The Witch Hazel and the Sweet Gum 



Every tree has its supreme moment of beauty. This usually 

 comes when the foliage is in its prime, or when the flower buds 

 burst in spring. The witch hazel is an exception to all rules. 

 When the crisp autumnal atmosphere warns all plant life to get 

 ready for winter the witch hazel trees put a new construction on 

 the message. As if by magic, all up and down through the woods 

 they burst into bloom, each flower bravely flaunting four delicate 

 petals like tiny yellow streamers. The woods are fairly sprinkled 

 with these starry, gold-thread blossoms, and a rare fragrance 

 breathes upon the languid October air. The ripening leaves 

 second and intensify the colour of the flowers, which often thickly 

 fringe the outstretched twigs, and cover up the green buttons. 



Ah! here is another surprise the witch hazel has to offer. 

 These buttons, so precious to the tree, contain the seeds developed 

 from the flowers that bloomed last year. It has taken a full 

 year to ripen them. Each pod has two cells, with a shiny black 

 seed prisoner in each. The frost gives the signal, and the pods 

 fly open with a snap, freeing the seeds, and ejecting them with 

 surprising force. Dry, cold weather will discharge the whole 

 seed crop in a few days. They shoot in every direction, and to a 

 distance sometimes of twenty feet from the foot of the tree. But 

 warm, wet weather delays their game. The pods are close and 

 glum. There is no spring in them till they are dry again. 



It is a far cry from March to October; from furry tassels of 

 blossoming aspens and willows to the witch hazel in its yellow 

 blossoms bringing up the rear in the great annual procession of 

 the flowers. In fact, the witch hazel practically bridges the 

 chasm of winter, for at no time does the cold cause all the flowers 

 to fall. Their yellow petals curl up like shavings; but they often 

 stay till spring. 



A witch in old days was a person who did or said things not 

 conventional. Our witch hazel has defied the ancient laws of 

 the calendar — a very dreadful thing! So it comes honestly by 

 its name; and one is inclined to ignore the accepted etymology 

 that the word "witch," or "wych," in Old English, means "weak," 

 and refers to the sprawling habit of the tree. Surely the observer 

 cannot miss seeing little weazen witch faces grinning at him from 

 all possible angles of the tree, their yellow cap strings flying in the 

 wind, as if in defiance of the rumour that the days of witchcraft 

 are past. 



