A year among the trees

by Wilson Flagg

FOLIAGE.

Foliage is the most conspicuous of the minute productions of nature. To the leaves of trees we look, not only for the gratification of our sense of beauty, but as the chief source of grateful shade and of the general charms of summer. They are the pride of trees no less than their flowers, and the cause of healthful freshness in the atmosphere. They afford concealment to small birds and quadrupeds, they give color to the woods, and yield constant pleasure to the sight without any weariness. It is remarkable that we always trace with delight the forms of leaves in other objects of nature,—in the frostwork on our windows, in the lichens that cover the rocks in the forest, in the figures on a butterfly’s wing. Especially in art do we admire the imitation of foliage. It is, indeed, the source of half the beauty of this earth; for it constitutes the verdure of field and lawn, as well as of woods. Flowers are partial in their distribution, but foliage is universal, and is the material with which nature displays countless forms of beauty, from the small acicular leaves of the delicate heath plant, to the broad pennons of the banana, that float like banners over the hut of the negro.

With the putting forth of leaves we associate the most cheerful and delightful of seasons. In their plaited and half-unfolded condition and in their lighter hues we behold the revival of spring, and in their full development and perfected verdure the wealth, the ripeness, and the joyful fruition of summer. The different colors they assume are indeed the true dials of the year; pale shades of all denote its vernal opening; dark and uniform shades of green mark the summer; and those of gold, crimson and russet the autumn; so that by the leaves alone we might determine the month of the year. They form a delightful groundwork both for fruit and for flowers, harmonizing with each and making no discord with any hues of vegetation. If we consider leaves only as individual objects, they will not compare with flowers either in beauty of form or color. A single leaf seldom attracts a great deal of attention; but leaves in the aggregate are so important a part of the beauty of Nature, that she would not possess any great attraction for the sight without them. A cactus, though admired as a curiosity, and as the parent of magnificent flowers, is on account of its leafless habit but a miserable object; and we can imagine how forlorn must be the scenery of those Peruvian regions where the different species of cactus are the principal forms of vegetation.

It is very general to admire foliage in proportion as it is dense and capable of affording an impenetrable shade; but however desirable this may be to yield us a pleasant retreat on a summer noon, the beauty of a tree is not much improved by this quality. At a distance it presents a lumpish and uniform mass, with but little character; while a tree with moderately thin foliage, so thin as to be penetrated by the flickering sunshine, often discovers a great deal of character, by permitting the forms of the branches to be traced through its shadows. When I sit under a tree, I want to see the blue sky faintly glimmering through the leaves, and to view their forms on its clear surface when I look upwards. I would dispense with a profusion of shade, if it could be obtained only by shutting these things out from observation. Hence I always feel a sensation of gladness when rambling in a birchen grove, in which the small thin foliage and airy spray of the trees permit the sun and shade to meet and mingle playfully around my path.

The lumpish character of the foliage of large-leaved trees, like the tulip and magnolia, is perceptible at almost any distance, causing them to appear like green blots upon the landscape. The small-leaved trees, on the contrary, exhibit a certain neatness of spray, which immediately affects the eye with a sensation of beauty. This appearance is beautifully exemplified in the beech. Some of the large-leaved trees, however, possess a kind of formality that renders them very attractive. Such is the horse-chestnut, that spreads out its broad palmate leaves with their tips slightly drooping, like so many parasols held one above another. People have learned to admire large and broad foliage from descriptions of the immense size of tropical leaves, and by associating them with the romance of a voluptuous climate. The long pennon-like leaves of the banana and the wide fronds of the fan palm naturally excite the imagination of the inhabitant of the North.

The form of leaves, no less than their size, has a great share in their general effects, even when viewed from a distant point, where their outlines cannot be discriminated. If they are deeply cleft, like those of the river maple and the scarlet oak, or finely pinnate, like those of the locust and the mountain ash, we perceive a light, feathery appearance in the whole mass, before we are near enough to distinguish the form of individual leaves. This quality is apparent in the honey locust as far off as the tree can be identified. Hence the forms of leaves do not produce all their effect upon a near view; but in ornamental designs in the fine arts the delineations of foliage alone are considered. In the tracery of fenestral architecture, leaves are a very general and favorite ornament; and in photographic pictures of single leaves, the beauty of their outlines becomes more evident than in nature.

The most remarkable quality of foliage is color; and all will admit that green is the only color that would not produce weariness and final disgust. Omitting what may be said of autumn tints, the different shades of green in the forest, both while the foliage is ripening and after its maturity, constitute a very important distinction of individuals and species. Pure green is rarely found in any kind, except in its early stage of ripeness. The foliage of trees, when fully matured, is slightly tinged with brown or russet, and on the under side with white or blue. Painters, therefore, seldom use unalloyed green in their foliage; for even if they would represent its appearance in early summer, when its verdure is nearly pure, the effects of sunshine and shade upon the green forest can be produced only by a liberal mixture of the warm tints of orange and yellow when the sunshine falls upon it, and of purple and violet when it is in shadow.

If I were to select an example of what seems to me the purest green of vegetation, I should point to grass when smoothly shorn, as in a well-dressed lawn, so that the leaf only remains. By comparing the verdure of different trees with this example, we shall find it generally of a darker shade and inferior purity. The only trees of our soil that seem to me lighter, when in leaf, than grass, are the plane and the catalpa. We must observe trees on a cloudy day to distinguish the different shades of their foliage with precision. In such a state of the atmosphere they are all equally favored by the light; while, if the sun shines upon them, their verdure is modified according to the direction in which it is viewed.

That kind of foliage to which the epithet “silver” is usually applied is a very general favorite; but it is admired only because it is rare. I cannot believe, if the two kinds were equally common, that the silver leaf would be preferred to the green; for this is the color that affords the most enduring satisfaction. The white poplar is the most remarkable example of silver foliage. The river maple has less of this quality, though it seems to be one of the points for which it is admired. Nature displays but very little variegated foliage among her wild productions, except in the spring and autumn. It is evidently an abnormal habit; hence we find this variegation chiefly in those plants which have been modified by the cultivator’s art, and it seldom constitutes a specific mark of distinction.

In our studies of foliage we must not overlook the grasses, which are composed almost entirely of leaves. They contribute as much to the beauty of landscape as the verdure of trees, and collectively more than flowers. We need only a passing thought to convince us how tame and lifeless the landscape would be, though every hill were crowned with flowers, and every tree blossomed with gay colors, if there were no grasses or some kind of herbage to take their place. Hence the superior beauty of Northern landscape compared with the general scenery of tropical regions. There are more individual objects in a Southern land which are curious and beautiful, but its want of green fields soon renders its scenery wearisome.

There is also an interest attached to hills and meadows covered with green herbage, and pastured by flocks and herds, that comes from our sympathies and imagination, and causes the verdure of grass, when outspread upon their surface, to possess a moral or relative beauty displayed by few other natural objects. There is nothing else in landscape to be compared with it, and nearly all outdoor scenes would be cold and insipid without it. It expresses the fertility of the soil; it tells of gentle showers that have not been wanting; and it becomes thereby the symbol of providential care, the sign of pastoral abundance and rural prosperity. We find the grasses only where nature has made the greatest provision for the comfort and happiness of man and animals. All the beauties and bounties of springtime and harvest gather round them; the dews of morning glisten upon them like stars in the heavens; the flowers are sprinkled upon them like gems in beautiful tapestry; the little brooks ripple through them with sounds that are always cheerful, and flash in the sunlight as they leap over their bending blades. The merry multitudes of the insect race gain from them shelter and subsistence, and send up an unceasing chorus of merry voices from their verdure, which is a beautiful counterpart of the blue of heaven.

It may be truly said that no splendor of flowers or of the foliage of trees would make amends for the absence of grass. Distant hills and plains may be made beautiful by trees alone; but all near grounds require this velvety covering to render them grateful to the sight or interesting to the mind. This is the picturesque view of the subject; but in the eyes of a botanist grass is almost infinite in its attractions. In every field or pasture that offers its tender blades to the grazing herds, there are multitudes of species, beside the thousands of herbs and flowers and ferns and mosses which are always blended with them, and assist in composing their verdure. What seems to the eyes of a child a mere uniform mass of green is an assemblage of different species that would afford study for a lifetime. Grasses, though minute objects, are vast in their assemblages; but if we reflect on the phenomena of nature, we shall not consider the least thing any less admirable than the greatest. The same amount of wonderful mechanism is indicated in a spear of herdsgrass as in the bamboo that exceeds in height the trees of our forest; and the little cascade that falls over the pebbles in our footpath is as admirable to one who regards it as evincing the power of nature, as the Falls of Niagara.