A very intelligent old man, who in his youth was a great bear- and
panther-hunter, has often told me how the black bear and the tawny
catamount used to choose the ample "forks" of the tulip-tree for their
retreats when pursued by his dogs. The raccoon has superseded the larger
game, and it was but a few weeks ago that I found one lying, like a
striped, fluffy ball of fur, in a crotch ninety feet above ground. "Our
white-wood" lumber has grown so valuable that no land-owner will allow
the trees to be cut by the hunter, and hence the old-fashioned
'coon-hunt has fallen among the things of the past, for it seems that
the 'coon is quite wise enough to choose for the place of his indwelling
the costliest tulip of the woods. I have already casually mentioned the
fact that the tulip-tree's bloom is scarcely known to exist by even
intelligent and well-informed Americans. Every one has heard of the
mimosa, the dogwood, the red-bud, and the magnolia, but not of the
tulip-bearing tree, with its incomparably bold, dashing, giantesque
flower, once so common in the great woods of our Western and Middle
States. I have not been able to formulate a good reason for this. Every
one whose attention is called to the flower at once goes into raptures
over its wild beauty and force of coloring, and wonders why poems have
not been written about it and legends built upon it. It is a grander
bloom than that which once, under the same name, nearly bankrupted
kingdoms, though it cannot be kept in pots and greenhouses. Its colors
are, like the idiosyncrasies of genius, as inimitable as they are
fascinating and elusive. Audubon was something of an artist, but his
tulip-blooms are utter failures. He could color an oriole, but not the
corolla of this queen of the woods. The most sympathetic and experienced
water-colorist will find himself at fault with those amber-rose,
orange-vermilion blushes, and those tender cloudings of yellow and
green. The stiff yet sensitive and fragile petals, the transparent
sepals, with their watery shades and delicate washing of olive-green,
the strong stamens and peculiarly marked central cone, are scarcely less
difficult. All the colors elude and mock the eager artist. While the
gamut of promising tints is being run, he looks, and, lo! the grand
tulip has shrivelled and faded. Again and again a fresh spray is fetched
in, but when the blooming-season is over he is still balked and
dissatisfied. The wild, Diana-like puri