Part 5

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

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

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

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

Not in outward aspect alone are these forests noble and stately. A nobleness lies in the nature of the living trees themselves; for, though we may call them unconscious, it is life still, and they are expressive with meaning. Far simpler in their habits and requirements than the broadleaf trees, they are, nevertheless, more generous to man. Endurance and hardship is their lot, but noble form of trunk and crown and useful soft wood are the products of their life. There is no forest mantle like theirs to shield from the blast, especially when it is formed of young thickets of the simple but refined spruces and firs. When, at the last, they yield their life to man, it seems to me there is something exalted even in the manner of their fall. The tree hardly quivers under the blows of the ax; a mere trembling in the outermost twigs, and then, hardly as if cut off from the source of life, the tall, straight form sinks slowly to the earth.

Another common attribute of evergreen forests is their characteristic _silence_. Birds do not frequent them as much as the leafy forests. In these solitudes, far removed from village and farm, there is often no sound but the ring of the distant ax and the sough of the wind. In winter, as we push through the thickets of small spruces or hemlocks, or stand for a while beneath lofty pines, while all around is muffled in snow, the silence seems sanctified and vaster than elsewhere.

In addition to their grandeur and sublimity, and their silence, they are distinguished for an element of _softness_. This is seen in the delicate texture and pure color of their foliage, the effect of which is heightened by being massed in the dense forest. We have already noticed the mild olive shade of the eastern white pine. When the wind blows through it, it seems as if the foliage were melting away. It would be difficult, also, to match the green color of the red fir, especially as it looks in winter; or the luxuriant bluish-gray of the western blue spruce.

A further softening in the general effect of evergreen forests is produced by the manner in which the trees intermingle in the dense mass, merging their sharp, individual outlines in the rounded contours and upper surfaces of the combined view. Near at hand, of course, we cannot but notice the attenuated forms and jagged edges of the trees, which, indeed, are interesting enough in themselves; but on looking gradually into the distance we find them thatching into one another, closing up interstices and smoothing away irregularities in a remarkable way. This is particularly true of the spruces and firs; but in some of the opener pine forests, as, for example, in the longleaf pines of the South, the boughs and crowns themselves are rounded into masses and pleasing contours. It should be remembered, also, that these effects are present in winter as well as in summer.

The element of softness is sometimes brought into very beautiful association with certain effects of mists and clouds. The indistinct contours and delicate lights of the drifting vapors and cloud forms, as they wander across the trees, blend with the serene aspect of the forest. At other times the clouds gather into banks and lie motionless in some valley or rest like a veil upon the mountain tops. Wordsworth has described these effects in his graphic way by saying,—

Far-stretched beneath the many-tinted hills, A mighty waste of mist the valley fills, A solemn sea! whose billows wide around Stand motionless, to awful silence bound: Pines, on the coast, through mist their tops uprear That like to leaning masts of stranded ships appear.

In spring or summer just before sunrise it is very beautiful to see how these banks of vapor are lifted by the stirring airs of the dawn, how the draperies of mist draw apart and open up vistas of the trees, which drip with moisture, and are presently illumined by the broad shafts of sunlight that pour down upon them.

Lest it be thought that only the dense coniferous forests possess superior qualities, I desire to put in a plea for the open ones also.

It is a universal truth in nature that when a living thing has made the best possible use of its environment, when the power within has been sacrificed and united to the circumstances without, there is evolved a dignity of character and a resulting expression of fitness and beauty. This principle is exemplified in the very open forests of the Southwest. In the mountain ranges of New Mexico, Arizona, and southern California the forests have a hard struggle for existence. The winter months at the higher elevations are severe; in the summer rain is scarce, or entirely absent, and the sun beats down upon the dry earth through the rarefied atmosphere with intense and desiccating power. Naturally the forest trees are scattered, and on the steep, crumbly slopes, dry and rocky, they hug the soil and cling to it with uncertain footing. But in a sheltered ravine, or on the back of a rounded ridge, or in a slight swale or hollow of the mountain—repeatedly, in fact, among those rugged slopes—we meet with the dignity, the beauty, and the peculiar expressiveness of the open coniferous forest, with its fine definition and stereoscopic effects and the depth and perspective of its long vistas.

On the crest of the mountain, where, from the valley below, the early sunlight is first seen to break through, the trees, standing apart, do not appear so much like a forest as like a congregation of individuals, each with an identity of its own. Indeed, there among the fierce gales of autumn and winter each shapes its own life in a glorious independence, expressive in the knotty, twisted boles and the picturesque crowns. But in summer the breezes strain through the foliage with the lethargic sound of the ocean surge; or a halcyon stillness reigns under a deep blue, cloudless sky.

Large old trees, these, with a history, that have braved life together. They have seen companion veterans fall by their side, long ago, into the deep, closely matted needle-mold. Thence arose out of the moister hollows beneath the rotting trunk and boughs a new generation, and the greater number of these have disappeared, too, for some reason or another; only the strongest at last leading, to take the place of the departed. How dignified, how simple are these old, stalwart trees on the exposed ridge of the mountain.

Thus the coniferous forests, by virtue of their inherent qualities and by means of the effects they borrow from their environment, possess a tone that is as original and distinct as the character of the forests belonging to the other class. It has already been intimated that the two are not always strictly separable, but that individual trees, or groups, or whole stretches of woods of the one will sometimes mingle with the other, a fact that has probably been noticed by the most casual observer. While the cone-bearers, however, not infrequently descend into the lower altitudes, the leafy forest trees are not so apt to be found at the high elevations at which many of the former find their natural home. Where the cone-bearers are merely an addition to the broadleaf woods they do not quite preserve their identity, but rather impress us as being merely a part in the general adornment and composition of the forest to which they belong. Where they remain “pure,” however, as they do, for instance, in the pineries of the coastal plain in the South, they never fail to express, in one or another manner, their individuality as a forest; as by their uniformity in size and color, by their odor, or by the scenic character of the region of their occurrence.

All the preceding qualities of coniferous forests practically address themselves in some manner to our physical senses. But, like the broadleaf forests, these also possess a trait that rather addresses itself to our mood or personal temperament. A characteristic air of loneliness and wild seclusion belongs to them that contrasts strikingly with the cheerful tone of the other class. It has been commonly remarked that to some kinds of people the coniferous forests are oppressive, at least on first acquaintance. Such natures feel the weight of their gloom and lose their own buoyancy of spirit if they stay too long within their confines; and it is noticeable that even the inhabitants of these lonely retreats are not infrequently affected with a reticence and a kind of melancholy that impresses the stranger almost like a feeling of resignation. This peculiar temperament, however, may be judged too hastily, and is understood better after a time. It is probably true that the familiar and accessible woods of valley and plain, where trails and wood-roads give us a feeling of security, are more attractive and agreeable to most of us; yet there is a wonderful charm about those dark forests of the mountains that have grown up in undisturbed simplicity. After the first feeling of strangeness wears off, as it soon will, they grow companionable and interesting. There is a virtue in the sturdy forms that have grown to maturity without aid or interference by man. We would not change them in that place for the most beautiful trees in a park. Even the woodsman, whose days are spent here in the hardest toil, feels a longing for the forest, his home, when his short respite in the summer is over. So we, too, though we may long for civilization after a few months in the forest, will yet feel the desire to return to it after once thoroughly making its acquaintance.

The attitude of the woodsman toward the forest is much like the affection which the sailor has for the ocean. There is, indeed, a similarity between their callings, and even the elements in which they pass their lives are not so dissimilar in reality as may appear on the surface. In his vast domain of evergreen trees that cover mountain and valley, the woodsman, too, is shut out from the busier haunts of men. He lives for months in his sequestered camp or cabin, where his bed is often only a narrow bunk of boughs or straw. His food is simple and his clothing rough and plain, to suit the conditions of his life. A large part of the time he is out in snow and rain, tramping over rough rock and soil. The camps that are scattered through the forest are to him like islands, where he can turn aside for food and rest when on some longer journey than usual.

Like the sailor he also has learned some of the secrets of nature. He does not usually possess a compass, but he can tell its points by more familiar signs: by the pendent tops of the hemlocks, which usually bend toward the east, or by the mossy sides of the trees, which are generally in the direction of the coolest and moistest quarter of the heavens. In an extreme case he will even mount one of the tallest of the trees to find his bearings in his oceanlike forest. If well judged, the sighing of the wind in the boughs, I have been told, says much about the coming weather; just as the sickly wash of the waves means something to the sailor. Withal, both he and the woodsman are natural and generally honest fellows, hard workers at perilous callings, and less apt to speak than to commune with their own thoughts.

VI

THE ARTIFICIAL FORESTS OF EUROPE

To some of us, in this age of travel, the forests of Europe have become as familiar as our own. As scenic objects they have their faults and their excellences. While we appreciate their order and neatness, and the beautiful effects that may arise out of the subordination of all components of the forest to one main purpose, we Americans always miss in them the freshness of nature.

These forests, as they now stand, are the result of a long-continued application of the scientific principles of forestry, under special conditions, to the European forests of old. Having referred repeatedly to forestry itself, I now purpose, to the extent which a single chapter will permit, to explain the sources of beauty, or the absence of it, in these artificial forests. I shall thus place in contrast with our own, which are just beginning to undergo a new process of development, those of Europe, which have long been subjected to one in many respects similar.

The importance of forests had long been understood by the people of Europe. The relation which they held to civilized life, both in a material way and otherwise, led, more than a century ago, to a systematic and scientific treatment. It was realized that these forests might be made perpetual, and so might furnish a constant supply of useful material; that they economized and regulated the flow of mountain streams, which are always of great importance to the agricultural lands of subjacent regions; that they held in place the loose soil of the slopes, thus averting avalanches and ruinous floods; that they broke the force of the winds, tempered and purified the air, and I may add, inspired man with better and happier thoughts.

For these reasons the people of Europe determined to guard their forests well, and to aid nature, if possible, in becoming still more useful to man. To this end they made a careful study of the life history of the forest, and investigated the requirements of the trees and their rates of growth under varying conditions of soil, heat, light, and moisture. They also studied the numerous dangers to which the forest is exposed, and invented means and established laws for its protection. In short, they effected an ingenious adjustment between the needs of the forest and the requirements of man, and in course of time laid the foundations for a new system that was destined to be of great importance to the economic interests of nations.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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