ABOUT TREES.
From the originator of Arbor Day.
A tree is the perfection in strength, beauty, and usefulness of vegetable life. It stands majestic through the sun and storm of centuries. Resting in summer beneath its cooling shade, or sheltering besides its massive trunk from the chilling blast of winter, we are prone to forget the little seed whence it came. Trees are no respecters of persons. They grow as luxuriantly
beside the cabin of the pioneer as against the palace of the millionaire. Trees are not proud. What is this tree? This great trunk, these stalwart limbs, these beautiful branches, these gracefully bending boughs, these gorgeous flowers, this flashing foliage and ripening fruit, purpling in the autumnal haze are only living materials organized in the laboratory of Nature's mysteries out of rain, sunlight, dews, and earth. On this spot, in this tree, a metamorphosis has so deftly taken place that it has failed to excite even the wonder of the majority of men.
Here, sixty years ago, a school boy planted an acorn. Spring came, then the germ of this oak began to attract the moisture of the soil. The shell of the acorn was then broken open by the internal growth of the embryo oak. It sent downward a rootlet to get soil and water, and upward it shot a stem to which the first pair of leaves was attached. These leaves are thick and fleshy. They constitute the greater bulk of the acorn. They are the first care-takers of the young oak. Once out of the earth and in the sunlight they expand, assume a finer texture, and begin their usefulness as nursing leaves, "folia nutrientia." They contain a store of starch elaborated in the parent oak which bore the acorn.
In tree infancy the nursing leaves take oxygen from the air, and through its influence the starch in the nursing leaves is transmuted into a tree baby-food, called dextrine, which is conveyed by the water absorbed during germination to the young rootlet and to the gemmule and also to the first aerial leaf. So fed, this leaf expands, and remains on the stem all summer. The nursing leaves die when the aerial leaves have taken their food away, and then the first stage of oak hood has begun. It has subterranean and superterranean organs, the former finding plant-food in the earth, and the latter gathering it in the air, the sunlight, and the storm. The rootlets in the dark depths of soil, the foliage in the sunlit air, begin now their common joint labor of constructing a majestic oak. Phosphates and all the delicacies of plant-food are brought in from the secret stores of the earth by the former, while foliage and twig and trunk are busy in catching sunbeams, air, and thunderstorms, to imprison in the annual increment of solid wood. There is no light coming from your wood, corncob, or coal fire which some vegetable Prometheus did not, in its days of growth, steal from the sun and secrete in the mysteries of a vegetable organism.
Combustion lets loose the captive rays and beams which growing plants imprisoned years, centuries, even eons ago, long before human life began its earthly career. The interdependence of animal and tree life is perennial. The intermission of a single season of a vegetable life and growth on the earth would exterminate our own and all the animal races. The trees, the forests are essential to man's health and life. When the last tree shall have been destroyed there will be no man left to mourn the improvidence and thoughtlessness of the forest-destroying race to which he belonged.
In all civilizations man has cut down and consumed, but seldom restored or replanted, the forests. In biblical times Palestine was lovely in the foliage of the palm, and the purpling grapes hung upon her hillsides and gleamed in her fertile valleys like gems in the diadems of her princes. But man, thoughtless of the future, careless of posterity, destroyed and replaced not; so, where the olive and the pomegranate and the vine once held up their luscious fruit for the sun to kiss, all is now infertility, desolation, desert, and solitude. The orient is dead to civilization, dead to commerce, dead to intellectual development. The orient died of treelessness.
From the grave of the eastern nations comes the tree monition to the western. The occident like the orient would expire with the destruction of all its forests and woodlands.
Twenty-five thousand acres of woodland are consumed by the railroads, the manufactories, and the homes of the United States every twenty-four hours. How many are planted? To avert treelessness, to improve the climatic conditions, for the sanitation and embellishment of home environments, for the love of the beautiful and useful combined in the music and majesty of a tree, as fancy and truth unite in an epic poem, Arbor Day was created. It has grown with the vigor and beneficence of a grand truth or a great tree. It faces the future. It is the only anniversary in which humanity looks futureward instead of pastward, in which there is a consensus of thought for those who are to come after us, instead of reflections concerning those who have gone before us. It is a practical anniversary. It is a beautiful anniversary. To the common schools of the country I confide its perpetuation and usefulness with the same abiding faith that I would commit the acorn to the earth, the tree to the soil, or transmit the light on the shore to far off ships on the waves beyond, knowing certainly that loveliness, comfort, and great contentment shall come to humanity everywhere because of its thoughtful and practical observance by all the civilized peoples of the earth.
J. Sterling Morton.
LEAVES, AND WHAT THEY DO.
The leaves of the trees afford an almost endless study and a constant delight. Frail, fragile things, easily crumpled and torn, they are wonderful in their delicate structure, and more wonderful if possible on account of the work which they perform.
They are among the most beautiful things offered to our sight. Some one has well said that the beauty of the world depends as much upon leaves as upon flowers. We think of the bright colors of flowers and are apt to forget or fail to notice the coloring of leaves. But what a picture of color, beyond anything that flowers can give us, is spread before our sight for weeks every autumn, when the leaves ripen and take on hues like those of the most gorgeous sunset skies, and the wide landscape is all aglow with them. A wise observer has called attention also to the fact that the various kinds of trees have in the early springtime also, only in a more subdued tone, the same colors which they put on in the autumn. If we notice the leaves carefully, we shall see that there is a great variety of color in them all through the year. While the prevailing color, or the body color so to speak, is green, and the general tone of the trees seen in masses is green—the most pleasant of all colors to be abidingly before the sight—this is prevented from becoming dull or somber because it comprises almost innumerable tints and shades of the self-same color, while other distinct colors are mingled with it to such an extent as to enliven the whole foliage mass. Spots of yellow, of red, of white, and of intermediate colors are dashed upon the green leaves or become the characteristic hues of entire trees, and so there is brought about an endless variety and beauty of color.
Then there is the beauty of form, size, position, and arrangement. Of the one hundred and fifty thousand or more known species of trees, the leaves of each have a characteristic shape. The leaves of no two species are precisely alike in form. More than this is also true. No two leaves upon the same tree are in this respect alike. While there is a close resemblance among the leaves of a given tree, so that one familiar with trees would not be in doubt of their belonging to the same tree, though he should see them only when detached, yet there is more or less variation, some subtle difference in the notching or curving of the leaf-edge perhaps, so that each leaf has a form of its own. These differences of shape in the leaves are a constant source of beauty.
What a variety of size also have the leaves, from those of the birches and willows to those of the sycamores, the catalpas and the paulownias. On the same tree also the leaves vary in size, those nearest the ground and nearest the trunk being usually larger than those more remote. How different as to beauty would the trees be if their leaves were all of the same size; how much less pleasing to the sight.
Then what a wide difference is there in the position of the leaves on the trees and their relative adjustment to each other? Sometimes they grow singly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes in whirls or clusters. Some droop, others spread horizontally, while others still are more or less erect. The leaves of some trees cling close to the branches, others are connected with the branches by stems of various length and so are capable of greater or less movement. The leaves of poplars and aspens have a peculiarly flattened stem, by reason of which the slightest breath of wind puts them in motion.
These are some of the most obvious characteristics of the leaves, and by which they are made the source of so much of the beauty of the world in which we live. It will be a source of much pleasure to anyone who will begin now, in the season of swelling buds and opening leaves, to watch the leaves as they unfold and notice their various forms and colors and compare them one with another. There is no better way of gaining valuable knowledge of trees than this, for the trees are known by their leaves.
But let us turn now from their outward appearance and consider what is done by them, for the leaves are among the great workers of the world, or, if we may not speak of them as workers, a most important work is done in or by means of them, a work upon which our own life depends and that of all the living tribes around us.
Every leaf is a laboratory, in which, by the help of that great magician, the sun, most wonderful changes and transformations are wrought. By the aid of the sun the crude sap which is taken up from the ground is converted by the leaves into a substance which goes to build up every part of the tree and causes it to grow larger from year to year; so that instead of the tree making the leaves, as we commonly think, the leaves really make the tree.
Leaves, like other parts of the plant or tree, are composed of cells and also of woody material. The ribs and veins of the leaves are the woody part. By their stiffness they keep the leaves spread out so that the sun can act upon them fully, and they prevent them also from being broken and destroyed by the winds as they otherwise would be. They serve also as ducts or conduits by which the crude sap is conveyed to the leaves, and by which when it has there been made into plant food, it is carried into all parts of the tree for its nourishment. Protected and upheld by these expanded woody ribs, the body of the leaf consists of a mass of pulpy cells arranged somewhat loosely, so that there are spaces between them through which air can freely pass. Over this mass of cells there is a skin, or epidermis as it is called, the green surface of the leaf. In this there are multitudes of minute openings, or breathing pores, through which air is admitted, and through which also water or watery vapor passes out into the surrounding atmosphere. In the leaf of the white lily there are as many as 60,000 of these openings in every square inch of surface and in the apple leaf not fewer than 24,000. These breathing pores, called stomates, are mostly on the under side of the leaf, except in the case of leaves which float upon the water. There is a beautiful contrivance also in connection with these pores, by which they are closed when the air around is dry and the evaporation of the water from the leaves would be so rapid as to be harmful to the tree, and are opened when the surrounding atmosphere is moist.
The green color of the leaves is owing to the presence in the cells of minute green grains or granules, called chlorophyll, which means leaf-green, and these granules are indispensable to the carrying on of the important work which takes place in the leaves. They are more numerous and also packed more closely together near the upper surface of the leaf than they are near the lower. It is because of this that the upper surface is of a deeper green than the lower.
Such, then, is the laboratory of the leaf, the place where certain inorganic, lifeless substances such as water, lime, sulphur, potash, and phosphorus are transformed and converted into living and organic vegetable matter, and from which this is sent forth to build up every part of the tree from deepest root to topmost sprig. It is in the leaves also that all the food of man and all other animals is prepared, for if any do not feed upon vegetable substances directly but upon flesh, that flesh nevertheless has been made only as vegetable food has been eaten to form it. It is, as the Bible says, "The tree of the field is man's life."
But let us consider a little further the work of the leaves. The tree is made up almost wholly of oxygen, hydrogen, and carbon. It is easy to see where the oxygen and hydrogen are obtained, for they are the two elements which compose water, and that, we have seen, the roots are absorbing from the ground all the while and sending through the body of the tree into the leaves. But where does the carbon come from? A little examination will show.
The atmosphere is composed of several gases, mainly of oxygen and nitrogen. Besides these, however, it contains a small portion of carbonic acid, that is, carbon chemically united with oxygen. The carbonic acid is of no use to us directly, and in any but very minute quantities is harmful; but the carbon in it, if it can be separated from the oxygen, is just what the tree and every plant wants. And now the work of separating the carbon from the oxygen is precisely that which is done in the wonderful laboratory of the leaf. Under the magic touch of the sun, the carbonic acid of the atmosphere which has entered the leaf through the breathing pores or stomates and is circulating through the air-passages and cells, is decomposed, that is, taken to pieces; the oxygen is poured out into the air along with the watery vapor of the crude sap, while the carbon is combined with the elements of water and other substances which we have mentioned, to form the elaborated sap or plant-material which is now ready to be carried from the leaves to all parts of the plant or tree, to nourish it and continue its growth. Such is the important and wonderful work of the leaf, the tender, delicate leaf, which we crumple so easily in our fingers. It builds up, atom by atom, the tree and the great forests which beautify the world and provide for us a thousand comforts and conveniences. Our houses and the furniture in them, our boats and ships, the cars in which we fly so swiftly, the many beautiful and useful things which are manufactured from wood of various kinds, all these, by the help of the sun, are furnished us by the tiny leaves of the trees.