for so good a tree, use it in preference to
the most decidedly "common" names that belie and mislead.

I have said that this same tulip-tree--which I will call liriodendron
hereafter, at a venture--is a notable American tree, peculiar to this
country. So believed the botanists for many years, until an inquiring
investigator found that China, too, had the same tree, in a limited
way. We will still claim it as an American native, and tell the Chinamen
they are fortunate to have such a superb tree in their little-known
forests. They have undoubtedly taken advantage, in their art forms, of
its peculiarly shaped leaves, if not of the flowers and the curious
"candlesticks" that succeed them.

[Illustration: Winter effect of tulip trees]

Let us consider this liriodendron first as a forest tree, as an
inhabitant of the "great woods" that awed the first intelligent
observers from Europe, many generations back. Few of our native trees
reach such a majestic height, here on the eastern side of the continent,
its habitat. Ordinarily it builds its harmonious structure to a height
of seventy or a hundred feet; but occasional individuals double this
altitude, and reach a trunk diameter of ten feet. While in the close
forest it towers up with a smooth, clean bole, in open places it assumes
its naturally somewhat conical form very promptly. Utterly dissimilar in
form from the American elm, it seems to stand for dignity, solidity and
vigor, and yet to yield nothing in the way of true elegance. The
botanists tell us it prefers deep and moist soil, but I know that it
lives and seems happy in many soils and in many places. Always and
everywhere it shows a clean, distinct trunk, its brown bark uniformly
furrowed, but in such a manner as to give a nearly smooth appearance at
a little distance. The branches do not leave the stem so imperceptibly
as do those which give the elm its very distinct form, but rather start
at a right angle, leaving the distinct central column of solid strength
unimpaired. The winter tracery of these branches, and the whole effect
of the liriodendron without foliage, is extremely distinct and pleasing.
I have in mind a noble group of great liriodendrons which I first saw
against an early April sky of blue and white. The trees had grown close,
and had interlaced their somewhat twisty branches, so that the general
impression was that of one great tree supported on several stems. The
pure beauty of these very tall and