The first general impression of the tulip tree is, I venture to say, one of strangeness. There is a foreign look about the heavy, truncated leaves, and an oriental luxury in the large, greenish-yellow flowers. These appear in May or June, while the conelike fruit ripens in the fall. When the seeds have scattered, the open cones, upright in position, remain for a long time on the tree, where they are strikingly ornamental.
Esthetically the most important feature of the tulip tree is an expression of dignity and stateliness, which gives it a character of its own. Its extraordinary size renders it a conspicuous object in the forest, the more so because we usually find it associated with a variety of other trees of quite different aspect. Michaux, who has told us much about the forest flora of the eastern United States, could find no tree among the deciduous kinds, except the buttonwood, that would bear comparison with it in size, and he calls it “one of the most magnificent vegetables of the temperate zone.” Its columnar trunk continues with unusual straightness and regularity nearly to the summit of the tree. Its limbs and branches divide in harmonious proportions, reaching out as if conscious of their strength, and yet with sufficient gracefulness to lend dignity to the tree. The lower boughs, especially, are inclined to assume an elegant sweep, deflecting sidewise to the earth, and ending with an upward curve and a droop at the outer extremity. Often the crowded environment of the forest does not admit of such ample development; yet even under such conditions the tulip tree preserves much of its elegance and is generally well balanced.
Tulip Trees
When young it does not appear to much advantage, being rather too symmetrical. Nevertheless I have found it described as a tree of “great refinement of expression” at that age. As soon as it begins to put on a richer crown of foliage and to develop a sturdier stem and more elegant lines in the disposition of its branches, it becomes invested with its peculiar aspect of magnificence, increasing in gracefulness and grandeur from year to year. Its bark, at first smooth and gray, gradually becomes chiseled with sharp small cuts; then takes on a corrugated appearance, becomes brown, and finally turns into deeply furrowed ridges in the old tree. Now the foliage, too, seems to clothe the massive boughs more fitly, being denser and in size of leaves more in accordance with the increased dimensions of the tree.
The foliage of the tulip tree is, in truth, one of its principal points of beauty, and is inferior only to the stateliness of its form. The opening leaf-buds are conical, exquisitely modeled, and of the tenderest green. The leaves unfold from them much as do the petals in a flower, but quickly spread apart on the stem. As they grow larger they still preserve their light-green color, but take on a mild gloss. They are ready to shift and tremble on their long leaf-stalks in every breath of wind, which gives them a decided air of cheerfulness. We may see the same thing in the aspen and in some of the poplars. Under the tulip tree, however, the light that descends and spreads out on the ground is far superior. It is softer and purer. We need not look up to appreciate it, but may watch it on the soil, over which it moves in flecks of light and dark.
“The chequer’d earth seems restless as a flood
Brushed by the winds, so sportive is the light
Shot through the boughs; it dances, as they dance,