A UTUMN. 



105 



trees. What other country can boast the glory of a tree which, taken all 

 in all, can hold its own beside our lovely maple ? From the time when 

 first it hangs its silken tassels to the awakening spring breeze until its 

 autumn fire has burned away its leaves, it presents an everchanging phase 

 that lends a distinct expression to American landscape. It affords us 

 grateful shade in summer; and with its trickling bounty in the spring 

 we can all unite in a hearty toast, "A health to the glorious maple." 



THE ROAD TO THE MILL. 



But there is another tree which should not be forgotten, and if once 

 seen in a New England autumn landscape there is little clanger of its 

 escaping from the memory. Of course, I refer to the pepperido-e, or 

 tupelo, that nondescript among trees ; for who ever saw two pepperidge- 

 trees alike ? They seem to scorn a reputation for symmetry, or even the 

 idea of establishing among themselves the recognition of a type of char- 

 acter. Novelty or grotesqueness is their only aim, and they hit the bull's- 

 eye every time. There is one I have in mind that has ahvavs been a 

 perfect curiosity. Its height is fully seventy feet, and its crown is as flat 

 as though cut off with a mammoth pair of pruning-shears. The central 

 trunk runs straight up to the summit, from which it squirms off into six 

 or seven snake-like branches, that dip downward and writhe among the 

 other limbs, all falling in the same direction. One gets the impression, 



