Seeing trees Discover the extraordinary secrets of everyday trees

WHEN I was the editor of House & Garden, I was often asked what every gardener should have on her shelves. Contrary to popular belief, gardeners are bookish sorts - all those fallow winters, you know. It just so happens that this holiday season, publishers are offering a whole library's worth of collectibles. How would we be able to get through the cold, dark season without garden porn? (Warm Texas readers, please wipe the smug smiles off your faces.) You've heard of "starchitects"? Well, meet a stardener - a British phenom, naturally. Americans aren't yet so smitten with horticulture. Dan Pearson's intimate HOME GROUND: Sanctuary in the City (Conran Octopus, $29.99) has the genial tone of a journal. It's about the making of Pearson's own garden in London, which took years, when he wasn't busy with television and radio appearances and a frenetic global lecture schedule, to say nothing of designing some of Europe's most beautiful and impressive gardens. Most of us would give our firstborn fritillaria to find the kind of "beauty in the wreckage" he describes in his winter garden. Under the attentive, loving eye of the photographer Howard Sooley, even Pearson's Turkish knife is photogenic. Who knew there was such sensual beauty in as simple an act as saving seed from Stipa barbata? My spirits lifted when Pearson wrote that "designing my own garden was one of the most difficult things I have ever done." There's hope, it seems, for the rest of us. The results of Pearson's labors are breathtaking. In winter, he observes, "the licorice foliage of the Ranunculus ficaria 'Brazen Hussy' is up while the rest of the garden is still slumbering." In our dreams, anyway. Pearson's book will have readers fantasizing about all kinds of fleeting hussies. For more centerfolds - and no staples - reach for the two encyclopedic volumes of THE BOTANICAL GARDEN (Firefly, $89.95 and $75), by Roger Phillips and Martyn Rix. You won't see the trees for the leaves in Volume 1, "Trees and Shrubs," which provides only up-close treatment; the first sentence of each entry gives expected height, not shape. But there's a froth of detail about everything from the shy backsides of sepals (see Rubus) to the jaunty, rosy stamen bunches of the Melaleuca. These books look good just sitting there, but they turn out to be quite clever as well, providing "a new way of looking at plants and gardening from a more botanical viewpoint." If you want to be conversant about genera and families, these volumes will give you a framework. But I'm content simply to let words like Leguminosae and Nymphaeaceae and Woodsiaceae roll around in my mouth like marbles while I ogle photos of sweet peas, water lilies and ferns. While Texans may be congratulating themselves on living in a mild winter clime, might I remind everyone that long-term drought is predicted for that region? (And that in the Northeast we may soon be planting for rain-forest conditions.) The excellently thorough, smart and handsome TIMBER PRESS GUIDE TO SUCCULENT PLANTS OF THE WORLD (Timber Press, $49.95), by Fred Dortort, offers a trove of jewels for a robust, drought-tolerant garden. Mop-headed Coreopsis gigantea cluster like shaggy hippies from the '60s. And there are euphorbias enough to make any Northeastern gardener prickle with envy; the Yemeni spiralis is a head-turner. Will we ever be lucky enough to see a majestic baobab in the United States? They grow over most of the drier parts of Africa and India, but for many of us dreams of the baobab took root when we read "The Little Prince." To weave spells, though, try the spider web sempervivum; Dortort writes that the ancient Romans decorated grave sites with them because their ability to endure the direst conditions "hinted at immortality." A book like this is as restorative as a three-week vacation, minus the hassles with airplanes. Gardeners worrying about water will also appreciate THE GARDENER'S GUIDE TO CACTUS (Timber Press, $24.95, available in early January), by Scott Calhoun, whose subtitle says it all: "The 100 Best Paddles, Barrels, Columns and Globes." It offers a clear, helpful, well-presented text - trust me, this is an art form all too often neglected in garden books - along with reliable design suggestions. The book that belongs on every serious gardener's Shelf is DIRR'S ENCYCLOPEDIA OF TREES AND SHRUBS (Timber Press, $79.95). Already there, you say? But this is a new, spruced-up edition of the bible of the industry, with a cleaner design, wipeable cover, newly introduced plants and changes in plant names. Just in time for another generation of gardeners, Michael A. Dirr's encyclopedia is as charming as it is refined. Even the captions are full of personality. You can almost hear the car engine idling after Dirr has screeched to a halt to take pictures of a barberry he "did not even know existed." Dirr inspires because he cuts out mystification, and because he's so reliable. "Firs and heat are akin to cats and dogs," he reports; "they simply do not socialize well." Over the years, I've enjoyed getting to know this writer through the asides tucked into his plant observations. Trailing arbutus "has followed Bonnie and me from our graduate student days at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst, to Athens." That would be Athens in Georgia, where a professorship in his name has been established at the state university in recognition of his accomplishments. (Dirr is too modest to include this information.) I gasped when I read in the introduction that his grown daughter had died a few years ago with cystic fibrosis. His garden gave him and his wife solace: "Bonnie and I find inner peace with each other and in the garden. . . . There is joy in nurturing and loving living things to their greatest genetic potential." For gardeners bereft of gardens, a tiny book may save your soul: TERRARIUM CRAFT (Timber Press, paper, $18.95), by Amy Bryant Aiello and Kate Bryant, with photographs by Kate Baldwin. Aiello and Bryant, who are gardeners in Portland, Ore., have a knack for creating magical moments: succulents arch over dove eggs in a delicate glass orb; fine quartz sand is layered with bands, of white pebbles in a glass jar planted with Cotyledon undulata; maidenhair fern roots in glass flasks; an angel wing begonia sits grandly in a canning jar. There's something touchingly quaint about these creations, though aesthetically they're quite modern. It has to do with the recognition that acreage isn't what makes the gardener, who will always find a patch of dirt into which she can stick at least a pinkie. Gardeners who have been shovel-ready for years are familiar with the pantheon of writers that includes Gertrude Jekyll and Beverley Nichols. But just as there are always tender new shoots, so there are tender new readers ready to curl up fireside with, say, Katharine S. White's "Onward and Upward in the Garden." I find that collection - and I tremble to say this, since it's horticulturally politically incorrect and will surely bring on blight - overrated. Give me the biting wit of Margery Fish or the smart edge of Eleanor Perenyi any day. For readers who have no idea what I'm talking about, here is Elizabeth Barlow Rogers's lovely WRITING THE GARDEN (David R. Godine, $27.95), a collection of two centuries' worth of garden essays. I had forgotten how much I loved Elizabeth von Arnim's 1898 book "Elizabeth and Her German Garden," in which she refers to her insufferably domineering husband as the "Man of Wrath." She takes him to one of her favorite garden spots - but just once, because he "made us feel so small by his blasé behavior that I never invite him now." At one time, there seems to have been some concern about getting American women into the garden. Andrew Jackson Downing writes disdainfully that "they may love to 'potter' a little. . . . They sow some China asters, and plant a few dahlias, and it is all over." I learned that it was Charles Dudley Warner, not his neighbor Mark Twain, who said, "Everybody complains about the weather, but nobody does anything about it." Part of the fun of anthologies like this is the flash of context. A.A. Milne winks out from the pages by one of my all-time favorites, Beverley Nichols: "At the risk of out-winnying the poo, it must be admitted that I always think flowers know what you are saying about them." The seeds for many a new garden library will be harvested from this slim volume - or it will inspire readers to return to well-worn classics. The glass artist Dale Chihuly is always good for a change of a scene. Before you protest, need I remind you of the age-old tradition of using sculpture to enliven a garden? CHIHULY GARDEN INSTALLATIONS (Abrams, $75), with essays by David Ebony and Tim Richardson, is a weighty compendium of crowd-pleasing work. Bright pink chunks of glass sparkle over lily pads in the Fairchild Tropical Botanic Garden in Coral Gables, Fla., while leopard-spotted bronze trumpets rise up through the foliage at the Missouri Botanical Garden in St. Louis - as close as man will ever get to making flowers. While we can't create flowers, we can create parks. But it's rare that a dense old city will make room for a new public Space. HIGH LINE: The Inside Story of New York City's Park in the Sky (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, paper, $29.95) is the personal account of Joshua David and Robert Hammond, who spent a decade rescuing a decaying freight rail structure from demolition and shepherding a brilliant restoration by sheer force of will and heaps of good luck. These two innocents, with no experience in city planning, politics, finance, engineering, horticulture or design, started with a romantic fascination with the 22 unbroken blocks of elevated tracks: "The rusting Art Deco railings gave it a sense of lost beauty, and the spaces underneath were very dramatic; they had a dark, gritty, industrial quality, and a lofty, church-like quality as well." The tracks ran for a mile and a half through Manhattan and were seeded profusely with wildflowers and trees. During their first visit "we had to wade through waisthigh Queen Anne's lace." The men met at a community board meeting devoted to a discussion of the possible demolition of the eyesore. David sat next to Hammond "because I thought he was cute." Within months they had business cards and a logo and were gathering high-profile Chelsea neighbors to their cause. Alex von Furstenberg signed on: "He was just so handsome and friendly, and he had an amazing body." I chuckled, reading this most unusual take on city planning. Imagine what kind of notes might have come out of Olmsted's office if everyone had been so frank. "Gayness ultimately became an identifying characteristic of the organization and, to some degree, of the park itself." That thought alone - from the Stonewall riots to the High Line in less than 50 years - should occupy social historians for generations. The book chronicles mishaps: Hammond gives Amanda Burden, of the City Planning Commission, the wrong address for her first site visit, and leaves her "standing in the snow for almost an hour." Miracles abound : a one-line e-mail from Barry Diller announced that his family "had decided to make a $10 million challenge gift." David and Hammond's efforts paid off handsomely for New York, as the park achieved iconic stature even before it opened. Its surprisingly rugged, blowzy plantings resonate with its derelict past. Speaking of gayness, there's not a whisper of the Ramble's reputation as a place for homosexual encounters in THE RAMBLE IN CENTRAL PARK: A Wilderness West of Fifth (Abbeville, $35), Robert A. McCabe's book of splendidly soulful photographs of my favorite part of Central Park. Olmsted envisioned this wooded, winding, watery section as "the perfect realization of the wild garden." A ramble through it is indeed disconcerting in the heart of city - there are no signs, paths twist and turn, plantings are dense and vistas are often obscured, so the visitor is disoriented. All the better to marvel at the rocky outcroppings, the leaf litter that carpets the ground with brilliant color in autumn, the gorge transformed by snow in a blizzard. When America was young, people found public oases of tranquillity in cemeteries rather than parks. After GreenWood, in Brooklyn, was founded in 1838, its nearly 500 acres became a great tourist attraction, rivaling Niagara Falls. After 9/11, Allison Cobb, traumatized by the attack, began visiting this "sylvan still life" regularly. Her haunted explorations inspired a gorgeous, subtle, idiosyncratic gem. GREEN-WOOD (Factory School, paper, $15) is a meditation on consolation, war, private enclosures and public grief. It's written in fragments. Shards of poetry glint from the prose like the pieces of metal - commemorative "dog tags" offered to soldiers, their bodies returned from Operation Iraqi Freedom for burial - that lie beside some of the graves. Often late for work because of visits to the glacial ponds to watch an egret fishing, Cobb wants "to possess this creature." As she walks through an arboreal "room of green light," she keeps company across time with other writers. She lingers in a grove of giant tulip trees and thinks of Whitman, who was also fond of lying under a great oak: "On his 60th birthday, Whitman dreamed his favorite trees came walking toward him." About grieving, she reminds us of Emerson's admonition to keep our internal "noisy, sensual savage" down. She makes ritualized lists of the detritus of grief, what she calls "the juicy intervals I encounter" - "MERRY CHRISTMAS IN HEAVEN ribbon"; "DADDY WE MISS YOU pumpkin"; the "HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN HEAVEN balloon wrecked on a branch." Andrew Jackson Downing, whose principles are reflected in the layout of Green-Wood, envisioned our nation, Cobb recalls, "as a vast Eden sculpted by individual property owners." Cobb works her way through the idea of ownership, whether of trees or grief, while this special place works its own way toward healing her. There's nothing wrong with a reminder that we don't just have gardens, we have a Garden of Eden. Or we once did. Judging by the sheer numbers of trees dying to become books about trees, I sense a growing unease about our alienation from the forest world - and a desire to reconnect with it. My favorite new book this season is SEEING TREES: Discover the Extraordinary Secrets of Everyday Trees (Timber Press, $29.95), by Nancy Ross Hugo with photographs by Robert Llewellyn. This book is made for us nearsighted gardeners, who long ago learned the thrill of peering at plants. Like all good books, it's the product of personal obsession - with what was growing in the authors' backyards. They urge readers to examine their pictures of "the hair, veins, pores and other wildly vivifying tree characteristics." It is, indeed, mind-boggling to gaze at the shredded ball gown of pink bracts below the new leaves of a shagbark hickory or the runway of purple and yellow stripes beckoning pollinators to the catalpa. Richard Avedon's fashion shoots came to mind as I gazed at the blowup of a sycamore ball. I also made my peace with the ankle-twisting but charismatic fruit of the sweet gum tree. And finally learned what on earth that chartreuse softball-size fruit was that I had kicked around for years while out walking - the Osage-orange, fruit that may well have delighted woolly mammoths, mastodons and giant ground sloths more than 10,000 years ago. Which reminds me to remind you that while humans have been evolving for three million years, trees have been doing it for 397 million. We ought to pay our elders more respect. Indeed, the authors hope that their romance with trees, conveyed with the splendid rapture of lovers (those eyes, those lips, those ears . . . ) will "help make the world safer for trees." TREES AND FORESTS: Wild Wonders of Europe (Abrams, $50), by Florian Möllers, Annick Schnitzler, Staffan Widstrand and , gathers photographs of woods from the Alpine regions to the rain forests of the Canary Islands. I was entranced by the pictures of the Slovakian fire salamander; the European white water lily taken from its underside; and the common kingfisher in a sparkle of droplets, its meal in its beak. On a final note, though it isn't even in the loosest sense a garden book, GAIA (Assouline, $65), by Guy Laliberté, is a mind-bending portrait of our Eden - and a reminder of the importance of the gardener's collective ethos of tender care for our small patches of soil. As Wendell Berry reminds us, "the earth is what we all have in common." Laliberté, the creator of Cirque du Soleil, spent 11 days at the International Space Station, orbiting the earth some 176 times and making gravity-defying photographs. They're a lovely counterpoint to the tiny details of seeds and buds cherished by those who tend the planet below. This is the perfect time to marvel at the blessings of life, laugh at the folly of humankind and anticipate the miracles that will spring up under your trowel next spring. Dominique Browning blogs at SlowLoveLife.com. She is the senior director of MomsCleanAirForce.org, fighting air pollution to protect children's health.

Most of us note the leafing out of trees in the spring and their often spectacular fall color, but Hugo and Llewellyn, veterans of garden writing and tree and landscape photography, respectively, go much deeper to share the details of the complex lives of trees gleaned from years of personal observation. They have created an informative, beautifully illustrated book that delves into tree growth and reproduction. Hugo begins by introducing the reader to various tree parts: leaves, flowers, cones, fruit, buds, leaf scars, bark, and twigs. Next, she profiles ten well-known trees including the red maple, white oak, and white pine. Whether she is describing the unfurling of a leaf or the development of an acorn, her prose draws the reader into her world. Stunning close-up and magnified shots of trees and tree parts illuminate the text. VERDICT This fascinating celebration of trees will delight gardeners, botanists, students of natural history, and nature photographers.-Sue O'Brien, Downers Grove P.L., IL (c) Copyright 2011. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.

Introduction "The acorns are plumping out." It was late August when my husband, John, made that casual observation, but there was nothing casual about my response to it. I was thrilled, not so much because the acorns were "plumping out," growing fatter and fatter under their caps, but because it meant John had caught the tree-watching bug, which is contagious. I guess you can't spend time with someone who pulls the ladder out to inspect tree flowers or festoons them with yarn bows to mark developing fruit without catching some enthusiasm for the subject.     In truth, John has always been an enthusiastic tree-watcher, but his sensibilities have grown with mine in the recent years we've spent watching trees up close. This kind of tree-watching is different from the kind that takes in trees at a glance, possibly names them, then assigns them to the category of thing to watch, like when they're leafing out in spring or when they're changing color in fall. There is always something to watch when you are paying attention to the intimate details that define tree species and the processes that characterize their life cycles. Like the Chinese, who divide the solar calendar into twenty-four rather than four seasons (among them, fortnights called "excited insects," "grains fill," "cold dew," and "frost descends"), a practiced tree-watcher knows there are dozens of seasons and that one of them could be called "acorns plumping out."      The rewards of observing intimate tree details such as maturing acorns, unfurling beech leaves, and emerging walnut flowers inspired photographer Robert Llewellyn and me to create this book. In a previous project, Bob and I traveled over 20,000 miles and spent four years describing and illustrating the finest trees in our state, Virginia. We focused primarily on trees and their beauty in the landscape. Bob, who came to photography via engineering and has a keen interest in the way things work, began looking more carefully at the constituent parts of the trees we were visiting, and he was soon collecting twigs, flowers, fruits, and buds to examine and photograph in his studio. He argues that "picking up a camera makes you really see things," and soon he was discovering minute phenomena that further piqued his interest in the way trees work and live. To capture them, he mastered a new form of photography. Using software developed for work with microscopes Bob creates incredibly sharp images by stitching together eight to forty-five images of each subject, each shot at a different focal point. And, inspired by botanical drawings, he photographs his subjects against a white background, which helps to isolate them and emphasize their detail.      Like a botanical painter, Bob wanted his photographs to "enlighten people about what's going on" in the natural world, but he also wanted to be enlightened himself. As we got into our work, Bob was soon full of questions about the functions of bud scales, fine leaf hairs, and other tree minutiae. He was learning which trees had separate male and female flowers, which had both, and which had "perfect" flowers (or flowers with both male and female parts). He was a question machine, and he looked to me for answers, but I am not a botanist. I am a tree lover from way back, and have been writing and teaching about trees for four decades (as a garden columnist, freelance journalist, and education manager at a botanical garden), but I felt out of my element trying to describe details of tree physiology.      Interestingly, though, when I approached more knowledgeable friends, including botanists, with some of my questions, I realized many of them had never noticed the phenomena Bob and I were observing, even though these phenomena are observable on common trees. And whenever I mentioned to colleagues the thrill of seeing something like the pollination droplet on a ginkgo ovule, they were as intrigued as I was. So for Seeing Trees , I decided my job was to be the bridge between botanists and ordinary tree lovers who were put off by botanical nomenclature but interested--extremely interested--in seeing more and learning more about trees.      For this book, Bob and I decided to focus on the exceptional traits of ordinary trees. We did little traveling (unless you count walks across the lawn or rendezvous to meet each other), but we were no less impressed with what we saw. In fact, limiting and coordinating our visual fields was a bigger problem than finding worthy subjects to photograph and describe. "I can't keep up with what's going on in the backyard!" Bob admitted one day when we were talking about the surprising challenges of watching intently what's happening right under our noses. We exchanged many an urgent email ("The sassafras is blooming now!"), alerting each other to phenomena worthy of attention, but we soon learned how widely blooming times, not to mention leaf emergence and leaf fall, varied between our Virginia homes. Spring, it is said, advances up the United States at the average rate of about 15 miles a day, and ascends mountainsides at the rate of about 100 feet a day, so we got used to waiting--sometimes as long as two weeks--to observe the same phenomena.      Our goal in creating the book was to get people outdoors searching for tree phenomena like the ones we observed, because what is startling in Bob's photographs is infinitely more inspiring outdoors, where it can be appreciated in context and with all the senses. And it is in the process of discovering these phenomena in nature that the real joy of tree-watching resides.      In the chapters that follow, Bob and I illustrate and describe much of what we saw in two years of intense tree viewing. The categories of tree phenomena we attended to and the techniques we used could be applied to tree-watching anywhere in the world. In chapter 1, I describe some of the challenges of tree viewing, the importance of naming trees (or not), and some viewing strategies--activities and ways of watching that will help you see more. In chapter 2, I discuss in detail various tree traits, including leaves, flowers, cones, fruit, buds, leaf scars, bark, and twig structure, that, as they become more familiar, can inform your tree observations and help you know what to look for. In chapter 3, I describe my own process of discovery as I watched ten tree species carefully over time and witnessed, up close, their seasonal changes and species-specific behaviors. The ten trees we chose to profile in depth are American beech, American sycamore, black walnut, eastern red cedar, ginkgo, red maple, southern magnolia, tulip poplar, white oak, and white pine.      Choosing which ten tree species to profile was not an easy process. Like all tree lovers, Bob and I had our favorite trees and lobbied each other to include them. We had to include only trees that Bob and I could both watch carefully in our own yards or neighborhoods, which limited us to trees that grow in central Virginia. That was hardly a meager sample of trees, however, since our part of the world is particularly rich in tree species. Criteria we used for selection included the range of the tree (we wanted trees with geographic ranges as broad as possible), the prevalence of the tree (we opted for common over uncommon trees), and the degree to which the tree illustrated, in a compelling way, the features like buds, bark, flowers, and resting buds we had described in earlier chapters.      Charisma also counted. Because its range is limited to the southeastern United States, southern magnolia would never have made our ten species cut unless it had not also been one of the most charismatic trees on the planet. "Woman has no seductions for the man who cannot keep his eyes off his magnolias," a wag once observed, and Bob is among the men smitten by the southern magnolia. The passion that one or both of us felt for a tree species also counted in our deliberations, since it would be hard to write about, or spend time photographing, a tree one had no affection for (although in the case of trees, familiarity tends to breed affection, and any tree I examine closely over time seems to become a favorite).      In addition to the ten featured tree species, you will find a good sampling of additional trees with broad ranges discussed and illustrated throughout the rest of the book. Among them are flowering dogwood, horsechestnut, catalpa, Osage-orange, redbud, persimmon, and sweetgum. These trees richly reward intimate viewing, so if you have one of them nearby, give it a closer look. Sweetgum, in particular, would make a rapid leap from being perceived as a trash tree to being considered a natural wonder if its buds, flowers, and fruit were more often observed up close and its colorful leaves better appreciated for their myriad colors.      In Seeing Trees , we want to convey that tree viewing can be as exciting as bird-watching (perhaps even more exciting, if trees are your favorite wild beings) and that through intimate viewing, one's sense of trees as living, breathing organisms, as opposed to inanimate objects, will be enhanced. Look carefully, for example, at the hair, veins, pores, and other wildly vivifying tree characteristics captured in the photographs in this book, and you'll never see a tree in the same way again.      To my mind, the biggest reward of intimate tree-watching is learning to appreciate the vitality of trees. Because trees are big and essentially stationary, there is a tendency to view them almost like monuments--impressive but inanimate. We value trees for their slow, inexorable growth, seeing them as symbols of fortitude and patience, but with slow, incremental growth being almost impossible to observe, the living essence of trees is a bit hard to appreciate. Not so when you are observing actively growing buds, flowers, fruits, and other tree traits that take less time than a trunk to develop. "This is where the action is!" I've wanted to shout more than once when some inarguably animate tree phenomenon has grabbed my attention. And Bob is famous for using the horror-movie-with-aliens phrase "It's alive!" when encountering some startling evidence of tree vitality like gracefully unfurling leaves, protective hairs, working veins, or sticky exudations.      Other rewards of intimate tree viewing include the insight such observations provide to the way trees work (wherever possible, I describe the functions of all the little what-nots Bob has illustrated) and the joy of observing traits trees have taken millions of years to develop. Almost every paean to trees includes some description of what trees do for human beings (wonderful things, important things), but even if trees performed no ecological services, I would want to observe them regularly and intimately just to experience the brilliance of their engineering. Every time I think about, much less witness, the way a pleated beech leaf unfolds from its bud, the way a catalpa flower directs pollinators to its nectar, or the way a sycamore petiole protects the leaf bud below, I am astounded by the genius of the thing and want to observe more. Trees identifiable as trees have been evolving for 397 million years (humans identifiable as humans for only 3 million), and there is no small wisdom in the adaptations they have made to survive in a changing environment. Like most writers and photographers who value what they describe and illustrate, Bob and I hope this book will help make the world safer for trees. In my most romantic imaginings, I sometimes think that if I could just draw enough people's attention to the beauty of red maple blossoms, to the extraordinary engineering of gumballs, and to the intricacy of phenomena such as pinecones, all would be well in the tree world. That is a romantic notion. But sometimes romance can accomplish what rhetoric cannot. As the British naturalist Peter Scott once observed (to author Roger Deakin), "The most effective way to save the threatened and decimated natural world is to cause people to fall in love with it again, with its beauty and its reality."   Excerpted from Seeing Trees: Discover the Extraordinary Secrets of Everyday Trees by Nancy Ross Hugo All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.