A SPRING OPENING

On that bright spring afternoon when three happy, interested children went off to the woods with their governess to take their first lesson in the study of wild flowers, they saw also some other things which made a fresh series of “Elmridge Talks,” and these things were found among the trees of the roadside and forest.

“What makes it look so yellow over there, Miss Harson?” asked Clara, who was peering curiously at a clump of trees that seemed to have been touched with gold or sunlight. “And just look over here,” she continued, “at these pink ones!”

Malcolm shouted at the idea:

“Yellow and pink trees! That sounds like a Japanese fan. Where are they, I should like to know?”

“Here, you perverse boy!” said his governess as she laughingly turned him around. “Are you looking up into the sky for them? There is a clump of golden willows right before you, with some rosy maples on one side. What other colors can you call them?”

Malcolm had to confess that “yellow and pink trees” were not so wide of the mark, after all, and that they were very pretty. Little Edith was particularly delighted with them, and wanted to “pick the flowers” immediately.

“They are too high for that, dear,” was the reply, “and these blossoms for that is what they really are, although nothing more than fringes and catkins are much prettier massed on the trees than they would be if gathered. The still-bare twigs and branches seem, as you see, to be draped with golden and rose-colored veils, but there will be no leaves until these queer flowers have dropped. If we look closely at the twigs and branches, we shall see that they are glossy and polished, as though they had been varnished and then brightened with color by the painter’s brush. It is the flowing of the sap that does this. The swelling of the bark occasioned by the flow of sap gives the whole mass a livelier hue; hence the ashen green of the poplar, the golden green of the willow and the dark crimson of the peach tree, the wild rose and the red osier are perceptibly heightened by the first warm days of spring.”

“Miss Harson,” asked Clara, with a perplexed face, “what are catkins?”

“Here,” said her governess, reaching from the top bar of the road-fence for the lowest branch of a willow tree; “examine this catkin for yourself, and I will tell you what my Botany says of it: ’An ament, or catkin, is an assemblage of flowers composed of scales and stamens or pistils arranged along a common thread-like receptacle, as in the chestnut and willow. It is a kind of calyx, by some classed as a mode of inflorescence (or flowering), and each chaffy scale protects one or more of the stamens or pistils, the whole forming one aggregate flower. The ament is common to forest-trees, as the oak and chestnut, and is also found upon the willow and poplar.’”

“It’s funny-looking,” said Malcolm, when he had made himself thoroughly acquainted with the appearance of the catkin, “but it doesn’t look much like a flower: it looks more like a pussy’s tail.”

“Yes, and that is the origin of its name. ‘Catkin’ is diminutive for ‘cat;’ so this collection of flowers is called ‘catkin,’ or ‘little cat.’”

“I think I’ll call them ‘pussy-tails,’” said Edith.

“There is a great deal to be learned about trees,” said Miss Harson, when all were comfortably seated in the pleasant schoolroom; “and, besides the natural history of their species, some old trees have wonderful stories connected with them, while many in tropical countries are so wonderful in themselves that they do not need stories to make them interesting. The common trees around us will be our subjects at first; for I suppose that you can scarcely tell a willow from a poplar, or a chestnut tree from either, can you?”

“I can tell a chestnut tree,” said Malcolm, confidently.

“When it is not the season for nuts?” asked his governess, smiling.

There was not a very positive reply to this; and Miss Harson continued:

“I do not think that any of us know as much as we ought to know of the trees which we see every day, and of the uses to which many of them are put, to say nothing of many familiar trees that we read about, and even depend upon for some of the necessaries of life.”

“Like the cocoanut tree,” suggested Clara.

“That is not exactly necessary to our comfort, dear,” was the reply, “for people can manage to live without cocoanuts, although in many forms they are very agreeable to the taste, and it is only the inhabitants of the countries where they grow who look upon these trees as necessaries; but we will take them up in their turn. And first let us find out what we can about the willow, because it is the first tree, with us, to become green in the spring, and, of that large class which is called deciduous, the last one to lose its leaves.”

“And why are they called deciduous?” asked Malcolm.

“Because they shed their leaves every autumn and are furnished with a new set in the spring: ‘deciduous’ is Latin for ‘falling off.’ And this is the case with nearly all our native trees and plants. Persistent, or permanent, leaves remain on the stem and branches all through the changes of season, like the leaves of the pine and box, while evergreens look fresh through the entire year and are generally cone-bearing and resinous trees. ’These change their leaves annually, but, the young leaves appearing before the old ones decay, the tree is always green.’”

“Miss Harson,” said Clara, “when people talk about weeping willows, what do they mean? Do the trees really cry? I sometimes read about ’em in stories, and I never knew what they did.”

“They cry dreadfully,” said Malcolm, “when it rains.”

“But only as you do when you are out in it,” replied his governess “by having the water drip from your clothes. No, Clara, the tree is called ‘weeping’ because it seems to ’assume the attitude of a person in tears, who bends over and appears to droop.’ The sprays of this tree are particularly beautiful, and ‘willowy’ is often used for ‘graceful,’ as meaning the same thing. Its language is ‘sorrow,’ and it is often seen in burial-grounds and in mourning-pictures. ’We remember it in sacred history, associating it with the rivers of Babylon, and with the tears of the children of Israel, who sat down under the shade of this tree and hung their harps upon its branches. It is distinguished by the graceful beauty of its outlines, its light-green, delicate foliage, its sorrowing attitude and its flowing drapery.’”

“Were those weeping willows that we saw to-day?” asked Clara.

“No,” replied her brother, quickly; “they just stuck up straight and didn’t weep a bit.”

“They are called water willows,” said Miss Harson, “because they are never found in dry places. They are more common than the weeping willow. The water willow has the same delicate foliage and the same habit, under an April sky, of gleaming with a drapery of golden verdure among the still-naked trees of the forest or orchard. ’When Spring has closed her delicate flowers,’ says a bright writer, ’and the multitudes that crowd around the footsteps of May have yielded their places to the brighter host of June, the willow scatters the golden aments that adorned it, and appears in the deeper garniture of its own green foliage.’ A group of these golden willows, seen in a rainstorm, will have so bright an appearance as to make it seem as if the sun were actually shining.”

“I wish we had them all around here, then,” said Edith; “I like to see the sun shining when it rains.”

“But the sun is not shining, dear,” replied her governess: “it is only the reflection from the willows that makes it look so; and we can make just such sunshine ourselves when it rains, or when there is dullness of any sort, by being all the more cheerful and striving to make others happy. Who loves to be called ’Little Sunshine’?”

“I do,” said the child, caressing the hand that had patted her rosy cheek.

“Let’s all be golden willows,” said Malcolm, in a comical way that made them laugh.

Miss Harson told him that he could not make a better attempt than to be one of those home-brighteners who bring the sunshine with them, but she added that such people are always considerate for others. Malcolm wondered a little if this meant that he was not, but he soon forgot it in hearing the many things that were to be said of the willow.

“The family-name of this tree is Salix, from a word that means ’to spring,’ because a willow-branch, if planted, will take root and grow so quickly that it seems almost like magic. ’And they shall spring up as among the grass, as willows by the watercourses,’ says the prophet Isaiah, speaking of the children of the people of God. The flowers of the willow are of two kinds one bearing stamens, and the other pistils and each grows upon a separate plant. When the ovary, at the base of the pistil, is ripe, it opens by two valves and lets out, as through a door, multitudes of small seeds covered with a fine down, like the seeds of the cotton-plant. This downy substance is greedily sought after by the birds as a lining for their nests, and they may be seen carrying it away in their bills. And in some parts of Germany people take the trouble to collect it and use it as a wadding to their winter dresses, and even manufacture it into a coarse kind of paper.”

“What queer people!” exclaimed Clara. “And how funny they must look in their wadded dresses!”

“They are not graceful people,” was the reply, “but they live in a cold climate and show their good sense by dressing as warmly as possible. It was quite a surprise, though, to me to find that the willow was of use in clothing people. The more we learn of the works of God, the better we shall understand that last verse of the first chapter of the Bible: ’And God saw everything that he had made, and behold, it was very good.’ The bees, too, are attracted by the willow catkins, but they do not want the down. On mild days whole swarms of them may be seen reveling in the sweets of the fresh blossoms. ’Cold days will come long after the willow catkins appear, and the bees will find but few flowers venturesome enough to open their petals. They have, however, thoroughly enjoyed their feast, and the short season of plenty will often be the means of saving a hive from famine.’”

“Are willow baskets made of willow trees?” asked Malcolm.

“Yes,” said Miss Harson. “Basket-making has been a great industry in England from the earliest times; the ancient Britons were particularly skillful in weaving the supple wands of the willow. They even made of these slender stems little boats called ‘coracles,’ in which they could paddle down the small rivers, and the boats could be carried on their shoulders when they were walking on dry land.”

“Just like our Indians’ birch-bark canoes,” said Malcolm, who was reading about the North American Indians. “But isn’t it strange, Miss Harson, that the Indians and the Britons didn’t get drowned going out in such little light boats?”

“Their very lightness buoyed them up upon the waves,” was the reply; “but it does seem wonderful that they could bear the weight of men. The willow, however, was also used by the Romans in making their battle-shields, and even for the manufacture of ropes as well as baskets. The rims of cart-wheels, too, used to be made of willow, as now they are hooped with iron; so, you see, it is a strong wood as well as a pliant one. The kind used for basket-making is the Salix viminalis, and the rods of this species are called ‘osiers.’ Let us see now what this English book says of the process of basket-making:

“’The quick and vigorous growth of the willow renders it easy to provide materials for this branch of industry. Osier-beds are planted in every suitable place, and here the willow-cutter comes as to an ample store. Autumn is the season for him to ply his trade, and he cuts the willow rods down and ties them in bundles. He then sets them up on end in standing water to the depth of a few inches. Here they remain during the winter, until the shoots, in the following spring, begin to sprout, when they are in a fit state to be peeled. A machine is used in some places to compress the greatest number of rods into a bundle.

“’Aged or infirm people and women and children can earn money by peeling willows at so much per bundle. The operation is very simple, and so is the necessary apparatus. Sometimes a wooden bench with holes in it is used, the willow-twigs being drawn through the holes. Another way is to draw the rod through two pieces of iron joined together, and with one end thrust into the ground to make it stand upright. The willow-peeler sits down before his instrument and merely thrusts the rod between the two pieces of iron and draws it out again. This proceeding scrapes the bark off one end, and then he turns it and fits it in the other way; so that by a simple process the whole rod is peeled. When the rods are quite prepared, they are again tied up in bundles and sold to the basket-makers.’”

“But how do they make the baskets?” asked Clara and Edith. “That is the nicest part.”

“There is little to tell about it, though,” said their governess, “because it is such easy work that any one can learn to do it. You saw the Indian women making baskets when papa took us to Maine last summer, and you noticed how very quickly they did it, beginning with the flat bottom and working rapidly up. It is a favorite occupation for the blind, and one of the things which are taught them in asylums.”

“I wonder,” said Malcolm, “if there is anything else that can be done with the willow?”

“Oh yes,” replied Miss Harson; “we have not yet come to the end of its resources. It makes the best quality of charcoal, and in many parts of England the tree is raised for this express purpose. ’The abode of the charcoal-burner,’ says an English writer, ’may be known from a distance by the cloud of smoke that hovers over it, and that must make it rather unhealthy. It is sometimes a small dome-shaped hut made of green turf, and, except for the difference of the material, might remind us of the hut of the Esquimaux. Beside it stands a caravan like those which make their appearance at fairs, and that contains the family goods and chattels. A string of clothes hung out to dry, a water-tub and a rough, shaggy dog usually complete the picture.’”

“But how can people live in the hut,” asked Malcolm, “if the charcoal is burned in it? Ugh! I should think they’d choke.”

“They certainly would,” said his governess; “for the charcoal-smoke is death when inhaled for any length of time. But the charcoal-burner knows this quite as well as does any one else, and he makes his fire outside of the house, puts a rude fence around it and lets it smoke away like a huge pipe. The hut is more or less enveloped in smoke, but this is not so bad as letting it rise from the inside would be. A great deal of willow charcoal is made in Germany and other parts of Europe.”

“But, Miss Harson,” said Clara, in a puzzled tone, “I don’t see what they do with it all. It doesn’t take much to clean people’s teeth.”

“No, dear,” was the smiling reply, “and I am afraid that the people who make it are rather careless about their teeth. You need not laugh, Malcolm, because it is ‘just like a girl,’ for it is quite as much like a boy not to know things which he has never been taught, and you must remember that you have two years the start of your sister in getting acquainted with the world. Perhaps you will kindly tell us of some of the uses to which charcoal is applied?”

“Well,” said the young gentleman, after an awkward silence, “it takes lots of it to kindle fires.”

“I do not think that Kitty ever uses it in the kitchen,” said Miss Harson, “for she is supplied with kindling-wood for that purpose. You will have to think of something else.”

But Malcolm could not think, and his governess finally told him that a great deal of charcoal is used for making gun-powder, and still more for fuel in France and the South of Europe, where a brass vessel supplies the place of a grate or stove. Quantities of it are consumed in steel-and iron-works, in preserving meat and other food, and in many similar ways. The children listened with great interest, and Malcolm felt sure that the next time he was asked about charcoal he would have a sensible answer.

“Our insect friends the aphides, or plant-lice, are very fond of the willow,” continued Miss Harson, “and in hot, dry weather great masses of them gather on the leaves and drop a sugary juice, which the country-people call ‘honey-dew,’ and in some remote places, where knowledge is limited, it has been thought to come from the clouds. But we, who have learned something about these aphides, know that it comes from their little green bodies, and that the ants often carry the insects off to their nests, where they feed and ’tend them for the sake of this very juice. The aphis that infests the willow is the largest of the tribe, and the branches and stems of the tree are often blackened by the honey-dew that falls upon them.”

“Do willow trees grow everywhere?” asked Clara.

“They are certainly found in a great many different places,” was the reply, “and even in the warmest countries. In one of the missionary settlements in Africa there is a solitary willow that has a story attached to it. It was the only tree in the settlement think what a place that must have been! except those the missionary had planted in his own garden, and it would never have existed but for the laziness of its owner. Nothing would have induced any of the natives to take the trouble to plant a tree, and therefore the willow had not been planted. But it happened, a long-time ago, that a native had fetched a log of wood from a distance, to make into a bowl when he should feel in the humor to do so. He threw the log into a pool of water, and soon forgot all about it. Weeks and months passed, and he never felt in the humor to work. But the log of wood set to work of its own accord. It had been cut from a willow, and it took root at the bottom of the pool and began to grow. In the end it became a handsome and flourishing tree.”

This story was approved by the young audience, except that it was too short; but their governess laughingly said that, as there was nothing more to tell, it could not very well be any longer.

“The weeping willow,” continued Miss Harson, “was first planted in England in not so lazy a way, but almost as accidentally. Many years ago a basket of figs was sent from Turkey to the poet Pope, and the basket was made of willow. Willows and their cousins the poplars are natives of the East; you remember that the one hundred and thirty-seventh psalm says of the captive Jews, ’By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat down, yea, we wept, when we remembered Zion. We hanged our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.’ ’The poet valued highly the small slender twigs, as associated with so much that was interesting, and he untwisted the basket and planted one of the branches in the ground. It had some tiny buds upon it, and he hoped he might be able to rear it, as none of this species of willow was known in England. Happily, the willow is very quick to take root and grow. The little branch soon became a tree, and drooped gracefully over the river in the same manner that its race had done over the waters of Babylon. From that one branch all the weeping willows in England are descended.’”

“And then they were brought over here,” said Malcolm. “But what odd leaves they have, Miss Harson! so narrow and long. They don’t look like the leaves of other trees.”

“The leaf is somewhat like that of the olive, only that of the olive is broader. The willow is a native of Babylon, and the weeping willow is called Salix Babylonica. It was considered one of the handsomest trees of the East, and is particularly mentioned among those which God commanded the Israelites to select for branches to bear in their hands at the feast of tabernacles. Read the verse, Malcolm the fortieth of the twenty-third chapter of Leviticus.”

Malcolm read:

“’And ye shall take you on the first day the boughs of goodly trees, branches of palm trees, and the boughs of thick trees, and willows of the brook; and ye shall rejoice before the Lord your God seven days.’”

“A place called the ‘brook of the willows,’” added his governess, “is mentioned in Isaiah x, and this brook, according to travelers in Palestine, flows into the south-eastern extremity of the Dead Sea. The willow has always been considered by the poets as an emblem of woe and desertion, and this idea probably came from the weeping of the captive Jews under the willows of Babylon. The branches of the Salix Babylonica often droop so low as to touch the ground, and because of this sweeping habit, and of its association with watercourses in the Bible, it has been considered a very suitable tree to plant beside ponds and fountains in ornamental grounds, as well as in cemeteries as an emblem of mourning.”

“How much there is to remember about the willow!” said Clara, thoughtfully. “I wonder if all the trees will be so interesting?”

“They are not all Bible trees,” replied Miss Harson. “But the wise king of Israel found them interesting, for he ’spake of trees, from the cedar tree that is in Lebanon even unto the hyssop that springeth out of the wall.’”