one appearance which, since her father's avowal, could arrest him more than Melbury's return with his tidings. Fearing that something might be the matter, he hastened up to her. She had not seen her old lover for a long time, and, too conscious of the late pranks of her heart, she could not behold him calmly. "I am only looking for my father," she said, in an unnecessarily apologetic intonation. "I was looking for him too," said Giles. "I think he may perhaps have gone on farther." "Then you knew he was going to the House, Giles?" she said, turning her large tender eyes anxiously upon him. "Did he tell you what for?" Winterborne glanced doubtingly at her, and then softly hinted that her father had visited him the evening before, and that their old friendship was quite restored, on which she guessed the rest. "Oh, I am glad, indeed, that you two are friends again!" she cried. And then they stood facing each other, fearing each other, troubling each other's souls. Grace experienced acute misery at the sight of these wood-cutting scenes, because she had estranged herself from them, craving, even to its defects and inconveniences, that homely sylvan life of her father which in the best probable succession of events would shortly be denied her. At a little distance, on the edge of the clearing, Marty South was shaping spar-gads to take home for manufacture during the evenings. While Winterborne and Mrs. Fitzpiers stood looking at her in their mutual embarrassment at each other's presence, they beheld approaching the girl a lady in a dark fur mantle and a black hat, having a white veil tied picturesquely round it. She spoke to Marty, who turned and courtesied, and the lady fell into conversation with her. It was Mrs. Charmond. On leaving her house, Mrs. Charmond had walked on and onward under the fret and fever of her mind with more vigor than she was accustomed to show in her normal moods--a fever which the solace of a cigarette did not entirely allay. Reaching the coppice, she listlessly observed Marty at work, threw away her cigarette, and came near. Chop, chop, chop, went Marty's little billhook with never more assiduity, till Mrs. Charmond spoke. "Who is that young lady I see talking to the woodman yonder?" she asked. "Mrs. Fitzpiers, ma'am," said Marty. "Oh," said Mrs. Charmond, with something like a start; for she had not recognized Grace at that distance. "And the man she is talking to?" "That's Mr. Winterborne." A redness stole into Marty's face as she mentioned Giles's name, which Mrs. Charmond did not fail to notice informed her of the state of the girl's heart. "Are you engaged to him?" she asked, softly. "No, ma'am," said Marty. "SHE was once; and I think--" But Marty could not possibly explain the complications of her thoughts on this matter--which were nothing less than one of extraordinary acuteness for a girl so young and inexperienced--namely, that she saw danger to two hearts naturally honest in Grace being thrown back into Winterborne's society by the neglect of her husband. Mrs. Charmond, however, with the almost supersensory means to knowledge which women have on such occasions, quite understood what Marty had intended to convey, and the picture thus exhibited to her of lives drifting away, involving the wreck of poor Marty's hopes, prompted her to more generous resolves than all Melbury's remonstrances had been able to stimulate. Full of the new feeling, she bade the girl good-afternoon, and went on over the stumps of hazel to where Grace and Winterborne were standing. They saw her approach, and Winterborne said, "She is coming to you; it is a good omen. She dislikes me, so I'll go away." He accordingly retreated to where he had been working before Grace came, and Grace's formidable rival approached her, each woman taking the other's measure as she came near. "Dear--Mrs. Fitzpiers," said Felice Charmond, with some inward turmoil which stopped her speech. "I have not seen you for a long time." She held out her hand tentatively, while Grace stood like a wild animal on first confronting a mirror or other puzzling product of civilization. Was it really Mrs. Charmond speaking to her thus? If it was, she could no longer form any guess as to what it signified. "I want to talk with you," said Mrs. Charmond, imploringly, for the gaze of the young woman had chilled her through. "Can you walk on with me till we are quite alone?" Sick with distaste, Grace nevertheless complied, as by clockwork and they moved evenly side by side into the deeper recesses of the woods. They went farther, much farther than Mrs. Charmond had meant to go; but she could not begin her conversation, and in default of it kept walking. "I have seen your father," she at length resumed. "And--I am much troubled by what he told me." "What did he tell you? I have not been admitted to his confidence on anything he may have said to you." "Nevertheless, why should I repeat to you what you can easily divine?" "True--true," returned Grace, mournfully. "Why should you repeat what we both know to be in our minds already?" "Mrs. Fitzpiers, your husband--" The moment that the speaker's tongue touched the dangerous subject a vivid look of self-consciousness flashed over her, in which her heart revealed, as by a lightning gleam, what filled it to overflowing. So transitory was the expression that none but a sensitive woman, and she in Grace's position, would have had the power to catch its meaning. Upon her the phase was not lost. "Then you DO love him!" she exclaimed, in a tone of much surprise. "What do you mean, my young friend?" "Why," cried Grace, "I thought till now that you had only been cruelly flirting with my husband, to amuse your idle moments--a rich lady with a poor professional gentleman whom in her heart she despised not much less than her who belongs to him. But I guess from your manner that you love him desperately, and I don't hate you as I did before." "Yes, indeed," continued Mrs. Fitzpiers, with a trembling tongue, "since it is not playing in your case at all, but REAL. Oh, I do pity you, more than I despise you, for you will s-s-suffer most!" Mrs. Charmond was now as much agitated as Grace. "I ought not to allow myself to argue with you," she exclaimed. "I demean myself by doing it. But I liked you once, and for the sake of that time I try to tell you how mistaken you are!" Much of her confusion resulted from her wonder and alarm at finding herself in a sense dominated mentally and emotionally by this simple school-girl. "I do not love him," she went on, with desperate untruth. "It was a kindness--my making somewhat more of him than one usually does of one's doctor. I was lonely; I talked--well, I trifled with him. I am very sorry if such child's playing out of pure friendship has been a serious matter to you. Who could have expected it? But the world is so simple here." "Oh, that's affectation," said Grace, shaking her head. "It is no use--you love him. I can see in your face that in this matter of my husband you have not let your acts belie your feelings. During these last four or six months you have been terribly indiscreet; but you have not been insincere, and that almost disarms me." "I HAVE been insincere--if you will have the word--I mean I HAVE coquetted, and do NOT love him!" But Grace clung to her position like a limpet. "You may have trifled with others, but him you love as you never loved another man." "Oh, well--I won't argue," said Mrs. Charmond, laughing faintly. "And you come to reproach me for it, child." "No," said Grace, magnanimously. "You may go on loving him if you like--I don't mind at all. You'll find it, let me tell you, a bitterer business for yourself than for me in the end. He'll get tired of you soon, as tired as can be--you don't know him so well as I--and then you may wish you had never seen him!" Mrs. Charmond had grown quite pale and weak under this prophecy. It was extraordinary that Grace, whom almost every one would have characterized as a gentle girl, should be of stronger fibre than her interlocutor. "You exaggerate--cruel, silly young woman," she reiterated, writhing with little agonies. "It is nothing but playful friendship--nothing! It will be proved by my future conduct. I shall at once refuse to see him more--since it will make no difference to my heart, and much to my name." "I question if you will refuse to see him again," said Grace, dryly, as with eyes askance she bent a sapling down. "But I am not incensed against you as you are against me," she added, abandoning the tree to its natural perpendicular. "Before I came I had been despising you for wanton cruelty; now I only pity you for misplaced affection. When Edgar has gone out of the house in hope of seeing you, at seasonable hours and unseasonable; when I have found him riding miles and miles across the country at midnight, and risking his life, and getting covered with mud, to get a glimpse of you, I have called him a foolish man--the plaything of a finished coquette. I thought that what was getting to be a tragedy to me was a comedy to you. But now I see that tragedy lies on YOUR side of the situation no less than on MINE, and more; that if I have felt trouble at my position, you have felt anguish at yours; that if I have had disappointments, you have had despairs. Heaven may fortify me--God help you!" "I cannot attempt to reply to your raving eloquence," returned the other, struggling to restore a dignity which had completely collapsed. "My acts will be my proofs. In the world which you have seen nothing of, friendships between men and women are not unknown, and it would have been better both for you and your father if you had each judged me more respectfully, and left me alone. As it is I wish never to see or speak to you, madam, any more." Grace bowed, and Mrs. Charmond turned away. The two went apart in directly opposite courses, and were soon hidden from each other by their umbrageous surroundings and by the shadows of eve. In the excitement of their long argument they had walked onward and zigzagged about without regarding direction or distance. All sound of the woodcutters had long since faded into remoteness, and even had not the interval been too great for hearing them they would have been silent and homeward bound at this twilight hour. But Grace went on her course without any misgiving, though there was much underwood here, with only the narrowest passages for walking, across which brambles hung. She had not, however, traversed this the wildest part of the wood since her childhood, and the transformation of outlines had been great; old trees which once were landmarks had been felled or blown down, and the bushes which then had been small and scrubby were now large and overhanging. She soon found that her ideas as to direction were vague--that she had indeed no ideas as to direction at all. If the evening had not been growing so dark, and the wind had not put on its night moan so distinctly, Grace would not have minded; but she was rather frightened now, and began to strike across hither and thither in random courses. Denser grew the darkness, more developed the wind-voices, and still no recognizable spot or outlet of any kind appeared, nor any sound of the Hintocks floated near, though she had wandered probably between one and two hours, and began to be weary. She was vexed at her foolishness, since the ground she had covered, if in a straight line, must inevitably have taken her out of the wood to some remote village or other; but she had wasted her forces in countermarches; and now, in much alarm, wondered if she would have to pass the night here. She stood still to meditate, and fancied that between the soughing of the wind she heard shuffling footsteps on the leaves heavier than those of rabbits or hares. Though fearing at first to meet anybody on the chance of his being a friend, she decided that the fellow night-rambler, even if a poacher, would not injure her, and that he might possibly be some one sent to search for her. She accordingly shouted a rather timid "Hoi!" The cry was immediately returned by the other person; and Grace running at once in the direction whence it came beheld an indistinct figure hastening up to her as rapidly. They were almost in each other's arms when she recognized in her vis-a-vis the outline and white veil of her whom she had parted from an hour and a half before--Mrs. Charmond. "I have lost my way, I have lost my way," cried that lady. "Oh--is it indeed you? I am so glad to meet you or anybody. I have been wandering up and down ever since we parted, and am nearly dead with terror and misery and fatigue!" "So am I," said Grace. "What shall we, shall we do?" "You won't go away from me?" asked her companion, anxiously. "No, indeed. Are you very tired?" "I can scarcely move, and I am scratched dreadfully about the ankles." Grace reflected. "Perhaps, as it is dry under foot, the best thing for us to do would be to sit down for half an hour, and then start again when we have thoroughly rested. By walking straight we must come to a track leading somewhere before the morning." They found a clump of bushy hollies which afforded a shelter from the wind, and sat down under it, some tufts of dead fern, crisp and dry, that remained from the previous season forming a sort of nest for them. But it was cold, nevertheless, on this March night, particularly for Grace, who with the sanguine prematureness of youth in matters of dress, had considered it spring-time, and hence was not so warmly clad as Mrs. Charmond, who still wore her winter fur. But after sitting a while the latter lady shivered no less than Grace as the warmth imparted by her hasty walking began to go off, and they felt the cold air drawing through the holly leaves which scratched their backs and shoulders. Moreover, they could hear some drops of rain falling on the trees, though none reached the nook in which they had ensconced themselves. "If we were to cling close together," said Mrs. Charmond, "we should keep each other warm. But," she added, in an uneven voice, "I suppose you won't come near me for the world!" "Why not?" "Because--well, you know." "Yes. I will--I don't hate you at all." They consequently crept up to one another, and being in the dark, lonely and weary, did what neither had dreamed of doing beforehand, clasped each other closely, Mrs. Charmond's furs consoling Grace's cold face, and each one's body as she breathed alternately heaving against that of her companion. When a few minutes had been spent thus, Mrs. Charmond said, "I am so wretched!" in a heavy, emotional whisper. "You are frightened," said Grace, kindly. "But there is nothing to fear; I know these woods well." "I am not at all frightened at the wood, but I am at other things." Mrs. Charmond embraced Grace more and more tightly, and the younger woman could feel her neighbor's breathings grow deeper and more spasmodic, as though uncontrollable feelings were germinating. "After I had left you," she went on, "I regretted something I had said. I have to make a confession--I must make it!" she whispered, brokenly, the instinct to indulge in warmth of sentiment which had led this woman of passions to respond to Fitzpiers in the first place leading her now to find luxurious comfort in opening her heart to his wife. "I said to you I could give him up without pain or deprivation--that he had only been my pastime. That was untrue--it was said to deceive you. I could not do it without much pain; and, what is more dreadful, I cannot give him up--even if I would--of myself alone." "Why? Because you love him, you mean." Felice Charmond denoted assent by a movement. "I knew I was right!" said Grace, exaltedly. "But that should not deter you," she presently added, in a moral tone. "Oh, do struggle against it, and you will conquer!" "You are so simple, so simple!" cried Felice. "You think, because you guessed my assumed indifference to him to be a sham, that you know the extremes that people are capable of going to! But a good deal more may have been going on than you have fathomed with all your insight. I CANNOT give him up until he chooses to give up me." "But surely you are the superior in station and in every way, and the cut must come from you." "Tchut! Must I tell verbatim, you simple child? Oh, I suppose I must! I shall eat away my heart if I do not let out all, after meeting you like this and finding how guileless you are." She thereupon whispered a few words in the girl's ear, and burst into a violent fit of sobbing. Grace started roughly away from the shelter of the fur, and sprang to her feet. "Oh, my God!" she exclaimed, thunderstruck at a revelation transcending her utmost suspicion. "Can it be--can it be!" She turned as if to hasten away. But Felice Charmond's sobs came to her ear: deep darkness circled her about, the funereal trees rocked and chanted their diriges and placebos around her, and she did not know which way to go. After a moment of energy she felt mild again, and turned to the motionless woman at her feet. "Are you rested?" she asked, in what seemed something like her own voice grown ten years older. Without an answer Mrs. Charmond slowly rose. "You mean to betray me!" she said from the bitterest depths of her soul. "Oh fool, fool I!" "No," said Grace, shortly. "I mean no such thing. But let us be quick now. We have a serious undertaking before us. Think of nothing but going straight on." They walked on in profound silence, pulling back boughs now growing wet, and treading down woodbine, but still keeping a pretty straight course. Grace began to be thoroughly worn out, and her companion too, when, on a sudden, they broke into the deserted highway at the hill-top on which the Sherton man had waited for Mrs. Dollery's van. Grace recognized the spot as soon as she looked around her. "How we have got here I cannot tell," she said, with cold civility. "We have made a complete circuit of Little Hintock. The hazel copse is quite on the other side. Now we have only to follow the road." They dragged themselves onward, turned into the lane, passed the track to Little Hintock, and so reached the park. "Here I turn back," said Grace, in the same passionless voice. "You are quite near home." Mrs. Charmond stood inert, seeming appalled by her late admission. "I have told you something in a moment of irresistible desire to unburden my soul which all but a fool would have kept silent as the grave," she said. "I cannot help it now. Is it to be a secret--or do you mean war?" "A secret, certainly," said Grace, mournfully. "How can you expect war from such a helpless, wretched being as I!" "And I'll do my best not to see him. I am his slave; but I'll try." Grace was naturally kind; but she could not help using a small dagger now. "Pray don't distress yourself," she said, with exquisitely fine scorn. "You may keep him--for me." Had she been wounded instead of mortified she could not have used the words; but Fitzpiers's hold upon her heart was slight. They parted thus and there, and Grace went moodily homeward. Passing Marty's cottage she observed through the window that the girl was writing instead of chopping as usual, and wondered what her correspondence could be. Directly afterwards she met people in search of her, and reached the house to find all in serious alarm. She soon explained that she had lost her way, and her general depression was attributed to exhaustion on that account. Could she have known what Marty was writing she would have been surprised. The rumor which agitated the other folk of Hintock had reached the young girl, and she was penning a letter to Fitzpiers, to tell him that Mrs. Charmond wore her hair. It was poor Marty's only card, and she played it, knowing nothing of fashion, and thinking her revelation a fatal one for a lover. CHAPTER XXXIV. It was at the beginning of April, a few days after the meeting between Grace and Mrs. Charmond in the wood, that Fitzpiers, just returned from London, was travelling from Sherton-Abbas to Hintock in a hired carriage. In his eye there was a doubtful light, and the lines of his refined face showed a vague disquietude. He appeared now like one of those who impress the beholder as having suffered wrong in being born. His position was in truth gloomy, and to his appreciative mind it seemed even gloomier than it was. His practice had been slowly dwindling of late, and now threatened to die out altogether, the irrepressible old Dr. Jones capturing patients up to Fitzpiers's very door. Fitzpiers knew only too well the latest and greatest cause of his unpopularity; and yet, so illogical is man, the second branch of his sadness grew out of a remedial measure proposed for the first--a letter from Felice Charmond imploring him not to see her again. To bring about their severance still more effectually, she added, she had decided during his absence upon almost immediate departure for the Continent. The time was that dull interval in a woodlander's life which coincides with great activity in the life of the woodland itself--a period following the close of the winter tree-cutting, and preceding the barking season, when the saps are just beginning to heave with the force of hydraulic lifts inside all the trunks of the forest. Winterborne's contract was completed, and the plantations were deserted. It was dusk; there were no leaves as yet; the nightingales would not begin to sing for a fortnight; and "the Mother of the Months" was in her most attenuated phase--starved and bent to a mere bowed skeleton, which glided along behind the bare twigs in Fitzpiers's company. When he reached home he went straight up to his wife's sitting-room. He found it deserted, and without a fire. He had mentioned no day for his return; nevertheless, he wondered why she was not there waiting to receive him. On descending to the other wing of the house and inquiring of Mrs. Melbury, he learned with much surprise that Grace had gone on a visit to an acquaintance at Shottsford-Forum three days earlier; that tidings had on this morning reached her father of her being very unwell there, in consequence of which he had ridden over to see her. Fitzpiers went up-stairs again, and the little drawing-room, now lighted by a solitary candle, was not rendered more cheerful by the entrance of Grammer Oliver with an apronful of wood, which she threw on the hearth while she raked out the grate and rattled about the fire-irons, with a view to making things comfortable. Fitzpiers considered that Grace ought to have let him know her plans more accurately before leaving home in a freak like this. He went desultorily to the window, the blind of which had not been pulled down, and looked out at the thin, fast-sinking moon, and at the tall stalk of smoke rising from the top of Suke Damson's chimney, signifying that the young woman had just lit her fire to prepare supper. He became conscious of a discussion in progress on the opposite side of the court. Somebody had looked over the wall to talk to the sawyers, and was telling them in a loud voice news in which the name of Mrs. Charmond soon arrested his ears. "Grammer, don't make so much noise with that grate," said the surgeon; at which Grammer reared herself upon her knees and held the fuel suspended in her hand, while Fitzpiers half opened the casement. "She is off to foreign lands again at last--hev made up her mind quite sudden-like--and it is thoughted she'll leave in a day or two. She's been all as if her mind were low for some days past--with a sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul. She's the wrong sort of woman for Hintock--hardly knowing a beech from a woak--that I own. But I don't care who the man is, she's been a very kind friend to me. "Well, the day after to-morrow is the Sabbath day, and without charity we are but tinkling simples; but this I do say, that her going will be a blessed thing for a certain married couple who remain." The fire was lighted, and Fitzpiers sat down in front of it, restless as the last leaf upon a tree. "A sort of sorrow in her face, as if she reproached her own soul." Poor Felice. How Felice's frame must be pulsing under the conditions of which he had just heard the caricature; how her fair temples must ache; what a mood of wretchedness she must be in! But for the mixing up of his name with hers, and her determination to sunder their too close acquaintance on that account, she would probably have sent for him professionally. She was now sitting alone, suffering, perhaps wishing that she had not forbidden him to come again. Unable to remain in this lonely room any longer, or to wait for the meal which was in course of preparation, he made himself ready for riding, descended to the yard, stood by the stable-door while Darling was being saddled, and rode off down the lane. He would have preferred walking, but was weary with his day's travel. As he approached the door of Marty South's cottage, which it was necessary to pass on his way, she came from the porch as if she had been awaiting him, and met him in the middle of the road, holding up a letter. Fitzpiers took it without stopping, and asked over his shoulder from whom it came. Marty hesitated. "From me," she said, shyly, though with noticeable firmness. This letter contained, in fact, Marty's declaration that she was the original owner of Mrs. Charmond's supplementary locks, and enclosed a sample from the native stock, which had grown considerably by this time. It was her long contemplated apple of discord, and much her hand trembled as she handed the document up to him. But it was impossible on account of the gloom for Fitzpiers to read it then, while he had the curiosity to do so, and he put it in his pocket. His imagination having already centred itself on Hintock House, in his pocket the letter remained unopened and forgotten, all the while that Marty was hopefully picturing its excellent weaning effect upon him. He was not long in reaching the precincts of the Manor House. He drew rein under a group of dark oaks commanding a view of the front, and reflected a while. His entry would not be altogether unnatural in the circumstances of her possible indisposition; but upon the whole he thought it best to avoid riding up to the door. By silently approaching he could retreat unobserved in the event of her not being alone. Thereupon he dismounted, hitched Darling to a stray bough hanging a little below the general browsing line of the trees, and proceeded to the door on foot. In the mean time Melbury had returned from Shottsford-Forum. The great court or quadrangle of the timber-merchant's house, divided from the shady lane by an ivy-covered wall, was entered by two white gates, one standing near each extremity of the wall. It so happened that at the moment when Fitzpiers was riding out at the lower gate on his way to the Manor House, Melbury was approaching the upper gate to enter it. Fitzpiers being in front of Melbury was seen by the latter, but the surgeon, never turning his head, did not observe his father-in-law, ambling slowly and silently along under the trees, though his horse too was a gray one. "How is Grace?" said his wife, as soon as he entered. Melbury looked gloomy. "She is not at all well," he said. "I don't like the looks of her at all. I couldn't bear the notion of her biding away in a strange place any longer, and I begged her to let me get her home. At last she agreed to it, but not till after much persuading. I was then sorry that I rode over instead of driving; but I have hired a nice comfortable carriage--the easiest-going I could get--and she'll be here in a couple of hours or less. I rode on ahead to tell you to get her room ready; but I see her husband has come back." "Yes," said Mrs. Melbury. She expressed her concern that her husband had hired a carriage all the way from Shottsford. "What it will cost!" she said. "I don't care what it costs!" he exclaimed, testily. "I was determined to get her home. Why she went away I can't think! She acts in a way that is not at all likely to mend matters as far as I can see." (Grace had not told her father of her interview with Mrs. Charmond, and the disclosure that had been whispered in her startled ear.) "Since Edgar is come," he continued, "he might have waited in till I got home, to ask me how she was, if only for a compliment. I saw him go out; where is he gone?" Mrs. Melbury did not know positively; but she told her husband that there was not much doubt about the place of his first visit after an absence. She had, in fact, seen Fitzpiers take the direction of the Manor House. Melbury said no more. It was exasperating to him that just at this moment, when there was every reason for Fitzpiers to stay indoors, or at any rate to ride along the Shottsford road to meet his ailing wife, he should be doing despite to her by going elsewhere. The old man went out-of-doors again; and his horse being hardly unsaddled as yet, he told Upjohn to retighten the girths, when he again mounted, and rode off at the heels of the surgeon. By the time that Melbury reached the park, he was prepared to go any lengths in combating this rank and reckless errantry of his daughter's husband. He would fetch home Edgar Fitzpiers to-night by some means, rough or fair: in his view there could come of his interference nothing worse than what existed at present. And yet to every bad there is a worse. He had entered by the bridle-gate which admitted to the park on this side, and cantered over the soft turf almost in the tracks of Fitzpiers's horse, till he reached the clump of trees under which his precursor had halted. The whitish object that was indistinctly visible here in the gloom of the boughs he found to be Darling, as left by Fitzpiers. "D--n him! why did he not ride up to the house in an honest way?" said Melbury. He profited by Fitzpiers's example; dismounting, he tied his horse under an adjoining tree, and went on to the house on foot, as the other had done. He was no longer disposed to stick at trifles in his investigation, and did not hesitate to gently open the front door without ringing. The large square hall, with its oak floor, staircase, and wainscot, was lighted by a dim lamp hanging from a beam. Not a soul was visible. He went into the corridor and listened at a door which he knew to be that of the drawing-room; there was no sound, and on turning the handle he found the room empty. A fire burning low in the grate was the sole light of the apartment; its beams flashed mockingly on the somewhat showy Versaillese furniture and gilding here, in style as unlike that of the structural parts of the building as it was possible to be, and probably introduced by Felice to counteract the fine old-English gloom of the place. Disappointed in his hope of confronting his son-in-law here, he went on to the dining-room; this was without light or fire, and pervaded by a cold atmosphere, which signified that she had not dined there that day. By this time Melbury's mood had a little mollified. Everything here was so pacific, so unaggressive in its repose, that he was no longer incited to provoke a collision with Fitzpiers or with anybody. The comparative stateliness of the apartments influenced him to an emotion, rather than to a belief, that where all was outwardly so good and proper there could not be quite that delinquency within which he had suspected. It occurred to him, too, that even if his suspicion were justified, his abrupt, if not unwarrantable, entry into the house might end in confounding its inhabitant at the expense of his daughter's dignity and his own. Any ill result would be pretty sure to hit Grace hardest in the long-run. He would, after all, adopt the more rational course, and plead with Fitzpiers privately, as he had pleaded with Mrs. Charmond. He accordingly retreated as silently as he had come. Passing the door of the drawing-room anew, he fancied that he heard a noise within which was not the crackling of the fire. Melbury gently reopened the door to a distance of a few inches, and saw at the opposite window two figures in the act of stepping out--a man and a woman--in whom he recognized the lady of the house and his son-in-law. In a moment they had disappeared amid the gloom of the lawn. He returned into the hall, and let himself out by the carriage-entrance door, coming round to the lawn front in time to see the two figures parting at the railing which divided the precincts of the house from the open park. Mrs. Charmond turned to hasten back immediately that Fitzpiers had left her side, and he was speedily absorbed into the duskiness of the trees. Melbury waited till Mrs. Charmond had re-entered the drawing-room, and then followed after Fitzpiers, thinking that he would allow the latter to mount and ride ahead a little way before overtaking him and giving him a piece of his mind. His son-in-law might possibly see the second horse near his own; but that would do him no harm, and might prepare him for what he was to expect. The event, however, was different from the plan. On plunging into the thick shade of the clump of oaks, he could not perceive his horse Blossom anywhere; but feeling his way carefully along, he by-and-by discerned Fitzpiers's mare Darling still standing as before under the adjoining tree. For a moment Melbury thought that his own horse, being young and strong, had broken away from her fastening; but on listening intently he could hear her ambling comfortably along a little way ahead, and a creaking of the saddle which showed that she had a rider. Walking on as far as the small gate in the corner of the park, he met a laborer, who, in reply to Melbury's inquiry if he had seen any person on a gray horse, said that he had only met Dr. Fitzpiers. It was just what Melbury had begun to suspect: Fitzpiers had mounted the mare which did not belong to him in mistake for his own--an oversight easily explicable, in a man ever unwitting in horse-flesh, by the darkness of the spot and the near similarity of the animals in appearance, though Melbury's was readily enough seen to be the grayer horse by day. He hastened back, and did what seemed best in the circumstances--got upon old Darling, and rode rapidly after Fitzpiers. Melbury had just entered the wood, and was winding along the cart-way which led through it, channelled deep in the leaf-mould with large ruts that were formed by the timber-wagons in fetching the spoil of the plantations, when all at once he descried in front, at a point where the road took a turning round a large chestnut-tree, the form of his own horse Blossom, at which Melbury quickened Darling's pace, thinking to come up with Fitzpiers. Nearer view revealed that the horse had no rider. At Melbury's approach it galloped friskily away under the trees in a homeward direction. Thinking something was wrong, the timber-merchant dismounted as soon as he reached the chestnut, and after feeling about for a minute or two discovered Fitzpiers lying on the ground. "Here--help!" cried the latter as soon as he felt Melbury's touch; "I have been thrown off, but there's not much harm done, I think." Since Melbury could not now very well read the younger man the lecture he had intended, and as friendliness would be hypocrisy, his instinct was to speak not a single word to his son-in-law. He raised Fitzpiers into a sitting posture, and found that he was a little stunned and stupefied, but, as he had said, not otherwise hurt. How this fall had come about was readily conjecturable: Fitzpiers, imagining there was only old Darling under him, had been taken unawares by the younger horse's sprightliness. Melbury was a traveller of the old-fashioned sort; having just come from Shottsford-Forum, he still had in his pocket the pilgrim's flask of rum which he always carried on journeys exceeding a dozen miles, though he seldom drank much of it. He poured it down the surgeon's throat, with such effect that he quickly revived. Melbury got him on his legs; but the question was what to do with him. He could not walk more than a few steps, and the other horse had gone away. With great exertion Melbury contrived to get him astride Darling, mounting himself behind, and holding Fitzpiers round his waist with one arm. Darling being broad, straight-backed, and high in the withers, was well able to carry double, at any rate as far as Hintock, and at a gentle pace. CHAPTER XXXV. The mare paced along with firm and cautious tread through the copse where Winterborne had worked, and into the heavier soil where the oaks grew; past Great Willy, the largest oak in the wood, and thence towards Nellcombe Bottom, intensely dark now with overgrowth, and popularly supposed to be haunted by the spirits of the fratricides exorcised from Hintock House. By this time Fitzpiers was quite recovered as to physical strength. But he had eaten nothing since making a hasty breakfast in London that morning, his anxiety about Felice having hurried him away from home before dining; as a consequence, the old rum administered by his father-in-law flew to the young man's head and loosened his tongue, without his ever having recognized who it was that had lent him a kindly hand. He began to speak in desultory sentences, Melbury still supporting him. "I've come all the way from London to-day," said Fitzpiers. "Ah, that's the place to meet your equals. I live at Hintock--worse, at Little Hintock--and I am quite lost there. There's not a man within ten miles of Hintock who can comprehend me. I tell you, Farmer What's-your-name, that I'm a man of education. I know several languages; the poets and I are familiar friends; I used to read more in metaphysics than anybody within fifty miles; and since I gave that up there's nobody can match me in the whole county of Wessex as a scientist. Yet I an doomed to live with tradespeople in a miserable little hole like Hintock!" "Indeed!" muttered Melbury. Fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himself up suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting his shoulders so violently against Melbury's breast as to make it difficult for the old man to keep a hold on the reins. "People don't appreciate me here!" the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly and slowly, "except one--except one!...A passionate soul, as warm as she is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is beautiful. I say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather tight--rather like the eagle's, you know, that ate out the liver of Pro--Pre--the man on Mount Caucasus. People don't appreciate me, I say, except HER. Ah, gods, I am an unlucky man! She would have been mine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so. I stooped to mate beneath me, and now I rue it." The position was becoming a very trying one for Melbury, corporeally and mentally. He was obliged to steady Fitzpiers with his left arm, and he began to hate the contact. He hardly knew what to do. It was useless to remonstrate with Fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion from the rum and from the fall. He remained silent, his hold upon his companion, however, being stern rather than compassionate. "You hurt me a little, farmer--though I am much obliged to you for your kindness. People don't appreciate me, I say. Between ourselves, I am losing my practice here; and why? Because I see matchless attraction where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. I mention no names, so nobody will be the wiser. But I have lost her, in a legitimate sense, that is. If I were a free man now, things have come to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune (which I don't covet for itself) I should have a chance of satisfying an honorable ambition--a chance I have never had yet, and now never, never shall have, probably!" Melbury, his heart throbbing against the other's backbone, and his brain on fire with indignation, ventured to mutter huskily, "Why?" The horse ambled on some steps before Fitzpiers replied, "Because I am tied and bound to another by law, as tightly as I am to you by your arm--not that I complain of your arm--I thank you for helping me. Well, where are we? Not nearly home yet?...Home, say I. It is a home! When I might have been at the other house over there." In a stupefied way he flung his hand in the direction of the park. "I was just two months too early in committing myself. Had I only seen the other first--" Here the old man's arm gave Fitzpiers a convulsive shake. "What are you doing?" continued the latter. "Keep still, please, or put me down. I was saying that I lost her by a mere little two months! There is no chance for me now in this world, and it makes me reckless--reckless! Unless, indeed, anything should happen to the other one. She is amiable enough; but if anything should happen to her--and I hear she is ill--well, if it should, I should be free--and my fame, my happiness, would be insured." These were the last words that Fitzpiers uttered in his seat in front of the timber-merchant. Unable longer to master himself, Melbury, the skin of his face compressed, whipped away his spare arm from Fitzpiers's waist, and seized him by the collar. "You heartless villain--after all that we have done for ye!" he cried, with a quivering lip. "And the money of hers that you've had, and the roof we've provided to shelter ye! It is to me, George Melbury, that you dare to talk like that!" The exclamation was accompanied by a powerful swing from the shoulder, which flung the young man head-long into the road, Fitzpiers fell with a heavy thud upon the stumps of some undergrowth which had been cut during the winter preceding. Darling continued her walk for a few paces farther and stopped. "God forgive me!" Melbury murmured, repenting of what he had done. "He tried me too sorely; and now perhaps I've murdered him!" He turned round in the saddle and looked towards the spot on which Fitzpiers had fallen. To his great surprise he beheld the surgeon rise to his feet with a bound, as if unhurt, and walk away rapidly under the trees. Melbury listened till the rustle of Fitzpiers's footsteps died away. "It might have been a crime, but for the mercy of Providence in providing leaves for his fall," he said to himself. And then his mind reverted to the words of Fitzpiers, and his indignation so mounted within him that he almost wished the fall had put an end to the young man there and then. He had not ridden far when he discerned his own gray mare standing under some bushes. Leaving Darling for a moment, Melbury went forward and easily caught the younger animal, now disheartened at its freak. He then made the pair of them fast to a tree, and turning back, endeavored to find some trace of Fitzpiers, feeling pitifully that, after all, he had gone further than he intended with the offender. But though he threaded the wood hither and thither, his toes ploughing layer after layer of the little horny scrolls that had once been leaves, he could not find him. He stood still listening and looking round. The breeze was oozing through the network of boughs as through a strainer; the trunks and larger branches stood against the light of the sky in the forms of writhing men, gigantic candelabra, pikes, halberds, lances, and whatever besides the fancy chose to make of them. Giving up the search, Melbury came back to the horses, and walked slowly homeward, leading one in each hand. It happened that on this self-same evening a boy had been returning from Great to Little Hintock about the time of Fitzpiers's and Melbury's passage home along that route. A horse-collar that had been left at the harness-mender's to be repaired was required for use at five o'clock next morning, and in consequence the boy had to fetch it overnight. He put his head through the collar, and accompanied his walk by whistling the one tune he knew, as an antidote to fear. The boy suddenly became aware of a horse trotting rather friskily along the track behind him, and not knowing whether to expect friend or foe, prudence suggested that he should cease his whistling and retreat among the trees till the horse and his rider had gone by; a course to which he was still more inclined when he found how noiselessly they approached, and saw that the horse looked pale, and remembered what he had read about Death in the Revelation. He therefore deposited the collar by a tree, and hid himself behind it. The horseman came on, and the youth, whose eyes were as keen as telescopes, to his great relief recognized the doctor. As Melbury surmised, Fitzpiers had in the darkness taken Blossom for Darling, and he had not discovered his mistake when he came up opposite the boy, though he was somewhat surprised at the liveliness of his usually placid mare. The only other pair of eyes on the spot whose vision was keen as the young carter's were those of the horse; and, with that strongly conservative objection to the unusual which animals show, Blossom, on eying the collar under the tree--quite invisible to Fitzpiers--exercised none of the patience of the older horse, but shied sufficiently to unseat so second-rate an equestrian as the surgeon. He fell, and did not move, lying as Melbury afterwards found him. The boy ran away, salving his conscience for the desertion by thinking how vigorously he would spread the alarm of the accident when he got to Hintock--which he uncompromisingly did, incrusting the skeleton event with a load of dramatic horrors. Grace had returned, and the fly hired on her account, though not by her husband, at the Crown Hotel, Shottsford-Forum, had been paid for and dismissed. The long drive had somewhat revived her, her illness being a feverish intermittent nervousness which had more to do with mind than body, and she walked about her sitting-room in something of a hopeful mood. Mrs. Melbury had told her as soon as she arrived that her husband had returned from London. He had gone out, she said, to see a patient, as she supposed, and he must soon be back, since he had had no dinner or tea. Grace would not allow her mind to harbor any suspicion of his whereabouts, and her step-mother said nothing of Mrs. Charmond's rumored sorrows and plans of departure. So the young wife sat by the fire, waiting silently. She had left Hintock in a turmoil of feeling after the revelation of Mrs. Charmond, and had intended not to be at home when her husband returned. But she had thought the matter over, and had allowed her father's influence to prevail and bring her back; and now somewhat regretted that Edgar's arrival had preceded hers. By-and-by Mrs. Melbury came up-stairs with a slight air of flurry and abruptness. "I have something to tell--some bad news," she said. "But you must not be alarmed, as it is not so bad as it might have been. Edgar has been thrown off his horse. We don't think he is hurt much. It happened in the wood the other side of Nellcombe Bottom, where 'tis said the ghosts of the brothers walk." She went on to give a few of the particulars, but none of the invented horrors that had been communicated by the boy. "I thought it better to tell you at once," she added, "in case he should not be very well able to walk home, and somebody should bring him." Mrs. Melbury really thought matters much worse than she represented, and Grace knew that she thought so. She sat down dazed for a few minutes, returning a negative to her step-mother's inquiry if she could do anything for her. "But please go into the bedroom," Grace said, on second thoughts, "and see if all is ready there--in case it is serious." Mrs. Melbury thereupon called Grammer, and they did as directed, supplying the room with everything they could think of for the accommodation of an injured man. Nobody was left in the lower part of the house. Not many minutes passed when Grace heard a knock at the door--a single knock, not loud enough to reach the ears of those in the bedroom. She went to the top of the stairs and said, faintly, "Come up," knowing that the door stood, as usual in such houses, wide open. Retreating into the gloom of the broad landing she saw rise up the stairs a woman whom at first she did not recognize, till her voice revealed her to be Suke Damson, in great fright and sorrow. A streak of light from the partially closed door of Grace's room fell upon her face as she came forward, and it was drawn and pale. "Oh, Miss Melbury--I would say Mrs. Fitzpiers," she said, wringing her hands. "This terrible news. Is he dead? Is he hurted very bad? Tell me; I couldn't help coming; please forgive me, Miss Melbury--Mrs. Fitzpiers I would say!" Grace sank down on the oak chest which stood on the landing, and put her hands to her now flushed face and head. Could she order Suke Damson down-stairs and out of the house? Her husband might be brought in at any moment, and what would happen? But could she order this genuinely grieved woman away? There was a dead silence of half a minute or so, till Suke said, "Why don't ye speak? Is he here? Is he dead? If so, why can't I see him--would it be so very wrong?" Before Grace had answered somebody else came to the door below--a foot-fall light as a roe's. There was a hurried tapping upon the panel, as if with the impatient tips of fingers whose owner thought not whether a knocker were there or no. Without a pause, and possibly guided by the stray beam of light on the landing, the newcomer ascended the staircase as the first had done. Grace was sufficiently visible, and the lady, for a lady it was, came to her side. "I could make nobody hear down-stairs," said Felice Charmond, with lips whose dryness could almost be heard, and panting, as she stood like one ready to sink on the floor with distress. "What is--the matter--tell me the worst! Can he live?" She looked at Grace imploringly, without perceiving poor Suke, who, dismayed at such a presence, had shrunk away into the shade. Mrs. Charmond's little feet were covered with mud; she was quite unconscious of her appearance now. "I have heard such a dreadful report," she went on; "I came to ascertain the truth of it. Is he--killed?" "She won't tell us--he's dying--he's in that room!" burst out Suke, regardless of consequences, as she heard the distant movements of Mrs. Melbury and Grammer in the bedroom at the end of the passage. "Where?" said Mrs. Charmond; and on Suke pointing out the direction, she made as if to go thither. Grace barred the way. "He is not there," she said. "I have not seen him any more than you. I have heard a report only--not so bad as you think. It must have been exaggerated to you." "Please do not conceal anything--let me know all!" said Felice, doubtingly. "You shall know all I know--you have a perfect right to know--who can have a better than either of you?" said Grace, with a delicate sting which was lost upon Felice Charmond now. "I repeat, I have only heard a less alarming account than you have heard; how much it means, and how little, I cannot say. I pray God that it means not much--in common humanity. You probably pray the same--for other reasons." She regarded them both there in the dim light a while. They stood dumb in their trouble, not stinging back at her; not heeding her mood. A tenderness spread over Grace like a dew. It was well, very well, conventionally, to address either one of them in the wife's regulation terms of virtuous sarcasm, as woman, creature, or thing, for losing their hearts to her husband. But life, what was it, and who was she? She had, like the singer of the psalm of Asaph, been plagued and chastened all the day long; but could she, by retributive words, in order to please herself--the individual--"offend against the generation," as he would not? "He is dying, perhaps," blubbered Suke Damson, putting her apron to her eyes. In their gestures and faces there were anxieties, affection, agony of heart, all for a man who had wronged them--had never really behaved towards either of them anyhow but selfishly. Neither one but would have wellnigh sacrificed half her life to him, even now. The tears which his possibly critical situation could not bring to her eyes surged over at the contemplation of these fellow-women. She turned to the balustrade, bent herself upon it, and wept. Thereupon Felice began to cry also, without using her handkerchief, and letting the tears run down silently. While these three poor women stood together thus, pitying another though most to be pitied themselves, the pacing of a horse or horses became audible in the court, and in a moment Melbury's voice was heard calling to his stableman. Grace at once started up, ran down the stairs and out into the quadrangle as her father crossed it towards the door. "Father, what is the matter with him?" she cried. "Who--Edgar?" said Melbury, abruptly. "Matter? Nothing. What, my dear, and have you got home safe? Why, you are better already! But you ought not to be out in the air like this." "But he has been thrown off his horse!" "I know; I know. I saw it. He got up again, and walked off as well as ever. A fall on the leaves didn't hurt a spry fellow like him. He did not come this way," he added, significantly. "I suppose he went to look for his horse. I tried to find him, but could not. But after seeing him go away under the trees I found the horse, and have led it home for safety. So he must walk. Now, don't you stay out here in this night air." She returned to the house with her father. When she had again ascended to the landing and to her own rooms beyond it was a great relief to her to find that both Petticoat the First and Petticoat the Second of her Bien-aime had silently disappeared. They had, in all probability, heard the words of her father, and departed with their anxieties relieved. Presently her parents came up to Grace, and busied themselves to see that she was comfortable. Perceiving soon that she would prefer to be left alone they went away. Grace waited on. The clock raised its voice now and then, but her husband did not return. At her father's usual hour for retiring he again came in to see her. "Do not stay up," she said, as soon as he entered. "I am not at all tired. I will sit up for him." "I think it will be useless, Grace," said Melbury, slowly. "Why?" "I have had a bitter quarrel with him; and on that account I hardly think he will return to-night." "A quarrel? Was that after the fall seen by the boy?" Melbury nodded an affirmative, without taking his eyes off the candle. "Yes; it was as we were coming home together," he said. Something had been swelling up in Grace while her father was speaking. "How could you want to quarrel with him?" she cried, suddenly. "Why could you not let him come home quietly if he were inclined to? He is my husband; and now you have married me to him surely you need not provoke him unnecessarily. First you induce me to accept him, and then you do things that divide us more than we should naturally be divided!" "How can you speak so unjustly to me, Grace?" said Melbury, with indignant sorrow. "I divide you from your husband, indeed! You little think--" He was inclined to say more--to tell her the whole story of the encounter, and that the provocation he had received had lain entirely in hearing her despised. But it would have greatly distressed her, and he forbore. "You had better lie down. You are tired," he said, soothingly. "Good-night." The household went to bed, and a silence fell upon the dwelling, broken only by the occasional skirr of a halter in Melbury's stables. Despite her father's advice Grace still waited up. But nobody came. It was a critical time in Grace's emotional life that night. She thought of her husband a good deal, and for the nonce forgot Winterborne. "How these unhappy women must have admired Edgar!" she said to herself. "How attractive he must be to everybody; and, indeed, he is attractive." The possibility is that, piqued by rivalry, these ideas might have been transformed into their corresponding emotions by a show of the least reciprocity in Fitzpiers. There was, in truth, a love-bird yearning to fly from her heart; and it wanted a lodging badly. But no husband came. The fact was that Melbury had been much mistaken about the condition of Fitzpiers. People do not fall headlong on stumps of underwood with impunity. Had the old man been able to watch Fitzpiers narrowly enough, he would have observed that on rising and walking into the thicket he dropped blood as he went; that he had not proceeded fifty yards before he showed signs of being dizzy, and, raising his hands to his head, reeled and fell down. CHAPTER XXXVI. Grace was not the only one who watched and meditated in Hintock that night. Felice Charmond was in no mood to retire to rest at a customary hour; and over her drawing-room fire at the Manor House she sat as motionless and in as deep a reverie as Grace in her little apartment at the homestead. Having caught ear of Melbury's intelligence while she stood on the landing at his house, and been eased of much of her mental distress, her sense of personal decorum returned upon her with a rush. She descended the stairs and left the door like a ghost, keeping close to the walls of the building till she got round to the gate of the quadrangle, through which she noiselessly passed almost before Grace and her father had finished their discourse. Suke Damson had thought it well to imitate her superior in this respect, and, descending the back stairs as Felice descended the front, went out at the side door and home to her cottage. Once outside Melbury's gates Mrs. Charmond ran with all her speed to the Manor House, without stopping or turning her head, and splitting her thin boots in her haste. She entered her own dwelling, as she had emerged from it, by the drawing-room window. In other circumstances she would have felt some timidity at undertaking such an unpremeditated excursion alone; but her anxiety for another had cast out her fear for herself. Everything in her drawing-room was just as she had left it--the candles still burning, the casement closed, and the shutters gently pulled to, so as to hide the state of the window from the cursory glance of a servant entering the apartment. She had been gone about three-quarters of an hour by the clock, and nobody seemed to have discovered her absence. Tired in body but tense in mind, she sat down, palpitating, round-eyed, bewildered at what she had done. She had been betrayed by affrighted love into a visit which, now that the emotion instigating it had calmed down under her belief that Fitzpiers was in no danger, was the saddest surprise to her. This was how she had set about doing her best to escape her passionate bondage to him! Somehow, in declaring to Grace and to herself the unseemliness of her infatuation, she had grown a convert to its irresistibility. If Heaven would only give her strength; but Heaven never did! One thing was indispensable; she must go away from Hintock if she meant to withstand further temptation. The struggle was too wearying, too hopeless, while she remained. It was but a continual capitulation of conscience to what she dared not name. By degrees, as she sat, Felice's mind--helped perhaps by the anticlimax of learning that her lover was unharmed after all her fright about him--grew wondrously strong in wise resolve. For the moment she was in a mood, in the words of Mrs. Elizabeth Montagu, "to run mad with discretion;" and was so persuaded that discretion lay in departure that she wished to set about going that very minute. Jumping up from her seat, she began to gather together some small personal knick-knacks scattered about the room, to feel that preparations were really in train. While moving here and there she fancied that she heard a slight noise out-of-doors, and stood still. Surely it was a tapping at the window. A thought entered her mind, and burned her cheek. He had come to that window before; yet was it possible that he should dare to do so now! All the servants were in bed, and in the ordinary course of affairs she would have retired also. Then she remembered that on stepping in by the casement and closing it, she had not fastened the window-shutter, so that a streak of light from the interior of the room might have revealed her vigil to an observer on the lawn. How all things conspired against her keeping faith with Grace! The tapping recommenced, light as from the bill of a little bird; her illegitimate hope overcame her vow; she went and pulled back the shutter, determining, however, to shake her head at him and keep the casement securely closed. What she saw outside might have struck terror into a heart stouter than a helpless woman's at midnight. In the centre of the lowest pane of the window, close to the glass, was a human face, which she barely recognized as the face of Fitzpiers. It was surrounded with the darkness of the night without, corpse-like in its pallor, and covered with blood. As disclosed in the square area of the pane it met her frightened eyes like a replica of the Sudarium of St. Veronica. He moved his lips, and looked at her imploringly. Her rapid mind pieced together in an instant a possible concatenation of events which might have led to this tragical issue. She unlatched the casement with a terrified hand, and bending down to where he was crouching, pressed her face to his with passionate solicitude. She assisted him into the room without a word, to do which it was almost necessary to lift him bodily. Quickly closing the window and fastening the shutters, she bent over him breathlessly. "Are you hurt much--much?" she cried, faintly. "Oh, oh, how is this!" "Rather much--but don't be frightened," he answered in a difficult whisper, and turning himself to obtain an easier position if possible. "A little water, please." She ran across into the dining-room, and brought a bottle and glass, from which he eagerly drank. He could then speak much better, and with her help got upon the nearest couch. "Are you dying, Edgar?" she said. "Do speak to me!" "I am half dead," said Fitzpiers. "But perhaps I shall get over it....It is chiefly loss of blood." "But I thought your fall did not hurt you," said she. "Who did this?" "Felice--my father-in-law!...I have crawled to you more than a mile on my hands and knees--God, I thought I should never have got here!...I have come to you--be-cause you are the only friend--I have in the world now....I can never go back to Hintock--never--to the roof of the Melburys! Not poppy nor mandragora will ever medicine this bitter feud!...If I were only well again--" "Let me bind your head, now that you have rested." "Yes--but wait a moment--it has stopped bleeding, fortunately, or I should be a dead man before now. While in the wood I managed to make a tourniquet of some half-pence and my handkerchief, as well as I could in the dark....But listen, dear Felice! Can you hide me till I am well? Whatever comes, I can be seen in Hintock no more. My practice is nearly gone, you know--and after this I would not care to recover it if I could." By this time Felice's tears began to blind her. Where were now her discreet plans for sundering their lives forever? To administer to him in his pain, and trouble, and poverty, was her single thought. The first step was to hide him, and she asked herself where. A place occurred to her mind. She got him some wine from the dining-room, which strengthened him much. Then she managed to remove his boots, and, as he could now keep himself upright by leaning upon her on one side and a walking-stick on the other, they went thus in slow march out of the room and up the stairs. At the top she took him along a gallery, pausing whenever he required rest, and thence up a smaller staircase to the least used part of the house, where she unlocked a door. Within was a lumber-room, containing abandoned furniture of all descriptions, built up in piles which obscured the light of the windows, and formed between them nooks and lairs in which a person would not be discerned even should an eye gaze in at the door. The articles were mainly those that had belonged to the previous owner of the house, and had been bought in by the late Mr. Charmond at the auction; but changing fashion, and the tastes of a young wife, had caused them to be relegated to this dungeon. Here Fitzpiers sat on the floor against the wall till she had hauled out materials for a bed, which she spread on the floor in one of the aforesaid nooks. She obtained water and a basin, and washed the dried blood from his face and hands; and when he was comfortably reclining, fetched food from the larder. While he ate her eyes lingered anxiously on his face, following its every movement with such loving-kindness as only a fond woman can show. He was now in better condition, and discussed his position with her. "What I fancy I said to Melbury must have been enough to enrage any man, if uttered in cold blood, and with knowledge of his presence. But I did not know him, and I was stupefied by what he had given me, so that I hardly was aware of what I said. Well--the veil of that temple is rent in twain!...As I am not going to be seen again in Hintock, my first efforts must be directed to allay any alarm that may be felt at my absence, before I am able to get clear away. Nobody must suspect that I have been hurt, or there will be a country talk about me. Felice, I must at once concoct a letter to check all search for me. I think if you can bring me a pen and paper I may be able to do it now. I could rest better if it were done. Poor thing! how I tire her with running up and down!" She fetched writing materials, and held up the blotting-book as a support to his hand, while he penned a brief note to his nominal wife. "The animosity shown towards me by your father," he wrote, in this coldest of marital epistles, "is such that I cannot return again to a roof which is his, even though it shelters you. A parting is unavoidable, as you are sure to be on his side in this division. I am starting on a journey which will take me a long way from Hintock, and you must not expect to see me there again for some time." He then gave her a few directions bearing upon his professional engagements and other practical matters, concluding without a hint of his destination, or a notion of when she would see him again. He offered to read the note to Felice before he closed it up, but she would not hear or see it; that side of his obligations distressed her beyond endurance. She turned away from Fitzpiers, and sobbed bitterly. "If you can get this posted at a place some miles away," he whispered, exhausted by the effort of writing--"at Shottsford or Port-Bredy, or still better, Budmouth--it will divert all suspicion from this house as the place of my refuge." "I will drive to one or other of the places myself--anything to keep it unknown," she murmured, her voice weighted with vague foreboding, now that the excitement of helping him had passed away. Fitzpiers told her that there was yet one thing more to be done. "In creeping over the fence on to the lawn," he said, "I made the rail bloody, and it shows rather much on the white paint--I could see it in the dark. At all hazards it should be washed off. Could you do that also, Felice?" What will not women do on such devoted occasions? weary as she was she went all the way down the rambling staircases to the ground-floor, then to search for a lantern, which she lighted and hid under her cloak; then for a wet sponge, and next went forth into the night. The white railing stared out in the darkness at her approach, and a ray from the enshrouded lantern fell upon the blood--just where he had told her it would be found. She shuddered. It was almost too much to bear in one day--but with a shaking hand she sponged the rail clean, and returned to the house. The time occupied by these several proceedings was not much less than two hours. When all was done, and she had smoothed his extemporized bed, and placed everything within his reach that she could think of, she took her leave of him, and locked him in. CHAPTER XXXVII. When her husband's letter reached Grace's hands, bearing upon it the postmark of a distant town, it never once crossed her mind that Fitzpiers was within a mile of her still. She felt relieved that he did not write more bitterly of the quarrel with her father, whatever its nature might have been; but the general frigidity of his communication quenched in her the incipient spark that events had kindled so shortly before. From this centre of information it was made known in Hintock that the doctor had gone away, and as none but the Melbury household was aware that he did not return on the night of his accident, no excitement manifested itself in the village. Thus the early days of May passed by. None but the nocturnal birds and animals observed that late one evening, towards the middle of the month, a closely wrapped figure, with a crutch under one arm and a stick in his hand, crept out from Hintock House across the lawn to the shelter of the trees, taking thence a slow and laborious walk to the nearest point of the turnpike-road. The mysterious personage was so disguised that his own wife would hardly have known him. Felice Charmond was a practised hand at make-ups, as well she might be; and she had done her utmost in padding and painting Fitzpiers with the old materials of her art in the recesses of the lumber-room. In the highway he was met by a covered carriage, which conveyed him to Sherton-Abbas, whence he proceeded to the nearest port on the south coast, and immediately crossed the Channel. But it was known to everybody that three days after this time Mrs. Charmond executed her long-deferred plan of setting out for a long term of travel and residence on the Continent. She went off one morning as unostentatiously as could be, and took no maid with her, having, she said, engaged one to meet her at a point farther on in her route. After that, Hintock House, so frequently deserted, was again to be let. Spring had not merged in summer when a clinching rumor, founded on the best of evidence, reached the parish and neighborhood. Mrs. Charmond and Fitzpiers had been seen together in Baden, in relations which set at rest the question that had agitated the little community ever since the winter. Melbury had entered the Valley of Humiliation even farther than Grace. His spirit seemed broken. But once a week he mechanically went to market as usual, and here, as he was passing by the conduit one day, his mental condition expressed largely by his gait, he heard his name spoken by a voice formerly familiar. He turned and saw a certain Fred Beaucock--once a promising lawyer's clerk and local dandy, who had been called the cleverest fellow in Sherton, without whose brains the firm of solicitors employing him would be nowhere. But later on Beaucock had fallen into the mire. He was invited out a good deal, sang songs at agricultural meetings and burgesses' dinners; in sum, victualled himself with spirits more frequently than was good for the clever brains or body either. He lost his situation, and after an absence spent in trying his powers elsewhere, came back to his native town, where, at the time of the foregoing events in Hintock, he gave legal advice for astonishingly small fees--mostly carrying on his profession on public-house settles, in whose recesses he might often have been overheard making country-people's wills for half a crown; calling with a learned voice for pen-and-ink and a halfpenny sheet of paper, on which he drew up the testament while resting it in a little space wiped with his hand on the table amid the liquid circles formed by the cups and glasses. An idea implanted early in life is difficult to uproot, and many elderly tradespeople still clung to the notion that Fred Beaucock knew a great deal of law. It was he who had called Melbury by name. "You look very down, Mr. Melbury--very, if I may say as much," he observed, when the timber-merchant turned. "But I know--I know. A very sad case--very. I was bred to the law, as you know, and am professionally no stranger to such matters. Well, Mrs. Fitzpiers has her remedy." "How--what--a remedy?" said Melbury. "Under the new law, sir. A new court was established last year, and under the new statute, twenty and twenty-one Vic., cap. eighty-five, unmarrying is as easy as marrying. No more Acts of Parliament necessary; no longer one law for the rich and another for the poor. But come inside--I was just going to have a nibleykin of rum hot--I'll explain it all to you." The intelligence amazed Melbury, who saw little of newspapers. And though he was a severely correct man in his habits, and had no taste for entering a tavern with Fred Beaucock--nay, would have been quite uninfluenced by such a character on any other matter in the world--such fascination lay in the idea of delivering his poor girl from bondage, that it deprived him of the critical faculty. He could not resist the ex-lawyer's clerk, and entered the inn. Here they sat down to the rum, which Melbury paid for as a matter of course, Beaucock leaning back in the settle with a legal gravity which would hardly allow him to be conscious of the spirits before him, though they nevertheless disappeared with mysterious quickness. How much of the exaggerated information on the then new divorce laws which Beaucock imparted to his listener was the result of ignorance, and how much of dupery, was never ascertained. But he related such a plausible story of the ease with which Grace could become a free woman that her father was irradiated with the project; and though he scarcely wetted his lips, Melbury never knew how he came out of the inn, or when or where he mounted his gig to pursue his way homeward. But home he found himself, his brain having all the way seemed to ring sonorously as a gong in the intensity of its stir. Before he had seen Grace, he was accidentally met by Winterborne, who found his face shining as if he had, like the Law-giver, conversed with an angel. He relinquished his horse, and took Winterborne by the arm to a heap of rendlewood--as barked oak was here called--which lay under a privet-hedge. "Giles," he said, when they had sat down upon the logs, "there's a new law in the land! Grace can be free quite easily. I only knew it by the merest accident. I might not have found it out for the next ten years. She can get rid of him--d'ye hear?--get rid of him. Think of that, my friend Giles!" He related what he had learned of the new legal remedy. A subdued tremulousness about the mouth was all the response that Winterborne made; and Melbury added, "My boy, you shall have her yet--if you want her." His feelings had gathered volume as he said this, and the articulate sound of the old idea drowned his sight in mist. "Are you sure--about this new law?" asked Winterborne, so disquieted by a gigantic exultation which loomed alternately with fearful doubt that he evaded the full acceptance of Melbury's last statement. Melbury said that he had no manner of doubt, for since his talk with Beaucock it had come into his mind that he had seen some time ago in the weekly paper an allusion to such a legal change; but, having no interest in those desperate remedies at the moment, he had passed it over. "But I'm not going to let the matter rest doubtful for a single day," he continued. "I am going to London. Beaucock will go with me, and we shall get the best advice as soon as we possibly can. Beaucock is a thorough lawyer--nothing the matter with him but a fiery palate. I knew him as the stay and refuge of Sherton in knots of law at one time." Winterborne's replies were of the vaguest. The new possibility was almost unthinkable by him at the moment. He was what was called at Hintock "a solid-going fellow;" he maintained his abeyant mood, not from want of reciprocity, but from a taciturn hesitancy, taught by life as he knew it. "But," continued the timber-merchant, a temporary crease or two of anxiety supplementing those already established in his forehead by time and care, "Grace is not at all well. Nothing constitutional, you know; but she has been in a low, nervous state ever since that night of fright. I don't doubt but that she will be all right soon....I wonder how she is this evening?" He rose with the words, as if he had too long forgotten her personality in the excitement of her previsioned career. They had sat till the evening was beginning to dye the garden brown, and now went towards Melbury's house, Giles a few steps in the rear of his old friend, who was stimulated by the enthusiasm of the moment to outstep the ordinary walking of Winterborne. He felt shy of entering Grace's presence as her reconstituted lover--which was how her father's manner would be sure to present him--before definite information as to her future state was forthcoming; it seemed too nearly like the act of those who rush in where angels fear to tread. A chill to counterbalance all the glowing promise of the day was prompt enough in coming. No sooner had he followed the timber-merchant in at the door than he heard Grammer inform him that Mrs. Fitzpiers was still more unwell than she had been in the morning. Old Dr. Jones being in the neighborhood they had called him in, and he had instantly directed them to get her to bed. They were not, however, to consider her illness serious--a feverish, nervous attack the result of recent events, was what she was suffering from, and she would doubtless be well in a few days. Winterborne, therefore, did not remain, and his hope of seeing her that evening was disappointed. Even this aggravation of her morning condition did not greatly depress Melbury. He knew, he said, that his daughter's constitution was sound enough. It was only these domestic troubles that were pulling her down. Once free she would be blooming again. Melbury diagnosed rightly, as parents usually do. He set out for London the next morning, Jones having paid another visit and assured him that he might leave home without uneasiness, especially on an errand of that sort, which would the sooner put an end to her suspense. The timber-merchant had been away only a day or two when it was told in Hintock that Mr. Fitzpiers's hat had been found in the wood. Later on in the afternoon the hat was brought to Melbury, and, by a piece of ill-fortune, into Grace's presence. It had doubtless lain in the wood ever since his fall from the horse, but it looked so clean and uninjured--the summer weather and leafy shelter having much favored its preservation--that Grace could not believe it had remained so long concealed. A very little of fact was enough to set her fevered fancy at work at this juncture; she thought him still in the neighborhood; she feared his sudden appearance; and her nervous malady developed consequences so grave that Dr. Jones began to look serious, and the household was alarmed. It was the beginning of June, and the cuckoo at this time of the summer scarcely ceased his cry for more than two or three hours during the night. The bird's note, so familiar to her ears from infancy, was now absolute torture to the poor girl. On the Friday following the Wednesday of Melbury's departure, and the day after the discovery of Fitzpiers's hat, the cuckoo began at two o'clock in the morning with a sudden cry from one of Melbury's apple-trees, not three yards from the window of Grace's room. "Oh, he is coming!" she cried, and in her terror sprang clean from the bed out upon the floor. These starts and frights continued till noon; and when the doctor had arrived and had seen her, and had talked with Mrs. Melbury, he sat down and meditated. That ever-present terror it was indispensable to remove from her mind at all hazards; and he thought how this might be done. Without saying a word to anybody in the house, or to the disquieted Winterborne waiting in the lane below, Dr. Jones went home and wrote to Mr. Melbury at the London address he had obtained from his wife. The gist of his communication was that Mrs. Fitzpiers should be assured as soon as possible that steps were being taken to sever the bond which was becoming a torture to her; that she would soon be free, and was even then virtually so. "If you can say it AT ONCE it may be the means of averting much harm," he said. "Write to herself; not to me." On Saturday he drove over to Hintock, and assured her with mysterious pacifications that in a day or two she might expect to receive some assuring news. So it turned out. When Sunday morning came there was a letter for Grace from her father. It arrived at seven o'clock, the usual time at which the toddling postman passed by Hintock; at eight Grace awoke, having slept an hour or two for a wonder, and Mrs. Melbury brought up the letter. "Can you open it yourself?" said she. "Oh yes, yes!" said Grace, with feeble impatience. She tore the envelope, unfolded the sheet, and read; when a creeping blush tinctured her white neck and cheek. Her father had exercised a bold discretion. He informed her that she need have no further concern about Fitzpiers's return; that she would shortly be a free woman; and therefore, if she should desire to wed her old lover--which he trusted was the case, since it was his own deep wish--she would be in a position to do so. In this Melbury had not written beyond his belief. But he very much stretched the facts in adding that the legal formalities for dissolving her union were practically settled. The truth was that on the arrival of the doctor's letter poor Melbury had been much agitated, and could with difficulty be prevented by Beaucock from returning to her bedside. What was the use of his rushing back to Hintock? Beaucock had asked him. The only thing that could do her any good was a breaking of the bond. Though he had not as yet had an interview with the eminent solicitor they were about to consult, he was on the point of seeing him; and the case was clear enough. Thus the simple Melbury, urged by his parental alarm at her danger by the representations of his companion, and by the doctor's letter, had yielded, and sat down to tell her roundly that she was virtually free. "And you'd better write also to the gentleman," suggested Beaucock, who, scenting notoriety and the germ of a large practice in the case, wished to commit Melbury to it irretrievably; to effect which he knew that nothing would be so potent as awakening the passion of Grace for Winterborne, so that her father might not have the heart to withdraw from his attempt to make her love legitimate when he discovered that there were difficulties in the way. The nervous, impatient Melbury was much pleased with the idea of "starting them at once," as he called it. To put his long-delayed reparative scheme in train had become a passion with him now. He added to the letter addressed to his daughter a passage hinting that she ought to begin to encourage Winterborne, lest she should lose him altogether; and he wrote to Giles that the path was virtually open for him at last. Life was short, he declared; there were slips betwixt the cup and the lip; her interest in him should be reawakened at once, that all might be ready when the good time came for uniting them. CHAPTER XXXVIII. At these warm words Winterborne was not less dazed than he was moved in heart. The novelty of the avowal rendered what it carried with it inapprehensible by him in its entirety. Only a few short months ago completely estranged from this family--beholding Grace going to and fro in the distance, clothed with the alienating radiance of obvious superiority, the wife of the then popular and fashionable Fitzpiers, hopelessly outside his social boundary down to so recent a time that flowers then folded were hardly faded yet--he was now asked by that jealously guarding father of hers to take courage--to get himself ready for the day when he should be able to claim her. The old times came back to him in dim procession. How he had been snubbed; how Melbury had despised his Christmas party; how that sweet, coy Grace herself had looked down upon him and his household arrangements, and poor Creedle's contrivances! Well, he could not believe it. Surely the adamantine barrier of marriage with another could not be pierced like this! It did violence to custom. Yet a new law might do anything. But was it at all within the bounds of probability that a woman who, over and above her own attainments, had been accustomed to those of a cultivated professional man, could ever be the wife of such as he? Since the date of his rejection he had almost grown to see the reasonableness of that treatment. He had said to himself again and again that her father was right; that the poor ceorl, Giles Winterborne, would never have been able to make such a dainty girl happy. Yet, now that she had stood in a position farther removed from his own than at first, he was asked to prepare to woo her. He was full of doubt. Nevertheless, it was not in him to show backwardness. To act so promptly as Melbury desired him to act seemed, indeed, scarcely wise, because of the uncertainty of events. Giles knew nothing of legal procedure, but he did know that for him to step up to Grace as a lover before the bond which bound her was actually dissolved was simply an extravagant dream of her father's overstrained mind. He pitied Melbury for his almost childish enthusiasm, and saw that the aging man must have suffered acutely to be weakened to this unreasoning desire. Winterborne was far too magnanimous to harbor any cynical conjecture that the timber-merchant, in his intense affection for Grace, was courting him now because that young lady, when disunited, would be left in an anomalous position, to escape which a bad husband was better than none. He felt quite sure that his old friend was simply on tenterhooks of anxiety to repair the almost irreparable error of dividing two whom Nature had striven to join together in earlier days, and that in his ardor to do this he was oblivious of formalities. The cautious supervision of his past years had overleaped itself at last. Hence, Winterborne perceived that, in this new beginning, the necessary care not to compromise Grace by too early advances must be exercised by himself. Perhaps Winterborne was not quite so ardent as heretofore. There is no such thing as a stationary love: men are either loving more or loving less. But Giles himself recognized no decline in his sense of her dearness. If the flame did indeed burn lower now than when he had fetched her from Sherton at her last return from school, the marvel was small. He had been laboring ever since his rejection and her marriage to reduce his former passion to a docile friendship, out of pure regard to its expediency; and their separation may have helped him to a partial success. A week and more passed, and there was no further news of Melbury. But the effect of the intelligence he had already transmitted upon the elastic-nerved daughter of the woods had been much what the old surgeon Jones had surmised. It had soothed her perturbed spirit better than all the opiates in the pharmacopoeia. She had slept unbrokenly a whole night and a day. The "new law" was to her a mysterious, beneficent, godlike entity, lately descended upon earth, that would make her as she once had been without trouble or annoyance. Her position fretted her, its abstract features rousing an aversion which was even greater than her aversion to the personality of him who had caused it. It was mortifying, productive of slights, undignified. Him she could forget; her circumstances she had always with her. She saw nothing of Winterborne during the days of her recovery; and perhaps on that account her fancy wove about him a more romantic tissue than it could have done if he had stood before her with all the specks and flaws inseparable from corporeity. He rose upon her memory as the fruit-god and the wood-god in alternation; sometimes leafy, and smeared with green lichen, as she had seen him among the sappy boughs of the plantations; sometimes cider-stained, and with apple-pips in the hair of his arms, as she had met him on his return from cider-making in White Hart Vale, with his vats and presses beside him. In her secret heart she almost approximated to her father's enthusiasm in wishing to show Giles once for all how she still regarded him. The question whether the future would indeed bring them together for life was a standing wonder with her. She knew that it could not with any propriety do so just yet. But reverently believing in her father's sound judgment and knowledge, as good girls are wont to do, she remembered what he had written about her giving a hint to Winterborne lest there should be risk in delay, and her feelings were not averse to such a step, so far as it could be done without danger at this early stage of the proceedings. From being a frail phantom of her former equable self she returned in bounds to a condition of passable philosophy. She bloomed again in the face in the course of a few days, and was well enough to go about as usual. One day Mrs. Melbury proposed that for a change she should be driven in the gig to Sherton market, whither Melbury's man was going on other errands. Grace had no business whatever in Sherton; but it crossed her mind that Winterborne would probably be there, and this made the thought of such a drive interesting. On the way she saw nothing of him; but when the horse was walking slowly through the obstructions of Sheep Street, she discerned the young man on the pavement. She thought of that time when he had been standing under his apple-tree on her return from school, and of the tender opportunity then missed through her fastidiousness. Her heart rose in her throat. She abjured all such fastidiousness now. Nor did she forget the last occasion on which she had beheld him in that town, making cider in the court-yard of the Earl of Wessex Hotel, while she was figuring as a fine lady in the balcony above. Grace directed the man to set her down there in the midst, and immediately went up to her lover. Giles had not before observed her, and his eyes now suppressedly looked his pleasure, without the embarrassment that had formerly marked him at such meetings. When a few words had been spoken, she said, archly, "I have nothing to do. Perhaps you are deeply engaged?" "I? Not a bit. My business now at the best of times is small, I am sorry to say." "Well, then, I am going into the Abbey. Come along with me." The proposition had suggested itself as a quick escape from publicity, for many eyes were regarding her. She had hoped that sufficient time had elapsed for the extinction of curiosity; but it was quite otherwise. The people looked at her with tender interest as the deserted girl-wife--without obtrusiveness, and without vulgarity; but she was ill prepared for scrutiny in any shape. They walked about the Abbey aisles, and presently sat down. Not a soul was in the building save themselves. She regarded a stained window, with her head sideways, and tentatively asked him if he remembered the last time they were in that town alone. He remembered it perfectly, and remarked, "You were a proud miss then, and as dainty as you were high. Perhaps you are now?" Grace slowly shook her head. "Affliction has taken all that out of me," she answered, impressively. "Perhaps I am too far the other way now." As there was something lurking in this that she could not explain, she added, so quickly as not to allow him time to think of it, "Has my father written to you at all?" "Yes," said Winterborne. She glanced ponderingly up at him. "Not about me?" "Yes." His mouth was lined with charactery which told her that he had been bidden to take the hint as to the future which she had been bidden to give. The unexpected discovery sent a scarlet pulsation through Grace for the moment. However, it was only Giles who stood there, of whom she had no fear; and her self-possession returned. "He said I was to sound you with a view to--what you will understand, if you care to," continued Winterborne, in a low voice. Having been put on this track by herself, he was not disposed to abandon it in a hurry. They had been children together, and there was between them that familiarity as to personal affairs which only such acquaintanceship can give. "You know, Giles," she answered, speaking in a very practical tone, "that that is all very well; but I am in a very anomalous position at present, and I cannot say anything to the point about such things as those." "No?" he said, with a stray air as regarded the subject. He was looking at her with a curious consciousness of discovery. He had not been imagining that their renewed intercourse would show her to him thus. For the first time he realized an unexpectedness in her, which, after all, should not have been unexpected. She before him was not the girl Grace Melbury whom he used to know. Of course, he might easily have prefigured as much; but it had never occurred to him. She was a woman who had been married; she had moved on; and without having lost her girlish modesty, she had lost her girlish shyness. The inevitable change, though known to him, had not been heeded; and it struck him into a momentary fixity. The truth was that he had never come into close comradeship with her since her engagement to Fitzpiers, with the brief exception of the evening encounter on Rubdown Hill, when she met him with his cider apparatus; and that interview had been of too cursory a kind for insight. Winterborne had advanced, too. He could criticise her. Times had been when to criticise a single trait in Grace Melbury would have lain as far beyond his powers as to criticise a deity. This thing was sure: it was a new woman in many ways whom he had come out to see; a creature of more ideas, more dignity, and, above all, more assurance, than the original Grace had been capable of. He could not at first decide whether he were pleased or displeased at this. But upon the whole the novelty attracted him. She was so sweet and sensitive that she feared his silence betokened something in his brain of the nature of an enemy to her. "What are you thinking of that makes those lines come in your forehead?" she asked. "I did not mean to offend you by speaking of the time being premature as yet." Touched by the genuine loving-kindness which had lain at the foundation of these words, and much moved, Winterborne turned his face aside, as he took her by the hand. He was grieved that he had criticised her. "You are very good, dear Grace," he said, in a low voice. "You are better, much better, than you used to be." "How?" He could not very well tell her how, and said, with an evasive smile, "You are prettier;" which was not what he really had meant. He then remained still holding her right hand in his own right, so that they faced in opposite ways; and as he did not let go, she ventured upon a tender remonstrance. "I think we have gone as far as we ought to go at present--and far enough to satisfy my poor father that we are the same as ever. You see, Giles, my case is not settled yet, and if--Oh, suppose I NEVER get free!--there should be any hitch or informality!" She drew a catching breath, and turned pale. The dialogue had been affectionate comedy up to this point. The gloomy atmosphere of the past, and the still gloomy horizon of the present, had been for the interval forgotten. Now the whole environment came back, the due balance of shade among the light was restored. "It is sure to be all right, I trust?" she resumed, in uneasy accents. "What did my father say the solicitor had told him?" "Oh--that all is sure enough. The case is so clear--nothing could be clearer. But the legal part is not yet quite done and finished, as is natural." "Oh no--of course not," she said, sunk in meek thought. "But father said it was ALMOST--did he not? Do you know anything about the new law that makes these things so easy?" "Nothing--except the general fact that it enables ill-assorted husbands and wives to part in a way they could not formerly do without an Act of Parliament." "Have you to sign a paper, or swear anything? Is it something like that?" "Yes, I believe so." "How long has it been introduced?" "About six months or a year, the lawyer said, I think." To hear these two poor Arcadian innocents talk of imperial law would have made a humane person weep who should have known what a dangerous structure they were building up on their supposed knowledge. They remained in thought, like children in the presence of the incomprehensible. "Giles," she said, at last, "it makes me quite weary when I think how serious my situation is, or has been. Shall we not go out from here now, as it may seem rather fast of me--our being so long together, I mean--if anybody were to see us? I am almost sure," she added, uncertainly, "that I ought not to let you hold my hand yet, knowing that the documents--or whatever it may be--have not been signed; so that I--am still as married as ever--or almost. My dear father has forgotten himself. Not that I feel morally bound to any one else, after what has taken place--no woman of spirit could--now, too, that several months have passed. But I wish to keep the proprieties as well as I can." "Yes, yes. Still, your father reminds us that life is short. I myself feel that it is; that is why I wished to understand you in this that we have begun. At times, dear Grace, since receiving your father's letter, I am as uneasy and fearful as a child at what he said. If one of us were to die before the formal signing and sealing that is to release you have been done--if we should drop out of the world and never have made the most of this little, short, but real opportunity, I should think to myself as I sunk down dying, 'Would to my God that I had spoken out my whole heart--given her one poor little kiss when I had the chance to give it! But I never did, although she had promised to be mine some day; and now I never can.' That's what I should think." She had begun by watching the words from his lips with a mournful regard, as though their passage were visible; but as he went on she dropped her glance. "Yes," she said, "I have thought that, too. And, because I have thought it, I by no means meant, in speaking of the proprieties, to be reserved and cold to you who loved me so long ago, or to hurt your heart as I used to do at that thoughtless time. Oh, not at all, indeed! But--ought I to allow you?--oh, it is too quick--surely!" Her eyes filled with tears of bewildered, alarmed emotion. Winterborne was too straightforward to influence her further against her better judgment. "Yes--I suppose it is," he said, repentantly. "I'll wait till all is settled. What did your father say in that last letter?" He meant about his progress with the petition; but she, mistaking him, frankly spoke of the personal part. "He said--what I have implied. Should I tell more plainly?" "Oh no--don't, if it is a secret." "Not at all. I will tell every word, straight out, Giles, if you wish. He said I was to encourage you. There. But I cannot obey him further to-day. Come, let us go now." She gently slid her hand from his, and went in front of him out of the Abbey. "I was thinking of getting some dinner," said Winterborne, changing to the prosaic, as they walked. "And you, too, must require something. Do let me take you to a place I know." Grace was almost without a friend in the world outside her father's house; her life with Fitzpiers had brought her no society; had sometimes, indeed, brought her deeper solitude and inconsideration than any she had ever known before. Hence it was a treat to her to find herself again the object of thoughtful care. But she questioned if to go publicly to dine with Giles Winterborne were not a proposal, due rather to his unsophistication than to his discretion. She said gently that she would much prefer his ordering her lunch at some place and then coming to tell her it was ready, while she remained in the Abbey porch. Giles saw her secret reasoning, thought how hopelessly blind to propriety he was beside her, and went to do as she wished. He was not absent more than ten minutes, and found Grace where he had left her. "It will be quite ready by the time you get there," he said, and told her the name of the inn at which the meal had been ordered, which was one that she had never heard of. "I'll find it by inquiry," said Grace, setting out. "And shall I see you again?" "Oh yes--come to me there. It will not be like going together. I shall want you to find my father's man and the gig for me." He waited on some ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, till he thought her lunch ended, and that he might fairly take advantage of her invitation to start her on her way home. He went straight to The Three Tuns--a little tavern in a side street, scrupulously clean, but humble and inexpensive. On his way he had an occasional misgiving as to whether the place had been elegant enough for her; and as soon as he entered it, and saw her ensconced there, he perceived that he had blundered. Grace was seated in the only dining-room that the simple old hostelry could boast of, which was also a general parlor on market-days; a long, low apartment, with a sanded floor herring-boned with a broom; a wide, red-curtained window to the street, and another to the garden. Grace had retreated to the end of the room looking out upon the latter, the front part being full of a mixed company which had dropped in since he was there. She was in a mood of the greatest depression. On arriving, and seeing what the tavern was like, she had been taken by surprise; but having gone too far to retreat, she had heroically entered and sat down on the well-scrubbed settle, opposite the narrow table with its knives and steel forks, tin pepper-boxes, blue salt-cellars, and posters advertising the sale of bullocks against the wall. The last time that she had taken any meal in a public place it had been with Fitzpiers at the grand new Earl of Wessex Hotel in that town, after a two months' roaming and sojourning at the gigantic hotels of the Continent. How could she have expected any other kind of accommodation in present circumstances than such as Giles had provided? And yet how unprepared she was for this change! The tastes that she had acquired from Fitzpiers had been imbibed so subtly that she hardly knew she possessed them till confronted by this contrast. The elegant Fitzpiers, in fact, at that very moment owed a long bill at the above-mentioned hotel for the luxurious style in which he used to put her up there whenever they drove to Sherton. But such is social sentiment, that she had been quite comfortable under those debt-impending conditions, while she felt humiliated by her present situation, which Winterborne had paid for honestly on the nail. He had noticed in a moment that she shrunk from her position, and all his pleasure was gone. It was the same susceptibility over again which had spoiled his Christmas party long ago. But he did not know that this recrudescence was only the casual result of Grace's apprenticeship to what she was determined to learn in spite of it--a consequence of one of those sudden surprises which confront everybody bent upon turning over a new leaf. She had finished her lunch, which he saw had been a very mincing performance; and he brought her out of the house as soon as he could. "Now," he said, with great sad eyes, "you have not finished at all well, I know. Come round to the Earl of Wessex. I'll order a tea there. I did not remember that what was good enough for me was not good enough for you." Her face faded into an aspect of deep distress when she saw what had happened. "Oh no, Giles," she said, with extreme pathos; "certainly not. Why do you--say that when you know better? You EVER will misunderstand me." "Indeed, that's not so, Mrs. Fitzpiers. Can you deny that you felt out of place at The Three Tuns?" "I don't know. Well, since you make me speak, I do not deny it." "And yet I have felt at home there these twenty years. Your husband used always to take you to the Earl of Wessex, did he not?" "Yes," she reluctantly admitted. How could she explain in the street of a market-town that it was her superficial and transitory taste which had been offended, and not her nature or her affection? Fortunately, or unfortunately, at that moment they saw Melbury's man driving vacantly along the street in search of her, the hour having passed at which he had been told to take her up. Winterborne hailed him, and she was powerless then to prolong the discourse. She entered the vehicle sadly, and the horse trotted away. CHAPTER XXXIX. All night did Winterborne think over that unsatisfactory ending of a pleasant time, forgetting the pleasant time itself. He feared anew that they could never be happy together, even should she be free to choose him. She was accomplished; he was unrefined. It was the original difficulty, which he was too sensitive to recklessly ignore, as some men would have done in his place. He was one of those silent, unobtrusive beings who want little from others in the way of favor or condescension, and perhaps on that very account scrutinize those others' behavior too closely. He was not versatile, but one in whom a hope or belief which had once had its rise, meridian, and decline seldom again exactly recurred, as in the breasts of more sanguine mortals. He had once worshipped her, laid out his life to suit her, wooed her, and lost her. Though it was with almost the same zest, it was with not quite the same hope, that he had begun to tread the old tracks again, and allowed himself to be so charmed with her that day. Move another step towards her he would not. He would even repulse her--as a tribute to conscience. It would be sheer sin to let her prepare a pitfall for her happiness not much smaller than the first by inveigling her into a union with such as he. Her poor father was now blind to these subtleties, which he had formerly beheld as in noontide light. It was his own duty to declare them--for her dear sake. Grace, too, had a very uncomfortable night, and her solicitous embarrassment was not lessened the next morning when another letter from her father was put into her hands. Its tenor was an intenser strain of the one that had preceded it. After stating how extremely glad he was to hear that she was better, and able to get out-of-doors, he went on: "This is a wearisome business, the solicitor we have come to see being out of town. I do not know when I shall get home. My great anxiety in this delay is still lest you should lose Giles Winterborne. I cannot rest at night for thinking that while our business is hanging fire he may become estranged, or go away from the neighborhood. I have set my heart upon seeing him your husband, if you ever have another. Do, then, Grace, give him some temporary encouragement, even though it is over-early. For when I consider the past I do think God will forgive me and you for being a little forward. I have another reason for this, my dear. I feel myself going rapidly downhill, and late affairs have still further helped me that way. And until this thing is done I cannot rest in peace." He added a postscript: "I have just heard that the solicitor is to be seen to-morrow. Possibly, therefore, I shall return in the evening after you get this." The paternal longing ran on all fours with her own desire; and yet in forwarding it yesterday she had been on the brink of giving offence. While craving to be a country girl again just as her father requested; to put off the old Eve, the fastidious miss--or rather madam--completely, her first attempt had been beaten by the unexpected vitality of that fastidiousness. Her father on returning and seeing the trifling coolness of Giles would be sure to say that the same perversity which had led her to make difficulties about marrying Fitzpiers was now prompting her to blow hot and cold with poor Winterborne. If the latter had been the most subtle hand at touching the stops of her delicate soul instead of one who had just bound himself to let her drift away from him again (if she would) on the wind of her estranging education, he could not have acted more seductively than he did that day. He chanced to be superintending some temporary work in a field opposite her windows. She could not discover what he was doing, but she read his mood keenly and truly: she could see in his coming and going an air of determined abandonment of the whole landscape that lay in her direction. Oh, how she longed to make it up with him! Her father coming in the evening--which meant, she supposed, that all formalities would be in train, her marriage virtually annulled, and she be free to be won again--how could she look him in the face if he should see them estranged thus? It was a fair green evening in June. She was seated in the garden, in the rustic chair which stood under the laurel-bushes--made of peeled oak-branches that came to Melbury's premises as refuse after barking-time. The mass of full-juiced leafage on the heights around her was just swayed into faint gestures by a nearly spent wind which, even in its enfeebled state, did not reach her shelter. All day she had expected Giles to call--to inquire how she had got home, or something or other; but he had not come. And he still tantalized her by going athwart and across that orchard opposite. She could see him as she sat. A slight diversion was presently created by Creedle bringing him a letter. She knew from this that Creedle had just come from Sherton, and had called as usual at the post-office for anything that had arrived by the afternoon post, of which there was no delivery at Hintock. She pondered on what the letter might contain--particularly whether it were a second refresher for Winterborne from her father, like her own of the morning. But it appeared to have no bearing upon herself whatever. Giles read its contents; and almost immediately turned away to a gap in the hedge of the orchard--if that could be called a hedge which, owing to the drippings of the trees, was little more than a bank with a bush upon it here and there. He entered the plantation, and was no doubt going that way homeward to the mysterious hut he occupied on the other side of the woodland. The sad sands were running swiftly through Time's glass; she had often felt it in these latter days; and, like Giles, she felt it doubly now after the solemn and pathetic reminder in her father's communication. Her freshness would pass, the long-suffering devotion of Giles might suddenly end--might end that very hour. Men were so strange. The thought took away from her all her former reticence, and made her action bold. She started from her seat. If the little breach, quarrel, or whatever it might be called, of yesterday, was to be healed up it must be done by her on the instant. She crossed into the orchard, and clambered through the gap after Giles, just as he was diminishing to a faun-like figure under the green canopy and over the brown floor. Grace had been wrong--very far wrong--in assuming that the letter had no reference to herself because Giles had turned away into the wood after its perusal. It was, sad to say, because the missive had so much reference to herself that he had thus turned away. He feared that his grieved discomfiture might be observed. The letter was from Beaucock, written a few hours later than Melbury's to his daughter. It announced failure. Giles had once done that thriftless man a good turn, and now was the moment when Beaucock had chosen to remember it in his own way. During his absence in town with Melbury, the lawyer's clerk had naturally heard a great deal of the timber-merchant's family scheme of justice to Giles, and his communication was to inform Winterborne at the earliest possible moment that their attempt had failed, in order that the young man should not place himself in a false position towards Grace in the belief of its coming success. The news was, in sum, that Fitzpiers's conduct had not been sufficiently cruel to Grace to enable her to snap the bond. She was apparently doomed to be his wife till the end of the chapter. Winterborne quite forgot his superficial differences with the poor girl under the warm rush of deep and distracting love for her which the almost tragical information engendered. To renounce her forever--that was then the end of it for him, after all. There was no longer any question about suitability, or room for tiffs on petty tastes. The curtain had fallen again between them. She could not be his. The cruelty of their late revived hope was now terrible. How could they all have been so simple as to suppose this thing could be done? It was at this moment that, hearing some one coming behind him, he turned and saw her hastening on between the thickets. He perceived in an instant that she did not know the blighting news. "Giles, why didn't you come across to me?" she asked, with arch reproach. "Didn't you see me sitting there ever so long?" "Oh yes," he said, in unprepared, extemporized tones, for her unexpected presence caught him without the slightest plan of behavior in the conjuncture. His manner made her think that she had been too chiding in her speech; and a mild scarlet wave passed over her as she resolved to soften it. "I have had another letter from my father," she hastened to continue. "He thinks he may come home this evening. And--in view of his hopes--it will grieve him if there is any little difference between us, Giles." "There is none," he said, sadly regarding her from the face downward as he pondered how to lay the cruel truth bare. "Still--I fear you have not quite forgiven me about my being uncomfortable at the inn." "I have, Grace, I'm sure." "But you speak in quite an unhappy way," she returned, coming up close to him with the most winning of the many pretty airs that appertained to her. "Don't you think you will ever be happy, Giles?" He did not reply for some instants. "When the sun shines on the north front of Sherton Abbey--that's when my happiness will come to me!" said he, staring as it were into the earth. "But--then that means that there is something more than my offending you in not liking The Three Tuns. If it is because I--did not like to let you kiss me in the Abbey--well, you know, Giles, that it was not on account of my cold feelings, but because I did certainly, just then, think it was rather premature, in spite of my poor father. That was the true reason--the sole one. But I do not want to be hard--God knows I do not," she said, her voice fluctuating. "And perhaps--as I am on the verge of freedom--I am not right, after all, in thinking there is any harm in your kissing me." "Oh God!" said Winterborne within himself. His head was turned askance as he still resolutely regarded the ground. For the last several minutes he had seen this great temptation approaching him in regular siege; and now it had come. The wrong, the social sin, of now taking advantage of the offer of her lips had a magnitude, in the eyes of one whose life had been so primitive, so ruled by purest household laws, as Giles's, which can hardly be explained. "Did you say anything?" she asked, timidly. "Oh no--only that--" "You mean that it must BE settled, since my father is coming home?" she said, gladly. Winterborne, though fighting valiantly against himself all this while--though he would have protected Grace's good repute as the apple of his eye--was a man; and, as Desdemona said, men are not gods. In face of the agonizing seductiveness shown by her, in her unenlightened school-girl simplicity about the laws and ordinances, he betrayed a man's weakness. Since it was so--since it had come to this, that Grace, deeming herself free to do it, was virtually asking him to demonstrate that he loved her--since he could demonstrate it only too truly--since life was short and love was strong--he gave way to the temptation, notwithstanding that he perfectly well knew her to be wedded irrevocably to Fitzpiers. Indeed, he cared for nothing past or future, simply accepting the present and what it brought, desiring once in his life to clasp in his arms her he had watched over and loved so long. She started back suddenly from his embrace, influenced by a sort of inspiration. "Oh, I suppose," she stammered, "that I am really free?--that this is right? Is there REALLY a new law? Father cannot have been too sanguine in saying--" He did not answer, and a moment afterwards Grace burst into tears in spite of herself. "Oh, why does not my father come home and explain," she sobbed, "and let me know clearly what I am? It is too trying, this, to ask me to--and then to leave me so long in so vague a state that I do not know what to do, and perhaps do wrong!" Winterborne felt like a very Cain, over and above his previous sorrow. How he had sinned against her in not telling her what he knew. He turned aside; the feeling of his cruelty mounted higher and higher. How could he have dreamed of kissing her? He could hardly refrain from tears. Surely nothing more pitiable had ever been known than the condition of this poor young thing, now as heretofore the victim of her father's well-meant but blundering policy. Even in the hour of Melbury's greatest assurance Winterborne had harbored a suspicion that no law, new or old, could undo Grace's marriage without her appearance in public; though he was not sufficiently sure of what might have been enacted to destroy by his own words her pleasing idea that a mere dash of the pen, on her father's testimony, was going to be sufficient. But he had never suspected the sad fact that the position was irremediable. Poor Grace, perhaps feeling that she had indulged in too much fluster for a mere kiss, calmed herself at finding how grave he was. "I am glad we are friends again anyhow," she said, smiling through her tears. "Giles, if you had only shown half the boldness before I married that you show now, you would have carried me off for your own first instead of second. If we do marry, I hope you will never think badly of me for encouraging you a little, but my father is SO impatient, you know, as his years and infirmities increase, that he will wish to see us a little advanced when he comes. That is my only excuse." To Winterborne all this was sadder than it was sweet. How could she so trust her father's conjectures? He did not know how to tell her the truth and shame himself. And yet he felt that it must be done. "We may have been wrong," he began, almost fearfully, "in supposing that it can all be carried out while we stay here at Hintock. I am not sure but that people may have to appear in a public court even under the new Act; and if there should be any difficulty, and we cannot marry after all--" Her cheeks became slowly bloodless. "Oh, Giles," she said, grasping his arm, "you have heard something! What--cannot my father conclude it there and now? Surely he has done it? Oh, Giles, Giles, don't deceive me. What terrible position am I in?" He could not tell her, try as he would. The sense of her implicit trust in his honor absolutely disabled him. "I cannot inform you," he murmured, his voice as husky as that of the leaves underfoot. "Your father will soon be here. Then we shall know. I will take you home." Inexpressibly dear as she was to him, he offered her his arm with the most reserved air, as he added, correctingly, "I will take you, at any rate, into the drive." Thus they walked on together. Grace vibrating between happiness and misgiving. It was only a few minutes' walk to where the drive ran, and they had hardly descended into it when they heard a voice behind them cry, "Take out that arm!" For a moment they did not heed, and the voice repeated, more loudly and hoarsely, "Take out that arm!" It was Melbury's. He had returned sooner than they expected, and now came up to them. Grace's hand had been withdrawn like lightning on her hearing the second command. "I don't blame you--I don't blame you," he said, in the weary cadence of one broken down with scourgings. "But you two must walk together no more--I have been surprised--I have been cruelly deceived--Giles, don't say anything to me; but go away!" He was evidently not aware that Winterborne had known the truth before he brought it; and Giles would not stay to discuss it with him then. When the young man had gone Melbury took his daughter in-doors to the room he used as his office. There he sat down, and bent over the slope of the bureau, her bewildered gaze fixed upon him. When Melbury had recovered a little he said, "You are now, as ever, Fitzpiers's wife. I was deluded. He has not done you ENOUGH harm. You are still subject to his beck and call." "Then let it be, and never mind, father," she said, with dignified sorrow. "I can bear it. It is your trouble that grieves me most." She stooped over him, and put her arm round his neck, which distressed Melbury still more. "I don't mind at all what comes to me," Grace continued; "whose wife I am, or whose I am not. I do love Giles; I cannot help that; and I have gone further with him than I should have done if I had known exactly how things were. But I do not reproach you." "Then Giles did not tell you?" said Melbury. "No," said she. "He could not have known it. His behavior to me proved that he did not know." Her father said nothing more, and Grace went away to the solitude of her chamber. Her heavy disquietude had many shapes; and for a time she put aside the dominant fact to think of her too free conduct towards Giles. His love-making had been brief as it was sweet; but would he on reflection contemn her for forwardness? How could she have been so simple as to suppose she was in a position to behave as she had done! Thus she mentally blamed her ignorance; and yet in the centre of her heart she blessed it a little for what it had momentarily brought her. CHAPTER XL. Life among the people involved in these events seemed to be suppressed and hide-bound for a while. Grace seldom showed herself outside the house, never outside the garden; for she feared she might encounter Giles Winterborne; and that she could not bear. This pensive intramural existence of the self-constituted nun appeared likely to continue for an indefinite time. She had learned that there was one possibility in which her formerly imagined position might become real, and only one; that her husband's absence should continue long enough to amount to positive desertion. But she never allowed her mind to dwell much upon the thought; still less did she deliberately hope for such a result. Her regard for Winterborne had been rarefied by the shock which followed its avowal into an ethereal emotion that had little to do with living and doing. As for Giles, he was lying--or rather sitting--ill at his hut. A feverish indisposition which had been hanging about him for some time, the result of a chill caught the previous winter, seemed to acquire virulence with the prostration of his hopes. But not a soul knew of his languor, and he did not think the case serious enough to send for a medical man. After a few days he was better again, and crept about his home in a great coat, attending to his simple wants as usual with his own hands. So matters stood when the limpid inertion of Grace's pool-like existence was disturbed as by a geyser. She received a letter from Fitzpiers. Such a terrible letter it was in its import, though couched in the gentlest language. In his absence Grace had grown to regard him with toleration, and her relation to him with equanimity, till she had almost forgotten how trying his presence would be. He wrote briefly and unaffectedly; he made no excuses, but informed her that he was living quite alone, and had been led to think that they ought to be together, if she would make up her mind to forgive him. He therefore purported to cross the Channel to Budmouth by the steamer on a day he named, which she found to be three days after the time of her present reading. He said that he could not come to Hintock for obvious reasons, which her father would understand even better than herself. As the only alternative she was to be on the quay to meet the steamer when it arrived from the opposite coast, probably about half an hour before midnight, bringing with her any luggage she might require; join him there, and pass with him into the twin vessel, which left immediately the other entered the harbor; returning thus with him to his continental dwelling-place, which he did not name. He had no intention of showing himself on land at all. The troubled Grace took the letter to her father, who now continued for long hours by the fireless summer chimney-corner, as if he thought it were winter, the pitcher of cider standing beside him, mostly untasted, and coated with a film of dust. After reading it he looked up. "You sha'n't go," said he. "I had felt I would not," she answered. "But I did not know what you would say." "If he comes and lives in England, not too near here and in a respectable way, and wants you to come to him, I am not sure that I'll oppose him in wishing it," muttered Melbury. "I'd stint myself to keep you both in a genteel and seemly style. But go abroad you never shall with my consent." There the question rested that day. Grace was unable to reply to her husband in the absence of an address, and the morrow came, and the next day, and the evening on which he had requested her to meet him. Throughout the whole of it she remained within the four walls of her room. The sense of her harassment, carking doubt of what might be impending, hung like a cowl of blackness over the Melbury household. They spoke almost in whispers, and wondered what Fitzpiers would do next. It was the hope of every one that, finding she did not arrive, he would return again to France; and as for Grace, she was willing to write to him on the most kindly terms if he would only keep away. The night passed, Grace lying tense and wide awake, and her relatives, in great part, likewise. When they met the next morning they were pale and anxious, though neither speaking of the subject which occupied all their thoughts. The day passed as quietly as the previous ones, and she began to think that in the rank caprice of his moods he had abandoned the idea of getting her to join him as quickly as it was formed. All on a sudden, some person who had just come from Sherton entered the house with the news that Mr. Fitzpiers was on his way home to Hintock. He had been seen hiring a carriage at the Earl of Wessex Hotel. Her father and Grace were both present when the intelligence was announced. "Now," said Melbury, "we must make the best of what has been a very bad matter. The man is repenting; the partner of his shame, I hear, is gone away from him to Switzerland, so that chapter of his life is probably over. If he chooses to make a home for ye I think you should not say him nay, Grace. Certainly he cannot very well live at Hintock without a blow to his pride; but if he can bear that, and likes Hintock best, why, there's the empty wing of the house as it was before." "Oh, father!" said Grace, turning white with dismay. "Why not?" said he, a little of his former doggedness returning. He was, in truth, disposed to somewhat more leniency towards her husband just now than he had shown formerly, from a conviction that he had treated him over-roughly in his anger. "Surely it is the most respectable thing to do?" he continued. "I don't like this state that you are in--neither married nor single. It hurts me, and it hurts you, and it will always be remembered against us in Hintock. There has never been any scandal like it in the family before." "He will be here in less than an hour," murmured Grace. The twilight of the room prevented her father seeing the despondent misery of her face. The one intolerable condition, the condition she had deprecated above all others, was that of Fitzpiers's reinstatement there. "Oh, I won't, I won't see him," she said, sinking down. She was almost hysterical. "Try if you cannot," he returned, moodily. "Oh yes, I will, I will," she went on, inconsequently. "I'll try;" and jumping up suddenly, she left the room. In the darkness of the apartment to which she flew nothing could have been seen during the next half-hour; but from a corner a quick breathing was audible from this impressible creature, who combined modern nerves with primitive emotions, and was doomed by such coexistence to be numbered among the distressed, and to take her scourgings to their exquisite extremity. The window was open. On this quiet, late summer evening, whatever sound arose in so secluded a district--the chirp of a bird, a call from a voice, the turning of a wheel--extended over bush and tree to unwonted distances. Very few sounds did arise. But as Grace invisibly breathed in the brown glooms of the chamber, the small remote noise of light wheels came in to her, accompanied by the trot of a horse on the turnpike-road. There seemed to be a sudden hitch or pause in the progress of the vehicle, which was what first drew her attention to it. She knew the point whence the sound proceeded--the hill-top over which travellers passed on their way hitherward from Sherton Abbas--the place at which she had emerged from the wood with Mrs. Charmond. Grace slid along the floor, and bent her head over the window-sill, listening with open lips. The carriage had stopped, and she heard a man use exclamatory words. Then another said, "What the devil is the matter with the horse?" She recognized the voice as her husband's. The accident, such as it had been, was soon remedied, and the carriage could be heard descending the hill on the Hintock side, soon to turn into the lane leading out of the highway, and then into the "drong" which led out of the lane to the house where she was. A spasm passed through Grace. The Daphnean instinct, exceptionally strong in her as a girl, had been revived by her widowed seclusion; and it was not lessened by her affronted sentiments towards the comer, and her regard for another man. She opened some little ivory tablets that lay on the dressing-table, scribbled in pencil on one of them, "I am gone to visit one of my school-friends," gathered a few toilet necessaries into a hand-bag, and not three minutes after that voice had been heard, her slim form, hastily wrapped up from observation, might have been seen passing out of the back door of Melbury's house. Thence she skimmed up the garden-path, through the gap in the hedge, and into the mossy cart-track under the trees which led into the depth of the woods. The leaves overhead were now in their latter green--so opaque, that it was darker at some of the densest spots than in winter-time, scarce a crevice existing by which a ray could get down to the ground. But in open places she could see well enough. Summer was ending: in the daytime singing insects hung in every sunbeam; vegetation was heavy nightly with globes of dew; and after showers creeping damps and twilight chills came up from the hollows. The plantations were always weird at this hour of eve--more spectral far than in the leafless season, when there were fewer masses and more minute lineality. The smooth surfaces of glossy plants came out like weak, lidless eyes; there were strange faces and figures from expiring lights that had somehow wandered into the canopied obscurity; while now and then low peeps of the sky between the trunks were like sheeted shapes, and on the tips of boughs sat faint cloven tongues. But Grace's fear just now was not imaginative or spiritual, and she heeded these impressions but little. She went on as silently as she could, avoiding the hollows wherein leaves had accumulated, and stepping upon soundless moss and grass-tufts. She paused breathlessly once or twice, and fancied that she could hear, above the beat of her strumming pulse, the vehicle containing Fitzpiers turning in at the gate of her father's premises. She hastened on again. The Hintock woods owned by Mrs. Charmond were presently left behind, and those into which she next plunged were divided from the latter by a bank, from whose top the hedge had long ago perished--starved for want of sun. It was with some caution that Grace now walked, though she was quite free from any of the commonplace timidities of her ordinary pilgrimages to such spots. She feared no lurking harms, but that her effort would be all in vain, and her return to the house rendered imperative. She had walked between three and four miles when that prescriptive comfort and relief to wanderers in woods--a distant light--broke at last upon her searching eyes. It was so very small as to be almost sinister to a stranger, but to her it was what she sought. She pushed forward, and the dim outline of a dwelling was disclosed. The house was a square cot of one story only, sloping up on all sides to a chimney in the midst. It had formerly been the home of a charcoal-burner, in times when that fuel was still used in the county houses. Its only appurtenance was a paled enclosure, there being no garden, the shade of the trees preventing the growth of vegetables. She advanced to the window whence the rays of light proceeded, and the shutters being as yet unclosed, she could survey the whole interior through the panes. The room within was kitchen, parlor, and scullery all in one; the natural sandstone floor was worn into hills and dales by long treading, so that none of the furniture stood level, and the table slanted like a desk. A fire burned on the hearth, in front of which revolved the skinned carcass of a rabbit, suspended by a string from a nail. Leaning with one arm on the mantle-shelf stood Winterborne, his eyes on the roasting animal, his face so rapt that speculation could build nothing on it concerning his thoughts, more than that they were not with the scene before him. She thought his features had changed a little since she saw them last. The fire-light did not enable her to perceive that they were positively haggard. Grace's throat emitted a gasp of relief at finding the result so nearly as she had hoped. She went to the door and tapped lightly. He seemed to be accustomed to the noises of woodpeckers, squirrels, and such small creatures, for he took no notice of her tiny signal, and she knocked again. This time he came and opened the door. When the light of the room fell upon her face he started, and, hardly knowing what he did, crossed the threshold to her, placing his hands upon her two arms, while surprise, joy, alarm, sadness, chased through him by turns. With Grace it was the same: even in this stress there was the fond fact that they had met again. Thus they stood, "Long tears upon their faces, waxen white With extreme sad delight." He broke the silence by saying in a whisper, "Come in." "No, no, Giles!" she answered, hurriedly, stepping yet farther back from the door. "I am passing by--and I have called on you--I won't enter. Will you help me? I am afraid. I want to get by a roundabout way to Sherton, and so to Exbury. I have a school-fellow there--but I cannot get to Sherton alone. Oh, if you will only accompany me a little way! Don't condemn me, Giles, and be offended! I was obliged to come to you because--I have no other help here. Three months ago you were my lover; now you are only my friend. The law has stepped in, and forbidden what we thought of. It must not be. But we can act honestly, and yet you can be my friend for one little hour? I have no other--" She could get no further. Covering her eyes with one hand, by an effort of repression she wept a silent trickle, without a sigh or sob. Winterborne took her other hand. "What has happened?" he said. "He has come." There was a stillness as of death, till Winterborne asked, "You mean this, Grace--that I am to help you to get away?" "Yes," said she. "Appearance is no matter, when the reality is right. I have said to myself I can trust you." Giles knew from this that she did not suspect his treachery--if it could be called such--earlier in the summer, when they met for the last time as lovers; and in the intensity of his contrition for that tender wrong, he determined to deserve her faith now at least, and so wipe out that reproach from his conscience. "I'll come at once," he said. "I'll light a lantern." He unhooked a dark-lantern from a nail under the eaves and she did not notice how his hand shook with the slight strain, or dream that in making this offer he was taxing a convalescence which could ill afford such self-sacrifice. The lantern was lit, and they started. CHAPTER XLI. The first hundred yards of their course lay under motionless trees, whose upper foliage began to hiss with falling drops of rain. By the time that they emerged upon a glade it rained heavily. "This is awkward," said Grace, with an effort to hide her concern. Winterborne stopped. "Grace," he said, preserving a strictly business manner which belied him, "you cannot go to Sherton to-night." "But I must!" "Why? It is nine miles from here. It is almost an impossibility in this rain." "True--WHY?" she replied, mournfully, at the end of a silence. "What is reputation to me?" "Now hearken," said Giles. "You won't--go back to your--" "No, no, no! Don't make me!" she cried, piteously. "Then let us turn." They slowly retraced their steps, and again stood before his door. "Now, this house from this moment is yours, and not mine," he said, deliberately. "I have a place near by where I can stay very well." Her face had drooped. "Oh!" she murmured, as she saw the dilemma. "What have I done!" There was a smell of something burning within, and he looked through the window. The rabbit that he had been cooking to coax a weak appetite was beginning to char. "Please go in and attend to it," he said. "Do what you like. Now I leave. You will find everything about the hut that is necessary." "But, Giles--your supper," she exclaimed. "An out-house would do for me--anything--till to-morrow at day-break!" He signified a negative. "I tell you to go in--you may catch agues out here in your delicate state. You can give me my supper through the window, if you feel well enough. I'll wait a while." He gently urged her to pass the door-way, and was relieved when he saw her within the room sitting down. Without so much as crossing the threshold himself, he closed the door upon her, and turned the key in the lock. Tapping at the window, he signified that she should open the casement, and when she had done this he handed in the key to her. "You are locked in," he said; "and your own mistress." Even in her trouble she could not refrain from a faint smile at his scrupulousness, as she took the door-key. "Do you feel better?" he went on. "If so, and you wish to give me some of your supper, please do. If not, it is of no importance. I can get some elsewhere." The grateful sense of his kindness stirred her to action, though she only knew half what that kindness really was. At the end of some ten minutes she again came to the window, pushed it open, and said in a whisper, "Giles!" He at once emerged from the shade, and saw that she was preparing to hand him his share of the meal upon a plate. "I don't like to treat you so hardly," she murmured, with deep regret in her words as she heard the rain pattering on the leaves. "But--I suppose it is best to arrange like this?" "Oh yes," he said, quickly. "I feel that I could never have reached Sherton." "It was impossible." "Are you sure you have a snug place out there?" (With renewed misgiving.) "Quite. Have you found everything you want? I am afraid it is rather rough accommodation." "Can I notice defects? I have long passed that stage, and you know it, Giles, or you ought to." His eyes sadly contemplated her face as its pale responsiveness modulated through a crowd of expressions that showed only too clearly to what a pitch she was strung. If ever Winterborne's heart fretted his bosom it was at this sight of a perfectly defenceless creature conditioned by such circumstances. He forgot his own agony in the satisfaction of having at least found her a shelter. He took his plate and cup from her hands, saying, "Now I'll push the shutter to, and you will find an iron pin on the inside, which you must fix into the bolt. Do not stir in the morning till I come and call you." She expressed an alarmed hope that he would not go very far away. "Oh no--I shall be quite within hail," said Winterborne. She bolted the window as directed, and he retreated. His snug place proved to be a wretched little shelter of the roughest kind, formed of four hurdles thatched with brake-fern. Underneath were dry sticks, hay, and other litter of the sort, upon which he sat down; and there in the dark tried to eat his meal. But his appetite was quite gone. He pushed the plate aside, and shook up the hay and sacks, so as to form a rude couch, on which he flung himself down to sleep, for it was getting late. But sleep he could not, for many reasons, of which not the least was thought of his charge. He sat up, and looked towards the cot through the damp obscurity. With all its external features the same as usual, he could scarcely believe that it contained the dear friend--he would not use a warmer name--who had come to him so unexpectedly, and, he could not help admitting, so rashly. He had not ventured to ask her any particulars; but the position was pretty clear without them. Though social law had negatived forever their opening paradise of the previous June, it was not without stoical pride that he accepted the present trying conjuncture. There was one man on earth in whom she believed absolutely, and he was that man. That this crisis could end in nothing but sorrow was a view for a moment effaced by this triumphant thought of her trust in him; and the purity of the affection with which he responded to that trust rendered him more than proof against any frailty that besieged him in relation to her. The rain, which had never ceased, now drew his attention by beginning to drop through the meagre screen that covered him. He rose to attempt some remedy for this discomfort, but the trembling of his knees and the throbbing of his pulse told him that in his weakness he was unable to fence against the storm, and he lay down to bear it as best he might. He was angry with himself for his feebleness--he who had been so strong. It was imperative that she should know nothing of his present state, and to do that she must not see his face by daylight, for its color would inevitably betray him. The next morning, accordingly, when it was hardly light, he rose and dragged his stiff limbs about the precincts, preparing for her everything she could require for getting breakfast within. On the bench outside the window-sill he placed water, wood, and other necessaries, writing with a piece of chalk beside them, "It is best that I should not see you. Put my breakfast on the bench." At seven o'clock he tapped at her window, as he had promised, retreating at once, that she might not catch sight of him. But from his shelter under the boughs he could see her very well, when, in response to his signal, she opened the window and the light fell upon her face. The languid largeness of her eyes showed that her sleep had been little more than his own, and the pinkness of their lids, that her waking hours had not been free from tears. She read the writing, seemed, he thought, disappointed, but took up the materials he had provided, evidently thinking him some way off. Giles waited on, assured that a girl who, in spite of her culture, knew what country life was, would find no difficulty in the simple preparation of their food. Within the cot it was all very much as he conjectured, though Grace had slept much longer than he. After the loneliness of the night, she would have been glad to see him; but appreciating his feeling when she read the writing, she made no attempt to recall him. She found abundance of provisions laid in, his plan being to replenish his buttery weekly, and this being the day after the victualling van had called from Sherton. When the meal was ready, she put what he required outside, as she had done with the supper; and, notwithstanding her longing to see him, withdrew from the window promptly, and left him to himself. It had been a leaden dawn, and the rain now steadily renewed its fall. As she heard no more of Winterborne, she concluded that he had gone away to his daily work, and forgotten that he had promised to accompany her to Sherton; an erroneous conclusion, for he remained all day, by force of his condition, within fifty yards of where she was. The morning wore on; and in her doubt when to start, and how to travel, she lingered yet, keeping the door carefully bolted, lest an intruder should discover her. Locked in this place, she was comparatively safe, at any rate, and doubted if she would be safe elsewhere. The humid gloom of an ordinary wet day was doubled by the shade and drip of the leafage. Autumn, this year, was coming in with rains. Gazing, in her enforced idleness, from the one window of the living-room, she could see various small members of the animal community that lived unmolested there--creatures of hair, fluff, and scale, the toothed kind and the billed kind; underground creatures, jointed and ringed--circumambulating the hut, under the impression that, Giles having gone away, nobody was there; and eying it inquisitively with a view to winter-quarters. Watching these neighbors, who knew neither law nor sin, distracted her a little from her trouble; and she managed to while away some portion of the afternoon by putting Giles's home in order and making little improvements which she deemed that he would value when she was gone. Once or twice she fancied that she heard a faint noise amid the trees, resembling a cough; but as it never came any nearer she concluded that it was a squirrel or a bird. At last the daylight lessened, and she made up a larger fire for the evenings were chilly. As soon as it was too dark--which was comparatively early--to discern the human countenance in this place of shadows, there came to the window to her great delight, a tapping which she knew from its method to be Giles's. She opened the casement instantly, and put out her hand to him, though she could only just perceive his outline. He clasped her fingers, and she noticed the heat of his palm and its shakiness. "He has been walking fast, in order to get here quickly," she thought. How could she know that he had just crawled out from the straw of the shelter hard by; and that the heat of his hand was feverishness? "My dear, good Giles!" she burst out, impulsively. "Anybody would have done it for you," replied Winterborne, with as much matter-of-fact as he could summon. "About my getting to Exbury?" she said. "I have been thinking," responded Giles, with tender deference, "that you had better stay where you are for the present, if you wish not to be caught. I need not tell you that the place is yours as long as you like; and perhaps in a day or two, finding you absent, he will go away. At any rate, in two or three days I could do anything to assist--such as make inquiries, or go a great way towards Sherton-Abbas with you; for the cider season will soon be coming on, and I want to run down to the Vale to see how the crops are, and I shall go by the Sherton road. But for a day or two I am busy here." He was hoping that by the time mentioned he would be strong enough to engage himself actively on her behalf. "I hope you do not feel over-much melancholy in being a prisoner?" She declared that she did not mind it; but she sighed. From long acquaintance they could read each other's heart-symptoms like books of large type. "I fear you are sorry you came," said Giles, "and that you think I should have advised you more firmly than I did not to stay." "Oh no, dear, dear friend," answered Grace, with a heaving bosom. "Don't think that that is what I regret. What I regret is my enforced treatment of you--dislodging you, excluding you from your own house. Why should I not speak out? You know what I feel for you--what I have felt for no other living man, what I shall never feel for a man again! But as I have vowed myself to somebody else than you, and cannot be released, I must behave as I do behave, and keep that vow. I am not bound to him by any divine law, after what he has done; but I have promised, and I will pay." The rest of the evening was passed in his handing her such things as she would require the next day, and casual remarks thereupon, an occupation which diverted her mind to some degree from pathetic views of her attitude towards him, and of her life in general. The only infringement--if infringement it could be called--of his predetermined bearing towards her was an involuntary pressing of her hand to his lips when she put it through the casement to bid him good-night. He knew she was weeping, though he could not see her tears. She again entreated his forgiveness for so selfishly appropriating the cottage. But it would only be for a day or two more, she thought, since go she must. He replied, yearningly, "I--I don't like you to go away." "Oh, Giles," said she, "I know--I know! But--I am a woman, and you are a man. I cannot speak more plainly. 'Whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are of good report'--you know what is in my mind, because you know me so well." "Yes, Grace, yes. I do not at all mean that the question between us has not been settled by the fact of your marriage turning out hopelessly unalterable. I merely meant--well, a feeling no more." "In a week, at the outside, I should be discovered if I stayed here: and I think that by law he could compel me to return to him." "Yes; perhaps you are right. Go when you wish, dear Grace." His last words that evening were a hopeful remark that all might be well with her yet; that Mr. Fitzpiers would not intrude upon her life, if he found that his presence cost her so much pain. Then the window was closed, the shutters folded, and the rustle of his footsteps died away. No sooner had she retired to rest that night than the wind began to rise, and, after a few prefatory blasts, to be accompanied by rain. The wind grew more violent, and as the storm went on, it was difficult to believe that no opaque body, but only an invisible colorless thing, was trampling and climbing over the roof, making branches creak, springing out of the trees upon the chimney, popping its head into the flue, and shrieking and blaspheming at every corner of the walls. As in the old story, the assailant was a spectre which could be felt but not seen. She had never before been so struck with the devilry of a gusty night in a wood, because she had never been so entirely alone in spirit as she was now. She seemed almost to be apart from herself--a vacuous duplicate only. The recent self of physical animation and clear intentions was not there. Sometimes a bough from an adjoining tree was swayed so low as to smite the roof in the manner of a gigantic hand smiting the mouth of an adversary, to be followed by a trickle of rain, as blood from the wound. To all this weather Giles must be more or less exposed; how much, she did not know. At last Grace could hardly endure the idea of such a hardship in relation to him. Whatever he was suffering, it was she who had caused it; he vacated his house on account of her. She was not worth such self-sacrifice; she should not have accepted it of him. And then, as her anxiety increased with increasing thought, there returned upon her mind some incidents of her late intercourse with him, which she had heeded but little at the time. The look of his face--what had there been about his face which seemed different from its appearance as of yore? Was it not thinner, less rich in hue, less like that of ripe autumn's brother to whom she had formerly compared him? And his voice; she had distinctly noticed a change in tone. And his gait; surely it had been feebler, stiffer, more like the gait of a weary man. That slight occasional noise she had heard in the day, and attributed to squirrels, it might have been his cough after all. Thus conviction took root in her perturbed mind that Winterborne was ill, or had been so, and that he had carefully concealed his condition from her that she might have no scruples about accepting a hospitality which by the nature of the case expelled her entertainer. "My own, own, true l----, my dear kind friend!" she cried to herself. "Oh, it shall not be--it shall not be!" She hastily wrapped herself up, and obtained a light, with which she entered the adjoining room, the cot possessing only one floor. Setting down the candle on the table here, she went to the door with the key in her hand, and placed it in the lock. Before turning it she paused, her fingers still clutching it; and pressing her other hand to her forehead, she fell into agitating thought. A tattoo on the window, caused by the tree-droppings blowing against it, brought her indecision to a close. She turned the key and opened the door. The darkness was intense, seeming to touch her pupils like a substance. She only now became aware how heavy the rainfall had been and was; the dripping of the eaves splashed like a fountain. She stood listening with parted lips, and holding the door in one hand, till her eyes, growing accustomed to the obscurity, discerned the wild brandishing of their boughs by the adjoining trees. At last she cried loudly with an effort, "Giles! you may come in!" There was no immediate answer to her cry, and overpowered by her own temerity, Grace retreated quickly, shut the door, and stood looking on the floor. But it was not for long. She again lifted the latch, and with far more determination than at first. "Giles, Giles!" she cried, with the full strength of her voice, and without any of the shamefacedness that had characterized her first cry. "Oh, come in--come in! Where are you? I have been wicked. I have thought too much of myself! Do you hear? I don't want to keep you out any longer. I cannot bear that you should suffer so. Gi-i-iles!" A reply! It was a reply! Through the darkness and wind a voice reached her, floating upon the weather as though a part of it. "Here I am--all right. Don't trouble about me." "Don't you want to come in? Are you not ill? I don't mind what they say, or what they think any more." "I am all right," he repeated. "It is not necessary for me to come. Good-night! good-night!" Grace sighed, turned and shut the door slowly. Could she have been mistaken about his health? Perhaps, after all, she had perceived a change in him because she had not seen him for so long. Time sometimes did his ageing work in jerks, as she knew. Well, she had done all she could. He would not come in. She retired to rest again. CHAPTER XLII. The next morning Grace was at the window early. She felt determined to see him somehow that day, and prepared his breakfast eagerly. Eight o'clock struck, and she had remembered that he had not come to arouse her by a knocking, as usual, her own anxiety having caused her to stir. The breakfast was set in its place without. But he did not arrive to take it; and she waited on. Nine o'clock arrived, and the breakfast was cold; and still there was no Giles. A thrush, that had been repeating itself a good deal on an opposite bush for some time, came and took a morsel from the plate and bolted it, waited, looked around, and took another. At ten o'clock she drew in the tray, and sat down to her own solitary meal. He must have been called away on business early, the rain having cleared off. Yet she would have liked to assure herself, by thoroughly exploring the precincts of the hut, that he was nowhere in its vicinity; but as the day was comparatively fine, the dread lest some stray passenger or woodman should encounter her in such a reconnoitre paralyzed her wish. The solitude was further accentuated to-day by the stopping of the clock for want of winding, and the fall into the chimney-corner of flakes of soot loosened by the rains. At noon she heard a slight rustling outside the window, and found that it was caused by an eft which had crept out of the leaves to bask in the last sun-rays that would be worth having till the following May. She continually peeped out through the lattice, but could see little. In front lay the brown leaves of last year, and upon them some yellowish-green ones of this season that had been prematurely blown down by the gale. Above stretched an old beech, with vast armpits, and great pocket-holes in its sides where branches had been amputated in past times; a black slug was trying to climb it. Dead boughs were scattered about like ichthyosauri in a museum, and beyond them were perishing woodbine stems resembling old ropes. From the other window all she could see were more trees, jacketed with lichen and stockinged with moss. At their roots were stemless yellow fungi like lemons and apricots, and tall fungi with more stem than stool. Next were more trees close together, wrestling for existence, their branches disfigured with wounds resulting from their mutual rubbings and blows. It was the struggle between these neighbors that she had heard in the night. Beneath them were the rotting stumps of those of the group that had been vanquished long ago, rising from their mossy setting like decayed teeth from green gums. Farther on were other tufts of moss in islands divided by the shed leaves--variety upon variety, dark green and pale green; moss-like little fir-trees, like plush, like malachite stars, like nothing on earth except moss. The strain upon Grace's mind in various ways was so great on this the most desolate day she had passed there that she felt it would be well-nigh impossible to spend another in such circumstances. The evening came at last; the sun, when its chin was on the earth, found an opening through which to pierce the shade, and stretched irradiated gauzes across the damp atmosphere, making the wet trunks shine, and throwing splotches of such ruddiness on the leaves beneath the beech that they were turned to gory hues. When night at last arrived, and with it the time for his return, she was nearly broken down with suspense. The simple evening meal, partly tea, partly supper, which Grace had prepared, stood waiting upon the hearth; and yet Giles did not come. It was now nearly twenty-four hours since she had seen him. As the room grew darker, and only the firelight broke against the gloom of the walls, she was convinced that it would be beyond her staying power to pass the night without hearing from him or from somebody. Yet eight o'clock drew on, and his form at the window did not appear. The meal remained untasted. Suddenly rising from before the hearth of smouldering embers, where she had been crouching with her hands clasped over her knees, she crossed the room, unlocked the door, and listened. Every breath of wind had ceased with the decline of day, but the rain had resumed the steady dripping of the night before. Grace might have stood there five minutes when she fancied she heard that old sound, a cough, at no great distance; and it was presently repeated. If it were Winterborne's, he must be near her; why, then, had he not visited her? A horrid misgiving that he could not visit her took possession of Grace, and she looked up anxiously for the lantern, which was hanging above her head. To light it and go in the direction of the sound would be the obvious way to solve the dread problem; but the conditions made her hesitate, and in a moment a cold sweat pervaded her at further sounds from the same quarter. They were low mutterings; at first like persons in conversation, but gradually resolving themselves into varieties of one voice. It was an endless monologue, like that we sometimes hear from inanimate nature in deep secret places where water flows, or where ivy leaves flap against stones; but by degrees she was convinced that the voice was Winterborne's. Yet who could be his listener, so mute and patient; for though he argued so rapidly and persistently, nobody replied. A dreadful enlightenment spread through the mind of Grace. "Oh," she cried, in her anguish, as she hastily prepared herself to go out, "how selfishly correct I am always--too, too correct! Cruel propriety is killing the dearest heart that ever woman clasped to her own." While speaking thus to herself she had lit the lantern, and hastening out without further thought, took the direction whence the mutterings had proceeded. The course was marked by a little path, which ended at a distance of about forty yards in a small erection of hurdles, not much larger than a shock of corn, such as were frequent in the woods and copses when the cutting season was going on. It was too slight even to be called a hovel, and was not high enough to stand upright in; appearing, in short, to be erected for the temporary shelter of fuel. The side towards Grace was open, and turning the light upon the interior, she beheld what her prescient fear had pictured in snatches all the way thither. Upon the straw within, Winterborne lay in his clothes, just as she had seen him during the whole of her stay here, except that his hat was off, and his hair matted and wild. Both his clothes and the straw were saturated with rain. His arms were flung over his head; his face was flushed to an unnatural crimson. His eyes had a burning brightness, and though they met her own, she perceived that he did not recognize her. "Oh, my Giles," she cried, "what have I done to you!" But she stopped no longer even to reproach herself. She saw that the first thing to be thought of was to get him indoors. How Grace performed that labor she never could have exactly explained. But by dint of clasping her arms round him, rearing him into a sitting posture, and straining her strength to the uttermost, she put him on one of the hurdles that was loose alongside, and taking the end of it in both her hands, dragged him along the path to the entrance of the hut, and, after a pause for breath, in at the door-way. It was somewhat singular that Giles in his semi-conscious state acquiesced unresistingly in all that she did. But he never for a moment recognized her--continuing his rapid conversation to himself, and seeming to look upon her as some angel, or other supernatural creature of the visionary world in which he was mentally living. The undertaking occupied her more than ten minutes; but by that time, to her great thankfulness, he was in the inner room, lying on the bed, his damp outer clothing removed. Then the unhappy Grace regarded him by the light of the candle. There was something in his look which agonized her, in the rush of his thoughts, accelerating their speed from minute to minute. He seemed to be passing through the universe of ideas like a comet--erratic, inapprehensible, untraceable. Grace's distraction was almost as great as his. In a few moments she firmly believed he was dying. Unable to withstand her impulse, she knelt down beside him, kissed his hands and his face and his hair, exclaiming, in a low voice, "How could I? How could I?" Her timid morality had, indeed, underrated his chivalry till now, though she knew him so well. The purity of his nature, his freedom from the grosser passions, his scrupulous delicacy, had never been fully understood by Grace till this strange self-sacrifice in lonely juxtaposition to her own person was revealed. The perception of it added something that was little short of reverence to the deep affection for him of a woman who, herself, had more of Artemis than of Aphrodite in her constitution. All that a tender nurse could do, Grace did; and the power to express her solicitude in action, unconscious though the sufferer was, brought her mournful satisfaction. She bathed his hot head, wiped his perspiring hands, moistened his lips, cooled his fiery eyelids, sponged his heated skin, and administered whatever she could find in the house that the imagination could conceive as likely to be in any way alleviating. That she might have been the cause, or partially the cause, of all this, interfused misery with her sorrow. Six months before this date a scene, almost similar in its mechanical parts, had been enacted at Hintock House. It was between a pair of persons most intimately connected in their lives with these. Outwardly like as it had been, it was yet infinite in spiritual difference, though a woman's devotion had been common to both. Grace rose from her attitude of affection, and, bracing her energies, saw that something practical must immediately be done. Much as she would have liked, in the emotion of the moment, to keep him entirely to herself, medical assistance was necessary while there remained a possibility of preserving him alive. Such assistance was fatal to her own concealment; but even had the chance of benefiting him been less than it was, she would have run the hazard for his sake. The question was, where should she get a medical man, competent and near? There was one such man, and only one, within accessible distance; a man who, if it were possible to save Winterborne's life, had the brain most likely to do it. If human pressure could bring him, that man ought to be brought to the sick Giles's side. The attempt should be made. Yet she dreaded to leave her patient, and the minutes raced past, and yet she postponed her departure. At last, when it was after eleven o'clock, Winterborne fell into a fitful sleep, and it seemed to afford her an opportunity. She hastily made him as comfortable as she could, put on her things, cut a new candle from the bunch hanging in the cupboard, and having set it up, and placed it so that the light did not fall upon his eyes, she closed the door and started. The spirit of Winterborne seemed to keep her company and banish all sense of darkness from her mind. The rains had imparted a phosphorescence to the pieces of touchwood and rotting leaves that lay about her path, which, as scattered by her feet, spread abroad like spilt milk. She would not run the hazard of losing her way by plunging into any short, unfrequented track through the denser parts of the woodland, but followed a more open course, which eventually brought her to the highway. Once here, she ran along with great speed, animated by a devoted purpose which had much about it that was stoical; and it was with scarcely any faltering of spirit that, after an hour's progress, she passed over Rubdown Hill, and onward towards that same Hintock, and that same house, out of which she had fled a few days before in irresistible alarm. But that had happened which, above all other things of chance and change, could make her deliberately frustrate her plan of flight and sink all regard of personal consequences. One speciality of Fitzpiers's was respected by Grace as much as ever--his professional skill. In this she was right. Had his persistence equalled his insight, instead of being the spasmodic and fitful thing it was, fame and fortune need never have remained a wish with him. His freedom from conventional errors and crusted prejudices had, indeed, been such as to retard rather than accelerate his advance in Hintock and its neighborhood, where people could not believe that nature herself effected cures, and that the doctor's business was only to smooth the way. It was past midnight when Grace arrived opposite her father's house, now again temporarily occupied by her husband, unless he had already gone away. Ever since her emergence from the denser plantations about Winterborne's residence a pervasive lightness had hung in the damp autumn sky, in spite of the vault of cloud, signifying that a moon of some age was shining above its arch. The two white gates were distinct, and the white balls on the pillars, and the puddles and damp ruts left by the recent rain, had a cold, corpse-eyed luminousness. She entered by the lower gate, and crossed the quadrangle to the wing wherein the apartments that had been hers since her marriage were situate, till she stood under a window which, if her husband were in the house, gave light to his bedchamber. She faltered, and paused with her hand on her heart, in spite of herself. Could she call to her presence the very cause of all her foregoing troubles? Alas!--old Jones was seven miles off; Giles was possibly dying--what else could she do? It was in a perspiration, wrought even more by consciousness than by exercise, that she picked up some gravel, threw it at the panes, and waited to see the result. The night-bell which had been fixed when Fitzpiers first took up his residence there still remained; but as it had fallen into disuse with the collapse of his practice, and his elopement, she did not venture to pull it now. Whoever slept in the room had heard her signal, slight as it was. In half a minute the window was opened, and a voice said "Yes?" inquiringly. Grace recognized her husband in the speaker at once. Her effort was now to disguise her own accents. "Doctor," she said, in as unusual a tone as she could command, "a man is dangerously ill in One-chimney Hut, out towards Delborough, and you must go to him at once--in all mercy!" "I will, readily." The alacrity, surprise, and pleasure expressed in his reply amazed her for a moment. But, in truth, they denoted the sudden relief of a man who, having got back in a mood of contrition, from erratic abandonment to fearful joys, found the soothing routine of professional practice unexpectedly opening anew to him. The highest desire of his soul just now was for a respectable life of painstaking. If this, his first summons since his return, had been to attend upon a cat or dog, he would scarcely have refused it in the circumstances. "Do you know the way?" she asked. "Yes," said he. "One-chimney Hut," she repeated. "And--immediately!" "Yes, yes," said Fitzpiers. Grace remained no longer. She passed out of the white gate without slamming it, and hastened on her way back. Her husband, then, had re-entered her father's house. How he had been able to effect a reconciliation with the old man, what were the terms of the treaty between them, she could not so much as conjecture. Some sort of truce must have been entered into, that was all she could say. But close as the question lay to her own life, there was a more urgent one which banished it; and she traced her steps quickly along the meandering track-ways. Meanwhile, Fitzpiers was preparing to leave the house. The state of his mind, over and above his professional zeal, was peculiar. At Grace's first remark he had not recognized or suspected her presence; but as she went on, he was awakened to the great resemblance of the speaker's voice to his wife's. He had taken in such good faith the statement of the household on his arrival, that she had gone on a visit for a time because she could not at once bring her mind to be reconciled to him, that he could not quite actually believe this comer to be she. It was one of the features of Fitzpiers's repentant humor at this date that, on receiving the explanation of her absence, he had made no attempt to outrage her feelings by following her; though nobody had informed him how very shortly her departure had preceded his entry, and of all that might have been inferred from her precipitancy. Melbury, after much alarm and consideration, had decided not to follow her either. He sympathized with her flight, much as he deplored it; moreover, the tragic color of the antecedent events that he had been a great means of creating checked his instinct to interfere. He prayed and trusted that she had got into no danger on her way (as he supposed) to Sherton, and thence to Exbury, if that were the place she had gone to, forbearing all inquiry which the strangeness of her departure would have made natural. A few months before this time a performance by Grace of one-tenth the magnitude of this would have aroused him to unwonted investigation. It was in the same spirit that he had tacitly assented to Fitzpiers's domicilation there. The two men had not met face to face, but Mrs. Melbury had proposed herself as an intermediary, who made the surgeon's re-entrance comparatively easy to him. Everything was provisional, and nobody asked questions. Fitzpiers had come in the performance of a plan of penitence, which had originated in circumstances hereafter to be explained; his self-humiliation to the very bass-string was deliberate; and as soon as a call reached him from the bedside of a dying man his desire was to set to work and do as much good as he could with the least possible fuss or show. He therefore refrained from calling up a stableman to get ready any horse or gig, and set out for One-chimney Hut on foot, as Grace had done. CHAPTER XLIII. She re-entered the hut, flung off her bonnet and cloak, and approached the sufferer. He had begun anew those terrible mutterings, and his hands were cold. As soon as she saw him there returned to her that agony of mind which the stimulus of her journey had thrown off for a time. Could he really be dying? She bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more than the mere lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of caring. This mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps without; she knew whose footsteps they were. Grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding Giles's hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself and him. He stood transfixed at first, noticing Grace only. Slowly he dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate man was. Strangely enough, though Grace's distaste for her husband's company had amounted almost to dread, and culminated in actual flight, at this moment her last and least feeling was personal. Sensitive femininity was eclipsed by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was forgotten. The first look that possessed her face was relief; satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated thought of the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that did not interfere with her words. "Is he dying--is there any hope?" she cried. "Grace!" said Fitzpiers, in an indescribable whisper--more than invocating, if not quite deprecatory. He was arrested by the spectacle, not so much in its intrinsic character--though that was striking enough to a man who called himself the husband of the sufferer's friend and nurse--but in its character as the counterpart of one that had its hour many months before, in which he had figured as the patient, and the woman had been Felice Charmond. "Is he in great danger--can you save him?" she cried again. Fitzpiers aroused himself, came a little nearer, and examined Winterborne as he stood. His inspection was concluded in a mere glance. Before he spoke he looked at her contemplatively as to the effect of his coming words. "He is dying," he said, with dry precision. "What?" said she. "Nothing can be done, by me or any other man. It will soon be all over. The extremities are dead already." His eyes still remained fixed on her; the conclusion to which he had come seeming to end his interest, professional and otherwise, in Winterborne forever. "But it cannot be! He was well three days ago." "Not well, I suspect. This seems like a secondary attack, which has followed some previous illness--possibly typhoid--it may have been months ago, or recently." "Ah--he was not well--you are right. He was ill--he was ill when I came." There was nothing more to do or say. She crouched down at the side of the bed, and Fitzpiers took a seat. Thus they remained in silence, and long as it lasted she never turned her eyes, or apparently her thoughts, at all to her husband. He occasionally murmured, with automatic authority, some slight directions for alleviating the pain of the dying man, which she mechanically obeyed, bending over him during the intervals in silent tears. Winterborne never recovered consciousness of what was passing; and that he was going became soon perceptible also to her. In less than an hour the delirium ceased; then there was an interval of somnolent painlessness and soft breathing, at the end of which Winterborne passed quietly away. Then Fitzpiers broke the silence. "Have you lived here long?" said he. Grace was wild with sorrow--with all that had befallen her--with the cruelties that had attacked her--with life--with Heaven. She answered at random. "Yes. By what right do you ask?" "Don't think I claim any right," said Fitzpiers, sadly. "It is for you to do and say what you choose. I admit, quite as much as you feel, that I am a vagabond--a brute--not worthy to possess the smallest fragment of you. But here I am, and I have happened to take sufficient interest in you to make that inquiry." "He is everything to me!" said Grace, hardly heeding her husband, and laying her hand reverently on the dead man's eyelids, where she kept it a long time, pressing down their lashes with gentle touches, as if she were stroking a little bird. He watched her a while, and then glanced round the chamber where his eyes fell upon a few dressing necessaries that she had brought. "Grace--if I may call you so," he said, "I have been already humiliated almost to the depths. I have come back since you refused to join me elsewhere--I have entered your father's house, and borne all that that cost me without flinching, because I have felt that I deserved humiliation. But is there a yet greater humiliation in store for me? You say you have been living here--that he is everything to you. Am I to draw from that the obvious, the extremest inference?" Triumph at any price is sweet to men and women--especially the latter. It was her first and last opportunity of repaying him for the cruel contumely which she had borne at his hands so docilely. "Yes," she answered; and there was that in her subtly compounded nature which made her feel a thrill of pride as she did so. Yet the moment after she had so mightily belied her character she half repented. Her husband had turned as white as the wall behind him. It seemed as if all that remained to him of life and spirit had been abstracted at a stroke. Yet he did not move, and in his efforts at self-control closed his mouth together as a vice. His determination was fairly successful, though she saw how very much greater than she had expected her triumph had been. Presently he looked across at Winterborne. "Would it startle you to hear," he said, as if he hardly had breath to utter the words, "that she who was to me what he was to you is dead also?" "Dead--SHE dead?" exclaimed Grace. "Yes. Felice Charmond is where this young man is." "Never!" said Grace, vehemently. He went on without heeding the insinuation: "And I came back to try to make it up with you--but--" Fitzpiers rose, and moved across the room to go away, looking downward with the droop of a man whose hope was turned to apathy, if not despair. In going round the door his eye fell upon her once more. She was still bending over the body of Winterborne, her face close to the young man's. "Have you been kissing him during his illness?" asked her husband. "Yes." "Since his fevered state set in?" "Yes." "On his lips?" "Yes." "Then you will do well to take a few drops of this in water as soon as possible." He drew a small phial from his pocket and returned to offer it to her. Grace shook her head. "If you don't do as I tell you you may soon be like him." "I don't care. I wish to die." "I'll put it here," said Fitzpiers, placing the bottle on a ledge beside him. "The sin of not having warned you will not be upon my head at any rate, among my other sins. I am now going, and I will send somebody to you. Your father does not know that you are here, so I suppose I shall be bound to tell him?" "Certainly." Fitzpiers left the cot, and the stroke of his feet was soon immersed in the silence that pervaded the spot. Grace remained kneeling and weeping, she hardly knew how long, and then she sat up, covered poor Giles's features, and went towards the door where her husband had stood. No sign of any other comer greeted her ear, the only perceptible sounds being the tiny cracklings of the dead leaves, which, like a feather-bed, had not yet done rising to their normal level where indented by the pressure of her husband's receding footsteps. It reminded her that she had been struck with the change in his aspect; the extremely intellectual look that had always been in his face was wrought to a finer phase by thinness, and a care-worn dignity had been superadded. She returned to Winterborne's side, and during her meditations another tread drew near the door, entered the outer room, and halted at the entrance of the chamber where Grace was. "What--Marty!" said Grace. "Yes. I have heard," said Marty, whose demeanor had lost all its girlishness under the stroke that seemed almost literally to have bruised her. "He died for me!" murmured Grace, heavily. Marty did not fully comprehend; and she answered, "He belongs to neither of us now, and your beauty is no more powerful with him than my plainness. I have come to help you, ma'am. He never cared for me, and he cared much for you; but he cares for us both alike now." "Oh don't, don't, Marty!" Marty said no more, but knelt over Winterborne from the other side. "Did you meet my hus--Mr. Fitzpiers?" "No!" "Then what brought you here?" "I come this way sometimes. I have got to go to the farther side of the wood this time of the year, and am obliged to get there before four o'clock in the morning, to begin heating the oven for the early baking. I have passed by here often at this time." Grace looked at her quickly. "Then did you know I was here?" "Yes, ma'am." "Did you tell anybody?" "No. I knew you lived in the hut, that he had gied it up to ye, and lodged out himself." "Did you know where he lodged?" "No. That I couldn't find out. Was it at Delborough?" "No. It was not there, Marty. Would it had been! It would have saved--saved--" To check her tears she turned, and seeing a book on the window-bench, took it up. "Look, Marty, this is a Psalter. He was not an outwardly religious man, but he was pure and perfect in his heart. Shall we read a psalm over him?" "Oh yes--we will--with all my heart!" Grace opened the thin brown book, which poor Giles had kept at hand mainly for the convenience of whetting his pen-knife upon its leather covers. She began to read in that rich, devotional voice peculiar to women only on such occasions. When it was over, Marty said, "I should like to pray for his soul." "So should I," said her companion. "But we must not." "Why? Nobody would know." Grace could not resist the argument, influenced as she was by the sense of making amends for having neglected him in the body; and their tender voices united and filled the narrow room with supplicatory murmurs that a Calvinist might have envied. They had hardly ended when now and more numerous foot-falls were audible, also persons in conversation, one of whom Grace recognized as her father. She rose, and went to the outer apartment, in which there was only such light as beamed from the inner one. Melbury and Mrs. Melbury were standing there. "I don't reproach you, Grace," said her father, with an estranged manner, and in a voice not at all like his old voice. "What has come upon you and us is beyond reproach, beyond weeping, and beyond wailing. Perhaps I drove you to it. But I am hurt; I am scourged; I am astonished. In the face of this there is nothing to be said." Without replying, Grace turned and glided back to the inner chamber. "Marty," she said, quickly, "I cannot look my father in the face until he knows the true circumstances of my life here. Go and tell him--what you have told me--what you saw--that he gave up his house to me." She sat down, her face buried in her hands, and Marty went, and after a short absence returned. Then Grace rose, and going out asked her father if he had met her husband. "Yes," said Melbury. "And you know all that has happened?" "I do. Forgive me, Grace, for suspecting ye of worse than rashness--I ought to know ye better. Are you coming with me to what was once your home?" "No. I stay here with HIM. Take no account of me any more." The unwonted, perplexing, agitating relations in which she had stood to Winterborne quite lately--brought about by Melbury's own contrivance--could not fail to soften the natural anger of a parent at her more recent doings. "My daughter, things are bad," he rejoined. "But why do you persevere to make 'em worse? What good can you do to Giles by staying here with him? Mind, I ask no questions. I don't inquire why you decided to come here, or anything as to what your course would have been if he had not died, though I know there's no deliberate harm in ye. As for me, I have lost all claim upon you, and I make no complaint. But I do say that by coming back with me now you will show no less kindness to him, and escape any sound of shame. "But I don't wish to escape it." "If you don't on your own account, cannot you wish to on mine and hers? Nobody except our household knows that you have left home. Then why should you, by a piece of perverseness, bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to the grave?" "If it were not for my husband--" she began, moved by his words. "But how can I meet him there? How can any woman who is not a mere man's creature join him after what has taken place?" "He would go away again rather than keep you out of my house." "How do you know that, father?" "We met him on our way here, and he told us so," said Mrs. Melbury. "He had said something like it before. He seems very much upset altogether." "He declared to her when he came to our house that he would wait for time and devotion to bring about his forgiveness," said her husband. "That was it, wasn't it, Lucy?" "Yes. That he would not intrude upon you, Grace, till you gave him absolute permission," Mrs. Melbury added. This antecedent considerateness in Fitzpiers was as welcome to Grace as it was unexpected; and though she did not desire his presence, she was sorry that by her retaliatory fiction she had given him a different reason for avoiding her. She made no further objections to accompanying her parents, taking them into the inner room to give Winterborne a last look, and gathering up the two or three things that belonged to her. While she was doing this the two women came who had been called by Melbury, and at their heels poor Creedle. "Forgive me, but I can't rule my mourning nohow as a man should, Mr. Melbury," he said. "I ha'n't seen him since Thursday se'night, and have wondered for days and days where he's been keeping. There was I expecting him to come and tell me to wash out the cider-barrels against the making, and here was he-- Well, I've knowed him from table-high; I knowed his father--used to bide about upon two sticks in the sun afore he died!--and now I've seen the end of the family, which we can ill afford to lose, wi' such a scanty lot of good folk in Hintock as we've got. And now Robert Creedle will be nailed up in parish boards 'a b'lieve; and noboby will glutch down a sigh for he!" They started for home, Marty and Creedle remaining behind. For a time Grace and her father walked side by side without speaking. It was just in the blue of the dawn, and the chilling tone of the sky was reflected in her cold, wet face. The whole wood seemed to be a house of death, pervaded by loss to its uttermost length and breadth. Winterborne was gone, and the copses seemed to show the want of him; those young trees, so many of which he had planted, and of which he had spoken so truly when he said that he should fall before they fell, were at that very moment sending out their roots in the direction that he had given them with his subtle hand. "One thing made it tolerable to us that your husband should come back to the house," said Melbury at last--"the death of Mrs. Charmond." "Ah, yes," said Grace, arousing slightly to the recollection, "he told me so." "Did he tell you how she died? It was no such death as Giles's. She was shot--by a disappointed lover. It occurred in Germany. The unfortunate man shot himself afterwards. He was that South Carolina gentleman of very passionate nature who used to haunt this place to force her to an interview, and followed her about everywhere. So ends the brilliant Felice Charmond--once a good friend to me--but no friend to you." "I can forgive her," said Grace, absently. "Did Edgar tell you of this?" "No; but he put a London newspaper, giving an account of it, on the hall table, folded in such a way that we should see it. It will be in the Sherton paper this week, no doubt. To make the event more solemn still to him, he had just before had sharp words with her, and left her. He told Lucy this, as nothing about him appears in the newspaper. And the cause of the quarrel was, of all people, she we've left behind us." "Do you mean Marty?" Grace spoke the words but perfunctorily. For, pertinent and pointed as Melbury's story was, she had no heart for it now. "Yes. Marty South." Melbury persisted in his narrative, to divert her from her present grief, if possible. "Before he went away she wrote him a letter, which he kept in his, pocket a long while before reading. He chanced to pull it out in Mrs. Charmond's, presence, and read it out loud. It contained something which teased her very much, and that led to the rupture. She was following him to make it up when she met with her terrible death." Melbury did not know enough to give the gist of the incident, which was that Marty South's letter had been concerning a certain personal adornment common to herself and Mrs. Charmond. Her bullet reached its billet at last. The scene between Fitzpiers and Felice had been sharp, as only a scene can be which arises out of the mortification of one woman by another in the presence of a lover. True, Marty had not effected it by word of mouth; the charge about the locks of hair was made simply by Fitzpiers reading her letter to him aloud to Felice in the playfully ironical tones of one who had become a little weary of his situation, and was finding his friend, in the phrase of George Herbert, a "flat delight." He had stroked those false tresses with his hand many a time without knowing them to be transplanted, and it was impossible when the discovery was so abruptly made to avoid being finely satirical, despite her generous disposition. That was how it had begun, and tragedy had been its end. On his abrupt departure she had followed him to the station but the train was gone; and in travelling to Baden in search of him she had met his rival, whose reproaches led to an altercation, and the death of both. Of that precipitate scene of passion and crime Fitzpiers had known nothing till he saw an account of it in the papers, where, fortunately for himself, no mention was made of his prior acquaintance with the unhappy lady; nor was there any allusion to him in the subsequent inquiry, the double death being attributed to some gambling losses, though, in point of fact, neither one of them had visited the tables. Melbury and his daughter drew near their house, having seen but one living thing on their way, a squirrel, which did not run up its tree, but, dropping the sweet chestnut which it carried, cried chut-chut-chut, and stamped with its hind legs on the ground. When the roofs and chimneys of the homestead began to emerge from the screen of boughs, Grace started, and checked herself in her abstracted advance. "You clearly understand," she said to her step-mother some of her old misgiving returning, "that I am coming back only on condition of his leaving as he promised? Will you let him know this, that there may be no mistake?" Mrs. Melbury, who had some long private talks with Fitzpiers, assured Grace that she need have no doubts on that point, and that he would probably be gone by the evening. Grace then entered with them into Melbury's wing of the house, and sat down listlessly in the parlor, while her step-mother went to Fitzpiers. The prompt obedience to her wishes which the surgeon showed did honor to him, if anything could. Before Mrs. Melbury had returned to the room Grace, who was sitting on the parlor window-bench, saw her husband go from the door under the increasing light of morning, with a bag in his hand. While passing through the gate he turned his head. The firelight of the room she sat in threw her figure into dark relief against the window as she looked through the panes, and he must have seen her distinctly. In a moment he went on, the gate fell to, and he disappeared. At the hut she had declared that another had displaced him; and now she had banished him. CHAPTER XLIV. Fitzpiers had hardly been gone an hour when Grace began to sicken. The next day she kept her room. Old Jones was called in; he murmured some statements in which the words "feverish symptoms" occurred. Grace heard them, and guessed the means by which she had brought this visitation upon herself. One day, while she still lay there with her head throbbing, wondering if she were really going to join him who had gone before, Grammer Oliver came to her bedside. "I don't know whe'r this is meant for you to take, ma'am," she said, "but I have found it on the table. It was left by Marty, I think, when she came this morning." Grace turned her hot eyes upon what Grammer held up. It was the phial left at the hut by her husband when he had begged her to take some drops of its contents if she wished to preserve herself from falling a victim to the malady which had pulled down Winterborne. She examined it as well as she could. The liquid was of an opaline hue, and bore a label with an inscription in Italian. He had probably got it in his wanderings abroad. She knew but little Italian, but could understand that the cordial was a febrifuge of some sort. Her father, her mother, and all the household were anxious for her recovery, and she resolved to obey her husband's directions. Whatever the risk, if any, she was prepared to run it. A glass of water was brought, and the drops dropped in. The effect, though not miraculous, was remarkable. In less than an hour she felt calmer, cooler, better able to reflect--less inclined to fret and chafe and wear herself away. She took a few drops more. From that time the fever retreated, and went out like a damped conflagration. "How clever he is!" she said, regretfully. "Why could he not have had more principle, so as to turn his great talents to good account? Perhaps he has saved my useless life. But he doesn't know it, and doesn't care whether he has saved it or not; and on that account will never be told by me! Probably he only gave it to me in the arrogance of his skill, to show the greatness of his resources beside mine, as Elijah drew down fire from heaven." As soon as she had quite recovered from this foiled attack upon her life, Grace went to Marty South's cottage. The current of her being had again set towards the lost Giles Winterborne. "Marty," she said, "we both loved him. We will go to his grave together." Great Hintock church stood at the upper part of the village, and could be reached without passing through the street. In the dusk of the late September day they went thither by secret ways, walking mostly in silence side by side, each busied with her own thoughts. Grace had a trouble exceeding Marty's--that haunting sense of having put out the light of his life by her own hasty doings. She had tried to persuade herself that he might have died of his illness, even if she had not taken possession of his house. Sometimes she succeeded in her attempt; sometimes she did not. They stood by the grave together, and though the sun had gone down, they could see over the woodland for miles, and down to the vale in which he had been accustomed to descend every year, with his portable mill and press, to make cider about this time. Perhaps Grace's first grief, the discovery that if he had lived he could never have claimed her, had some power in softening this, the second. On Marty's part there was the same consideration; never would she have been his. As no anticipation of gratified affection had been in existence while he was with them, there was none to be disappointed now that he had gone. Grace was abased when, by degrees, she found that she had never understood Giles as Marty had done. Marty South alone, of all the women in Hintock and the world, had approximated to Winterborne's level of intelligent intercourse with nature. In that respect she had formed the complement to him in the other sex, had lived as his counterpart, had subjoined her thought to his as a corollary. The casual glimpses which the ordinary population bestowed upon that wondrous world of sap and leaves called the Hintock woods had been with these two, Giles and Marty, a clear gaze. They had been possessed of its finer mysteries as of commonplace knowledge; had been able to read its hieroglyphs as ordinary writing; to them the sights and sounds of night, winter, wind, storm, amid those dense boughs, which had to Grace a touch of the uncanny, and even the supernatural, were simple occurrences whose origin, continuance, and laws they foreknew. They had planted together, and together they had felled; together they had, with the run of the years, mentally collected those remoter signs and symbols which, seen in few, were of runic obscurity, but all together made an alphabet. From the light lashing of the twigs upon their faces, when brushing through them in the dark, they could pronounce upon the species of the tree whence they stretched; from the quality of the wind's murmur through a bough they could in like manner name its sort afar off. They knew by a glance at a trunk if its heart were sound, or tainted with incipient decay, and by the state of its upper twigs, the stratum that had been reached by its roots. The artifices of the seasons were seen by them from the conjuror's own point of view, and not from that of the spectator's. "He ought to have married YOU, Marty, and nobody else in the world!" said Grace, with conviction, after thinking somewhat in the above strain. Marty shook her head. "In all our out-door days and years together, ma'am," she replied, "the one thing he never spoke of to me was love; nor I to him." "Yet you and he could speak in a tongue that nobody else knew--not even my father, though he came nearest knowing--the tongue of the trees and fruits and flowers themselves." She could indulge in mournful fancies like this to Marty; but the hard core to her grief--which Marty's had not--remained. Had she been sure that Giles's death resulted entirely from his exposure, it would have driven her well-nigh to insanity; but there was always that bare possibility that his exposure had only precipitated what was inevitable. She longed to believe that it had not done even this. There was only one man whose opinion on the circumstances she would be at all disposed to trust. Her husband was that man. Yet to ask him it would be necessary to detail the true conditions in which she and Winterborne had lived during these three or four critical days that followed her flight; and in withdrawing her original defiant announcement on that point, there seemed a weakness she did not care to show. She never doubted that Fitzpiers would believe her if she made a clean confession of the actual situation; but to volunteer the correction would seem like signalling for a truce, and that, in her present frame of mind, was what she did not feel the need of. It will probably not appear a surprising statement, after what has been already declared of Fitzpiers, that the man whom Grace's fidelity could not keep faithful was stung into passionate throbs of interest concerning her by her avowal of the contrary. He declared to himself that he had never known her dangerously full compass if she were capable of such a reprisal; and, melancholy as it may be to admit the fact, his own humiliation and regret engendered a smouldering admiration of her. He passed a month or two of great misery at Exbury, the place to which he had retired--quite as much misery indeed as Grace, could she have known of it, would have been inclined to inflict upon any living creature, how much soever he might have wronged her. Then a sudden hope dawned upon him; he wondered if her affirmation were true. He asked himself whether it were not the act of a woman whose natural purity and innocence had blinded her to the contingencies of such an announcement. His wide experience of the sex had taught him that, in many cases, women who ventured on hazardous matters did so because they lacked an imagination sensuous enough to feel their full force. In this light Grace's bold avowal might merely have denoted the desperation of one who was a child to the realities of obliquity. Fitzpiers's mental sufferings and suspense led him at last to take a melancholy journey to the neighborhood of Little Hintock; and here he hovered for hours around the scene of the purest emotional experiences that he had ever known in his life. He walked about the woods that surrounded Melbury's house, keeping out of sight like a criminal. It was a fine evening, and on his way homeward he passed near Marty South's cottage. As usual she had lighted her candle without closing her shutters; he saw her within as he had seen her many times before. She was polishing tools, and though he had not wished to show himself, he could not resist speaking in to her through the half-open door. "What are you doing that for, Marty?" "Because I want to clean them. They are not mine." He could see, indeed, that they were not hers, for one was a spade, large and heavy, and another was a bill-hook which she could only have used with both hands. The spade, though not a new one, had been so completely burnished that it was bright as silver. Fitzpiers somehow divined that they were Giles Winterborne's, and he put the question to her. She replied in the affirmative. "I am going to keep 'em," she said, "but I can't get his apple-mill and press. I wish could; it is going to be sold, they say." "Then I will buy it for you," said Fitzpiers. "That will be making you a return for a kindness you did me." His glance fell upon the girl's rare-colored hair, which had grown again. "Oh, Marty, those locks of yours--and that letter! But it was a kindness to send it, nevertheless," he added, musingly. After this there was confidence between them--such confidence as there had never been before. Marty was shy, indeed, of speaking about the letter, and her motives in writing it; but she thanked him warmly for his promise of the cider-press. She would travel with it in the autumn season, as he had done, she said. She would be quite strong enough, with old Creedle as an assistant. "Ah! there was one nearer to him than you," said Fitzpiers, referring to Winterborne. "One who lived where he lived, and was with him when he died." Then Marty, suspecting that he did not know the true circumstances, from the fact that Mrs. Fitzpiers and himself were living apart, told him of Giles's generosity to Grace in giving up his house to her at the risk, and possibly the sacrifice, of his own life. When the surgeon heard it he almost envied Giles his chivalrous character. He expressed a wish to Marty that his visit to her should be kept secret, and went home thoughtful, feeling that in more that one sense his journey to Hintock had not been in vain. He would have given much to win Grace's forgiveness then. But whatever he dared hope for in that kind from the future, there was nothing to be done yet, while Giles Winterborne's memory was green. To wait was imperative. A little time might melt her frozen thoughts, and lead her to look on him with toleration, if not with love. CHAPTER XLV. Weeks and months of mourning for Winterborne had been passed by Grace in the soothing monotony of the memorial act to which she and Marty had devoted themselves. Twice a week the pair went in the dusk to Great Hintock, and, like the two mourners in Cymbeline, sweetened his sad grave with their flowers and their tears. Sometimes Grace thought that it was a pity neither one of them had been his wife for a little while, and given the world a copy of him who was so valuable in their eyes. Nothing ever had brought home to her with such force as this death how little acquirements and culture weigh beside sterling personal character. While her simple sorrow for his loss took a softer edge with the lapse of the autumn and winter seasons, her self-reproach at having had a possible hand in causing it knew little abatement. Little occurred at Hintock during these months of the fall and decay of the leaf. Discussion of the almost contemporaneous death of Mrs. Charmond abroad had waxed and waned. Fitzpiers had had a marvellous escape from being dragged into the inquiry which followed it, through the accident of their having parted just before under the influence of Marty South's letter--the tiny instrument of a cause deep in nature. Her body was not brought home. It seemed to accord well with the fitful fever of that impassioned woman's life that she should not have found a native grave. She had enjoyed but a life-interest in the estate, which, after her death, passed to a relative of her husband's--one who knew not Felice, one whose purpose seemed to be to blot out every vestige of her. On a certain day in February--the cheerful day of St. Valentine, in fact--a letter reached Mrs. Fitzpiers, which had been mentally promised her for that particular day a long time before. It announced that Fitzpiers was living at some midland town, where he had obtained a temporary practice as assistant to some local medical man, whose curative principles were all wrong, though he dared not set them right. He had thought fit to communicate with her on that day of tender traditions to inquire if, in the event of his obtaining a substantial practice that he had in view elsewhere, she could forget the past and bring herself to join him. There the practical part ended; he then went on-- "My last year of experience has added ten years to my age, dear Grace and dearest wife that ever erring man undervalued. You may be absolutely indifferent to what I say, but let me say it: I have never loved any woman alive or dead as I love, respect, and honor you at this present moment. What you told me in the pride and haughtiness of your heart I never believed [this, by the way, was not strictly true]; but even if I had believed it, it could never have estranged me from you. Is there any use in telling you--no, there is not--that I dream of your ripe lips more frequently than I say my prayers; that the old familiar rustle of your dress often returns upon my mind till it distracts me? If you could condescend even only to see me again you would be breathing life into a corpse. My pure, pure Grace, modest as a turtledove, how came I ever to possess you? For the sake of being present in your mind on this lovers' day, I think I would almost rather have you hate me a little than not think of me at all. You may call my fancies whimsical; but remember, sweet, lost one, that 'nature is one in love, and where 'tis fine it sends some instance of itself.' I will not intrude upon you further now. Make me a little bit happy by sending back one line to say that you will consent, at any rate, to a short interview. I will meet you and leave you as a mere acquaintance, if you will only afford me this slight means of making a few explanations, and of putting my position before you. Believe me, in spite of all you may do or feel, Your lover always (once your husband), "E." It was, oddly enough, the first occasion, or nearly the first on which Grace had ever received a love-letter from him, his courtship having taken place under conditions which rendered letter-writing unnecessary. Its perusal, therefore, had a certain novelty for her. She thought that, upon the whole, he wrote love-letters very well. But the chief rational interest of the letter to the reflective Grace lay in the chance that such a meeting as he proposed would afford her of setting her doubts at rest, one way or the other, on her actual share in Winterborne's death. The relief of consulting a skilled mind, the one professional man who had seen Giles at that time, would be immense. As for that statement that she had uttered in her disdainful grief, which at the time she had regarded as her triumph, she was quite prepared to admit to him that his belief was the true one; for in wronging herself as she did when she made it, she had done what to her was a far more serious thing, wronged Winterborne's memory. Without consulting her father, or any one in the house or out of it, Grace replied to the letter. She agreed to meet Fitzpiers on two conditions, of which the first was that the place of meeting should be the top of Rubdown Hill, the second that he would not object to Marty South accompanying her. Whatever part, much or little, there may have been in Fitzpiers's so-called valentine to his wife, he felt a delight as of the bursting of spring when her brief reply came. It was one of the few pleasures that he had experienced of late years at all resembling those of his early youth. He promptly replied that he accepted the conditions, and named the day and hour at which he would be on the spot she mentioned. A few minutes before three on the appointed day found him climbing the well-known hill, which had been the axis of so many critical movements in their lives during his residence at Hintock. The sight of each homely and well-remembered object swelled the regret that seldom left him now. Whatever paths might lie open to his future, the soothing shades of Hintock were forbidden him forever as a permanent dwelling-place. He longed for the society of Grace. But to lay offerings on her slighted altar was his first aim, and until her propitiation was complete he would constrain her in no way to return to him. The least reparation that he could make, in a case where he would gladly have made much, would be to let her feel herself absolutely free to choose between living with him and without him. Moreover, a subtlist in emotions, he cultivated as under glasses strange and mournful pleasures that he would not willingly let die just at present. To show any forwardness in suggesting a modus vivendi to Grace would be to put an end to these exotics. To be the vassal of her sweet will for a time, he demanded no more, and found solace in the contemplation of the soft miseries she caused him. Approaching the hill-top with a mind strung to these notions, Fitzpiers discerned a gay procession of people coming over the crest, and was not long in perceiving it to be a wedding-party. Though the wind was keen the women were in light attire, and the flowered waistcoats of the men had a pleasing vividness of pattern. Each of the gentler ones clung to the arm of her partner so tightly as to have with him one step, rise, swing, gait, almost one centre of gravity. In the buxom bride Fitzpiers recognized no other than Suke Damson, who in her light gown looked a giantess; the small husband beside her he saw to be Tim Tangs. Fitzpiers could not escape, for they had seen him; though of all the beauties of the world whom he did not wish to meet Suke was the chief. But he put the best face on the matter that he could and came on, the approaching company evidently discussing him and his separation from Mrs. Fitzpiers. As the couples closed upon him he expressed his congratulations. "We be just walking round the parishes to show ourselves a bit," said Tim. "First we het across to Delborough, then athwart to here, and from here we go to Rubdown and Millshot, and then round by the cross-roads home. Home says I, but it won't be that long! We be off next month." "Indeed. Where to?" Tim informed him that they were going to New Zealand. Not but that he would have been contented with Hintock, but his wife was ambitious and wanted to leave, so he had given way. "Then good-by," said Fitzpiers; "I may not see you again." He shook hands with Tim and turned to the bride. "Good-by, Suke," he said, taking her hand also. "I wish you and your husband prosperity in the country you have chosen." With this he left them, and hastened on to his appointment. The wedding-party re-formed and resumed march likewise. But in restoring his arm to Suke, Tim noticed that her full and blooming countenance had undergone a change. "Holloa! me dear--what's the matter?" said Tim. "Nothing to speak o'," said she. But to give the lie to her assertion she was seized with lachrymose twitches, that soon produced a dribbling face. "How--what the devil's this about!" exclaimed the bridegroom. "She's a little wee bit overcome, poor dear!" said the first bridesmaid, unfolding her handkerchief and wiping Suke's eyes. "I never did like parting from people!" said Suke, as soon as she could speak. "Why him in particular?" "Well--he's such a clever doctor, that 'tis a thousand pities we sha'n't see him any more! There'll be no such clever doctor as he in New Zealand, if I should require one; and the thought o't got the better of my feelings!" They walked on, but Tim's face had grown rigid and pale, for he recalled slight circumstances, disregarded at the time of their occurrence. The former boisterous laughter of the wedding-party at the groomsman's jokes was heard ringing through the woods no more. By this time Fitzpiers had advanced on his way to the top of the hill, where he saw two figures emerging from the bank on the right hand. These were the expected ones, Grace and Marty South, who had evidently come there by a short and secret path through the wood. Grace was muffled up in her winter dress, and he thought that she had never looked so seductive as at this moment, in the noontide bright but heatless sun, and the keen wind, and the purplish-gray masses of brushwood around. Fitzpiers continued to regard the nearing picture, till at length their glances met for a moment, when she demurely sent off hers at a tangent and gave him the benefit of her three-quarter face, while with courteous completeness of conduct he lifted his hat in a large arc. Marty dropped behind; and when Fitzpiers held out his hand, Grace touched it with her fingers. "I have agreed to be here mostly because I wanted to ask you something important," said Mrs. Fitzpiers, her intonation modulating in a direction that she had not quite wished it to take. "I am most attentive," said her husband. "Shall we take to the wood for privacy?" Grace demurred, and Fitzpiers gave in, and they kept the public road. At any rate she would take his arm? This also was gravely negatived, the refusal being audible to Marty. "Why not?" he inquired. "Oh, Mr. Fitzpiers--how can you ask?" "Right, right," said he, his effusiveness shrivelled up. As they walked on she returned to her inquiry. "It is about a matter that may perhaps be unpleasant to you. But I think I need not consider that too carefully." "Not at all," said Fitzpiers, heroically. She then took him back to the time of poor Winterborne's death, and related the precise circumstances amid which his fatal illness had come upon him, particularizing the dampness of the shelter to which he had betaken himself, his concealment from her of the hardships that he was undergoing, all that he had put up with, all that he had done for her in his scrupulous considerateness. The retrospect brought her to tears as she asked him if he thought that the sin of having driven him to his death was upon her. Fitzpiers could hardly help showing his satisfaction at what her narrative indirectly revealed, the actual harmlessness of an escapade with her lover, which had at first, by her own showing, looked so grave, and he did not care to inquire whether that harmlessness had been the result of aim or of accident. With regard to her question, he declared that in his judgment no human being could answer it. He thought that upon the whole the balance of probabilities turned in her favor. Winterborne's apparent strength, during the last months of his life, must have been delusive. It had often occurred that after a first attack of that insidious disease a person's apparent recovery was a physiological mendacity. The relief which came to Grace lay almost as much in sharing her knowledge of the particulars with an intelligent mind as in the assurances Fitzpiers gave her. "Well, then, to put this case before you, and obtain your professional opinion, was chiefly why I consented to come here to-day," said she, when he had reached the aforesaid conclusion. "For no other reason at all?" he asked, ruefully. "It was nearly the whole." They stood and looked over a gate at twenty or thirty starlings feeding in the grass, and he started the talk again by saying, in a low voice, "And yet I love you more than ever I loved you in my life." Grace did not move her eyes from the birds, and folded her delicate lips as if to keep them in subjection. "It is a different kind of love altogether," said he. "Less passionate; more profound. It has nothing to do with the material conditions of the object at all; much to do with her character and goodness, as revealed by closer observation. 'Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.'" "That's out of 'Measure for Measure,'" said she, slyly. "Oh yes--I meant it as a citation," blandly replied Fitzpiers. "Well, then, why not give me a very little bit of your heart again?" The crash of a felled tree in the remote depths of the wood recalled the past at that moment, and all the homely faithfulness of Winterborne. "Don't ask it! My heart is in the grave with Giles," she replied, stanchly. "Mine is with you--in no less deep a grave, I fear, according to that." "I am very sorry; but it cannot be helped." "How can you be sorry for me, when you wilfully keep open the grave?" "Oh no--that's not so," returned Grace, quickly, and moved to go away from him. "But, dearest Grace," said he, "you have condescended to come; and I thought from it that perhaps when I had passed through a long state of probation you would be generous. But if there can be no hope of our getting completely reconciled, treat me gently--wretch though I am." "I did not say you were a wretch, nor have I ever said so." "But you have such a contemptuous way of looking at me that I fear you think so." Grace's heart struggled between the wish not to be harsh and the fear that she might mislead him. "I cannot look contemptuous unless I feel contempt," she said, evasively. "And all I feel is lovelessness." "I have been very bad, I know," he returned. "But unless you can really love me again, Grace, I would rather go away from you forever. I don't want you to receive me again for duty's sake, or anything of that sort. If I had not cared more for your affection and forgiveness than my own personal comfort, I should never have come back here. I could have obtained a practice at a distance, and have lived my own life without coldness or reproach. But I have chosen to return to the one spot on earth where my name is tarnished--to enter the house of a man from whom I have had worse treatment than from any other man alive--all for you!" This was undeniably true, and it had its weight with Grace, who began to look as if she thought she had been shockingly severe. "Before you go," he continued, "I want to know your pleasure about me--what you wish me to do, or not to do." "You are independent of me, and it seems a mockery to ask that. Far be it from me to advise. But I will think it over. I rather need advice myself than stand in a position to give it." "YOU don't need advice, wisest, dearest woman that ever lived. If you did--" "Would you give it to me?" "Would you act upon what I gave?" "That's not a fair inquiry," said she, smiling despite her gravity. "I don't mind hearing it--what you do really think the most correct and proper course for me." "It is so easy for me to say, and yet I dare not, for it would be provoking you to remonstrances." Knowing, of course, what the advice would be, she did not press him further, and was about to beckon Marty forward and leave him, when he interrupted her with, "Oh, one moment, dear Grace--you will meet me again?" She eventually agreed to see him that day fortnight. Fitzpiers expostulated at the interval, but the half-alarmed earnestness with which she entreated him not to come sooner made him say hastily that he submitted to her will--that he would regard her as a friend only, anxious for his reform and well-being, till such time as she might allow him to exceed that privilege. All this was to assure her; it was only too clear that he had not won her confidence yet. It amazed Fitzpiers, and overthrew all his deductions from previous experience, to find that this girl, though she had been married to him, could yet be so coy. Notwithstanding a certain fascination that it carried with it, his reflections were sombre as he went homeward; he saw how deep had been his offence to produce so great a wariness in a gentle and once unsuspicious soul. He was himself too fastidious to care to coerce her. To be an object of misgiving or dislike to a woman who shared his home was what he could not endure the thought of. Life as it stood was more tolerable. When he was gone, Marty joined Mrs. Fitzpiers. She would fain have consulted Marty on the question of Platonic relations with her former husband, as she preferred to regard him. But Marty showed no great interest in their affairs, so Grace said nothing. They came onward, and saw Melbury standing at the scene of the felling which had been audible to them, when, telling Marty that she wished her meeting with Mr. Fitzpiers to be kept private, she left the girl to join her father. At any rate, she would consult him on the expediency of occasionally seeing her husband. Her father was cheerful, and walked by her side as he had done in earlier days. "I was thinking of you when you came up," he said. "I have considered that what has happened is for the best. Since your husband is gone away, and seems not to wish to trouble you, why, let him go, and drop out of your life. Many women are worse off. You can live here comfortably enough, and he can emigrate, or do what he likes for his good. I wouldn't mind sending him the further sum of money he might naturally expect to come to him, so that you may not be bothered with him any more. He could hardly have gone on living here without speaking to me, or meeting me; and that would have been very unpleasant on both sides." These remarks checked her intention. There was a sense of weakness in following them by saying that she had just met her husband by appointment. "Then you would advise me not to communicate with him?" she observed. "I shall never advise ye again. You are your own mistress--do as you like. But my opinion is that if you don't live with him, you had better live without him, and not go shilly-shallying and playing bopeep. You sent him away; and now he's gone. Very well; trouble him no more." Grace felt a guiltiness--she hardly knew why--and made no confession. CHAPTER XLVI. The woods were uninteresting, and Grace stayed in-doors a great deal. She became quite a student, reading more than she had done since her marriage But her seclusion was always broken for the periodical visit to Winterborne's grave with Marty, which was kept up with pious strictness, for the purpose of putting snow-drops, primroses, and other vernal flowers thereon as they came. One afternoon at sunset she was standing just outside her father's garden, which, like the rest of the Hintock enclosures, abutted into the wood. A slight foot-path led along here, forming a secret way to either of the houses by getting through its boundary hedge. Grace was just about to adopt this mode of entry when a figure approached along the path, and held up his hand to detain her. It was her husband. "I am delighted," he said, coming up out of breath; and there seemed no reason to doubt his words. "I saw you some way off--I was afraid you would go in before I could reach you." "It is a week before the time," said she, reproachfully. "I said a fortnight from the last meeting." "My dear, you don't suppose I could wait a fortnight without trying to get a glimpse of you, even though you had declined to meet me! Would it make you angry to know that I have been along this path at dusk three or four times since our last meeting? Well, how are you?" She did not refuse her hand, but when he showed a wish to retain it a moment longer than mere formality required, she made it smaller, so that it slipped away from him, with again that same alarmed look which always followed his attempts in this direction. He saw that she was not yet out of the elusive mood; not yet to be treated presumingly; and he was correspondingly careful to tranquillize her. His assertion had seemed to impress her somewhat. "I had no idea you came so often," she said. "How far do you come from?" "From Exbury. I always walk from Sherton-Abbas, for if I hire, people will know that I come; and my success with you so far has not been great enough to justify such overtness. Now, my dear one--as I MUST call you--I put it to you: will you see me a little oftener as the spring advances?" Grace lapsed into unwonted sedateness, and avoiding the question, said, "I wish you would concentrate on your profession, and give up those strange studies that used to distract you so much. I am sure you would get on." "It is the very thing I am doing. I was going to ask you to burn--or, at least, get rid of--all my philosophical literature. It is in the bookcases in your rooms. The fact is, I never cared much for abstruse studies." "I am so glad to hear you say that. And those other books--those piles of old plays--what good are they to a medical man?" "None whatever!" he replied, cheerfully. "Sell them at Sherton for what they will fetch." "And those dreadful old French romances, with their horrid spellings of 'filz' and 'ung' and 'ilz' and 'mary' and 'ma foy?'" "You haven't been reading them, Grace?" "Oh no--I just looked into them, that was all." "Make a bonfire of 'em directly you get home. I meant to do it myself. I can't think what possessed me ever to collect them. I have only a few professional hand-books now, and am quite a practical man. I am in hopes of having some good news to tell you soon, and then do you think you could--come to me again?" "I would rather you did not press me on that just now," she replied, with some feeling. "You have said you mean to lead a new, useful, effectual life; but I should like to see you put it in practice for a little while before you address that query to me. Besides--I could not live with you." "Why not?" Grace was silent a few instants. "I go with Marty to Giles's grave. We swore we would show him that devotion. And I mean to keep it up." "Well, I wouldn't mind that at all. I have no right to expect anything else, and I will not wish you to keep away. I liked the man as well as any I ever knew. In short, I would accompany you a part of the way to the place, and smoke a cigar on the stile while I waited till you came back." "Then you haven't given up smoking?" "Well--ahem--no. I have thought of doing so, but--" His extreme complacence had rather disconcerted Grace, and the question about smoking had been to effect a diversion. Presently she said, firmly, and with a moisture in her eye that he could not see, as her mind returned to poor Giles's "frustrate ghost," "I don't like you--to speak lightly on that subject, if you did speak lightly. To be frank with you--quite frank--I think of him as my betrothed lover still. I cannot help it. So that it would be wrong for me to join you." Fitzpiers was now uneasy. "You say your betrothed lover still," he rejoined. "When, then, were you betrothed to him, or engaged, as we common people say?" "When you were away." "How could that be?" Grace would have avoided this; but her natural candor led her on. "It was when I was under the impression that my marriage with you was about to be annulled, and that he could then marry me. So I encouraged him to love me." Fitzpiers winced visibly; and yet, upon the whole, she was right in telling it. Indeed, his perception that she was right in her absolute sincerity kept up his affectionate admiration for her under the pain of the rebuff. Time had been when the avowal that Grace had deliberately taken steps to replace him would have brought him no sorrow. But she so far dominated him now that he could not bear to hear her words, although the object of her high regard was no more. "It is rough upon me--that!" he said, bitterly. "Oh, Grace--I did not know you--tried to get rid of me! I suppose it is of no use, but I ask, cannot you hope to--find a little love in your heart for me again?" "If I could I would oblige you; but I fear I cannot!" she replied, with illogical ruefulness. "And I don't see why you should mind my having had one lover besides yourself in my life, when you have had so many." "But I can tell you honestly that I love you better than all of them put together, and that's what you will not tell me!" "I am sorry; but I fear I cannot," she said, sighing again. "I wonder if you ever will?" He looked musingly into her indistinct face, as if he would read the future there. "Now have pity, and tell me: will you try?" "To love you again?" "Yes; if you can." "I don't know how to reply," she answered, her embarrassment proving her truth. "Will you promise to leave me quite free as to seeing you or not seeing you?" "Certainly. Have I given any ground for you to doubt my first promise in that respect?" She was obliged to admit that he had not. "Then I think that you might get your heart out of that grave," said he, with playful sadness. "It has been there a long time." She faintly shook her head, but said, "I'll try to think of you more--if I can." With this Fitzpiers was compelled to be satisfied, and he asked her when she would meet him again. "As we arranged--in a fortnight." "If it must be a fortnight it must!" "This time at least. I'll consider by the day I see you again if I can shorten the interval." "Well, be that as it may, I shall come at least twice a week to look at your window." "You must do as you like about that. Good-night." "Say 'husband.'" She seemed almost inclined to give him the word; but exclaiming, "No, no; I cannot," slipped through the garden-hedge and disappeared. Fitzpiers did not exaggerate when he told her that he should haunt the precincts of the dwelling. But his persistence in this course did not result in his seeing her much oftener than at the fortnightly interval which she had herself marked out as proper. At these times, however, she punctually appeared, and as the spring wore on the meetings were kept up, though their character changed but little with the increase in their number. The small garden of the cottage occupied by the Tangs family--father, son, and now son's wife--aligned with the larger one of the timber-dealer at its upper end; and when young Tim, after leaving work at Melbury's, stood at dusk in the little bower at the corner of his enclosure to smoke a pipe, he frequently observed the surgeon pass along the outside track before-mentioned. Fitzpiers always walked loiteringly, pensively, looking with a sharp eye into the gardens one after another as he proceeded; for Fitzpiers did not wish to leave the now absorbing spot too quickly, after travelling so far to reach it; hoping always for a glimpse of her whom he passionately desired to take to his arms anew. Now Tim began to be struck with these loitering progresses along the garden boundaries in the gloaming, and wondered what they boded. It was, naturally, quite out of his power to divine the singular, sentimental revival in Fitzpiers's heart; the fineness of tissue which could take a deep, emotional--almost also an artistic--pleasure in being the yearning inamorato of a woman he once had deserted, would have seemed an absurdity to the young sawyer. Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpiers were separated; therefore the question of affection as between them was settled. But his Suke had, since that meeting on their marriage-day, repentantly admitted, to the urgency of his questioning, a good deal concerning her past levities. Putting all things together, he could hardly avoid connecting Fitzpiers's mysterious visits to this spot with Suke's residence under his roof. But he made himself fairly easy: the vessel in which they were about to emigrate sailed that month; and then Suke would be out of Fitzpiers's way forever. The interval at last expired, and the eve of their departure arrived. They were pausing in the room of the cottage allotted to them by Tim's father, after a busy day of preparation, which left them weary. In a corner stood their boxes, crammed and corded, their large case for the hold having already been sent away. The firelight shone upon Suke's fine face and form as she stood looking into it, and upon the face of Tim seated in a corner, and upon the walls of his father's house, which he was beholding that night almost for the last time. Tim Tangs was not happy. This scheme of emigration was dividing him from his father--for old Tangs would on no account leave Hintock--and had it not been for Suke's reputation and his own dignity, Tim would at the last moment have abandoned the project. As he sat in the back part of the room he regarded her moodily, and the fire and the boxes. One thing he had particularly noticed this evening--she was very restless; fitful in her actions, unable to remain seated, and in a marked degree depressed. "Sorry that you be going, after all, Suke?" he said. She sighed involuntarily. "I don't know but that I be," she answered. "'Tis natural, isn't it, when one is going away?" "But you wasn't born here as I was." "No." "There's folk left behind that you'd fain have with 'ee, I reckon?" "Why do you think that?" "I've seen things and I've heard things; and, Suke, I say 'twill be a good move for me to get 'ee away. I don't mind his leavings abroad, but I do mind 'em at home." Suke's face was not changed from its aspect of listless indifference by the words. She answered nothing; and shortly after he went out for his customary pipe of tobacco at the top of the garden. The restlessness of Suke had indeed owed its presence to the gentleman of Tim's suspicions, but in a different--and it must be added in justice to her--more innocent sense than he supposed, judging from former doings. She had accidentally discovered that Fitzpiers was in the habit of coming secretly once or twice a week to Hintock, and knew that this evening was a favorite one of the seven for his journey. As she was going next day to leave the country, Suke thought there could be no great harm in giving way to a little sentimentality by obtaining a glimpse of him quite unknown to himself or to anybody, and thus taking a silent last farewell. Aware that Fitzpiers's time for passing was at hand she thus betrayed her feeling. No sooner, therefore, had Tim left the room than she let herself noiselessly out of the house, and hastened to the corner of the garden, whence she could witness the surgeon's transit across the scene--if he had not already gone by. Her light cotton dress was visible to Tim lounging in the arbor of the opposite corner, though he was hidden from her. He saw her stealthily climb into the hedge, and so ensconce herself there that nobody could have the least doubt her purpose was to watch unseen for a passer-by. He went across to the spot and stood behind her. Suke started, having in her blundering way forgotten that he might be near. She at once descended from the hedge. "So he's coming to-night," said Tim, laconically. "And we be always anxious to see our dears." "He IS coming to-night," she replied, with defiance. "And we BE anxious for our dears." "Then will you step in-doors, where your dear will soon jine 'ee? We've to mouster by half-past three to-morrow, and if we don't get to bed by eight at latest our faces will be as long as clock-cases all day." She hesitated for a minute, but ultimately obeyed, going slowly down the garden to the house, where he heard the door-latch click behind her. Tim was incensed beyond measure. His marriage had so far been a total failure, a source of bitter regret; and the only course for improving his case, that of leaving the country, was a sorry, and possibly might not be a very effectual one. Do what he would, his domestic sky was likely to be overcast to the end of the day. Thus he brooded, and his resentment gathered force. He craved a means of striking one blow back at the cause of his cheerless plight, while he was still on the scene of his discomfiture. For some minutes no method suggested itself, and then he had an idea. Coming to a sudden resolution, he hastened along the garden, and entered the one attached to the next cottage, which had formerly been the dwelling of a game-keeper. Tim descended the path to the back of the house, where only an old woman lived at present, and reaching the wall he stopped. Owing to the slope of the ground the roof-eaves of the linhay were here within touch, and he thrust his arm up under them, feeling about in the space on the top of the wall-plate. "Ah, I thought my memory didn't deceive me!" he lipped silently. With some exertion he drew down a cobwebbed object curiously framed in iron, which clanked as he moved it. It was about three feet in length and half as wide. Tim contemplated it as well as he could in the dying light of day, and raked off the cobwebs with his hand. "That will spoil his pretty shins for'n, I reckon!" he said. It was a man-trap. CHAPTER XLVII. Were the inventors of automatic machines to be ranged according to the excellence of their devices for producing sound artistic torture, the creator of the man-trap would occupy a very respectable if not a very high place. It should rather, however, be said, the inventor of the particular form of man-trap of which this found in the keeper's out-house was a specimen. For there were other shapes and other sizes, instruments which, if placed in a row beside one of the type disinterred by Tim, would have worn the subordinate aspect of the bears, wild boars, or wolves in a travelling menagerie, as compared with the leading lion or tiger. In short, though many varieties had been in use during those centuries which we are accustomed to look back upon as the true and only period of merry England--in the rural districts more especially--and onward down to the third decade of the nineteenth century, this model had borne the palm, and had been most usually followed when the orchards and estates required new ones. There had been the toothless variety used by the softer-hearted landlords--quite contemptible in their clemency. The jaws of these resembled the jaws of an old woman to whom time has left nothing but gums. There were also the intermediate or half-toothed sorts, probably devised by the middle-natured squires, or those under the influence of their wives: two inches of mercy, two inches of cruelty, two inches of mere nip, two inches of probe, and so on, through the whole extent of the jaws. There were also, as a class apart, the bruisers, which did not lacerate the flesh, but only crushed the bone. The sight of one of these gins when set produced a vivid impression that it was endowed with life. It exhibited the combined aspects of a shark, a crocodile, and a scorpion. Each tooth was in the form of a tapering spine, two and a quarter inches long, which, when the jaws were closed, stood in alternation from this side and from that. When they were open, the two halves formed a complete circle between two and three feet in diameter, the plate or treading-place in the midst being about a foot square, while from beneath extended in opposite directions the soul of the apparatus, the pair of springs, each one being of a stiffness to render necessary a lever or the whole weight of the body when forcing it down. There were men at this time still living at Hintock who remembered when the gin and others like it were in use. Tim Tangs's great-uncle had endured a night of six hours in this very trap, which lamed him for life. Once a keeper of Hintock woods set it on the track of a poacher, and afterwards, coming back that way, forgetful of what he had done, walked into it himself. The wound brought on lockjaw, of which he died. This event occurred during the thirties, and by the year 1840 the use of such implements was well-nigh discontinued in the neighborhood. But being made entirely of iron, they by no means disappeared, and in almost every village one could be found in some nook or corner as readily as this was found by Tim. It had, indeed, been a fearful amusement of Tim and other Hintock lads--especially those who had a dim sense of becoming renowned poachers when they reached their prime--to drag out this trap from its hiding, set it, and throw it with billets of wood, which were penetrated by the teeth to the depth of near an inch. As soon as he had examined the trap, and found that the hinges and springs were still perfect, he shouldered it without more ado, and returned with his burden to his own garden, passing on through the hedge to the path immediately outside the boundary. Here, by the help of a stout stake, he set the trap, and laid it carefully behind a bush while he went forward to reconnoitre. As has been stated, nobody passed this way for days together sometimes; but there was just a possibility that some other pedestrian than the one in request might arrive, and it behooved Tim to be careful as to the identity of his victim. Going about a hundred yards along the rising ground to the right, he reached a ridge whereon a large and thick holly grew. Beyond this for some distance the wood was more open, and the course which Fitzpiers must pursue to reach the point, if he came to-night, was visible a long way forward. For some time there was no sign of him or of anybody. Then there shaped itself a spot out of the dim mid-distance, between the masses of brushwood on either hand. And it enlarged, and Tim could hear the brushing of feet over the tufts of sour-grass. The airy gait revealed Fitzpiers even before his exact outline could be seen. Tim Tangs turned about, and ran down the opposite side of the hill, till he was again at the head of his own garden. It was the work of a few moments to drag out the man-trap, very gently--that the plate might not be disturbed sufficiently to throw it--to a space between a pair of young oaks which, rooted in contiguity, grew apart upward, forming a V-shaped opening between; and, being backed up by bushes, left this as the only course for a foot-passenger. In it he laid the trap with the same gentleness of handling, locked the chain round one of the trees, and finally slid back the guard which was placed to keep the gin from accidentally catching the arms of him who set it, or, to use the local and better word, "toiled" it. Having completed these arrangements, Tim sprang through the adjoining hedge of his father's garden, ran down the path, and softly entered the house. Obedient to his order, Suke had gone to bed; and as soon as he had bolted the door, Tim unlaced and kicked off his boots at the foot of the stairs, and retired likewise, without lighting a candle. His object seemed to be to undress as soon as possible. Before, however, he had completed the operation, a long cry resounded without--penetrating, but indescribable. "What's that?" said Suke, starting up in bed. "Sounds as if somebody had caught a hare in his gin." "Oh no," said she. "It was not a hare, 'twas louder. Hark!" "Do 'ee get to sleep," said Tim. "How be you going to wake at half-past three else?" She lay down and was silent. Tim stealthily opened the window and listened. Above the low harmonies produced by the instrumentation of the various species of trees around the premises he could hear the twitching of a chain from the spot whereon he had set the man-trap. But further human sound there was none. Tim was puzzled. In the haste of his project he had not calculated upon a cry; but if one, why not more? He soon ceased to essay an answer, for Hintock was dead to him already. In half a dozen hours he would be out of its precincts for life, on his way to the antipodes. He closed the window and lay down. The hour which had brought these movements of Tim to birth had been operating actively elsewhere. Awaiting in her father's house the minute of her appointment with her husband, Grace Fitzpiers deliberated on many things. Should she inform her father before going out that the estrangement of herself and Edgar was not so complete as he had imagined, and deemed desirable for her happiness? If she did so she must in some measure become the apologist of her husband, and she was not prepared to go so far. As for him, he kept her in a mood of considerate gravity. He certainly had changed. He had at his worst times always been gentle in his manner towards her. Could it be that she might make of him a true and worthy husband yet? She had married him; there was no getting over that; and ought she any longer to keep him at a distance? His suave deference to her lightest whim on the question of his comings and goings, when as her lawful husband he might show a little independence, was a trait in his character as unexpected as it was engaging. If she had been his empress, and he her thrall, he could not have exhibited a more sensitive care to avoid intruding upon her against her will. Impelled by a remembrance she took down a prayer-book and turned to the marriage-service. Reading it slowly through, she became quite appalled at her recent off-handedness, when she rediscovered what awfully solemn promises she had made him at those chancel steps not so very long ago. She became lost in long ponderings on how far a person's conscience might be bound by vows made without at the time a full recognition of their force. That particular sentence, beginning "Whom God hath joined together," was a staggerer for a gentlewoman of strong devotional sentiment. She wondered whether God really did join them together. Before she had done deliberating the time of her engagement drew near, and she went out of the house almost at the moment that Tim Tangs retired to his own. The position of things at that critical juncture was briefly as follows. Two hundred yards to the right of the upper end of Tangs's garden Fitzpiers was still advancing, having now nearly reached the summit of the wood-clothed ridge, the path being the actual one which further on passed between the two young oaks. Thus far it was according to Tim's conjecture. But about two hundred yards to the left, or rather less, was arising a condition which he had not divined, the emergence of Grace as aforesaid from the upper corner of her father's garden, with the view of meeting Tim's intended victim. Midway between husband and wife was the diabolical trap, silent, open, ready. Fitzpiers's walk that night had been cheerful, for he was convinced that the slow and gentle method he had adopted was promising success. The very restraint that he was obliged to exercise upon himself, so as not to kill the delicate bud of returning confidence, fed his flame. He walked so much more rapidly than Grace that, if they continued advancing as they had begun, he would reach the trap a good half-minute before she could reach the same spot. But here a new circumstance came in; to escape the unpleasantness of being watched or listened to by lurkers--naturally curious by reason of their strained relations--they had arranged that their meeting for to-night should be at the holm-tree on the ridge above named. So soon, accordingly, as Fitzpiers reached the tree he stood still to await her. He had not paused under the prickly foliage more than two minutes when he thought he heard a scream from the other side of the ridge. Fitzpiers wondered what it could mean; but such wind as there was just now blew in an adverse direction, and his mood was light. He set down the origin of the sound to one of the superstitious freaks or frolicsome scrimmages between sweethearts that still survived in Hintock from old-English times; and waited on where he stood till ten minutes had passed. Feeling then a little uneasy, his mind reverted to the scream; and he went forward over the summit and down the embowered incline, till he reached the pair of sister oaks with the narrow opening between them. Fitzpiers stumbled and all but fell. Stretching down his hand to ascertain the obstruction, it came in contact with a confused mass of silken drapery and iron-work that conveyed absolutely no explanatory idea to his mind at all. It was but the work of a moment to strike a match; and then he saw a sight which congealed his blood. The man-trap was thrown; and between its jaws was part of a woman's clothing--a patterned silk skirt--gripped with such violence that the iron teeth had passed through it, skewering its tissue in a score of places. He immediately recognized the skirt as that of one of his wife's gowns--the gown that she had worn when she met him on the very last occasion. Fitzpiers had often studied the effect of these instruments when examining the collection at Hintock House, and the conception instantly flashed through him that Grace had been caught, taken out mangled by some chance passer, and carried home, some of her clothes being left behind in the difficulty of getting her free. The shock of this conviction, striking into the very current of high hope, was so great that he cried out like one in corporal agony, and in his misery bowed himself down to the ground. Of all the degrees and qualities of punishment that Fitzpiers had undergone since his sins against Grace first began, not any even approximated in intensity to this. "Oh, my own--my darling! Oh, cruel Heaven--it is too much, this!" he cried, writhing and rocking himself over the sorry accessaries of her he deplored. The voice of his distress was sufficiently loud to be audible to any one who might have been there to hear it; and one there was. Right and left of the narrow pass between the oaks were dense bushes; and now from behind these a female figure glided, whose appearance even in the gloom was, though graceful in outline, noticeably strange. She was in white up to the waist, and figured above. She was, in short, Grace, his wife, lacking the portion of her dress which the gin retained. "Don't be grieved about me--don't, dear Edgar!" she exclaimed, rushing up and bending over him. "I am not hurt a bit! I was coming on to find you after I had released myself, but I heard footsteps; and I hid away, because I was without some of my clothing, and I did not know who the person might be." Fitzpiers had sprung to his feet, and his next act was no less unpremeditated by him than it was irresistible by her, and would have been so by any woman not of Amazonian strength. He clasped his arms completely round, pressed her to his breast, and kissed her passionately. "You are not dead!--you are not hurt! Thank God--thank God!" he said, almost sobbing in his delight and relief from the horror of his apprehension. "Grace, my wife, my love, how is this--what has happened?" "I was coming on to you," she said as distinctly as she could in the half-smothered state of her face against his. "I was trying to be as punctual as possible, and as I had started a minute late I ran along the path very swiftly--fortunately for myself. Just when I had passed between these trees I felt something clutch at my dress from behind with a noise, and the next moment I was pulled backward by it, and fell to the ground. I screamed with terror, thinking it was a man lying down there to murder me, but the next moment I discovered it was iron, and that my clothes were caught in a trap. I pulled this way and that, but the thing would not let go, drag it as I would, and I did not know what to do. I did not want to alarm my father or anybody, as I wished nobody to know of these meetings with you; so I could think of no other plan than slipping off my skirt, meaning to run on and tell you what a strange accident had happened to me. But when I had just freed myself by leaving the dress behind, I heard steps, and not being sure it was you, I did not like to be seen in such a pickle, so I hid away." "It was only your speed that saved you! One or both of your legs would have been broken if you had come at ordinary walking pace." "Or yours, if you had got here first," said she, beginning to realize the whole ghastliness of the possibility. "Oh, Edgar, there has been an Eye watching over us to-night, and we should be thankful indeed!" He continued to press his face to hers. "You are mine--mine again now." She gently owned that she supposed she was. "I heard what you said when you thought I was injured," she went on, shyly, "and I know that a man who could suffer as you were suffering must have a tender regard for me. But how does this awful thing come here?" "I suppose it has something to do with poachers." Fitzpiers was still so shaken by the sense of her danger that he was obliged to sit awhile, and it was not until Grace said, "If I could only get my skirt out nobody would know anything about it," that he bestirred himself. By their united efforts, each standing on one of the springs of the trap, they pressed them down sufficiently to insert across the jaws a billet which they dragged from a faggot near at hand; and it was then possible to extract the silk mouthful from the monster's bite, creased and pierced with many holes, but not torn. Fitzpiers assisted her to put it on again; and when her customary contours were thus restored they walked on together, Grace taking his arm, till he effected an improvement by clasping it round her waist. The ice having been broken in this unexpected manner, she made no further attempt at reserve. "I would ask you to come into the house," she said, "but my meetings with you have been kept secret from my father, and I should like to prepare him." "Never mind, dearest. I could not very well have accepted the invitation. I shall never live here again--as much for your sake as for mine. I have news to tell you on this very point, but my alarm had put it out of my head. I have bought a practice, or rather a partnership, in the Midlands, and I must go there in a week to take up permanent residence. My poor old great-aunt died about eight months ago, and left me enough to do this. I have taken a little furnished house for a time, till we can get one of our own." He described the place, and the surroundings, and the view from the windows, and Grace became much interested. "But why are you not there now?" she said. "Because I cannot tear myself away from here till I have your promise. Now, darling, you will accompany me there--will you not? To-night has settled that." Grace's tremblings had gone off, and she did not say nay. They went on together. The adventure, and the emotions consequent upon the reunion which that event had forced on, combined to render Grace oblivious of the direction of their desultory ramble, till she noticed they were in an encircled glade in the densest part of the wood, whereon the moon, that had imperceptibly added its rays to the scene, shone almost vertically. It was an exceptionally soft, balmy evening for the time of year, which was just that transient period in the May month when beech-trees have suddenly unfolded large limp young leaves of the softness of butterflies' wings. Boughs bearing such leaves hung low around, and completely enclosed them, so that it was as if they were in a great green vase, which had moss for its bottom and leaf sides. The clouds having been packed in the west that evening so as to retain the departing glare a long while, the hour had seemed much earlier than it was. But suddenly the question of time occurred to her. "I must go back," she said; and without further delay they set their faces towards Hintock. As they walked he examined his watch by the aid of the now strong moonlight. "By the gods, I think I have lost my train!" said Fitzpiers. "Dear me--whereabouts are we?" said she. "Two miles in the direction of Sherton." "Then do you hasten on, Edgar. I am not in the least afraid. I recognize now the part of the wood we are in and I can find my way back quite easily. I'll tell my father that we have made it up. I wish I had not kept our meetings so private, for it may vex him a little to know I have been seeing you. He is getting old and irritable, that was why I did not. Good-by." "But, as I must stay at the Earl of Wessex to-night, for I cannot possibly catch the train, I think it would be safer for you to let me take care of you." "But what will my father think has become of me? He does not know in the least where I am--he thinks I only went into the garden for a few minutes." "He will surely guess--somebody has seen me for certain. I'll go all the way back with you to-morrow." "But that newly done-up place--the Earl of Wessex!" "If you are so very particular about the publicity I will stay at the Three Tuns." "Oh no--it is not that I am particular--but I haven't a brush or comb or anything!" CHAPTER XLVIII. All the evening Melbury had been coming to his door, saying, "I wonder where in the world that girl is! Never in all my born days did I know her bide out like this! She surely said she was going into the garden to get some parsley." Melbury searched the garden, the parsley-bed, and the orchard, but could find no trace of her, and then he made inquiries at the cottages of such of his workmen as had not gone to bed, avoiding Tangs's because he knew the young people were to rise early to leave. In these inquiries one of the men's wives somewhat incautiously let out the fact that she had heard a scream in the wood, though from which direction she could not say. This set Melbury's fears on end. He told the men to light lanterns, and headed by himself they started, Creedle following at the last moment with quite a burden of grapnels and ropes, which he could not be persuaded to leave behind, and the company being joined by the hollow-turner and the man who kept the cider-house as they went along. They explored the precincts of the village, and in a short time lighted upon the man-trap. Its discovery simply added an item of fact without helping their conjectures; but Melbury's indefinite alarm was greatly increased when, holding a candle to the ground, he saw in the teeth of the instrument some frayings from Grace's clothing. No intelligence of any kind was gained till they met a woodman of Delborough, who said that he had seen a lady answering to the description her father gave of Grace, walking through the wood on a gentleman's arm in the direction of Sherton. "Was he clutching her tight?" said Melbury. "Well--rather," said the man. "Did she walk lame?" "Well, 'tis true her head hung over towards him a bit." Creedle groaned tragically. Melbury, not suspecting the presence of Fitzpiers, coupled this account with the man-trap and the scream; he could not understand what it all meant; but the sinister event of the trap made him follow on. Accordingly, they bore away towards the town, shouting as they went, and in due course emerged upon the highway. Nearing Sherton-Abbas, the previous information was confirmed by other strollers, though the gentleman's supporting arm had disappeared from these later accounts. At last they were so near Sherton that Melbury informed his faithful followers that he did not wish to drag them farther at so late an hour, since he could go on alone and inquire if the woman who had been seen were really Grace. But they would not leave him alone in his anxiety, and trudged onward till the lamplight from the town began to illuminate their fronts. At the entrance to the High Street they got fresh scent of the pursued, but coupled with the new condition that the lady in the costume described had been going up the street alone. "Faith!--I believe she's mesmerized, or walking in her sleep," said Melbury. However, the identity of this woman with Grace was by no means certain; but they plodded along the street. Percombe, the hair-dresser, who had despoiled Marty of her tresses, was standing at his door, and they duly put inquiries to him. "Ah--how's Little Hintock folk by now?" he said, before replying. "Never have I been over there since one winter night some three year ago--and then I lost myself finding it. How can ye live in such a one-eyed place? Great Hintock is bad enough--hut Little Hintock--the bats and owls would drive me melancholy-mad! It took two days to raise my sperrits to their true pitch again after that night I went there. Mr. Melbury, sir, as a man's that put by money, why not retire and live here, and see something of the world?" The responses at last given by him to their queries guided them to the building that offered the best accommodation in Sherton--having been enlarged contemporaneously with the construction of the railway--namely, the Earl of Wessex Hotel. Leaving the others without, Melbury made prompt inquiry here. His alarm was lessened, though his perplexity was increased, when he received a brief reply that such a lady was in the house. "Do you know if it is my daughter?" asked Melbury. The waiter did not. "Do you know the lady's name?" Of this, too, the household was ignorant, the hotel having been taken by brand-new people from a distance. They knew the gentleman very well by sight, and had not thought it necessary to ask him to enter his name. "Oh, the gentleman appears again now," said Melbury to himself. "Well, I want to see the lady," he declared. A message was taken up, and after some delay the shape of Grace appeared descending round the bend of the stair-case, looking as if she lived there, but in other respects rather guilty and frightened. "Why--what the name--" began her father. "I thought you went out to get parsley!" "Oh, yes--I did--but it is all right," said Grace, in a flurried whisper. "I am not alone here. I am here with Edgar. It is entirely owing to an accident, father." "Edgar! An accident! How does he come here? I thought he was two hundred mile off." "Yes, so he is--I mean he has got a beautiful practice two hundred miles off; he has bought it with his own money, some that came to him. But he travelled here, and I was nearly caught in a man-trap, and that's how it is I am here. We were just thinking of sending a messenger to let you know." Melbury did not seem to be particularly enlightened by this explanation. "You were caught in a man-trap?" "Yes; my dress was. That's how it arose. Edgar is up-stairs in his own sitting-room," she went on. "He would not mind seeing you, I am sure." "Oh, faith, I don't want to see him! I have seen him too often a'ready. I'll see him another time, perhaps, if 'tis to oblige 'ee." "He came to see me; he wanted to consult me about this large partnership I speak of, as it is very promising." "Oh, I am glad to hear it," said Melbury, dryly. A pause ensued, during which the inquiring faces and whity-brown clothes of Melbury's companions appeared in the door-way. "Then bain't you coming home with us?" he asked. "I--I think not," said Grace, blushing. "H'm--very well--you are your own mistress," he returned, in tones which seemed to assert otherwise. "Good-night;" and Melbury retreated towards the door. "Don't be angry, father," she said, following him a few steps. "I have done it for the best." "I am not angry, though it is true I have been a little misled in this. However, good-night. I must get home along." He left the hotel, not without relief, for to be under the eyes of strangers while he conversed with his lost child had embarrassed him much. His search-party, too, had looked awkward there, having rushed to the task of investigation--some in their shirt sleeves, others in their leather aprons, and all much stained--just as they had come from their work of barking, and not in their Sherton marketing attire; while Creedle, with his ropes and grapnels and air of impending tragedy, had added melancholy to gawkiness. "Now, neighbors," said Melbury, on joining them, "as it is getting late, we'll leg it home again as fast as we can. I ought to tell you that there has been some mistake--some arrangement entered into between Mr. and Mrs. Fitzpiers which I didn't quite understand--an important practice in the Midland counties has come to him, which made it necessary for her to join him to-night--so she says. That's all it was--and I'm sorry I dragged you out." "Well," said the hollow-turner, "here be we six mile from home, and night-time, and not a hoss or four-footed creeping thing to our name. I say, we'll have a mossel and a drop o' summat to strengthen our nerves afore we vamp all the way back again? My throat's as dry as a kex. What d'ye say so's?" They all concurred in the need for this course, and proceeded to the antique and lampless back street, in which the red curtain of the Three Tuns was the only radiant object. As soon as they had stumbled down into the room Melbury ordered them to be served, when they made themselves comfortable by the long table, and stretched out their legs upon the herring-boned sand of the floor. Melbury himself, restless as usual, walked to the door while he waited for them, and looked up and down the street. "I'd gie her a good shaking if she were my maid; pretending to go out in the garden, and leading folk a twelve-mile traipse that have got to get up at five o'clock to morrow," said a bark-ripper; who, not working regularly for Melbury, could afford to indulge in strong opinions. "I don't speak so warm as that," said the hollow-turner, "but if 'tis right for couples to make a country talk about their separating, and excite the neighbors, and then make fools of 'em like this, why, I haven't stood upon one leg for five-and-twenty year." All his listeners knew that when he alluded to his foot-lathe in these enigmatic terms, the speaker meant to be impressive; and Creedle chimed in with, "Ah, young women do wax wanton in these days! Why couldn't she ha' bode with her father, and been faithful?" Poor Creedle was thinking of his old employer. "But this deceiving of folks is nothing unusual in matrimony," said Farmer Bawtree. "I knowed a man and wife--faith, I don't mind owning, as there's no strangers here, that the pair were my own relations--they'd be at it that hot one hour that you'd hear the poker and the tongs and the bellows and the warming-pan flee across the house with the movements of their vengeance; and the next hour you'd hear 'em singing 'The Spotted Cow' together as peaceable as two holy twins; yes--and very good voices they had, and would strike in like professional ballet-singers to one another's support in the high notes." "And I knowed a woman, and the husband o' her went away for four-and-twenty year," said the bark-ripper. "And one night he came home when she was sitting by the fire, and thereupon he sat down himself on the other side of the chimney-corner. 'Well,' says she, 'have ye got any news?' 'Don't know as I have,' says he; 'have you?' 'No,' says she, 'except that my daughter by my second husband was married last month, which was a year after I was made a widow by him.' 'Oh! Anything else?' he says. 'No,' says she. And there they sat, one on each side of that chimney-corner, and were found by their neighbors sound asleep in their chairs, not having known what to talk about at all." "Well, I don't care who the man is," said Creedle, "they required a good deal to talk about, and that's true. It won't be the same with these." "No. He is such a projick, you see. And she is a wonderful scholar too!" "What women do know nowadays!" observed the hollow-turner. "You can't deceive 'em as you could in my time." "What they knowed then was not small," said John Upjohn. "Always a good deal more than the men! Why, when I went courting my wife that is now, the skilfulness that she would show in keeping me on her pretty side as she walked was beyond all belief. Perhaps you've noticed that she's got a pretty side to her face as well as a plain one?" "I can't say I've noticed it particular much," said the hollow-turner, blandly. "Well," continued Upjohn, not disconcerted, "she has. All women under the sun be prettier one side than t'other. And, as I was saying, the pains she would take to make me walk on the pretty side were unending! I warrant that whether we were going with the sun or against the sun, uphill or downhill, in wind or in lewth, that wart of hers was always towards the hedge, and that dimple towards me. There was I, too simple to see her wheelings and turnings; and she so artful, though two years younger, that she could lead me with a cotton thread, like a blind ram; for that was in the third climate of our courtship. No; I don't think the women have got cleverer, for they was never otherwise." "How many climates may there be in courtship, Mr. Upjohn?" inquired a youth--the same who had assisted at Winterborne's Christmas party. "Five--from the coolest to the hottest--leastwise there was five in mine." "Can ye give us the chronicle of 'em, Mr. Upjohn?" "Yes--I could. I could certainly. But 'tis quite unnecessary. They'll come to ye by nater, young man, too soon for your good." "At present Mrs. Fitzpiers can lead the doctor as your mis'ess could lead you," the hollow-turner remarked. "She's got him quite tame. But how long 'twill last I can't say. I happened to be setting a wire on the top of my garden one night when he met her on the other side of the hedge; and the way she queened it, and fenced, and kept that poor feller at a distance, was enough to freeze yer blood. I should never have supposed it of such a girl." Melbury now returned to the room, and the men having declared themselves refreshed, they all started on the homeward journey, which was by no means cheerless under the rays of the high moon. Having to walk the whole distance they came by a foot-path rather shorter than the highway, though difficult except to those who knew the country well. This brought them by way of Great Hintock; and passing the church-yard they observed, as they talked, a motionless figure standing by the gate. "I think it was Marty South," said the hollow-turner, parenthetically. "I think 'twas; 'a was always a lonely maid," said Upjohn. And they passed on homeward, and thought of the matter no more. It was Marty, as they had supposed. That evening had been the particular one of the week upon which Grace and herself had been accustomed to privately deposit flowers on Giles's grave, and this was the first occasion since his death, eight months earlier, on which Grace had failed to keep her appointment. Marty had waited in the road just outside Little Hintock, where her fellow-pilgrim had been wont to join her, till she was weary; and at last, thinking that Grace had missed her and gone on alone, she followed the way to Great Hintock, but saw no Grace in front of her. It got later, and Marty continued her walk till she reached the church-yard gate; but still no Grace. Yet her sense of comradeship would not allow her to go on to the grave alone, and still thinking the delay had been unavoidable, she stood there with her little basket of flowers in her clasped hands, and her feet chilled by the damp ground, till more than two hours had passed. She then heard the footsteps of Melbury's men, who presently passed on their return from the search. In the silence of the night Marty could not help hearing fragments of their conversation, from which she acquired a general idea of what had occurred, and where Mrs. Fitzpiers then was. Immediately they had dropped down the hill she entered the church-yard, going to a secluded corner behind the bushes, where rose the unadorned stone that marked the last bed of Giles Winterborne. As this solitary and silent girl stood there in the moonlight, a straight slim figure, clothed in a plaitless gown, the contours of womanhood so undeveloped as to be scarcely perceptible, the marks of poverty and toil effaced by the misty hour, she touched sublimity at points, and looked almost like a being who had rejected with indifference the attribute of sex for the loftier quality of abstract humanism. She stooped down and cleared away the withered flowers that Grace and herself had laid there the previous week, and put her fresh ones in their place. "Now, my own, own love," she whispered, "you are mine, and on'y mine; for she has forgot 'ee at last, although for her you died. But I--whenever I get up I'll think of 'ee, and whenever I lie down I'll think of 'ee. Whenever I plant the young larches I'll think that none can plant as you planted; and whenever I split a gad, and whenever I turn the cider-wring, I'll say none could do it like you. If ever I forget your name, let me forget home and Heaven!--But no, no, my love, I never can forget 'ee; for you was a GOOD man, and did good things!"