Excerpt from “The Book of Trees” by Alfred Carl Hottes
We plant trees because we love them. Some trees linger in our memories as old friends, from whose branches we have swung; under whose cool shade we have rested from paly or work.
Some trees seem to have moods, changing from day to day, season to season, and from youth to old age.
We plant trees for their beauty of leaf, whether green in summer or red in autumn; for their bark which becomes particularly fascinating in winter; for the delicate tracery of the branches that frame our view of the sky.
We plant trees to shelter our homes from the summer sun and from the cold winds of the winter.
We plant trees to furnish havens for birds who pay a liberal rent to the tree in the form of the hordes of insects they devour. Where would our gardens of fruits, flowers, and vegetables be if it were not for the vigilant birds that catch more than we could spray.
We plant trees because where they expand their verdant branches the air is purer and less dusty.
We plant avenues of trees in cities and along roadsides to furnish shade, provide vistas of outlying beauty, and to prevent snow drifts.
Aside from aesthetic and civic value, the realtor knows that trees increase the value of property.
We are interested in a tree for pure botanical and horticultural reasons: the strengths of its woody fibers, the incomparable complexity of its flowers, the abundance of its fruit, and the growth processes that fascinate us.
We plant trees because we take joy in supplying a fit environment for a growth that approaches perfection.