HOME AND ABROAD: LINDEN, CAMPHOR, BEECH

“Now,” said Miss Harson to her expectant flock, “it is to be hoped that our foreign wanderings among such wonderful trees have not spoiled you for home trees, as there are still a number of them which we have not yet examined.”

“No indeed!” they assured her; “they liked to hear about them all, and they were going to try and remember everything she told them about the trees.”

Their governess said that would be too much to expect, and if they remembered the most important things she would be quite satisfied,

“We will take the linden, lime, or basswood, tree for it has all three of these names this evening,” she continued, “and there are nine or ten species of the tree, which are found in America, Europe and Western Asia. It is a very handsome, regular-looking tree with rich, thick masses of foliage that make a deep shade. The leaves are heart-shaped and very finely veined, have sharply-serrated edges and are four or five inches long. The leaf-stalk is half the length of the leaf. It blooms in July and August, and the flowers are yellowish white and very fragrant; when an avenue of limes is in blossom, the whole atmosphere is filled with a delightful perfume which can hardly be described.”

“There are no lime trees here, are there?” asked Clara.

“No,” was the reply, “I do not think there are any in this neighborhood; but they grow abundantly not many miles away. Our native trees are not so pretty as the English lime, which, clothed with softer foliage, has a smaller leaf and a neater and more elegant spray. Ours bears larger and more conspicuous flowers, in heavier clusters, but of inferior sweetness. Both species are remarkable for their size and longevity. The young leaves of the lime are of a bright fresh tint that contrasts strongly with the very dark color of the branches; and these branches are so finely divided that their beauty is seen to the greatest advantage when winter has stripped them bare of leaves.

“’The linden has in all ages been celebrated for the fragrance of its flowers and the excellence of the honey made from them. The famous Mount Hybla was covered with lime trees. The aroma from its flowers is like that of mignonette; it perfumes the whole atmosphere, and is perceptible to the inhabitants of all the beehives within a circuit of a mile. The real linden honey is of a greenish color and delicious taste when taken from the hive immediately after the trees have been in blossom, and is often sold for more than the ordinary kind. There is a forest in Lithuania that abounds in lime trees, and here swarms of wild bees live in the hollow trunks and collect their honey from the lime.’”

“What fun it would be, if we were there, to go and get it!” exclaimed Malcolm. “But don’t bees make honey from the lime trees that grow in this country, too, Miss Harson?”

“Certainly they do; and the beekeepers look anxiously forward to the blossoming of the trees, because they provide such abundant supplies for the busy swarms. The flowers have other uses, too, besides the making of honey: the Swiss are said to obtain a favorite beverage from them, and in the South of France an infusion of the blossoms is taken for colds and hoarseness, and also for fever. ’Active boys climb to the topmost branches and gather the fragrant flowers, which their mothers catch in their aprons for that purpose. An avenue of limes has been ravaged and torn in pieces by the eagerness of the people to gather the blossoms, and they are often made into tea which is a soft sugary beverage in taste a little like licorice.’”

“How queer,” said Clara, “to make tea from flowers!”

“Is it any queerer,” asked her governess, “than to make it from leaves? I should think that the flowers might even be better, and yet I should scarcely like lime-tea that tastes like licorice.”

The children, though, seemed to think that they would like it, and Miss Harson had very little doubt that such would be the case.

“Both the bark and the wood of the lime tree are valuable,” she continued. “The fibres of the bark are strong and firm, and make excellent ropes and cordage. In Sweden and Russia they are made into a kind of matting that is very useful for packing-purposes and in protecting delicate plants from the frost. ’The manufacture of this useful material is carried on in the summer, close by the woods and forests where the lime trees grow in abundance. As soon as the sap begins to ascend freely the bark parts from the wood and can be taken away with ease. Great strips are then peeled off and steeped in water until they separate into layers; the layers are still further divided into smaller strips or ribbons, and are hung up in the shade of the wood, generally on the very tree itself from which they have been taken. After a time they are woven into the matting and sent to market for sale. The Swedish fishermen also manufacture it into a coarse thread for fishing-nets, and from the fibres of the young shoots the Russian peasant makes the strong shoes he wears, using the outer bark for the soles. In Italy the garments of the poorer people are often made of cloth woven from this material.”

“Why, people can fairly live on trees,” said Malcolm. “I didn’t know that they were good for anything but shade except the trees that have fruit and nuts on ’em.”

“There is a great deal for us all to learn of the works of the Creator,” replied Miss Harson, “and the blessing of trees is not half known. The wood of the lime is said never to be worm-eaten; it is very soft and smooth and of a pale-yellow color. It is used for the famous Tunbridge ware, and is called the carver’s tree, because, as the poet says,

“’Smooth linden best obeys
The carver’s chisel best his curious work
Displays in nicest touches.’

“The fruits and flowers carved for the choir of St. Paul’s cathedral in London are done in lime-wood.

“So numerous are the purposes to which the bark, wood, leaves and blossoms of the lime, or linden, tree can be applied that centuries ago it was called the tree of a thousand uses. Linden is the name by which it is always known on the continent of Europe, and there it is indeed a magnificent tree, forming the most delightful avenues and branching colonnades. One of the principal streets in Berlin is called ’Unter den Linden.’ In the Middle Ages, when the Swiss and the Flemings were always struggling for liberty, it was their custom to plant a lime tree on the field of battle, and many of these old trees still remain and have been the subject of ballads and poetical effusions:

“‘The stately lime, smooth, gentle, straight and fair.’”

“Is there any story about it, Miss Harson?”

“No,” was the reply, “not much of a story; only descriptions of some very large and very ancient trees. One of these, the old linden tree of Soleure, in Switzerland, was spoken of by an English traveler two hundred years ago as ’right noble and wondrous to behold. A bower composed of its branches is capable of holding three hundred persons sitting at ease; it has also a fountain set about with many tables formed solely of the boughs, to which men ascend by steps; and all is kept so accurately and thick that the sun never looks into it.’”

“It is just like a tent,” said Malcolm, “it must be pleasant to sit by the fountain. Wouldn’t you like it, Miss Harson?”

“I am sure I should,” replied his governess; “and I should also like to see the famous lime tree of Zurich, the boughs of which will shelter five hundred persons. At Augsburg, in Germany, feasts and weddings have often been celebrated under the shade of some venerable limes that branch out to an immense distance. In early times divine honors were paid to them as emblems of immortality. And now,” said Miss Harson, “the last of these famous trees is a noble lime tree which grew on the farm belonging to the ancestors of Linnaeus, the great naturalist, beneath the shade of which he played in childhood, and from which his ancestors derived their surname. That noble tree still blossoms from year to year, beautiful in every change of seasons.”

“Lime, linden and basswood,” said Clara “three names to remember for one tree. But didn’t you say, Miss Harson, that it’s always called basswood in our country?”

“Often, but not always. The name linden is quite common with us, and it will be well for you to remember that it is also called lime, so that when you go to Europe you will know what is meant by lime and linden.”

The children laughed at this idea, for it seemed very funny to think of a little girl like Clara going to Europe, but, as their governess told them, little girls did go constantly; besides, this was the time to learn what would be of use to them when they were grown.

“The fragrant lime,” said Miss Harson, “has a relative in Asia whose acquaintance I wish you to make, and you know it already in one of its products, which is common in every household. It is also very fragrant or rather, I should say, it has a strong aromatic odor which is very reviving in cases of faintness or illness, although it has quite a contrary effect on insects, particularly on mosquitoes. I should like to have some one tell me what this white, powerful substance is.”

This was quite a conundrum, and for a little while the children were extremely puzzled over its solution; but presently Clara asked,

“Do the moths hate it too, Miss Harson? And isn’t it camphor?”

“Camphor doesn’t grow on a tree,” said Malcolm, in a superior tone; “it is dug out of the earth.”

“I have never read of any camphor-mines,” replied his governess, laughing, “and I think you will find that camphor which is just what I meant is obtained from the trunk of a tree.”

“Like India-rubber?” asked Edith.

“No, dear, not like India-rubber, for it grows in even a more curious way than that, masses of it being found in the trunk of the camphor tree not in the form of sap, but in lumps, as we use it.”

“I thought it was like water,” said Edith, in a puzzled tone.

“So it is when dissolved in alcohol, as we generally have it; but it is also used in lumps to drive away moths and for various other purposes. But I will tell you all about the tree, which grows in the islands of Sumatra and Bornéo and bears the botanical name Dryobalanops camphora. The camphor is also called barus camphor, to distinguish it from the laurus, of which I will tell you afterward, and it is of a better quality and more easily obtained. The tree grows in the forests of these East Indian islands and is remarkable for its majestic size, dense foliage and magnolia-like flowers. The trunk rises as high as ninety feet without a single branch, and within it are cavities, sometimes a foot and a half long, which cannot be perceived until the bark is split open. These cavities contain the camphor in clear crystalline masses, and with it an oil known as camphor oil, that is thought by some to be camphor in an immature form. But the oil, even when crystallized by artificial means, does not produce such good camphor as that already solidified in the tree.”

“To think,” exclaimed Clara, “of camphor growing in that way! But how do they get it out, Miss Harson? Do they cut great holes in the trunk of the tree?”

“No, dear; I have just read to you that the camphor cannot be seen until the bark is split open, and the grand trees have to be cut down. But to do this is no easy matter. The hard, close-grained timber requires days of hewing and sawing to get it severed. The masses of roots are as unyielding as iron, and run twisting through the soil to the distance of sixty yards. Even at their farthest extremity they are as thick as a man’s thigh.”

“I shouldn’t think the camphor was worth all that trouble,” said Malcolm; “it don’t seem to amount to much, any wary.”

“It is more valuable than you suppose,” replied Miss Harson; “for, besides preserving furs and woolen fabrics from the devouring moth, it protects the contents of cabinets and museums from the attacks of the minute creatures that prey upon the dried specimens of the naturalist. Not any of the insect tribe can endure the powerful scent of the camphor, and they either retreat before it or are killed by it. But its principal value is in medicine. It is used both internally and externally. It acts as a nervous stimulant, and is a favorite domestic remedy. So you see, Malcolm, that camphor really amounts to a great deal, and we could not very well do without it.”

“How can people tell when there is any camphor inside the tree?” asked Clara.

“They cannot tell,” was the reply, “until the trunk is split open, although a tribe of men in Sumatra say that they know before-hand, by a kind of magic, which is the right tree to cut down. But the beautiful, stately tree is often wasted in vain, and after all their hard work the camphor-seekers find the cavities of the split-up trunk filled with a thick black substance like pitch instead of the pure white camphor.”

“Poor things!” said Edith, pityingly; “that’s too bad.”

“Camphor is found in many trees and shrubs,” continued her governess, “but in all others except the camphor tree of Sumatra and Bornéo it has to be distilled from the wood and roots. The camphor-laurel, which is about the size of an English oak, is the most important of these trees. It grows abundantly in the Chinese island of Formosa, and ’camphor mandarin’ is the title of a rich Chinaman who pays the government for the privilege of extracting all the camphor, which he sends to other countries at a large profit. Every part of this tree is full of camphor, and the tree gives out, when bruised, a strong perfume.

The European bay tree, which is more like an immense shrub, is also a member of this singular tribe, and its leaves have the strong family flavor. They were used in medicine, as well as the berries, before the camphor-laurel became known in Europe; in the time of Queen Elizabeth the floors of the better sort of houses were strewed with bay-leaves instead of being carpeted as now. The bay was an emblem of victory in old Roman times, and victorious generals were crowned with it. A wreath of this laurel, with the berries on, was placed on the head of a favorite poet in the Middle Ages, and in this way came the title poet-laureate laureatus,’ crowned with laurel.’

“Do you remember,” continued Miss Harson, “the tall, straight tree that I showed you yesterday when we were out in the woods the one with a fluted trunk? What was its name?”

“I know!” said Malcolm, quite excited. “Think of the seashore! Beach! That’s what I told myself to remember.”

“A very good idea,” replied his governess, laughing; “only you must not spell it with an a, like the seashore, for it is b-e-e-c-h. The fluted, or ribbed, shaft of this grand-looking tree is often sixty or seventy feet high, and, although it is found in its greatest perfection in England, it is a common tree in most of the woods in this country. For depth of shade no tree is equal to the beech, and its long beautiful leaves, with their close ridges and serrated edges, are very much like those of the chestnut. The leaves are of a light, fresh green and very neat and perfect, because they are so seldom attacked by insects; they remain longer on the branches than those of any deciduous tree, and give a cheerful air to the wood in winter. In the autumn they change to a light yellow-brown, which makes a pretty contrast to the reds and greens and purples of other trees. The branches start out almost straight from the tree, but they very soon curve and turn regularly upward. Every small twig turns in the same direction, making the long leaf-buds at the end look like so many little spears. I showed you these ‘stuck-up’ buds when we were looking at the tree, and you noticed how different they were from the other trees.”

Yes, the children remembered it; and it always seemed to them particularly nice to have part of the talk out of doors and the rest in the house.

“Doesn’t the beech tree have nuts?” asked Malcolm. “John says it does.”

“Yes,” replied Miss Harson; “it has tiny three-cornered nuts which seem particularly small for so large a tree. But these nuts are eagerly devoured by pigeons, partridges and squirrels. Bears are said to be very fond of them, and swine fatten very rapidly upon them. Most varieties are so small as not to repay the trouble of gathering, drying and opening them. Fortunately, this is not the case with all, as it is a delicious nut. In France the beech-nut is much used for making oil, which is highly valued for burning in lamps and for cooking. In parts of the same country the nuts, roasted, serve as a substitute for coffee.”

“I’d like to find some when they’re ripe,” said Clara, “if they are little.”

“We will have a search for them, then,” was the reply, “when the time comes. The flowers which produce these little nuts are very showy and grow in roundish tassels, or heads, which hang by thread-like, silky stalks, one or two inches long, from the midst of the young leaves of a newly-opened bud. A traveler says of these leaves, ’We used always to think that the most luxurious and refreshing bed was that which prevails universally in Italy, and which consists entirely of a pile of mattresses filled with the luxuriant spathe of the Indian corn; which beds have the advantage of being soft as well as elastic, and we have always found the sleep enjoyed on them to be particularly sound and restorative. But the beds made of beech-leaves are really no whit behind them in these qualities, whilst the fragrant smell of green tea, which the leaves retain, is most gratifying. The objection to them is the slight crackling noise which the leaves occasion as the individual turns in bed, but this is no inconvenience at all; or if so in any degree, it is an inconvenience which is overbalanced by the advantages of this most luxurious couch.”

“But how funny,” said Malcolm, “to sleep on leaves! That’s what the Babes in the Wood did.”

“No,” replied Clara, very earnestly, “they didn’t sleep on leaves, you know; but when they had laid down and gone to sleep, the robins came and covered them with leaves.”

“Yes,” chimed in little Edith; “I like that way best, because they’d be so cold in the woods.”

“And that really was the case,” said Miss Harson, after listening with a smile to this discussion, “although there were probably leaves on the ground for the children to lie upon. A bed of leaves is not a bad thing where there are no mattresses, and such a bed is often used as a matter of course. You will remember my reading to you about the beds which the Finland mothers make for their children of the leaves of the canoe-birch. ‘Leafy beds’ are no strange thing not mere poetry.”