THE FLOWER OF INDIAN SUMMER 



BY BESSIE L. PUTNAM 



When wandering along the banks of some stream in 

 the last sunny days of the year, we may happen upon 

 the pale yellow flowers of witch hazel, without question 

 the last ones of the year. This is a large shrub or a 

 small tree, sometimes reaching a height of 25 feet, but 

 is never large enough to furnish wood of commercial 

 importance. 



The flowers are strap-shaped, and in small clusters at 

 the axils of the leaves. Often the ripened fruit of the 

 previous year appears with them, but more frequently it 

 has been just scattered, and there remain only the twin 

 wooly pods with empty sockets showing where the seeds 

 have been. Though by no means showy, the flowers are 

 interesting, matching in color the increasing yellow of the 

 leaves. Yet though we may think of them as slow in 

 appearing, are they not really in advance of the normal 

 forest flowers? Examine the autumn formed buds of 

 the maple and beech. You will find them ready in em- 

 bryo to open with the first genial spring sunshine. The 

 witch hazel just carries the process a step farther, and 

 opens in late October or November. 



Many plants have special facilities for scattering seed. 

 In this respect, the witch hazel is unique. The pods of 

 touch-me-not spring back, throwing the seeds quite a 

 distance. The witch hazel bursts in a still more forcible 

 manner, and the two shining black bony seeds are thrown 

 very much farther. William Hamilton Gibson, who ex- 



perimented much with them, declares that the momen- 

 tum of the seed would commonly carry it twenty and 

 often thirty feet, and "in one or two instances the dimin- 

 utive double-barreled howitzers succeeded in propelling, 

 their missiles to the distance of forty-five feet by actual 

 measurement." Those who wish to test the projectile 

 power of the witch hazel have only to place a small 

 branch with the unopened seed-pods in a warm room. 

 In a few hours curious snapping sounds will be heard. 

 These, when traced, will be found to be the horny seeds, 

 thrown to all parts of the room. 



In olden times the forked branches of this shrub were 

 held in high repute as divining rods. No one would think 

 of digging a well without first making use of them in 

 pointing out the place where water could be found. If 

 the witch hazel was not obtainable, a peach limb was 

 sometimes used, but was considered less reliable. In 

 old times, too, the Indians discovered medicinal qualities 

 in the plant which are still credited to it, and through 

 which we have now several reliable medicines. 



It is a strange fact that while the flora of the Atlantic 

 slope is radically different from that of the Pacific, some 

 of our Eastern flowers skip over to Japan and are abun- 

 dant there. Of the three known species in this genus, 

 ours is native only to America while the two others are 

 found in Japan. It is a cousin to the red gum, which 

 has recently grown so popular in the furniture trade. 



Indian Summer 



It is the Indian summer. The rising sun biases through the misty air like a conflagration. A yellowish, 

 smoky haze fills the atmosphere, and a filmy mist lies like a silver lining on the sky. The wind is soft and 

 low. It wafts to us the odor of forest leaves, that hang wilted on the dripping branches, or drop into the 

 stream. Their gorgeous tints are gone, as if the autumnal rains had zmshcd them out. Orange, yellow 

 and scarlet, all are changed to one melancholy russet hue. The birds, too, have taken wing, and have 

 left their roofless dwellings. Not the whistle of a robin, not the twitter of an eavesdropping swallow, not 

 the carol of one sweet, familiar voice. All gone. Only the dismal cawing of a crow, as he sits and curses 

 that the harvest is over; or the chit-chat of an idle squirrel, the noisy denizen of a hollozv tree, the mendi- 

 cant friar of a large parish, the absolute monarch of a dozen acorns. Longfellow. 



A Ne^v House 



To-day on our street is a new frame house 

 Which the carpenters finished at noon ; I see 

 That sawdust and shavings still litter the porch ; 

 It is sweet to be built of a forest tree. 



A house that is fashioned of brick or stone 



May be fine. But from branches that wave in rain 



And snow, that have shaded the violets. 



That have heard all the winds and each bird's refrain, 



That draw of their strength from the Earth's warm breast. 

 Have been touched by the sunlight and blessed by the dew, 

 Have awakened at dawn and have loved the dusk, 

 Their sweetness may enter the new house, too. 



A home, I think should be built of the best 

 And a tree that has grown in the forest loam 

 Is the best material God could make 

 To be used by a man when he built his home. 



Sophie Tunnell. 



