The Sycamores 



between the tender cambium and the cold outdoors. It is the 

 sycamore's way. 



Have you ever bolted out of a car window at the sycamores 

 and white birches that streak the dull winter woods with light? 

 It is a strange sight, calculated to stir the dullest imagination. 

 The birches stand together, and keep each other in countenance. 

 They do not seem to mind being looked at, but flaunt their tattered 

 ribbons of bark without self-consciousness. The sycamores stand 

 alone, as a rule. Except in young trees, the limbs are tortuous, 

 reaching out in many directions without much regard for sym- 

 metry. One often stands on the verge of a stream, and leans far 

 out as if contemplating a plunge. The rush of the train makes of 

 these solitary trees pallid, spectral figures, that dart past the win- 

 dows — hunted outcasts, lepers in the tree community, fleeing 

 before invisible pursuers. It is a satisfaction to find each tree 

 back in its place when we come again that way. 



Quite a different tree from the distressed-looking specimen 

 in colder New England is the buttonwood of more congenial soil 

 and clime — a stalwart, large-limbed tree of colossal trunk, which 

 lifts its head high above its forest neighbours, and shelters great 

 oaks and maples under its protecting arms. The weird, irregular 

 top is singularly free from small branches, but in summer the 

 broad leaves are so disposed as to soften the harsh lines. The 

 open-boughed buttonwoods of the little city of Worcester, Massa- 

 chusetts, noted for their stately beauty early in the century just 

 finished, well illustrate this kindly ministry of the leaves. 



The buds of the sycamore deserve our close attention in the 

 autumn. Leaves are fading; at first glance we note that there are 

 no buds in their angles. How is next year's growth provided for? 

 Look again! The leaf loosens in your hand and lets go its hold 

 on the twig. Its stem ends in a hollow cone. There on the twig 

 is a plump bud that grew all summer under the protecting base 

 of that leaf. Two or three little hoods each bud wears to protect 

 it, now the leaf is gone. The outer one is of leathery texture, 

 without seams, and the delicate inner ones fit close, so there is no 

 danger. The leaf never abandons its ward until it is safe to do so. 



The little frilled sheathing stipules are well worth looking for 

 on young shoots of the sycamore in spring. So are the balls that 

 hang in the treetop, first in May as the two separate kinds of 

 flower heads; later when the surviving pistillate ones change to 



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