In June, 1823, at Moisselles, lightning fell upon a great elm, and striking against an enormous knob, rebounded on to a neighbouring elm half its own height, pierced it through and through, shivering it to tatters; the trunk was burst open to the roots, it looked as if it had been bored through from one end to the other by a red-hot bullet that blackened and charred it.
Does it not seem as if the lightning plays with the lives of the trees as with man? It threatens, changes, apparently spares, returns to the charge and finally annihilates. And this sport is accompanied, at times, by inconceivable effects.
But records are still more eloquent than reflections: Nature, in her own mute speech, tells us of a thousand marvels.
Is not the following phenomenon enough to make lightning more mysterious in its fantastic and varied mode of action?
On the 19th of April, lightning struck an oak in the forest of Vibraye (Sarthe), cut this tree, measuring a metre and a half in circumference, at two-thirds of its height, pulverized the lower parts, strewed the shreds over a circuit of fifty metres, and planted the upper part exactly on the spot from which the trunk had been snatched, with all the rapidity of a flash.
Moreover, the annual concentric circles were separated by the sudden drying up of the sap so effectually, that, the strips only remained welded together where the knots made too great an obstacle to their separation.
How was the lightning able to plant in the earth, with such inconceivable rapidity, the top of the tree where the roots had been? This is something which no one can explain. It alone is capable of creating such situations.
But it has done better still! Two years later, in 1868, it took the opportunity of playing a good trick on two trees of different species, an English oak and a forest pine, which, without race jealousy, fraternized in the forest of Pont-de-Bussière (Haute-Vienne). These two trees were about ten yards apart, and were simultaneously hit by the explosive matter, and in the twinkling of an eye, their leaves were changed. The pine needles found themselves on the oak, and the leaves of the oak went to brighten the austerity of the pine with their delicate verdure. There was nothing commonplace about the metamorphosis. Accordingly all the inhabitants went in crowds to the scene of this miracle to contemplate the unusual spectacle of a pine-oak and an oak-pine.
And the unexpected happened: both trees appeared to thrive very well in these new conditions: the pine continued to be agreeably adorned with its festival foliage, whilst the oak agreed perfectly with the sombre needles of the pine.
After such marvels, my readers will not be surprised to learn that lightning sometimes shatters the living wood, or decayed wood, into a thousand morsels without setting it on fire.