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Hh Seay Bal ett nail! ae Ky bean ne, ap Die batten re BI soe , 7 a1 Pei sh) iB tip: 1, a ve ae mn a is ae He " CT wees Pa BO 7 me Z at git ae Ls i rite wr Me : att {i W ve a a vip eee eg ata ath ty ‘ es i aie ee hamieanay )! id) tities i weet : his eos di iin be » a it ean ae aide ; baby * Pu hat ni i kg i f iploguiie: by i a fet it i nek i ae y anthesis 2 Vee ee ea ae r » ar + 3 trai idles ‘ay On fee ie Tie aa ieee aaa ie s ‘ ene MAREN, Hs softy! ik aie, aie ‘i a ay ‘ "i " te ‘ ' i 4 hy he H ee 7 ee iy ‘ara a eh te A i Hd 4 ASU L Fe st at Me yews Cite OEP Sa Buk: 4D we.” ae Copyright N° COPYRIGHT DEPOSI Sere re >» 7 ry, ee Ys Tia cary, Beets it. > at ae = Sap € A MODEL ELM. okrbor yay Manual. AN AID IN Preparing Programs FOR Arbor 4 av /xercises. CONTAINING €hoice Qelections on "[rees, Forests, Flowers, and Kindred Subjects; Arbor Pay N{usic, Specimen Programs, ete. OA 3 EDITED AND#COMPILED BY CHARLES RY SKINNER, A. M., LB | DEPUTY SUPERINTENDENT OF PUBLIC INSTRUCTION, STATE OF NEW YORK, ALBANY: WEED, PARSONS AND COMPANY. 1890. oo f. TA ‘ “ * if - PS a = 4 ee a “e * wee ¢ La a ty 4 te iby Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year eighteen hundred and ninety, By WEED, PARSONS AND COMPANY, In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. | ntroduction. HIS book had its inspiration in an acknowledged reverence for Nature, an admiration for trees and forests, an interest in the establishment and development of Arbor Day and its purposes, and a desire to furnish teachers and others with suitable material, carefully selected, in convenient form for the preparation‘of programs for Arbor Day exercises. Such exercises very properly accompany the planting of trees. One cannot engage in the preparation of such a work without constantly growing more and more in touch with Nature and the great lessons which she teaches. Interest and reverence go together. One is also’ deeply im- pressed through it all with the earnestness and tenderness of the beautiful thoughts which authors in all ages, and especially American authors, have given our literature in their studies of Nature as revealed in trees, forests, flowers, birds and children. We are carried back in memory by studies like these, to the careless days of youth, to enjoy again the unselfish companionship of the trees, the silent sentinels about the old home, in whose leaves we have tried to read our fortunes. We recall the handsome butternuts which clasped hands across the roadway near the homestead, the graceful maples.in the grove, the orchards and the forests, associated with all of which are so many of. the truest joys of life. The stately elm too, which still stands on the hill, a guide for miles around, the pride of the community, is remembered with all the associations which are inseparable from it. Arbor Day is rapidly becoming one of the most interesting and one of the most extensively observed of school holidays. Originating in Nebraska in 1872, it is now observed with more or less enthusiasm in nearly every State of the Union, and many millions of trees have been planted. It cannot be expected that all that can be done on Arbor Day in this direction } will counteract in a great degree the waste constantly going on in our forests, but it is hoped that the observance of the day will do something to excite a reverence for Nature in the study of her great works. Wanton destruction of trees may be prevented, or stayed, and children may learn, by simple exercises, some of the uses and beauties of trees, and of the value of a INTRODUCTION. the study of tree-planting, in its economic phases, and something can at least be done, through such influences, to beautify the school grounds of our country. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS. If it were possible, it would be a pleasure to make acknowledgment by name of all friends who have aided in the preparation of this volume. To those who have contributed original productions to its pages, and to those who have kindly permitted the use of carefully-arranged programs, special acknowledgment is made. Mention is particularly made of the following publishers, from whose pub- lications numerous beautiful and appropriate selections have been taken: Harper & Brothers, New York; D. Appleton & Co., New York; A. S. Barnes & Co., New York; Ivison, Blakeman & Co., New York; Sheldon & Co., New York; Taintor Brothers & Co., New York; E. H. Butler & Co., Philadelphia; The J. B. Lippincott Co., Philadelphia; Cowperthwait & Co., Philadelphia ; Van Antwerp, Bragg & Co., Cincinnati; Ginn & Co., Boston. Selections from the American poets, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell, Emerson and others are used by permission of and by special arrangement with Messrs. Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of Boston, owners of the copyrights, and publishers of the Household Editions of the poets which form a valu- able poetical library in themselves. Quotations from the works of Bryant are used by permission of Mr. Parke Godwin of New York. For the use of the music given, special acknowledgment is made to Harper & Brothers, New York, publishers of the Franklin Square Song Collection; D. Appleton & Co., New York, publishers of the “Song Wave”; Ivison, Blakeman & Co., New York, publishers of the ‘ Progressive Glee and Chorus Book” ; Biglow & Main, New York; Ginn & Co., Boston, publishers of “The Coda”; The W. W. Whitney Co., Toledo, publishers of the ‘Song Prize,”’ Contents. REPOS aA ac ie wins <%aim dm Bie aja ease: Raie ee = bes ER Leia MMS pie é, a's) 6 drel atte How Arsor DAv 1S OBSERVED IN VARIOUS STATES. . coc iccsscec sess Se i aN 2. oli ote ne aoe. iE eek Ws How To PLant TREES— WHAT TO PLANT........ Wale owed th keyeen POE ORM ID Ass IV URSTC sre crc, ste es ole ae ege ote le eres A eae GENERA ENDEX ¢ os se. oe 68 waite aa jole shape Ad eID Eaves cake Gee TO) is VTS oh cise ic ov ibis sue. enbo a teselteuave ahereame Bot, 1s Hin TEE 1) AU TET ORG. wo ao deere shales Sta ee mL ee AMEND alae PIG icc avec thals ooh Ww acta se ovehereroc.e RS CORR re PAE “ THE GROVES WERE GOD’s FIRST TEMPLES,” OPPOSITE PAGE.......-. THE OAK AND THE MISTLETOE SEED ...... do UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM........... do Mean PITRE BROCE iy 's 6 aiciuiw sae & viet ¢ a0 0 Sk do aE Ge PAO Gi lek APPT ES oil's. ss « sveca ufaeintee ee cele los ae TUNNEL THROUGH “ WaAWONA.” . OPPOSITE PAGE... POC ALIBORNTA GIANT...¢.....- do BAG o- eee S06. s a ie'6 ee oeene eee reese ove vee Jee. EP RONTISPIECE: eeeewreeeeeertreose oe ee ee eee eee ew ee Arbor 4day Manual. THE SECRET. E have a secret, just we three, The robin, and I, and the sweet cherry tree ; The bird told the tree, and the tree told me, And nobody knows it but just us three. But of course the robin knows it best, Because he built the —I shan’t tell the rest; And laid the four little — somethings in it — I am afraid I shall tell it every minute. But if the tree and the robin don’t peep, Ill try my best the secret to keep; Though I know when the little birds fly about, Then the whole secret will be out. THE KIND OLD OAK. T was almost time for winter tocome. The little birds had all gone far away, for they were afraid of the cold. There was no green grass in the fields, and there were no pretty flowers in the gardens. Many of the trees had dropped all their leaves. Cold winter, with its snow and ice, was coming. At the foot of an old oak tree some sweet little violets were still in blossom. “ Dear old oak,” said they, “winter is coming; we are afraid that we shall die of the cold.” ‘“Do not be afraid, little ones,’ said the oak, ‘“‘close your yellow eyes in sleep, and trust to me. You have made me glad many a time with your sweet- ness. Now I will take care that the winter shall do you no harm.” So the violets closed their pretty eyes and went to sleep; they knew that they could trust the kind old oak. And the great tree softly dropped red leaf after red leaf upon them, until they were all covered over. The cold winter came, with its snow and ice, but it could not harm the little violets. Safe under the friendly leaves of the old oak they slept and dreamed happy dreams until the warm rains of spring came and waked them again. = ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE OAR TREE. ONG ago, in changeful autumn, When the leaves were turning brown, From the tall oak’s topmost branches Fell a little acorn down. And it tumbled by the pathway, And a chance foot trod it deep In the ground, where all the winter In its shell it lay asleep. With the white snow lying over, And the frost to hold it fast, Till there came the mild spring weather, When it burst its shell at last. First shot up a sapling tender, Scarcely seen above the ground; Then a mimic little oak tree Spread its tiny arms around. Now it standeth like a giant, Casting shadows broad and high, With huge trunk and leafy branches Spreading up into the sky. Child, when happily thou art resting "Neath the great oak’s monster shade, Think how little was the acorn Whence that mighty tree was made. Think how simple things and lowly, Have a part in nature’s plan, How the great hath small beginnings, And the child will be a man. Little efforts work great actions, Lessons in our childhood taught, Mold the spirit to that temper Whereby noblest deeds are wrought. Cherish then the gifts of childhood, Use them gently, guard them well; For their future growth and greatness Who can measure, who can tell? ox ee ee Le den ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE BPOREST GREES. P with your heads, ye sylvan lords, Wave proudly in the breeze, For our cradle bands and coffin boards Must come from the forest trees. We bless ye for your summer shade, When our weak limbs fail and tire; Our thanks are due for your winter aid, When we pile the bright log fire. Oh! where would be our rule on the sea, . And the fame of the sailor band, Were it not for the oak and cloud-crowned pine, That spring on the quiet land ? When the ribs and masts of the good ship live, ~ And weather the gale with ease, Take his glass from the tar who will not give A health to the forest trees. Ye lend to life its earliest joy, And wait on its latest page; In the circling hoop for the rosy boy, And the easy chair for age. The old man totters on his way, With footsteps short and slow; But without the stick for his help and stay Not a yard’s length could he go. The hazel twig in the stripling’s hand Hath magic power to please ; And the trusty staff and slender wand Are plucked from the forest trees. Ye are seen in the shape of the old hand loom And the merry ringing flail ; Ye shine in the dome of the monarch’s home And the sacred altar rail. In the rustic porch, the wainscoted wall, In the gay triumphal car; in the rude built hut or the banquet hall, No matter! there ye are! Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords! Wave proudly in the breeze, From our cradle bands to our coffin boards We're in debt to the forest trees. ELIZA COOK. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ° A FOREST HYMN. HE groves were God's first temples. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them — ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems; in the darkling wood, Amid the cool and silence, he knelt down, And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication. For his simple heart Might not resist the sacred influences Which, from the stilly twilight of the place, And from the gray old trunks that high in heaven Mingled their mossy boughs, and from the sound: Of the invisible breath that swayed at once All their green tops, stole over him, and bowed His spirit with the thought of boundless power And inaccessible majesty. Ah, why Should we, in the world’s riper years, neglect God’s ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd, and under roofs That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least, Here, in the shadow of this aged wood, Offer one hymn —thrice happy, if it find Acceptance in His ear. Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns. Thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot toward heaven. The century-living crow Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. * * * These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here —thou fill’st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath, That from the inmost darkness of the place Comes, scarcely felt ; the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. ‘THE GROVES WERE GOD’S FIRST TEMPLES.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Here is continual worship — Nature, here, In the tranquility that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, midst its herbs, Wells softly forth and wandering steeps the roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak — By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated — not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E’er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. My heart is awed within me when I[ think Of the great miracle that still goes on, In silence, round me —the perpetual work Of thy creation, finished, yet renewed Forever. Written on thy works I read The lesson of thy own eternity. Lo! all grow old and die — but see, again, How on the faltering footsteps of decay Youth presses — ever gay and beautiful youth In all its beautiful forms. These lofty trees Wave not less proudly that their ancestors Moulder beneath them. * * * There have been holy men who hid themselves Deep in the woody wilderness, and gave Their lives to thought and prayer, till they outlived The generation born with them, nor seemed Less aged than the hoary trees and rocks Around them ; —and there have been holy men Who deemed it were not well to pass life thus. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. But let me often to these solitudes Retire, and in thy presence reassure My Jecble -virtuerit in ee Be it ours to meditate, In these calm shades, thy milder majesty, And to the beautiful order of thy works Learn to conform the order of our lives. W. C. BRYANT. : GRASS. HE rose is praised for its beaming face, The lily for saintly whiteness ; We love this bloom for its languid grace, And that for its airy lightness. We say of the oak, “ How grand of girth!” Of the willow we say “ How slender !”’ And yet to the soft grass, clothing earth, How slight is the praise we render! But the grass knows well, in her secret heart, How we love her cool, green raiment ! So she plays in silence her lovely part, And cares not at all for payment. Each year her buttercups nod and drowse, With sun and dew brimming over ; Each year she pleases the greedy cows With oceans of honeyed clover. Each year on the earth's wide breast she waves From Spring until bleak November; And then she remembers so many graves That no one else will remember. ‘And while she serves us with goodness mute, In return for such sweet dealings We tread her carelessly underfoot,— Yet we never wound her feelings. Here’s a lesson that he who runs may read: Though I fear but few have won it, — The best reward of a kindly deed Is the knowledge of having done it. EDGAR FAWCETT. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 7 THE FLOWER MISSION. HILDREN, a flower seems a little thing, but little things often havea mighty influence for goodor bad. Weare little, but we have an influence, we have a mission in this world. Have you heard the story of the mission and the influence for good, that a simple little flower had, once on atime? Listen, and it shall be told to you, and from it you can learn the lesson that nothing was made to live and die in vain, and that nothing is so poor that it has no in- fluence of some kind, and that the use of that influence for good makes others happy and brings to us a blessing. There was once a little flower growing where weeds were tall; The blue sky bending over, it could see, and that was all. “T know I was meant for something, else I would not be here!” It kept saying over and over to a briar growing near. “IT think you must be mistaken,” was ever the briar’s reply, “Such a poor little thing as you are, will live for a day and die.” But the faith of the flower was steadfast as it turned its face to God, Believing it had a mission above the green earth’s sod. Now the weeds that hedged in the flower grew close by a sick girl’s room ; And the breeze brought in through the window a breath of the flowers’ perfume. “ And oh,” cried the girl in gladness, “I can smell the old home flowers ; Bring in one of the blossoms to cheer these lonely hours.”’ They brought in one and laid it in the sick girl’s wasted hand; She kissed it over and over, but they could not understand What it was she said to the flower of the old home far away, Or the words that were sweet with comfort that the flower had to say. Each morning they brought a blossom to brighten the sick girl’s room; And the heart of the humble flower was glad in the tall weed’s gloom. “I knew I was meant for something ;” it said to its friend the sky, “I was sure of a nobler mission than just to live and die.” One morning they told the flower that the homesick girl was.dead; And it gave them its last sweet blossom as they told it what she said: “It has been such a comfort to me, sick in a stranger land; That is the message I send it; it will know and understand.” Then the flower looked up and whispered to its steadfast friend, the sky: “T thank God for the mission he gave me; with a happy heart I die.” Be sure we were meant for something; keep faith in the God above; And our Jives may make others happy with the flowers of human love. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE OAK. GLORIOUS tree is the old gray oak; He has st6od for a thousand years — Has stood and frowned On the trees around, Like a king among his peers ; As around their king they stand, so now, When the flowers their pale leaves fold The tall trees round him stand, arrayed In their robes of purple and gold. : He has stood like a tower Through sun and shower, And dared the winds to battle; He has heard the hail, As from plates of mail, » From his own limbs shaken, rattle; He has tossed them about, and shorn the tops (When the storm has roused his might) Of the forest trees, as a strong man doth The heads of his foes in fight. GEORGE HILL. Fall of the Oak. THE young oak grew, and proudly grew, For its roots were deep and strong ; And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, And the sunlight lingered long On its glossy leaf where the flickering light Was flung to the evening sky; © And the wild bird sought to its airy height And taught her young to fly. Mrs. E. OAKES SMITH. WITH his gnarled old arms and his iron form, Majestic in the wooa, From age to age, in sun and storm, The live-oak long has stood ; And generations come and go, And still he stands upright, And he sternly looks on the world below, As conscious of his might. THE oak, for grandeur, strength, and noble size, Excels all trees that in the forest grow; From acorn small, that trunk, those branches rise, To which such signal benefits we owe. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Behold, what shelter in its ample shade, From noontide sun, or from the drenching rain. And of its timber stanch, vast ships are made, To sweep rich cargoes o’er the watery main. SOLILOQUY OF DOUGLAS—SOLEMNITY. HIS place,— the centre of the grove :— Here stands the oak, the monarch of the wood! How sweet and solemn is this midnight scene ! The silver moon unclouded holds her way Through skies where I could count each little star ; The fanning west wind scarcely stirs the leaves ; The river, rushing o’er its pebbled bed, Imposes silence with a stilly sound. In such a place as this, at such an hour — If ancestry may be in aught believed — Descending spirits have conversed with man, And told the secrets of the world unknown. ARBUTUS. oe the flower whose early bridal makes the festival of Spring! Deeper far than outward meaning lies the comfort she doth bring; From the heights of happy winning, Gaze we back on hope’s beginning Feel the vital strength and beauty hidden from our eyes before ; And we know, with hearts grown stronger, Tho’ our waiting seemeth longer, Yet with Love’s divine assurance, we should covet nothing more. ELAINE GOODALE. How fair is the rose! what a beautiful flower, The glory of April and May! But the leaves are beginning to fade in an hour, And they wither and die in a day. Yet the rose has one powerful virtue to boast, Above all the flowers of the field ; When its leaves are all dead, and its fine colors lost, Still how sweet a perfume it will yield! ? Isaac WATTS. 10 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THOUGHTS ON THE FOREST. ELCOME, pure thoughts! welcome, ye silent groves ! These guests, these courts, my soul most dearly loves; Now the winged people of the sky shall sing My cheerful anthems to the gladsome Spring; And if contentment be a stranger,— then I'll ne’er look for it, but in heaven again. Str HENRY WOTTON. Ou! come to the woodlands, ’t is joy to behold, The new waken’d buds in our pathway unfold; For Spring has come forth, and the bland southern breeze Is telling the tale to the shrub and the trees, Which, anxious to show her The duty they owe her, Have decked themselves gayly in emerald and gold. I LOVE thee in the Spring, Earth-crowning forest! when amid the shades The gentlé South first waves her odorous wing, And joy fills all the glades. In the hot Summer time, With deep delight, the somber aisles I roam, Or, soothed by some cool brook’s melodious chime Rest on thy verdant loam. But O, when Autumn’s hand Hath marked thy beauteous foliage for the grave, How doth thy splendor, as entranced I stand, My willing heart enslave! Wm. JEWETT PABODIE. HAIL, old patrician trees so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian under-wood! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food Pay with their grateful voice. Hail, the poor Muses’ richest manor-seat ! Ye country houses and retreat, Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. : ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ’Tis beautiful to see a forest stand, Brave with its moss-grown monarchs and the pride Of foliage dense, to which the south wind bland Comes with a kiss as lover to his bride; To watch the light grow fainter, as it streams Through arching aisles, where branches interlace, Where somber pines rise o’er the shadowy gleams Of silver birch, trembling with modest grace. cat A. B. NEAL. THE heave, the wave, and bend Of everlasting trees, whose busy leaves Rustle their songs of praise, while ruin weaves A robe of verdure for their yielding bark, While mossy garlands, full and rich and dark, Creep slowly round them! Monarch of the wood, Whose mighty scepters sway the mountain brood, Shelter the winged idolators of Day — And grapple with the storm-god, hand to hand, Then drop like weary pyramids away, Stupendous monuments of calm decay. JOHN NEAL. THERE oft the muse, what most delights her, sees Long living galleries of aged trees, Bold sons of earth, that lift their arms so high, As if once they would invade the sky. In such green palaces the first kings reigned, Slept in their shade, and angels entertained ; With such old councillors they did advise, And, by frequenting sacred groves, grew wise. OH! bear me then to vast embowering shades ; To twilight groves, and visionary vales ; To weeping grottoes, and prophetic glooms! Where angel forms athwart the solemn dusk Tremendous, sweep, or seem to sweep, along; And voices, more than human, through the void, Deep-sounding, seize the enthusiastic ear. THOMSON, Autumn. We bring daisies, little starry daisies, The angels have planted to remind us of the sky, When the stars have vanished they twinkle their mute praises, Telling, in the dewy grass, of brighter fields on high. READ. 12 , ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE DREAMER AND REAPER. [Extract from a poem read by Rev. Dr. James H. Ecob, of Albany, before the Society of the Alumni of Hamilton College on the 26th of June, 1889. The theme of the poem was suggested by the visit of Dr. Ecob to the home of his childhood, after an absence of many years.] , Y father loved a tree as men Are wont to love their kind; so, when He left the hot and hated life > Of city streets and city strife, As flies the nesting bird, he flew, On eager wing, by instinct true, To build and rear his little brood, Deep in the wood’s green solitude. A young bird in the nest first lifts His wondering eyes thro’ sunny rifts Of happy leaves; about his nest The russet arms are strongly pressed, The springing arches, high and dim, Are haunted by the whispered hymn Of summer winds, while far below : The voices of the great world flow. ; So nested all my early years Among the trees. The wood enspheres My first, my fairest memories. And deep as life in Druid trees, Lie hidden founts of tears and love, That answer to the hymn above, Of softly stirring boughs and leaves. Bethesda-like, my soul receives New life and healing, quickening moods, When troubled by the angel of the woods. So slipped those lovely, shadowy years, As slips a wandering wind one hears Among the trees ; a sudden stir Of startled leaves ; upon the floor Of moss and flowers, a tangled sheen Of light and shade, and then, between Your breaths, ’tis gone. You hear its feet j Retreating airily and fleet, And wonder if it e’er had been, . Or if a gust of dreams broke in Upon the soul. I turned again, When I had been with time and men, ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Till heart and brain were faint and sore, And sought with eager thirst once more To bathe my spirit in the shade Of those beloved woods, which made Forever more my childhood seem A glory, an unending dream. I scarce could keep my longing feet From racing, boy-like, to compete With all my hurrying soul, which ran So like a child, adown the hill, Ahead of the slow-pacing man, To where the path across the rill Turned sharp and left you in the wood. And there with beating heart I stood But lo! my woods, beloved woods, were gone. Not one of all their hosts, not one, Remained. As flies upon the wind The autumn leaves, no trace behind Of all their fiery pomp, so fled My mighty woods before the years. I stood as one above the dead, Stricken with loss, in uncontrolled tears. The wide, unsympathetic sky Looked down with blurred and sultry eye. And where my childhood’s feet had strayed O’er moss and gnarled root and shade, All wrought with shifting green and gold, More rare than lace on armor old; Where stood the solemn ranks of trees; Where rolled such organ harmonies As ne’er were heard in minster pile ; Where mysteries haunted crypt and aisle ; Where harping spirits of the air Were here and there and everywhere ; Behold, there flowed a field of wheat, Rustling and yellowing in the heat. Beyond the knoll where feed the sheep, The farmers’ plain white gables peep, New sheaves a lumbering wagon brings, The driver flips his whip and sings. With heavy heart I slowly turned ; The golden wheat that flared and burned Beneath the sun, how small, how cheap! Come quickly, sickle, quickly reap! Come rough, strong bands and quickly bind! = 14 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. And turn, O roaring mill, to grind. To stop the hungry mouths that wait ! Oh, sordid world, what vulgar rate Is this, to give thy woods for wheat ? Thy hidden thought and deep retreat Of mysteries; thy solemn hymn, Thy noonday twilight cool and dim, For this dull round of use and care, Of need and toil and sultry glare! But, as I walked, a better mind Began the parable to find. For men must live, and good is wheat ; We all may dream, but all must eat. I wonder if the gods ordain, That, just as a rainbow and the rain, The beauty and the use combine, So dreams and strength shall entertwine. The visions that our boyhood led, Dissolve upon the hills of youth, To feed some secret fountain head, That bursts in man to strength and truth, Here, age on age, the mighty wood Drank deep the sun’s exhaustless flood; Then dropped its million flaming leaves. The dull, cold earth below receives The kindling bath of lambent fire, Aerial gold and warm desire, And stores the generous wealth and heat, To burst at last in golden wheat. * * * * KIND WORDS. IND hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits. Little moments make an hour; Little thoughts, a book ; Little seeds, a tree or flower; Water drops, a brook ; Little deeds of faith and love; Make a home for you above. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN. (Tr AMa pebble ! and yield to none!” | Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; “Nor time nor seasons can alter me; I am abiding, while ages flee. The pelting hail, and the drizzling rain, Have tried to soften me, long, in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or touch my heart, but it was not feft. There’s none that can tell about my birth, For I am as old as the big, round earth. The children of men arise, and pass Out of the world, like the blades of grass; And many a foot on me has trod, That’s gone from sight and under the sod, Iam a pebble! but what art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough ?”’ The acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; She never before had been so near His gravelly ball, the mundane sphere; And she felt for a time at a loss to know How to answer a thing so coarse and low. But to give reproof of a nobler sort Than the angry look, or the keen retort. At length she said, in a gentle tone, “Since it has happened that Iam thrown From the lighter element where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, And beside a personage so august, Abased, I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time, nor season, nor storm, nor.sun, Nor the gentle dew, nor the grinding heel Has ever subdued, or made to feel!” And soon in the earth she sunk away, From the comfortless spot where the pebble lay. But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the tiny head of an infant oak ! And, as it arose, and its branches spread, The pebble looked up, and wondering, said, « A modest acorn,— never to tell What was inclosed in its simple shell ! 15 16 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. That the pride of the forest was folded up In the narrow space of its little cup! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! And, oh, how many will tread on me, To come and admire the beautiful tree, Whose head is towering toward the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I! Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year. But never, frdm this, shall a vaunting word From the humble pebble again be heard, Till something without me or within, Shall show the purpose for which I’ve been!” The pebble its vow could not forget, And it lies there wrapped in ‘silence yet. HANNAH F. GOULD. AUTUMN VOICES. HEN I was in the wood to-day ~ The golden leaves were falling round me, And I thought I heard soft voices say Words that with sad enchantment bound me. “O, dying year! O, flying year! O, days of dimness, nights of sorrow ! O, lessening night! O, lengthening night! O, morn forlorn and hopeless morrow!” No bodies visible had these Whose voice I heard so sadly calling ; They were the spirits of the trees Lamenting for the bright leaves falling. Prisoners in naked trunks they lie, In leafless boughs have lodging slender ; But soon as Spring is in the sky They deck again the woods with splendor. The light leaves rustled on the ground, Wind-stirred, and when again I hearkened, Hushed were those voices. Wide around Night fell, and all the ways were darkened. F, W. B., in Spectator. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE, MEETING OF THE DRYADS. T was not many centuries since, When, seated on the moonlit green, Beneath the tree of liberty A ring of weeping sprites was seen. * * * * They met not as they once had met, To laugh over many a jocund tale; But every pulse was beating low, And every cheek was cold and pale, There rose a fair but faded one, Who oft had cheered them with her song ; She waved a mutilated arm, And silence held the listening throng. “ Sweet friends,” the gentle nymph began, * * * * «When often by our feet has passed Some biped, Nature’s walking whim, Say, have we trimmed one awkward shape Or lopped away one crooked limb ? “Go on, fair Science; soon to thee Shall Nature yield her idle boast ; Her vulgar fingers formed a tree, But thou hast trained it to a post. “Go paint the birch’s silver rind, And quilt the peach with softer down; Up with the willow’s trailing threads, Off with the sunflower’s radiant crown! * * + * “T cannot smile,— * * * * “ Again in every quivering leaf That moment’s agony I feel, When limbs, that spurned the northern blast, Shrunk from the sacrilegious steel. “ A curse upon the wretch that dared To coop up with his felon saw! * * * * “ May nightshade cluster round his path, And thistles shoot, and brambles cling; May blistering ivy scorch his veins, And dogwood burn, and nettles sting. 2 7 18 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. “On him may never shadow fall, When fever racks his throbbing brow, And his last shilling buy a rope To hang him on my highest bough !”’ She spoke ;—the morning’s herald beam Sprang from the bosom of the sea, And every mangled sprite returned In sadness to her wounded tree. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. WAITING FOR THE MAY. ROM out his hive there came a bee; F “Has spring-time come or not ?”’ said he. Alone within a garden bed A small, pale snowdrop raised its head. “’Tis March, this tells me,” said the bee; “ The hive is still the place for me ; The day is chill, although ’tis sunny, And icy cold this snowdrop’s honey.” Again came humming forth the bee, “What month is with us now?” said he. Gay crocus-blossoms, blue and white And yellow, opened to the light. “Tt must be April,” said the bee, « And April’s scarce the month for me. I'll taste these flowers (the day is sunny), And wait before I gather honey.” Once more came out the waiting bee. “Tis come; I smell the spring!” said he. The violets were all in bloom ; The lilac tossed a purple plume. The daffodil wore a yellow crown ; The cherry tree a snow-white gown; And by the brookside, wet with dew; The early wild wake-robins grew. “It is the May-time,” said the bee; “The queen of all the months for me; The flowers are here, the sky is sunny, ’Tis now the time to gather honey.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. PLANTING OF THE-APPLE TREE. » (OME, let us plant the apple tree. leave the tough greensward with the spade; Wide let its hollow bed be made; There gently lay the roots, and there Sift the dark mould with kindly care, And press it o’er them tenderly — As, round the sleeping infant’s feet, We softly fold the cradle-sheet ; So plant we the apple tree. What plant we in this apple tree? Buds, which the breath of summer days Shall lengthen into leafy sprays; Boughs where the thrush with crimson breast, Shall haunt and sing and hide her nest ; We plant upon the sunny lea, A shadow for the noontide hour, A shelter from the summer shower, When we plant the apple tree. What plant we in this apple tree? Sweets for a hundred flowery springs To load the May wind’s restless wings, When from the orchard row, he pours Its fragrance through our open doors; A world of blossoms for the bee, Flowers for the sick girl’s silent room, For the glad infant sprigs of bloom, We plant with the apple tree. & What plant we in this apple tree? Fruits that shall swell in sunny June, And redden in the August noon, And drop, when gentle airs come by, That fan the blue September sky, While children come, with cries of glee, And seek them where the fragrant grass Betrays their bed to those who pass, At the foot of the apple tree. And when, above this apple tree, The winter stars are quivering bright, And winds go howling through the night, Girls, whose young eyes o’erflow with mirth, Shall peel its fruit by cottage hearth, 20 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. And guests in prouder homes shall see, Heaped with the grape of Cintra’s vine And golden orange of the line, The fruit of the apple tree. The fruitage of this apple tree Winds and our flag of stripe and star Shall bear to coasts that lie afar, Where men shall wonder at the view, And ask in what fair groves they grew; And sojourners beyond the sea Shall think of childhood’s careless day, And long, long hours of summer play, In'the shade of the apple tree. Each year shall give this apple tree A broader flush of roseate bloom, A deeper maze of verdurous gloom, And loosen, when the frost-clouds lower, The crisp brown leaves in thicker shower. The years shall come and pass, but we Shall hear no longer, where we lie, The summer’s songs, the autumn’s sigh, In the boughs of the apple tree. And time shall waste this apple tree. Oh, when its aged branches throw Thin shadows on the ground below, Shall fraud and force and iron will Oppress the weak and helpless still ? What shall the tasks of mercy be, Amid the toils, the strifes, the tears Of those who live when length of years Is wasting this little apple tree ? “Who planted this old apple tree?” The children of that distant day Thus to some aged man shall say; And, gazing on its mossy stem, The gray-haired man shall answer them: “A poet of the land was he, Born in the rude but good old times: ’Tis said he made some quaint old rhymes, On planting the apple tree.” WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.. oy es ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 21 PLANT A TREE. H* who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope ; Leaves unfold into horizons free. So man’s life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime. Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, What the glory of thy boughs shall be? He who plants a tree Plants a joy ; Plants a comfort that will never cloy. Every day a fresh reality. Beautiful and strong, To whose shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree, Of the bliss that shalt inhabit thee. He who plants a tree He plants peace. Under its green curtains jargons cease, Leaf and zephyr murmur soothingly ; Shadows soft with sleep Down tired eyelids creep, Balm of slumber deep. Never hast thou dreamed, thou blessed tree, Of the benediction thou shalt be. He who plants a tree He plants youth; Vigor won for centuries in sooth ; Life of time, that hints eternity ! Boughs their strength uprear, New shoots every year On old growths appear. Thou shalt teach the ages, sturdy tree, Youth of soul is immortality. He who plants a tree He plants love; Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers, he may not live to see Gifts that grow are best ; Hands that bless are blest; Plant; life does the rest ? Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree, And his work its own reward shall be. Lucy Larcom. 22 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. SPRING AND SUMMER. PRING is growing up, S Is it not a pity ? She was such a little thing, And so very pretty. Summer is extremely grand, We must pay her duty; But it is to little Spring That she owes her beauty ! From the glowing sky Summer shines above us; Spring was such a little dear, But will Summer love us? She is very beautiful, With her grown up blisses, Summer we must bow before; Spring we coax with kisses! Spring is growing up, 3 Leaving us so lonely; In the place of little Spring We have Summer only! Summer with her lofty airs, And her stately paces ; In the place of little Spring, With her childish graces. ALL YELLOW. DANDELION sprang on the lawn, All gayly dressed in yellow; He nodded in the springing grass, A jolly little fellow. A yellow bird flew from the treé; He, too, was dressed in yellow, “The saucy thing to steal my coat ! The thief, the wicked fellow!” A golden sunbeam came that way, And eyes each little fellow; “ Dear me when one the fashion leads, How common grows my yellow.” ° A Troy, N. Y., 1889. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. SONG TO MOTHER EARTH. N the merry month of May Comes our gladsome Arbor Day, And with cheerful voice we raise Hearty notes of grateful praise. To our loving mother earth, To her kindness and her worth, She who makes the world so gay, On this happy Arbor Day. She it is who makes the field Plant and flower and fragrance yield, And the graceful leafy tree, Planted now along the lea. Beautiful the meadow bright, In the sunbeam’s golden light — Buttercup and daisy fair Mother earth has scattered there. Clover, too, and lily white Blossom in the morning light, — All are tended by her hand, As they deck the pleasant land. See the waving blades of grass As along our way we pass! Mother earth has planted these And the flowers, our sight to please. Mother earth, thy name we sing, While our cheery voices ring ! Loud our shouts of joy we raise As we chant thy worthy praise ! God has given mother earth Children fair, of wondrous birth — His great goodness we adore, We will bless Him evermore ! st James H. KELLOGG. 24 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE MAIDEN SPRING. DIALOGUE. May: LL the buds and bees are singing; All the lily bells are ringing ; All the brooks run full of laughter, And the wind comes whispering after. What is this they sing and say? ‘This May 1" Look, dear children, look ! the meadows, Where the sunshine chases shadows, Are alive with fairy faces, Peeping from their grassy places. What is this the flowers say ? “It is May!” See! the fair blue sky 1s brighter, And our hearts with hope are lighter. All the bells of joy are ringing; All are grateful voices singing ; All the storms have passed away. “Tt is May!” ROSES : We are blushing roses, Bending with our fullness, *Midst our close capped sister buds, Warming the green coolness. Hold one of us lightly — See from what a slender Stalk we bower in heavy blooms, And roundness rich and tender. LEIGH HuNT. LILIES : : We are lilies fair, The flower of virgin light ; Nature held us forth, and said, : “Lo! my thought of white.” Ever since then, angels Hold us in their hands; You may see them when they take In pictures their sweet stands. Like the garden’s angels Also do we seem, And not the less for being crowned With a golden dream. LEIGH HUNT. th nas ie ae ~ 2? — ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 25 VIOLETS : We are the sweet flowers, Born of sunny showers, (Think, whene’er you see us, what our beauty saith), Utterance mute and bright, Of some unknown delight; We fill the air with pleasure by our simple breath, All who see us love us — We benefit all places ; Unto sorrew we give smiles and unto graces — races. LEIGH HUNT. PINK: And, dearer I, the pink, must be, And me thou sure dost choose, Or else the gard’ner ne’er for me Such watchful care would use ; A crowd of leaves enriching bloom ! And mine through life the sweet perfume, And all the thousand hues. GOETHE. DalIsy: The flower that’s bright with the sun’s own light, And hearty and true and bold, Is the daisy sweet that nods at your feet, And sprinkles the fields with gold. DAFFODIL: The dainty lady daffodil Hath donned her amber gown, And on her fair and sunny head Sparkles her golden crown. Her tall green leaves, like sentinels, Surround my lady’s throne, And graciously in happy state, She reigns a queen alone. Mary E, SHARPE. ARBUTUS: If spring has maids of honor, And why should not the spring, With all her dainty service, Have thought of some such thing? If spring has maids of honor, Arbutus leads the train; A lovelier, a fairer, The spring would seek in vain. 26 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. WORDS FROM THE TREE. T is a great pleasure to think of the young people assembling to celebrate the planting of trees, and connecting them with the names of authors whose works are the farther and higher products of our dear old Mother Nature. An Oriental poet says of his hero: Sunshine was he in a Wintry place, And in midsummer coolness and shade. Such are all true thinkers, and no truer monuments of them can exist than beautiful trees. Our word book is from the beech tablets on which men used to write. Our word Bible is from the Greek for bark of a tree. Our word paper is from the tree papyrus — the tree which Emerson found the most inter- esting thing he saw in Sicily. Our word library is from the Latin der, bark of atree. Thus literature is traceable in the growth of trees, and was originally written on leaves and wooden tablets. The West responds to the East in asso- ciating great writers with groups of trees, and a grateful posterity will appre- ciate the poetry of this idea as well while it enjoys the shade and beauty which the schools are securing for it. Moncur_E D. Conway, £xtract from Letter. Under the reign of the Moorish caliphs the Iberian peninsula resembled a vast garden, yielding grain and fruit of every known variety, in the most per- fect quality, and in endless abundance. But then the Sierras and the mountain slopes were covered with a luxuriant growth of timber, which was afterward wantonly destroyed under the rule of kings. Now nearly all the plateau lands of Spain are desert-like and unfit for agriculture, because of the scarcity of rain ; and the want of water. The once delicious climate has become changeable and rough. The average depth of the rivers is greatly diminished. The political decadence of Spain has even been attributed to the destruction of the forests. Of the infinite variety of fruits which spring from the bosom of the earth, the trees of the wood are greatest in dignity. Of all the works of the creation which know the changes of life and death, the trees of the forest have the longest existence. Of all the objects which crown the gray earth, the woods preserve unchanged, throughout the greatest reach of time, their native character. ( The works of man are ever varying their aspect; his towns and his fields tee reflect the unstable opinions, the fickle wills and fancies of each passing generation; but the forests on his borders remain to-day the same as they were ages of years since. Old as the everlasting hills, during thousands of seasons they have put forth and laid down their verdure in calm obedience to | the decree which first bade them cover the ruins of the Deluge. SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. Rural Hours. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 27 ARBOR DAY POEM. Written and recited at the planting of the Buffalo “ Normal Class tree,” April 26, 1889, by Mrs. Anna R. Pride. OME thou, my ofttimes sadly labored muse, Infuse my pen with fire to meetly sing A strain befitting this empiric rite, A song that voices all the zeal we bring. Thou knowest the theme and needst not warrior shield, No song of valor nor of love I ween Shall be the task for which thine aid to yield, — Just clothe my song with bright and classic green. Thou little tree with sturdy northern face, From Borealis’ fir-clad, ice-crowned zone, Knowest thou the honor that we relegate In planting thee thus for our very own? We hollow out thy resting place with care ; Thy rootlets coil beneath thy shining head , While sixty pairs of hands the task divide, To make thy vernal and historic bed. Class tree, classical and classed art thou Now, with the evergreen and ancient yew That time has planted for a horologue, To watch these Normal classes come and go. Take heart of all that here with thee we plant Bright dreams, hopes as Parnassus’ crown, Wealth of devotion, deep as Stygian stream, O’er which brave souls pass on to high renown. Drink rootlets of the Ambrosial wine we pour Till youth immortal permeates thy heart ; Be thou milestone on path of life, That points the march of those that choose the better part. The migratory flocks that seek thy shade, Whether to build a tome or build a nest, Shall find a potent, soothing, magic charm That woos them all invitingly to rest. We place the turf around thy form, and go Not as sad mourners leaving buried dust; But hopeful, waiting for a crowning day, Perfection cometh aye for those that trust. We plant thee in the century’s jubilee, Trusting thy years may not have reached their prime, When other bards shall swell the glorious lay The nation’s natal day in nineteen eighty-nine. 28 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Blow strong west wind with hopeful vigor fraught, But spare our pillars grand, our turrets high, And send thy vivifying aid to live, and grow, Down where our class tree’s buried life-germs lie. And sunny skies smile after showers have kissed Dust from the leaflets’ trembling form away, And keep our tree from blight and death, to greet The dawn of each returning Arbor Day. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE. OODMAN, spare that tree ! ' Touch not a single dew ! brugh : In youth it sheltered me, And I’ll protect it now. ’T was my forefather’s hand That p!aced it near his cot There, woodman, let it stand; Thy ax shall harm it not! That old familiar tree, Whose glory and renown Are spread o’er land and sea, — And wouldst thou hack it down ? Woodman, forbear thy stroke! Cut not its earth-bound ties; O, spare that aged oak, Now towering to the skies! When but an idle boy I sought its grateful shade ; In all their gushing joy, Here, too, my sisters played. My mother kissed me here ; My father pressed my hand — Forgive the foolish tear ; But let that old oak stand. My heart-strings round thee cling, Close as thy bark, old friend; Here shall the wild-bird sing, And still thy branches bend. Old tree! the storm still brave ! And, woodman, leave the spot ; While I’ve a hand to save, Thy ax shall harm it not. GEORGE P. Morris. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 29 “WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE.” HISTORY OF THE POEM. NEACHERS may give pupils the following account of the way in which Mr. 71 Morris came to write the poem, ‘ Wosanaey Spare that Tree.* | The poem may then be memorized by all the pupils, and recited or sung on “Arbor Day.” Mr. Morris, in a letter to a friend, dated New York, February 1, 1837, gave in substance the following account: Riding out of town a few days since, in company with a friend, an old Beanie man, he invited me to turn down a little, romantic woodland pass, not far from Bloomingdale. ‘“ Your object?” inquired I. ‘Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather long before I was born, under which I used to play when a boy, and where my sisters played with me. There I often lis- tened to the good advice of my parents. Father, mother, sisters —all are gone; nothing but the old tree remains.’ Anda paleness overspread his fine counte- nance, and tears came to his eyes. After a moment’s pause, he added: “ Don't think me foolish. I don’t know how it is: I never ride out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. JI have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend.”” These words were scarcely uttered when the old gentleman cried out, ‘‘There it is.” Near the tree stood a man with his coat off, sharpening an ax. ‘“ You're not going to cut that tree down, surely?” Yes, but I am, though,” said the woodman. “What for?” inquired the old gentleman, with choked emotion. ‘ What for? I like that! Well, I will tell you, I want the tree for fire wood.” ‘‘ What is the tree worth to you for fire wood?”’ “Why, when down, about ten dollars.” “ Suppose I should give you that sum,” said the old gentleman, “ would you Ep sian. es. on “Vou ane sure of that?” ..-* Positive!” “Then give me a bond to that effect.” We went into the little cottage in which my com- panion was born, but which is now occupied by the woodman. I drew up the bond. It was signed, and the money paid over. As we left, the young girl, the daughter of the woodman, assured us that while she lived the tree should not be cut. These circumstances made a strong impression on my mind, and furnished me with the materials for the song I send you. The objects of the restoration of the forests are as multifarious as the motives which have led to their destruction, and as the evils which that destruction has occasioned. The planting of the mountains will diminish the frequency and violence of river inundations; prevent the formation of torrents; mitigate the extremes of atmospheric temperature, humidity and precipitation; restore: dried-up springs, rivulets and sources of irrigation; shelter the fields from chilling and from parching winds: prevent the spread of miasmatic effluvia; and, finally, furnish an inexhaustible and self-renewing supply of material indispensable to so many purposes of domestic comfort, to the successful exer-. cise of every act of peace, every destructive energy of war. GEORGE P. MARSH, ‘‘ Wan and Nature.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. PUSSY-AND: THE POPPIES: OPPIES red, and pink, and white, In my grandma’s garden beds, ’Gainst the green you look so bright; How you dance and nod your heads! Little kittie, ball of fuzz, (Brightest eyes I ever saw !) If you try to make him buzz, That old bee will sting your paw. You're a lazy pussy cat, Watching poppies bow and sway; Breezes make them bend like that, They don’t do it for your play. Only see how fast I sew! Grandma said to piece this square ; It’s no time to play, you know, Till you’ve done your work all fair. You should go and catch the mice In my grandpa’s corn and meal. If you take my good advice, Only think how proud you'll feel. There’s my grandma calling me! Oh, what ever shall I do? For my seam’s not done, you see, Here I’ve sat and scolded you. YOUTH’S COMPANION. THE-WILLOW_ TREE. REE of the gloom, o’erhanging the tomb, fi Thou seem’st to love the churchyard sod ; Thou art ever found on the charnel ground, Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod. When thy branches trail to the wintry gale, Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men, When the world is bright in a summer’s light, ‘Tis only the wretched that love thee then. The golden moth and the shining bee Will seldom rest on the willow tree. ELIzA COOK. 2 eee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE ORCHARD. TS seeds were in the clearing sown, | It felt the vigorous soil; Long since to massive grandeur grown, It paid the settler’s toil. There blossoms by the breeze released, Fall in a sweet May shower, There autumn brings its dainty feast, To grace Pomona’s bower. The earliest whispers of the spring, Its branches linger through; There ever did the bluebird bring The sweetest notes it knew. The robin seeks its lusty arms Outstretched in kindest way ; The bobolink amidst its charms Sings through the long June day. But not to song bird all alone, An Eden it appears ; What place has childhood ever known That memory more endears. Perhaps affection’s early gleam Imparts more vivid glow But there the blossoms whitest seem, The apples fairest grow. There boyhood climbed the topmost bough, To pluck the finest fruit ; While girlhood, flushed on cheek and brow, Came eager in pursuit ; But he, allured by witching eyes, To her the prize has thrown — Blame not, for never yet more wise Has manhood ever grown. In later years, when bending low With fruit of green and gold, Did not the listening branches know The tale of love they told? Did not the trees in murmuring speech Recall some moonlight stroll, Where joyful eyes flashed back to each The lovelight of the soul ? 3I ARBOR DAY MANUAL. With artist thought, fair autumn blends The sunbeam and the dew; And to the weighted orchard lends Fresh lustre, deeper hue; Till in the golden mist of fall, Or sunset’s richer glow, No rural picture of them all More beautiful we know. ALBANY JOURNAL. THE: FOUR: SISTERS. HERE will come a maiden soon, I ween, Dressed in a cloak of palest green; The robins follow her gentle call, And wild-flowers bloom where her footsteps fall. There will come another with stately tread, In lilies and roses garlanded; Her breath is the essence of all things sweet, And she carries a sheaf of golden wheat. A third will come dressed in a nut-brown suit, Her lap all filled with yellow fruit ; Around her brow are autumn leaves, And she makes her way ‘mid vines and sheaves. Lastly a snow-white maiden fair Will come bedecked with diamonds rare; She will put the others to rest complete, And wrap them all in a winding-sheet. ; MAY MORNING. t OW the bright morning star, day’s harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her ; The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail bounteous May! that dost inspire Mirth and youth, and warm desire ; . Woods and groves are of thy dressing, Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee and wish thee long. MILTON. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. OUR ALMANAC. OBINS in the tree-tops, Blossoms in the grass; Green things a-growing Everywhere you pass; Sudden little breezes ; Showers of silver dew; Black bough and bent twig Budding out anew! Pine-tree and willow-tree, Fringed elm and larch, Don’t you think that May-time’s Pleasanter than March? Apples in the orchard, Mellowing one by one; Strawberries upturning Soft cheeks to the sun; Roses, faint with sweetness ; Lilies, fair of face ; Drowsy scents and murmurs Haunting every place. Lengths of golden sunshine ; Moonlight bright as day —- Don’t you think that Summer’s Pleasanter than May? Roger in the corn-patch, Whistling negro songs; Pussy by the hearth-side, Romping with the tongs; Chestnuts in the ashes, Bursting through the rind; Red-leaf and gold-leaf, Rustling down the wind ; Mother doing peaches All the afternoon — Don’t you think that Autumn's Pleasanter than June? Little fairy snow-flakes, Dancing in the flue ; Old Mr. Santa Claus, What is keeping you ? Twilight and firelight ; Shadows come and go; 3 33 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Merry chime of sleigh-bells, Tinkling through the snow; Mother knitting stockings, (Pussy has the ball !) Don’t you think that Winter’s Pleasanter than all ? THomMaAS BAILEY ALDRICH. TALKING IN. THEIR SLEEP. “Cy 7OU think I am dead,” Y The apple-tree said, “ Because I have never a leaf to show — Because I stoop, . And my branches droop, And the dull gray mosses over me grow! But I’m all alive in trunk and shoot; The buds of next May I fold away — But I pity the withered grass at my root.’ “You think Iam dead,” The quick grass said, “ Because I have started with stem and blade! But under the ground I am safe and sound With the snow’s thick blanket over me laid. I’m all alive, and ready to shoot, Should the spring of the year Come dancing here — But I pity the flower without branch or root.” “You think I am dead,” A soft voice said, “ Because not a branch or root I own! I never have died, But close I hide, In a plumy seed that the wind has sown, Patient I wait through the long winter hours ; You will see me again — I shall laugh at you then, Out of the eyes of a hundred flowers.” EpitH M. THomas, in S¢. lVécholas. ‘“ All the trees have torches lit.” Lucy Larcom’s ‘'Judian Summer.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 35 THE,sPOPULAR: POPLAR? TREE. HEN the great wind sets things whirling, And rattles the window-panes, And blows the dust in giants And dragons tossing their manes; When the willows have waves like water, And children are shouting with glee; When the pines are alive and the larches, — Then hurrah for you and me, In the tip o! the top o’ the top o’ the tip of the popular poplar tree ! Don't talk about Jack and the Beanstalk — He did not climb half so high! And Alice in all her travels Was never so near the sky! Only the swallow, a-skimming The storm-cloud over the lea, Knows how it feels to be flying — ; When the gusts come strong and free — In the tip o’ the top o’ the top o’ the tip of the popular poplar tree! BLANCH WILLIS HOWARD. PALE SONG. HE ash-berry clusters are darkly red ; The leaves of the chestnut are almost shed; The wild grape hangs out her purple fruit ; The maple puts on her brightest suit. The boys chase the squirrel from tree to tree: “There are nuts,” says the squirrel, “ for you and for me;’ The boys hear the chatter — the squirrel is gone; They shout and they peer, but he’s seen by none. After a silence, the wind complains, Like a creature longing to burst its chains; The swallows.are gone, I saw them gather, I heard them murmuring of the weather. The clouds move fast, the south is blowing, The sun is slanting, the year is going; Oh, I love to walk where the leaves lie dead, And hear them rustle beneath my tread! ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE RETURN OF MAY. AIL! fair queen, adorned with flow Attended by the smiling hours! ’Tis thine to dress the rosy bowers, In colors gay. We love to wander in thy train, To meet thee on the fertile plain, To bless thy soft propitious reign, — O lovely May! ‘Tis thine to dress the vale anew In fairest verdure bright with dew ; And harebells of the mildest blue Smile on thy way. Then let us welcome pleasant spring, And still the flowery tribute bring, And still to thee our carol sing, ® lovely May. Now, by the genial zephyr fanned, The blossoms of the rose expand ; And, reared by thee with gentle hand, Their charms display. The air is balmy and serene, And all the sweet, luxuriant scene- By thee is clad in tender green, O lovely May! Mrs. HEMANS. ROBIN AND CHICKEN. PLUMP little robin flew down from the tree, A To hunt for a worm which he happened to see. A frisky young chicken came scampering by And gazed at the robin with wondering eye. Said the chicken: “ What a queer-looking chicken is that; Its wings are so long and its body so fat!” While the robin remarked loud enough to be heard: “ Dear me! an exceedingly strange-looking bird!” “Can you sing?” robin asked, and the chicken said “No,” But asked in its turn if the robin could crow. So the bird sought a tree and the chicken a wall, And each thought the other knew nothing at all. : : ARBOR DAY MANUAL. LESSON OF THE LEAVES. OW do the leaves grow In spring upon their stem ? The sap swells up with a drop for all, And that is life to them. What do the leaves do Through the long summer hours ? They make a home for the singing birds, A shelter for the flowers. How do the leaves fade Beneath the autumn blast ? Oh, fairer they grow before they die, Their brightest is their last. How are we like leaves? O children weak and small, God knows each leaf of the forest shade, He knows you each and all. Never a leaf falls Until its part is done. God gives us grace like sap and dew, Some work to every one. You must grow old too, Beneath the autumn sky; But lovelier and brighter your lives may glow, Like leaves before they die. Brighter with kind deeds, _ With hope and gladness given; Till the leaf falls down from the withered tree, And the spirit is in heaven ! NDER the yaller pines I house, When sunshine makes them all sweet scented, An hear among their furry boughs The baskin’ west wind purr contented. 87 LOWELL, Biglow Papers. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE VOICE OF THE GRASS. ERE I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. By the dusty road-side, On the sunny hill-side, Close by the noisy brook, In every shady nook, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. All around the open door, Where sit the aged poor, Here where the children play In the bright and merry May, I come creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. In the noisy city street, My pleasant face you’ll meet, Cheering the sick at heart, Toiling his busy part — Silently creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. You cannot see me coming, Nor hear my low sweet humming ; For in the starry night, And the glad morning light, I come quietly creeping, creeping everywhere, Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. More welcome than the flowers, In summer’s pleasant hours. The gentle cow is glad, And the merry bird not sad, To see me creeping, creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. When you’re numbered with the dead, “In your still and narrow bed, In the happy spring I'll come And deck your silent home — Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. Here I come, creeping, creeping everywhere. My humble song of praise Most joyfully I’ll raise To Him at whose command I beautify the land — Creeping, silently creeping everywhere. SARAH ROBERTS. aad yt _ re) ind ARBOR DAY MANUAL. oo ROBIN ’S COME. ROM the elm-tree’s topmost bough, Hark! the robin’s early song! Telling one and all that now Merry spring-time hastes along. Welcome tidings dost thou bring, Little harbinger of Spring: Robin ’s come. Of the Winter we are weary, Weary of the frost and snow; Longing for the sunshine cheery, And the brooklet’s gurgling flow. Gladly then we hear thee sing The joyful reveille of Spring: Robin ’s come, Ring it out o’er hill and plain, Through the garden’s lonely bowers, Till the green leaves dance again, Till the air is sweet with flowers! Wake the cowslips by the rill; Wake the yellow daffodil : Robin ’s come. Singing still in yonder lane, Robin answers merrily ; Ravished by the sweet refrain, Alice clasps her hands in glee, Calling from the open door, With her soft voice, o’er and o’er, “ Robin ’s come.” ss = e The hills, Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun; the vales, Stretching in pensive quietness between ; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and poured round all, Old ocean’s gray and melancholy waste, — Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man. * + BRYANT’S Thanatopsis. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. FOREIGN LANDS. P into the cherry-tree Who should climb but little me ? I held the trunk with both my hands, And looked abroad on foreign lands. I saw the next-door garden lie, Adorned with flowers, before my eye, And many pleasant places more That I had never seen before. I saw the dimpling river pass And be the sky’s blue looking-glass ; And dusty roads go up and down, And people tramping into town. If I could find a higher tree, Farther and farther I could see, To where the grown-up river slips Into the sea among the ships — To where the roads on either hand Lead onward into fairy-land, Where all the children dine at five, And all the playthings are alive. GOD PROVIDETH FOR THE MORROW. O! the lilies of the field, How their leaves instruction yield; Hark to nature’s lesson, given By the blessed birds of heaven! Every bush and tufted tree Warbles sweet philosophy: “Mortal, fly from doubt and sorrow; God provideth for the morrow. “ Say, with richer crimson glows ; The kingly mantle or the rose ? Say, have kings more wholesome fare Than we poor citizens of air? Barns nor hoarded grain have we, Yet we carol merrily : Mortal, flee from doubt and sorrow; God provideth for the morrow.’ Way coer ARBOR DAY MANUAL. AI FOREST SONG. SONG for the beautiful trees ! A song for the forest grand, The garden of God’s own land, The pride of His centuries. Hurrah! for the kingly oak, For the maple, the sylvan queen, For the lords of the emerald cloak, For the ladies in living green. For the beautiful trees a song, The peers of a glorious realm, The linden, the ash, and the elm, The poplar stately and strong. Hurrah! for the beech-tree trim, For the hickory stanch at core, For the locust thorny and grim, For the silvery sycamore. A song for the palm,— the pine, And for every tree that grows From the desolate zone of snows To the zone of the burning line. Hurrah! for the warders proud Of the mountain-side and vale, That challenge the thunder-cloud, And buffet the stormy gale. A song for the forest aisled, With its gothic roof sublime, The solemn temple of time, Where man becometh a child, As he lists to the anthem-roll Of the wind in the solitude, The hymn which telleth his soul That God is the voice of the wood. So long as the rivers flow, So long as the mountains rise, May the forest sing to the skies, And shelter the earth below. Hurrah! for the beautiful trees, Hurrah! for the forest grand, The pride of His centuries, The garden of God’s own land. W. H. VENABLE. ‘ ARBOR DAY MANUAE. PLANTED: HELD my baby on my knee, My blue-eyed Bessie, three years old; She laid her dimpled cheek on mine, And in my ear her trouble told. “Papa, pease may me go to school, Like sister Nell and Tatie Snow?” Then as I smiled she begged again, With kisses sweet, “Pease may me go? “ When Bessie grows as large as Nell, Then she may go to school,” I said. ‘ But mother’s words and father’s rules Are quite enough for this small head.” She said no more, but sat awhile “ Thinking her think,” then ran away ; And as I turned to work again, I heard her in the yard at play. Then mother called, “Come, Bessie, come; ‘Tis time to go to sleep, you know.” — ‘‘O dear mamma, pease let me stay! I’se panted, ’tause I want to grow.” ‘Twas true! for there our baby stood, With feet fast planted in the ground, While water-pot and garden tool, Ready for use, lay scattered round. On mother’s second call she came, With rumpled dress and muddy shoe, And looking up quite grieved, she said, “ Why tan’t me grow, as flowers do?” When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened, in airs of June, her multitude Of golden chalices to humming birds And silken wing’d insects of the sky. : BRYANT, The Fountain. et PAR it «te pe te ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE FLOWER: OF LIBERTY. HAT flower is this that greets the morn, Its hues from heaven so freshly born? With burning star and flaming band It kindles all the sunset land : O tell us what its name may be,— Is this the flower of liberty ? It is the banner of the free, The starry flower of liberty! In savage nature’s far abode Its tender seeds our fathers sowed ; The storm-winds rocked its swelling bud, Its opening leaves were streaked with blood, Till lo! earth’s tyrants shook to see The full-blown flower of liberty ! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry flower of liberty! Behold its streaming rays unite, One mingling flood of braided light,— The red that fires the southern rose, With spotless white from northern rose, And, spangled o’er its azure, see The sister stars of liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry flower of liberty! The blades of heroes fence it round, Where’er it springs is holy ground; From tower and dome its glories spread ; It waves where lonely sentries tread ; It makes the land as ocean free, And plants an empire on the sea! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry flower of liberty! Thy sacred leaves, fair freedom’s flower, Shall ever float on dome and tower, To all their heavenly colors true, In blackening frost or crimson dew, And God love us as we love thee, Thrice holy flower of liberty! Then hail the banner of the free, The starry flower of liberty! OLIVER WENDELL 43 HOLMES. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. MIDSUMMER. HROUGH all the long midsummer day The meadow-sides are sweet with hay. ] seek the coolest sheltered seat Just where the field and forest meet, Where grow the pine-trees tall and bland, The ancient oaks austere and grand, And fringy roots and pebbles fret The ripples of the rivulet. I watch the mowers as they go Through the tall grass, a white-sleeved row; With even stroke their scythes they swing, In tune their merry whetstones ring; Behind, the nimble youngsters run And toss the thick swaths in the sun; The cattle graze; while, warm and still, Slopes the broad pasture, basks the hill, And bright, when summer breezes break, The green wheat crinkles like a lake. The butterfly and humble-bee Come to the pleasant woods with me, Quickly before me runs the quail, The chickens skulk behind the rail, High up the lone wood-pigeon sits, And the wood-pecker pecks and flits. Sweet woodland music sinks and swells, : The brooklet rings its tinkling bells, The swarming insects drone and hum, The partridge beats his throbbing drum, The squirrel leaps among the boughs, And chatters in his leafy house, The oriole flashes by; and, look! Into the mirror of the brook, Where the vain blue-bird trims his coat, Two tiny feathers fall and float. As silently, as tenderly, The dawn of peace descends on me. Oh, this is peace! I have no need Of friend to talk, of book to read: A dear Companion here abides; Close to my thrilling heart He hides; The holy silence is His voice: I lie and listen, and rejoice. J. T. TROWBRIDGE. ‘ ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 45 a7 se a THE AWAKENING YEAR. HE bluebirds and the violets Are with us once again, And promises of summer spot The hillside and the plain. The clouds around the mountain tops Are riding on the breeze, Their trailing azure trains of mist Are tangled in the trees. The snow-drifts, which have lain so long Haunting the hidden nooks, Like guilty ghosts have slipped away Unseen, into the brooks. The streams are fed with generous rains, They drink the wayside springs, And flutter down from crag to crag, Upon their foamy wings. Through all the long, wet nights they brawl, By mountain homes remote, Till woodmen in their sleep behold Their ample rafts afloat. The lazy wheel that hung so dry Above the idle stream, Whirls wildly in the misty dark, And through the miller’s dream. Loud torrent unto torrent calls, Till at the mountain’s feet, Flashing afar their spectral light, The noisy waters meet. They meet, and through the lowlands sweep Toward briny bay and lake, Proclaiming to the distant towns, “ The country is awake.” THOMAS BUCHANAN READ. HE moon shines bright :— In such a night as this, When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees, And they did make no noise. MERCHANT OF VENICE, Act V, Sc. 1. 46 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE VINE AND THE OAK. VINE was growing beside a thrifty oak, and had just reached that height A at which it requires support. “Oak,” said the vine, “ bend your trunk so that you may be a support to me.” “My support,” replied the oak, “is naturally yours, and you may rely on my strength to bear you up; but I am too large and too solid to bend. Put your arms around me, my pretty vine, and I will manfully support and cherish you, if you have an ambition to climb as high as the clouds. ‘‘While I thus hold you up, you will ornament my rough trunk with your pretty green leaves and shining scarlet berries. We were made by the Master of Life to grow together, that by our union the weak may be made strong, and the strong render aid to the weak.” “But I wish to grow independently,” said the vine; “why cannot you twine around me, and let me grow up straight, and not be a mere dependent on you?” “Nature,” answered the oak, “did not so design it. It is impossible that you should grow to any height alone; and if you try it, the winds and the rain, if not your own weight, will bring you to the ground. ‘‘ Neither is it proper for you to run your arms hither and thither among the trees. They will say, ‘it is not my vine—it is a stranger —get thee gone; I will not cherish thee!’ By this time thou wilt be so entangled among the different branches that thou canst not get back to the oak, and nobody will then admire thee or pity thee.” “ Ah, me,” said the vine, “let me escape from such a destiny ;” and she twined herself around the oak, and they grew and flourished happily together. ’ ’ THE UNFADING EVERGREEN. | OW bright the unfading evergreen, Amid the forest trees! In Summer and Winter there ‘tis seen To wave to the passing breeze. And may I be so like to thee, O never fading tree ! That all may feel, in woe or weal, 1 shall unchanging be. How bright the unfading evergreen, Amid the forest trees! In Summer and Winter there ’tis seen, To wave to the passing breeze. Ever, ever may I be seen Like to the beauteous evergreen. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. TEER RACE OF, THE, FLOWERS. HE trees and the flowers seem running a race, But none treads down the other; And neither thinks it his disgrace To be later than his brother. Yet the pear tree shouts to the lilac tree, “ Make haste, for the Spring is late! And the lilac tree whispers to the chestnut tree, Because he is so great, “Pray you, great sir, be quick, be quick, ; Far down below we are blossoming thick !” by Then the chestnut hears and comes out in bloom — White, or pink, to the tip-top boughs — Oh why not grow higher, there’s plenty of room, You beautiful tree, with the sky for your house? Then like music they seem to burst out together, The little and the big, with a beautiful burst; They sweeten the wind, they paint the weather, And no one remembers which was first ; White rose, red rose, Bud rose, shed rose, Larkspur, and lilac, and the rest, North, south, east, west, June, July, August, September! — Ever so late in the year will come, Many a red geranium, And sunflowers up to November! be Then the Winter has overtaken .nem all, ‘ The fogs and the rains begin to fall, And the flowers after running their races, Are weary, and shut up their little faces, And under the ground they go to sleep. Is it very far down? Yes ever so deep. GOLDEN ROD. AY down in the meadow, and close by the brook. If ever you take the trouble to look, A plant you will see that shows in the light With its green and gold so gay and bright, Nodding and tossing its head in pride, As if it were queen of the meadow wide. That beautiful blossom, so tall and odd, Is the bloom of the plant called golden rod. 48 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE*OLD* TREES. LD tree, how low you-seem to stoop, How much your trunk is bent; Why don’t you make a rise and grow Up straight, as you were meant ? And has the old tree found a voice ? And does it speak and sigh ? No! ‘twas the soft sweet wind that came To stir its leaves on high. But still the young boy thought he heard The old tree sigh, ‘‘ Too late! When I was young it was the time To come and bend me straight. “They should have bound me to a prop, And made me straight and fast ; A child like you could bend me then, But now my time is past! “No use for men to waste their strength, And pull with ropes at me; They could not move my stem an inch, For bent I still must be.” And then the soft wind came once more, And set the leaves at play, So that the young boy thought he heard The old tree sigh and say: “OQ child! be wise while you are young, Nor bend nor stoop to sin! Drive out the bad thoughts from your heart, And keep the good ones in! “ Don’t think you may be bad in youth, And one day change your plan; Just what you grow up from a child, You will be as a man. “ No use to try, when you are old, To mend and grow up straight ; For all good men that pass you then Will sigh and say, ‘Too late!’ ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 49 . “Take for your prop the book of God, And by its rules be bound; And let the wise words of your friends Be stakes to fence you round. “So straight and strong you shall be found, A joy and praise to see; And one day, in the courts of God, You'll stand a fair young tree.” MY ELM TREE. T stands alone, on the brow of a little hill, not far from my door. The sight of it gives me so much pleasure, that I have learned to love it as if it were a human friend. I go often to visit it. It is a magnificent tree. The trunk rises high in a single stem, then divides into three principal branches. These three great branches grow gradually farther and farther apart, then bend rapidly outward with an easy sweep, and finally divide into a number of smaller branches. Of these smaller branches, the lower or under ones bend down toward the ground in graceful curves, and, dividing into many branchlets and twigs, form the drooping boughs of the tree. The upper ones grow erect, and their branchlets and twigs, spreading out and bending in all directions, make the airy top of the tree. In the summer-time this lovely tree is covered with dark green leaves. It rests the eye to look at it, and it is a delight to sit under it. But it is not in summer only that it is beautiful... In the autumn its leaves turn to a sober brown, touched here and there with bright golden-yellow; and, when the sun shines on it, it is glorious to behold. When the rude autumn winds have stripped it of its leaves it is still pleasant to watch the graceful branches swaying in the wind; and then, too, I can see the birds’ nests, which the leaves have hidden during the summer. Almost always there are one or two orioles’ nests, swinging like little bags from the ends of the long slender branches. The earliest spring flowers blossom under my elm tree. But the dear old tree is not to be outdone by the little plants at its foot, for it puts forth its blossoms as soon as they. Its flowers always come before its leaves. They are very tiny flowers, of a yellowish hue, and grow in small clusters on the sides of the twigs. The flowers are soon followed by the seeds, which ripen and fall just as the leaves come out. The leaves are rather small and dark green, and grow on short stems called foot-stalks. They are, almost all of them, oval in shape, and have a slender point at the apex. The under side of the leaf is whitish and hairy, and the ribs show very plainly. All elm trees are not shaped just as mine is; but any boy or girl can always tell an elm tree by its graceful, curving branches, and slender drooping twigs. REBECCA D. RICKOFF. 4 50 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. JACK-IN-THE-PULPIT. ACK-IN-THE-PULPIT J Preaches to-day, Under the green trees Just over the way. Squirrel and song-sparrow, High on their perch, Hear the sweet lily-bells Ringing to church, Come, hear what his reverence, Rises to say, In his low, painted pulpit, This calm Sabbath day. Fair is the canopy Over him seen, Penciled, by nature’s hand, Black, brown and green; Green is his surplice, . Green are his bands; In his queer little pulpit The little priest stands. In black and gold velvet, So gorgeous to see, Comes with his bass voice, The chorister bee. Green fingers playing Unseen on wind-lyres; Low, singing-bird voices; These are his choirs. The violets are deacons ; I know by the sign That the cups which they carry Are purple with wine. And the columbines bravely As sentinels stand On the lookout, with all their Red trumpets in hand. ne ee ~ eS. 2 ee — Meek-faced anemones, Drooping and sad; Great yellow violets, Smiling out glad; ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Buttercups’ faces, Beaming and bright; Clovers, with bonnets — Some red and some white; Daisies, their white fingers Half clasped in prayer; Dandelions, proud of The gold of their hair; Innocents, children Guileless and frail, Meek little faces Upturned and pale; Wild-wood geraniums, All in their best, Languidly leaning In purple gauze dressed ; All are assembled, This sweet Sabbath day, To hear what the priest In his pulpit will say. THE. GOLDEN ROD. LL hail the lovely golden rod, A The dusty roadside fringing! Midst grasses tall its gray crests nod, The world with glory tingeing. Its fluffy blossoms manifold, The swampy meadows flecking, Weave tapestry of cloth of gold, The fields with splendor decking. Along the dark old forest’s edge The yellow plumes are streaming, And through the thick and tangled hedge, The golden wands are gleaming. The lakeside slope is all aglow, Where golden rod is drooping, Bright mirrored in the depths below In many a graceful grouping. > 51 WHITTIER. Eva J. BEEDE. 52 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE ANXIOUS LEAF. NCE upon a time a little leaf was heard to sigh and cry, as leaves often do ¢ when a gentle wind is about. And the twig said, “ What is the matter, little leaf?” And the leaf said, ‘The wind just told me that one day it would pull me off and throw me down to die on the ground!” The twig told it to the branch on which it grew, and the branch told it to the tree. And when the tree heard it, it rustled all over, and sent back word to the leaf, “ Do not be afraid; hold on tightly, and you shall not go till you want to.” And so the leaf stopped sighing, but went on nestling and singing. Every time the tree shook itself and stirred up all its leaves, the branches shook themselves, and the little twig shook itself, and the little leaf danced up and down merrily, as if nothing could ever pull it off. And so it grew all summer long till October. And when the bright days of autumn came, the little leaf saw all the leaves around becoming very beautiful. Some were yellow and some scarlet, and some striped with both colors. Then it asked the tree what it meant? And the tree said, “All these leaves are getting ready to fly away, and they have put on these beautiful colors because of joy.” Then the little leaf began to want to go too, and grew very beautiful in think- ing of it, and when it was very gay in color, it saw that the branches of the tree had no bright color in them, and so the leaf said, “O branches! why are you lead color and we golden?” “We must keep on our work clothes, for our life is not done; but your clothes are for holiday, because your tasks are over,” said the branches. Just then, a little puff of wind came, and the leaf let go, without thinking of it, and the wind took it up, and turned it over and over, and whirled it like a spark of fire in the air, and then it dropped gently down under the edge of the fence among hundreds of leaves, and fell into a dream, and never waked up to tell what it dreamed about. ‘Nature never did betray The heart that loved her; ’tis her privilege, Through all the years of this our life, to lead From joy to joy; for she can so inform The mind that is within us, so impress With quietness and beauty, and so feed With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues, Rash judgments, nor sneers of selfish men, Nor greetings where no kindness is; nor all The dreary intercourse of daily life, Shall e’er prevail against us, or disturb Our cheerful faith that all which we behold Is full of blessing.” Se _. ee ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. MAY MORNING. FOR SIX GIRLS. REETED me at early day, Groups of girls the fields adorning; Wreathing for their queen of May, Blossoms of the morning. Cease, I cried, o’er hill and heath, Wasting thus the fragrant hours; I can make a fairer wreath — You shall be the flowers. Who will be a violet ?— Little Alice, take thy station; Lo! thine eyes are dewy yet With some thought’s creation. Dainty words and bashful smiles Wreathe thy fresh lips ever newly; Conquering with thy timid wiles, Harsher souls unruly. Margaret, with pure cold eyes, Thou shalt be a scornful lily Bending in a proud surprise ; Smiling proud and chilly. Loose adown thy snowy veil, Till those eyes, like stars of even, Through the silver cloud burn pale, Lighting still the heaven. Now a rose! Nowa rose! Look at Julia, richly blushing, Where the sun his kisses throws, Hair and forehead flushing. Floating o’er the crimson cheek, Mossy ringlets fall disparted ; Darling rose, so mild, so meek, True and fragrant-hearted. Where shall we a daisy see ? — Yonder sits my romping Lizzie, With her hand upon her knee, In some mischief busy. 53 54 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. She has morning’s golden beam Prisoned in her flying tresses ; And the evening’s rosy gleam Still her cheek expresses. Now the dimpled arms aloft, Shouting to the birds above her; Chanting now in carols soft, Of the hearts that love her. Geraldine, with lips of flame, Thou shalt be a fuchsia, bending Graceful near the ivy frame ; Strength and frailness blending. Autumn dropped thee from his sheaves, Through his harvest lately roaming: Spring returns for what he leaves ; — Bow we to her coming. EL1za L. SPROAT. ROSES. H, the queen of all the roses it cannot be denied Is the heavy crimson rose of velvet leaf; There is such a gracious loyalty about her vivid bloom, That among all charming kindred she is chief. Then the fainter-shaded roses, in their balmy damask pride, Group like satellites about one central star,— Royal princesses, of whom we can discover at a glance, What aristocrats the dainty creatures are. Then those tender, gauzy roses, clustered closely on their views, They are gentle maids of honor I am told; But the pompous yellow roses, they are sneered at, it is said, For so showing off the color of their gold. And the roses that are powerless to boast of any tint, Unsullied as the snow itself in hue, These are pious nuns, I fancy, who perhaps may murmur prayers Very softly upon rosaries of dew. But the delicate pink roses that one meets in quiet lanes, Gleaming pale upon a back-ground of clear green, Why, these are only peasant girls who never go to court, But are royal little subjects to the queen. EDGAR FAWCETT. Ahn ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 55 FORWARD, MARCH! PRING gives the order, “ Forward, march!” "Tis borne along the eager line; Breathes through the boughs of rustling larch, And murmurs in the pine. “March!” At the sound, impatient, springs The mountain rill, with rippling glee, And rolling through the valley, brings Its tribute to the sea. “March!” and upon each sunny hill Old winter’s allies, ice and snow, Start at the music of the rill, And join its onward flow. “March!” Down among the fibrous roots Of oaks we hear the summons ring ; The long chilled life-blood upward shoots To hail the coming spring. “‘March!” and along each narrow neck, Across the plain, and up the steep, The spring-tide clears the winter’s wreck With its resistless sweep. Advancing in unbroken lines, New allies rush to join its band, Till winter, in despair, resigns The scepter to its hands. On southern slopes, in quiet glades, And when the brooklets murmuring run; The grass unsheaths its tiny blades To temper in the sun. Flora unfolds her banner bright Above the field of flashing green, And crocus blooms, in lines of light, Throw back the sunlight’s sheen. The birds in every budding tree Take up anew the old refrain ; The spring has come; rejoice all ye Who breathe its air again ! 56 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THEYOAK. TREE. ‘NING for the oak tree, the monarch of the wood! S Sing for the oak tree, that groweth green and good! That groweth broad and branching within the forest shade ; That groweth now, and still shall grow when we are lowly laid! The oak tree was an acorn once, and fell upon the earth ; And sun and shower nourished it, and gave the oak tree birth; The little sprouting oak tree ! two leaves it had at first, Till sun and shower nourished it, then out the branches burst. The winds came and the rain fell; the gusty tempest blew; All, all, were friends to the oak tree, and stronger yet it grew. The boy that saw the acorn fall, he feeble grew and gray ; But the oak was still a thriving tree, and strengthened every day. Four centuries grows the oak tree, nor does its verdure fail; Its heart is like the iron-wood, its bark like plaited mail. Now cut us down the oak tree, the monarch of the wood ; And of its timber stout and strong we'll build a vessel good. The oak tree of the forest both east and west shall fly ; And the blessings of a thousand lands upon our ship shall lie. She shall not be a man-of-war, nor a pirate shall she be; But a noble Christian merchant ship, to sail upon the sea. Mary Howitt. THE LIBEREY:-7T REE: q ' 4 : j : N a chariot of light, from the regions of day, | The Goddess of Liberty came; Ten thousand celestials directed her way, And hither conducted the dame. A fair budding branch from the gardens above, Where millions with millions agree ; She brought in her hand as a pledge of her love, And the plant she named Liberty Tree. The celestial exotic struck deep in the ground, Like a native it flourished and bore ; The fame of its fruit drew the nations around, To seek out this peaceable shore ; Unmindful of names or distinctions they came, For freemen like brothers agree; With one spirit endued, they our friendship pursued, And their temple was Liberty Tree. THOMAS PAINE, 1776. = ala ae ARBOR DAY MANUAL. MOTION SONG— DAISY FAIR. AVE you heard the song of the daisy fair? Oh, the daisy fair, she has not a care; A sweet little face has daisy fair, She’s smiling all the day. Now see her buds peep, where the grasses wave, Where the grasses wave, the grasses wave, Now see her buds peep, where the grasses wave, This way above her head. CHORUS. Oh, the heads of nodding clover, Oh, the boughs that sway above her, Oh, the butterflies dancing over, Love the daisy fair. Now her bright eyes open to the sun; Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, what fun! Now daisy’s play time has begun; Gay little daisy fair. Our daisy always moves with grace While she bends this way, this way, this way. She looks the bright sun in the face ; Brave little daisy fair. CHORUS. At morn she turns her head this way, For she loves the sun, the sun, they say, And watches for its first bright ray ; Wise little daisy fair. At noon she smiles up at the sky, Tra la la la Ja la Ja la la, While the sun smiles back from his place so high; Happy daisy fair. CHORUS. When the earth is dry beneath her feet, Lowly droops her head in the blinding heat. She clasps her fingers, hear how sweet Daisy breathes a prayer. Come, pretty white cloud, pray send the rain, Send rain, the rain, the rain, the rain, O pretty white cloud, I pray send rain That I may bloom again. CHORUS. 57 Gymnastics for the School Room. ANNIE CHASE, ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ; Now the cooling drops come, sparkling down, Tra la la la la la la la la la, Now daisy has a bran new crown, Proud little daisy fair. At night when the dear sun goes to sleep, And all the dews around her weep, She turns this way, for one more peep. Good night, little daisy fair. CHORUS. THE IVY GREEN. H, a dainty plant is the ivy green, ¢ That creepeth o’er ruins old! Of right choice food are his meals I ween, In his cell so lone and cold. The walls must be crumbled, the stones decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim ; And the mold’ring dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings, And a stanch old heart has he! How closely he twineth, how tightly he clings, To his friend, the huge oak tree! And slyly he traileth along the ground, And his leaves he gently waves, And he joyously twines and hugs around The rich mold of dead men’s graves. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. Whole ages have fled, and their works decayed, And nations scattered been ; But the stout old ivy shall never fade From its hale and hearty green. The brave old plant in its lonely days Shall fatten upon the past; For the stateliest building man can raise Is the ivy’s food at last. Creeping where no life is seen, A rare old plant is the ivy green. CHARLES DICKENS. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 59 THE AUTUMN LEAVES. FIRST CHILD: AM a leaf from the tall elm tree | That stands high up on the hill¢op there; Patiently my watch I keep O’er all the hillsides and valleys fair. SECOND CHILD: I came from the maple tree By the church with its huge iron bell. Many a time I've heard it say “ A tale of hope and peace I'll tell.’’ THIRD CHILD: l am a leaf from the old oak tree Deep in the woods; I know All the secrets of fairy land, And how the flowers grow. FOURTH CHILD: And Iam a leaf from the aspen, : Do you know why I tremble so? I heard a child tell a lie one day, Tis an awful thing to know. FIFTH CHILD: Down where the dead lie sleeping, In a calm and quiet spot, I came from the willow, weeping, O’er the blue forget-me- not. SIXTH. CHILD: I grew on the big old apple tree, Where the blue birds and robins nest, The children love me, and the breeze — _ O, you can guess the rest. SEVENTH CHILD: And now we will make a wreath, Red and yellow and green ; When you see you will all agree ’Tis the prettiest wreath that ever was seen. All join hands and sing: Away to the woods, away, Away to the woods, away, 60 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. All nature is smiling, Our young hearts beguiling, O, we will be happy to-day. CHORUS. Away, away, away, away, Away to the woods, away; Away, away, away, away. Away to the woods, away. THE BROWN THRUSH. HERE’S a merry brown thrush sitting up in a tree; He’s singing to me! he’s singing to me! And what does he say, little girl, little boy? “Oh! the world’s running over with joy! Hush! look! in my tree I’m as happy as happy can be.” And the brown thrush keeps singing, “A nest do you see, And five eggs hid by me in the big cherry tree ? Don’t meddle, don’t touch, little girl, little boy, Or the world will lose some of its joy! Now I'm glad! now I’m free! And I always shall be, If you never bring sorrow to me.” So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me—to you, and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy; | “Oh, the world’s running over with joy! : But long it won’t be — Don’t you know? don’t you see? Unless we’re as good as can be.” Lucy LARCOM. I had a little yellow bird Upon a summer’s day, He sat upon my finger And he never flew away. He fluttered and he fluttered And he fluttered all the day, But he never sang a song, And he never flew away. mi ST. NICHOLAS, 1888. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. SPRING. PRING, with that nameless pathos in the air Which dwells with all things fair,— Spring, with her golden suns and silver rain, Is with us once again. Out in the lonely woods the jasmine burns Its fragrant lamps, and turns Into a royal court with green festoons The banks of dark lagoons. In the deep heart of every forest tree The blood is all aglee, And there’s a look about the leafless bowers As if they dreamed of flowers. Yet still on every side we trace the hand Of winter in the land, Save where the maple reddens on the lawn, Flushed by the season’s dawn. Or where, like those strange semblances we find That age to childhood bind, The elm puts on, as if in nature’s scorn, The brown of autumn corn. As yet the turf is dark, although you know That, not a span below, A thousand germs are groping through the gloom, And soon will burst their tomb, . Already, here and there, on frailest stems Appear some azure gems, Small as might deck, upon a gala day, The forehead of a fay. In gardens you may note amid the dearth The crocus breaking earth ; And near the snowdrop’s tender white and green, The violet in its screen. But many gleams and shadows needs must pass Along the budding grass, And weeks go by, before the enamored south Shall kiss the rose’s mouth. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Still there’s a sense of blossoms yet unborn In the sweet airs of morn; One almost looks to see the very street Grow purple at his feet. At times a fragrant breeze comes floating by, And brings, you know not why,. A feeling as when eager crowds await, Before a palace gate. Some wondrous pageant ; and you scarce would start, If from a beech’s heart A blue-eyed dryad, stepping forth, should say, “Behold me! I am May!” * * * k » a HENRY TIMROD. BEAUTIFUL THINGS. EAUTIFUL ground on which we tread, Beautiful heavens above our head; Beautiful flowers and beautiful trees, Beautiful land and beautiful seas. Beautiful sun that shines so bright, ¢ Beautiful stars with glittering light; Beautiful summer, beautiful spring, Beautiful birds that merrily sing. Beautiful lambs that frisk and play, Beautiful night and beautiful day ; Beautiful lily, beautiful rose, Beautiful every flower that grows. Beautiful drops of pearly dew, Beautiful hills and vales to view; Beautiful herbs that scent the air, Beautiful things grow everywhere. Beautiful every thing around, Beautiful grass to deck the ground, Beautiful fields and woods so green, Beautiful birds and blossoms seen. | | : Beautiful flower and beautiful leaf, Beautiful world, though full of grief; Beautiful every tiny blade, Beautiful all that God hath made. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 63 THE USE. OF FLOWERS. OD might have bade the earth bring forth Enough for great and small, The oak tree and the cedar tree, Without a flower at all. He might have made enough, enough, For every want of ours; For luxury, medicine and toil And yet have made no flowers. The ore within the mountain mine, Requireth none to grow, Nor doth it need the lotus flower To make the river flow. The clouds might give abundant rain, The nightly dews might fall, And the herb that keepeth life in man Might yet have drunk them all. Then wherefore, wherefore were they made, All dyed with rainbow light ; All fashioned with supremest grace, Upspringing day and night. Springing in valleys green and low, And on the mountains high, And in the silent wilderness, Where no man passes by? Our outward life requires them not — Then wherefore had they birth ? To minister delight to man To beautify the earth. To comfort man —to whisper hope, Whene’er his faith is dim ; For who so careth for the flowers, Will much more care for him! Mary Howiltt. Those green-robed senators of mighty woods, Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars, Dream and so dream all night without a stir. KEATS — Hyperzon. Bk. I, line 73. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. GREEN THINGS GROWING. CONCERT RECITATION FOR A CLASS OF BOYS OR GIRLS, OR BOTH. ALL: H! the green things growing! the green things growing! O The fresh, sweet smell of the green things growing! FRANK: I would like to live, whether I laugh or grieve, | To watch the happy life of the green things growing. ALL: Oh! the fluttering and pattering of the green things growing! Talking each to each when no man’s knowing; CHARLES: In the wonderful white of the weird moonlight, Or the gray dreamy dawn when the cocks are crowing. MARTHA: I love, I love them so, the green things growing And I think that they love me without false showing; For by many a tender touch they comfort me so much, With the mute, mute comfort of green things growing. MABEL: And in the full wealth of their blossoms’ glowing, Ten for one | take they’re on me bestowing. EMILY: Ah! I should like to see, if God’s will it might be, Many, many a summer of my green things growing. ADA: But if I must be gathered for the angeis’ sowing — Sleep out of sight awhile — like the green things growing; Though earth to earth return, I think I shall not mourn, If I may change into green things growing. ATLS Oh! the green things growing: the green things growing! The fresh, sweet smell of the green things growing! I would like to live, whether I laugh or grieve, To watch the happy life of the green things growing. Arranged by Principal Cuas. H. FULLER, Cold Spring Harbor, N. Y. “ There is a pleasure in the pathless woods.” ByRon’s ‘“‘Apostrophe to the Ocean.” a ee ee a a =~ ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 65 THE.STORY ‘OF VA LEAF. AM only a leaf. My home is one of the great trees that grow near the | school-house. All winter I was wrapped up in a tiny warm blanket, tucked in a little brown cradle, and rocked by the winds as they blew. Do you not believe it, little reader? What I say is true. Next fall just break off a branch of a tree, and see whether you cannot find q leaf-bud on it. It will look like a little brown knot. Break it open, and inside you will see some soft, white down; that is the blanket. The brown shell that you break is the cradle. Well, as I was telling you, I was rocked all winter in my cradle on the branch, When the warm days came, and the soft rains fell, then I grew very fast indeed. I soon pushed myself out of my cradle, dropped my blanket, and showed my pretty green dress to all who came by. Oh, how glad every one was to see me! And here I am, so happy with my little brothers and sisters about me! Every morning the birds come and sing to us; the great sun shines upon.us, and the winds fan us. We dance with the winds, we smile back at the bright sun, and make a pleasant shade for the dear birds. Every day, happy, laughing school children pass under our tree. . We are always glad to see you, boys and girls — glad to see your bright eyes, and hear you say, “ How beautiful the leaves are!” REBECCA D. RICKOFF. IN. A FOREST. TRANGER! whose steps have reached this solitude, Know that this lonely spot was dear to one Devoted with no unrequited zeal To nature. Here, delighted, he has heard The rustling of these woods, that now perchance Melodious to the gale of summer move; And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, With gray and yellow lichens overgrown, Often reclined, watching the silent flow Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals Along its verdant course,—- till all around Had filled his senses with tranquillity, And ever soothed in spirit he returned A happier, better man. Stranger! perchance, Therefore, the stream more lovely to thine eye Will glide along, and to the summer gale The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou, then, The weeds and mosses from this lettered stone. ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1798. ~~ 66 . ARBOR DAY MANUAL. DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY. OOR little daffy-down-dilly ! She slept with her head on a rose, When a sly moth-miller kissed her, And left some dust on her nose. Poor little daffy-down-dilly ! She woke when the clock struck ten, And hurried away to the fairy queen’s ball, Down in the shadowy gien. Poor little daffy-down-dilly ! Right dainty was she, and fair, In her bodice of yellow satin, And petticoat green and rare. But to look in her dew-drop mirror, She quite forgot when she rose, And into the queen’s high presence Tripped with a spot on her nose. Then the little knight who loved her— O, he wished that he were dead ; And the queen’s maid began to titter, And tossed her saucy head. And up from her throne so stately, The wee queen rose in her power, Just waved her light wand o’er her, And she changed into a flower. Poor little daffy-down-dilly ! Now in silver spring time hours, She wakes in the sunny meadows, And lives with other flowers. Her beautiful yellow bodice, With green skirts wears she still ; And the children seek and love her, But they call her daffodil. “To him who in the love of nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.” BRYANT’S Thanatopsts. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 67 THE LITTLE BROWN SEED IN THE FURROW. LITTLE brown seed in the furrow Lay still in its gloomy bed, While violets blue and lilies white Were whispering overhead. They whispered of glories strange and rare, Of glittering dew and floating air, Of beauty and rapture everywhere, And the seed heard all they said. Poor little brown seed in the furrow; So close to the lilies’ feet, So far away from the great glad day, Where life seemed all complete! In her heart she treasured every word, And she longed for the blessings of which she heard; For the light that shone and the air that stirred In that land so wondrous sweet. The little brown seed in the furrow Was thrilled with a strange unrest; A warm, new life beat tremblingly In the tiny, heaving breast ; With her two small hands clasped close in prayer, She lifted them up in the darkness there, Up, up, through the dark, toward sun and air, Her folded hands she pushed. O, little brown seed in the furrow, At last you have pierced the mold ; And quivering with a life intense, Your beautiful leaves unfold Like wings outspread for upward flight; And slowly, slowly, in dew and light A sweet bud opens — till, in God’s sight, You wear a crown of gold. IDA W. BENHAM. Welcome, ye shades! ye bowery thickets hail! Ye lofty Pines! ye venerable Oaks! Ye Ashes wild! resounding o’er the steep! Delicious is your shelter to the soul. THOMSON, The Seasons. 68 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. TREES: FIRST PUPIL: FOR A CLASS EXERCISE. OREST trees have always “haunted me like a passion.” Let us summona few of them, prime favorites, and familiar to the American forest. SECOND PUPIL: First the Asfev, what soft silver-gray tints on its leaves, how smooth its mot- tled bark, its whole shape how delicate and sensitive ! Teme PUPIL: Next the Z7m, how noble the lift and droop of its branches; it has the shape of the Greek vase, such lavish foliage, running down the trunk to the very roots, as if a rich vine were wreathed around it! FOURTH PUPIL: Then the J/afle, what a splendid cupola of leaves it builds up into the sky, and in autumn, its crimson is so rich, one might term it the blush of the woods! a FIFTH PUPIL: And the Leech, how cheerful its snow-spotted trunk looks in the deep woods ! The pattering of the beechnut upon the dead leaves in the hazy days of our Indian summer, makes a music like the dripping of a rill, in the mournful forest. SIXTH . PUPIL: The &zrch is a great favorite of mine. How like a shaft of ivory it gleams in the daylight woods! How the flame of moonlight kindles it into columned pearl! SEVENTH PUPIL: Now the Oa, what a tree itis. First a tiny needle rising grandly toward the sun, a wreath of green to endure for ages. The child gathers the violet at its foot; as a boy he pockets its acorns; as a man he looks at its heights tower- ing up and makes it the emblem of his ambition. EIGHTH PUPIL: We now come to the Pzwe, of all, my greatest favorite. The oak may be king of the lowlands, but the pine is king of the hills. There he lifts his haughty front like the warrior he is, and when he is roused to meet the onslaught of the storm, the battle-cry he sends down the wind is heard above all the voices of the greenwood. NINTH PUPIL: We will merely touch, in passing, upon the Hemlock, with its masses of ever- green needles, and the Cedar with its misty blueberries; and the Swac with its clusters of crimson, and the Wztch-hazel, smiling at winter, with its curled, sharp cut flowers of golden velvet. ; ; = Sie ea es pee ARBOR DAVY MANUAL. 69 TENTH PUPIL: Did you ever, while wandering in the forest about the first of June, have your eyes dazzled at a distance with what you supposed to be a tree ladened with snow? It was the Dog-wood, glittering in its white blossoms. It brightens the last days of spring with its floral beauty. ELEVENTH PUPIL: While admiring the dog-wood, an odor of exquisite sweetness may salute you; and, if at all conversant in tree knowledge, you will know it is the Bass- wood, clustered with yellow blossoms, golden bells pouring out such strong, delicious fragrance, you nuust all realize the idea of Shelley. ALL : And the hyacinths, purple and white and blue, Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anew, Of music so delicate, soft and intense, It was felt like an odor within the sense. LANDING OF THE PILGRIMS. HE breaking waves dashed high On a stern and rock-bound coast, And the woods against a stormy sky Their giant branches tossed. * rae * * * Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted came, Not with the roll of stirring drums, And the trumpet that sings of fame, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear ; They shook the depths of the desert’s gloom With their hymns of lofty cheer. Amidst the storms they sang ; And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave’s foam ; And the rocking pines of the forest roared ; This was thetr welcome home !/ * * * * * Mrs. HEMANS. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. y QUOTATIONS. FOR A CLASS EXERCISE. FIRST PUPIL: F ever I see On bush or tree Young birds in their pretty nest, I must not in play Steal the birds away, To grieve their mother’s breast. SECOND PUPIL: Apples in the orchard, Mellowing one by one, Strawberries upturning Soft cheeks to the sun ; Roses faint with sweetness, Lilies fair of face, Drowsy scents and murmurs, Haunting every place ; Beams of golden sunshine, Moonlight bright as day,— Don’t you think the summer’s Pleasanter than May? THIRD PUPIL: The ground was all covered with snow one day; And two little sisters were busy at play, When a snow bird was sitting close by on a tree, And merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee. FouRTH PUPIL: Buttercups and daisies, Oh, the pretty flowers ! Coming, ere the spring time, To tell of sunny hours. While the trees are leafless, While the fields are bare, Buttercups and daisies Spring up everywhere. FIFTH PUPIL: How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree ! In the leafy tree so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 71 SIXTH PUPIL: A fair little girl sat under a tree, Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work, and folded it right, And said, “ Dear work, good night, good night.” SEVENTH PUPIL: Kind hearts are the gardens, Kind thoughts are the roots, Kind words are the blossoms, Kind deeds are the fruits. EIGHTH PUPIL: So the merry brown thrush sings away in the tree, To you and to me, to you and to me; And he sings all the day, little girl, little boy: “Oh, the world’s running over with joy! But long it won't be — Don’t you know? don’t you see? Unless we are as good as can be!” LHE. BLUEBIRD'S SONG, KNOW the song that the bluebird is singing, Out in the apple tree where he is swinging. Brave little fellow! the skies may be dreary — Nothing cares he while his heart is so cheery ! Hark ! how the music leaps out from his throat! Hark ! was there ever so merry a note? Listen awhile, and you'll hear what he’s saying, Up in the apple tree swinging and swaying. “ Dear little blossoms down under the snow, You must be weary of winter I know; Hark while I sing you a message of cheer! Summer is coming! and spring time 1s here! ” “Little white snowdrop! I pray you arise; Bright yellow crocus! come open your eyes; Sweet little violets, hid from the cold, Put on your mantles of purple and gold; Daffodils ! daffodils! say do you hear? Summer is coming! and spring time is here!” 72 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. “WHEN THE GREEN GITS BACK IN THE TREES.” J N the spring when the green gits back in the trees, ' And the sun comes out and stays, ; And your boots pull on with a good tight squeeze, And you think of your barefoot days; When you ort to work and you want to not, And you and yer wife agrees It’s time to spade up the garden lot— When the green gits back on the trees— Well, work is the least of my idees When the green, you know, gits back in the oe When the green gits back in the trees, and bees Is a-buzzin’ aroun’ agin, In that kind of a lazy ‘‘go-as-you please ” Old gait they hum roun’ in; When the ground’s all bald where the hayrick stood, -And the crick’s riz, and the breeze Coaxes the bloom in the old dogwood, And the green gits back in the trees— I like, as I say, in sich scenes as these, The time when the green gits back in the trees. When the whole tail-feathers 0’ winter-time Is all pulled out and gone, And the sap it thaws and begins to climb, And the sweat it starts out on A feller’s forrerd, a-gittin’ down At the old spring on his knees— I kind o’ like, jes’ a-loaferin’ roun’ When the green gits back in the trees— Jes’ a-potterin’ roun’ as I —durn — please— When the green, you know, gits back in the trees. JamMES WHITCOMB RILEY. How dreary would the garden be, With all its flowery trees, Suppose there were no butterflies, And suppose there were no bees. ALICE CAREY. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 73 THE TWIG THAT BECAME A TREE. HE tree of which I am about to tell you was once a little twig. There were many others like it, and the farmer came to look at them every day, to see if they were all doing well. By-and-by he began to take away the older and stronger twigs, and one day he dug up this little tree and carried it away to an open field. There its roots were again put into the soft warm ground, and it held its pretty head up as if looking into the blue sky. Just at sunset the farmer’s wife came out to look at the new tree. “T wonder if I shall ever see apples growing on these twigs,” she said. The little tree heard it, and said softly, ‘‘ We shall see! Come gentle rain and warm sun, and let me be the first to give a fine red apple to the farmer’s wife!” And the rain and the sun did come, and the branches grew, and the roots dug deep into the soft ground, and at last, one bright spring day the farmer's wife cried, “Just see! One of our little trees has some blossoms on it! I believe that, small as it is, it will give me an apple this autumn.” But the farmer laughed and said, “Oh, it is not old enough to bear apples yet.” The little tree said nothing, but all to itself it thought, “The good woman shall have an apple this very year.” And she did. When the cool days of autumn came, and the leaves began to fade and grow yellow, two red apples hung upon one of the branches of the tree. THE SPICE TREE. HE spice tree grows in the garden green, Beside it the fountain flows, And a fair bird sits the boughs between And sings his melodious woes. No greener garden e’er was known Within the bounds of an earthly King ; No brighter skies have ever shone Than those that illumine its constant spring. Ean That coil bound stem has branches three at On each a thousand blossoms grow, And, old as aught of time can be, The roots stand fast in the rocks below. JOHN STERLING. 74 ARBOR DAY. MANUAL. FALL FASHIONS. HE maple owned that she was tired of always wearing green, She knew that she had grown, of late, too shabby to be seen ! The oak and beech and chestnut then deplored their shabbiness, And all, except the hemlock sad, were wild to change their dress. “ For fashion-plates we’ll take the flowers,” the rustling maple said. “ And like the tulip I'll be clothed in splendid gold and red!” “The cheerful sunflower suits me best,” the lightsome beech replied; “The marigold my choice shall be,” the chestnut spoke with pride. The sturdy old oak took time to think, ‘‘I hate such glaring hues; The gillyflower, so dark and rich, I for my model choose.” So every tree in all the grove, except the hemlock sad, According to its wish ere long in brilliant dress was clad. And here they stand through all the soft and bright October days; They wished to be like flowers — indeed they look like huge bouquets. COME TO THE FOREST. OME to the forest, the bright sun is shining, And nature is decked in her proudest array; The green leafy boughs with ivy entwining, Bend gracefully o’er the sweet flow’rs of May. CHORUS. O come to the forest. all nature is gay; Come away! Come away! Come away, away! Come away! Come away! Come away! Come away! Away, away, away, away. Away, away, away, away. Come to the forest, the gay birds are singing, As upward they soar to the beautiful sky; And through the fresh air bright insects are winging; Then come to the forest while summer is nigh. GOD'S LOVE. HERE’S no(flower that decks the vale, There's nota tree that guards the mountain, There’s not a shrub that scents the gale, There’s not a wind that stirs the fountain, There’s not a hue that paints the rose, There’s not a leaf around us lying, But in its use or beauty shows God’s love to us, and love undying. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 75 TREE PLANTING. BOY strolled through a dusty road, A “What can I do?” said he, “ What little errand for the world?” “T know — I'll plant a tree.” The nursling was taken by mother earth, Who fed it with all things good: Sparkling water from mountain springs, And many a subtle food, Drawn from her own wide-reaching veins; From the treasuries of the sky, Far spread its branches in affluent grace; So the steady years went by. The boy who planted the little tree, By a kindly purpose led, One desolate, dreadful winter day In the brother-war fell dead. But the gentle thought at the great elm’s root Burst forth with the spring’s warm breath, And softly the fluttering foliage sang, “Love cannot suffer death.” The elm’s vast shadow far and cool Fell o’er the dusty way, Blessing the toilers at their rest, The children at their play. And panting horses felt the air Grow sudden full of balm; Great oxen with their weary loads Caught there a sudden calm. So little acts of kindliness Spread every branch and root, And never guesses he who plants The wonders of the fruit. I often think if blessed eyes The old home scenes can see, That heaven's joy is heightened by The planting of the tree. M. F. Butts. 76 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. PLANT WORSHIP. HE plant worship which holds soyprominent a place in the history of the primitive races of mankind would appear to have sprung from a percep- tion of the beauty and utility of trees. Survivals of this still linger on in many parts of Europe. The peasants in Bohemia will sally forth into their gardens before sunrise on Good Friday, and falling upon their knees before a tree will exclaim: “I pray O green tree, that God may make thee good.” At night time they will run to and fro about their gardens crying: ‘‘ Bud, O trees, bud, or I will flog you.” In our own country the Devonshire farmers and their men will to this day go out into their orchards after supper on the evening of Twelfth Day, carrying with them a large milk pail of cider, with roasted apples pressed into it. All present hold in their hands an earthenware cup filled with liquor, and taking up their stand beneath those apple trees which have borne the most fruit, address them in these words: “ Health to thee, good apple tree, Well to bear pocket fulls, hat fulls, Peck fulls, bushel bag fulls!” simultaneously dashing the contents of their cups over the trees. The observ- ance of this ceremony, which is locally known as ‘‘wassailing,” is enjoined by Thomas Tusser in his work entitled ‘‘ Five Hundred Points of Good Hus- bandry, ” wherein he bids the husbandman “ Wassail the trees, that they may bear You many a plum and many a pear; For more or less fruit they will bring, As you do them wassailing.”’ In most countries certain plants are to be found associated with witches and their craft. Shakespeare causes one of his witches to discourse of, root of ‘hemlock digg’d i’ the dark;” likewise also of ‘‘slips of yew sliver’d in the moon’s eclipse.” Vervain was in olden times known as ‘‘the enchanter’s plant ; ” rue, again, was regarded as an antidote against their spells and machinations. Their partiality for certain trees is well known. According to Grimm, the trysting place of the Neapolitan witches was a walnut tree near Benevento. In walnut and elder trees they are also said to be in the habit of lurking at nightfall. Witches, too, had their favorite flowers. Among these the foxglove was known as the ‘‘ witches’ bells;” the harebell as the ‘‘ witches’ thimbles.” Tradition asserted that on moonlight nights they might be seen flying through the air, mounted on the stems of the ragwort, reeds, or bulrushes. Throughout Germany it is believed that witches career through the midnight skies on hay. Many plants were pressed into the service of charms and spells for the detec- tion of witches and evil spirits when wandering about on their nefarious errands, particularly the St. John’s wort, still largely worn by the German peasantry as a kind of amulet on St. John’s eve. It was an old belief that all baptized persons whose eyes had been steeped in the green juice of the inner al ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Gy bark of the elder tree would be enabled to detect witches anywhere. The same property, according to German folk lore, is possessed by the wild radish, ivy and saxifrage on Walpurgis Night. Among other plants which have had the reputation of averting the crafts and subtleties of witchcraft, the juniper, holiy, mistletoe, little pimpernel, herb paris, cyclamen, angelica, herb betony, rowan tree, bracken, and twigs of the ash may be mentioned. In the Rhine district the water lily is regarded as antagonistic to sorcery. Lavender is be- lieved in Tuscany to possess the power of averting the evil eye. Olive branches are said to keep the witches from the cottage doors in the rural dis- tricts of Italy, and the Russian peasantry will lay aspen upon the grave of a witch to prevent her spirit from walking abroad or exercising any evil influence over her neighbors. THE GENTLEMEN’S MAGAZINE. THE BLUEBIRD! FTNIS early spring; the distant hills at Are flecked with drifts of dingy snow, And bird-notes from the lofty trees Come down in warblings soft and low. The bluebird seeks his home again, He sings sweet love songs to his mate; They choose the dear old apple tree Whose branches shade our garden gate. One door, one window intheir cot — All else is safe from wind and rain; The ruffled nest of former years Is soon made new and warm again. And now I watch with keen delight This shady home so near our door, Till busy parents come to bring Their dainties to the fledglings four. How sweet to climb the bended trunk, To gaze upon the tiny brood, And see four little gaping mouths Upraised imploringly for food. Dear warblers of my early years! A child again, once more I wait, And watch you in the apple tree Whose branches shade our garden gate. C. F. GERRY. 78 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. TO. A PINE TREE: AR up on Katahdin thou towerest. Purple-blue with the distance and vast; Like a cloud o’er the lowlands thou lowerest, That hangs poised on a lull in the blast, To its fall leaning awful. In the storm, like a prophet o’er maddened, Thou singest and tossest thy branches ; Thy heart with the terror is gladdened, Thou fore€bodest the dread avalanches, When whole mountains swoop valeward. In the calm thou o’er stretchest the valleys With thine arms, as if blessings imploring, Like an old King led forth from his palace, When his people to battle are pouring From the city beneath him. * * * * * * Spite of winter, thou keep’st thy green glory, Lusty father of Titans past number ! The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, Nestling close to thy branches in slumber, And the mantling with silence. Thou alone know’st the splendor of winter, Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter, And then plunge down the muffled abysses In the quiet of midnight. Thou alone know’st the glory of summer, Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest, On thy subjects that send a proud murmur Up to thee, to their sachem, who towerest From thy bleak throne to heaven. JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL. i The violet in her greenwood bower, Where birchen boughs with hazels mingle, May boast itself the fairest flower In glen, or copse, or forest dingle. StR WALTER SCOTT. eee ee ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. wie BLUEBELL. HERE is a story I have heard— A poet learned it from a bird, And kept its music, every word— A story of a dim ravine, O’er which the towering tree tops lean, With one blue rift of sky between , And there, two thousand years ago, A little flower, as white as snow, Swayed in the silence to and fro, Day after day with longing eye The floweret watched the narrow sky And fleecy clouds that floated by. And through the darkness, night by night, One gleaming star would climb the height, And cheer the lonely floweret’s sight. Thus, watching the blue heavens afar, And the rising of its favorite star, A slow change came, but not to mar; For softly o’er its petals white There crept a blueness like the light Of skies upon a summer night ; And in its chalice, I am told, The bonny bell was found to hold A tiny star that gleamed like gold. And blue bells of the Scottish land Are loved on every foreign strand Where stirs a Scottish heart or hand. Now little people, sweet and true, I find a lesson here for you, Writ in the floweret’s bell of blue: The patient child whose watchful eye Strives after all things pure and high Shall take their im»ge by and by. 79 80 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Written for the ‘‘ ARBor Day Manua..” ARBOR DAY POEM. ISTEN ! the grand old forests, L. Through which our fathers journeyed, Wherein their hearth-fires glimmered, Are crashing sadly down ; The echoes of their falling Are like the booming sea guns, That tell of sore disaster When tempests darkly frown. ‘Those trees of God’s own planting, Once standing with their branches Close-locked, like loving children, On many a mountain side ; Now, where the shade lay thickest, The sunshine darts and quivers, And turns to gold the wheat fields, Till all seems glorified. We mourn the vanished grandeur Of forests dark and stately, Yet we have not been idle, While ruthless axes swung ; A new, a glorious planting, Now gives a royal promise Of shade for generations Whose deeds are still unsung. We plant the pine and fir tree, And all that wear green branches, To give us hope of spring-time, Though snows are over all; The maple is for bird-songs, The elm for stately branches, Whose long, protecting shadows Through summer noontides fall. Listen ! a pleasant whisper Goes softly through the branches Of every lithe young sapling, By earnest workers set ; It says, ‘‘ The time is coming When we shall be the forests, And give to all the nations, Sodus Centre, N.Y. The shade they now regret.” LILLIAN E. KNaApp. Written for the ‘‘Arnor Day Manuat.” LITTLE ACORN. FOR RECITATION. 6 ’M nothing but a little acorn, | Not much bigger than a bee; But mama Oak-tree tells me that I will grow as big as she,— “I can’t see how—but she says some way I will pop out from my shell, A little sprout will greet the sunshine, Starting up, and down as well. ‘‘T'll keep growing, bigger, higher, Spreading out my branches wide; And will never stop to wonder Till I stand up by her side. Watertown, N. Y. “* Then I'll look down on my sisters,— For there were a lot you see,— Some who said they knew they couldn’t Ever sprout and be a tree. ** So they never made an effort, — Did not ‘try and try again’; There was nothing that could make them, Though nature taught their duty plain. ‘* But I am happy as I can be — Keeping laws of God and man — Now, can’t you learn a lesson from me Growing upward all you can?”’ Mrs. M. H. HunriIncToN. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 81 THE WONDERFUL “ONE-HOSS SHAY.” you heard of the wonderful one hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way—-? It ran a-hundred years to a day. * * * + * * Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what, There is always, somewhere, a weakest spot — In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill, In panel or cross-bar, or floor, or sill, In screw, bolt, thorough-brace — lurking still, Find it somewhere you must and will — Above or below, or within or without — And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt, A chaise dreaks down, but does’nt wear out. But the Deacon swore — (as Deacons do With an ‘“‘I dew vum” or an “‘I tell yeou ”)— He would build one shay to beat the taown ‘N’ the keounty ‘n’ all the kentry raoun’ ; It should be so built that it couldn’t break daouwn :— “Fur,” said the Deacon, ‘ ’tis mighty plain, That the weakes’ place must stan’ the strain ; “N’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest ‘T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.” So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn’t be split, nor bent, nor broke — That was for spokes, and floor, and sills, He sent for lancewood, to make the thills; The cross-bars were ash, from the straighest trees; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these ; The hubs from logs from the “setler’s ellum—” Last of its timber — they couldn’t sell ’em— Never an axe had seen their chips, And the wedges flew from between their lips, Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips ; Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw, Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too, Steel of the finest, bright and blue ; Thorough-brace bison-skin, thick and wide ; Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide, Found in the pit where the tanner died. That was the way he “ put her through.” “There!” said the Deacon, ‘‘ naow she'll dew!” OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. 6 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE VOICE OF SPRING. COME, I come! ye have called me long ; | I come o’er the mountains, with light and song. Ye may trace my step o’er the waking earth By the winds which tell of the violet’s birth, By the primrose stars in the shadowy grass, By the green leaves opening as I pass. I have breathed on the South, and the chestnut flowers By thousands have burst from thé forest bowers, And the ancient graves, and the fallen fanes Are veiled with wreaths on Italian plains ; But it is not for me, in my hour of bloom, To speak of the ruin or the tomb! I have looked on the hills of the stormy North, And the larch has hung all his tassels forth ; The fisher is out on the. sunny sea, And the reindeer bounds o’er the pastures free, And the pine has a fringe of softer green, And the moss looks bright, where my foot hath been. I have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh, And called out each voice of the deep blue sky, From the night bird’s lay through the starry time, In the groves of the soft Hesperian clime, To the swan’s wild note by the Iceland lakes, When the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks. From the streams and founts I have loosed the chain ; They are sweeping on to the silvery main, They are flashing down from the mountain brows, They are flinging spray o’er the forest boughs, They are bursting fresh from their sparry caves, And the earth resounds with the joy of waves ! * * * * ** * Away from the dwellings of care-worn men, The waters are sparkling in grove and glen! Away from the chamber and sullen hearth, The young leaves are dancing in breezy mirth! Their light stems thrill in the wildwood strains, And youth is abroad in my green domains. + * * > * * Mrs. HEMANS. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE HOLLY-TREE. READER! hast thou ever stood to see Q The Holly-tree ? The eye that contemplates it will perceive Its glossy leaves Ordered by an intelligence so wise As might confound the Atheist’s sophistries. Below, a circling fence, its leaves are seen, Wrinkled and keen; No grazing cattle through their prickly round Can reach to wound ; But, as they grow where nothing is to fear, Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. I love to view these things with curious eyes, And moralize ; And in this wisdom of the Holly-tree Can emblem see Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in after-time. Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear Harsh and austere To those who on my leisure would intrude Reserved and rude, Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be, Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree And should my youth, as youth is apt I know, Some harshness show, All vain asperities I day by day Would wear away, Till the smooth temper of my age should be Like the high leaves upon the Holly-tree. And as, when all the summer trees are seen So bright and green, The Holly-leaves a sober hue display Less bright than they, But when the bare and wintry woods we see, What then so cheerful as the Holly-tree ?— So serious should my youth appear among The thoughtless throng; So would I seem, amid the young and gay, More grave than they, That in my age as cheerful I might be As the green winter of the Holly-tree. 83 ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1798. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE TRAILING ARBUTUS. ARLINGS of the forest! Blossoming alone, When earth’s grief is sorest For her jewels gone, Ere the last snow drift melts, your tender buds are blown. Fringed with color faintly, Like the morning sky, Or, more pale and saintly, Wrapped in leaves ye lie, Even as children sleep in faith’s simplicity. There the wild-wood robin Hymns your solitude ; And the rain comes sobbing Through the budding wood, While the low south wind sighs, but dare not be more rude. Were your pure lips fashioned Out of air and dew, Starlight unimpassioned Dawn’s most tender hue, And scented by the woods that gathered sweets for you ? Fairest and most lonely, From the world apart ; Made for beauty only, Veiled from Nature’s heart With such unconscious grace as wakes the dream of Art. Were not mortal sorrow An immortal shade, Then would I to-morrow Such a flower be made, And live in the dear woods, where my lost childhood played. ROSE TERRY COOKE. “T am Storm —the King! My troops are the wind, and the hail, and the rain; My foes are the woods and the feathery grain. The mail-clad oak He gnarls his front to my charge and stroke.” ’ FRANCIS M. FINCH, Zhe Storm King. 2, S 4 ; Ps ; Z ee ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 85 LIFE’S FOREST TREES. HE day grows brief; the afternoon is slanting Down to the west; there is no time to waste. If you have any seed of good for planting, | You must, you must make haste. Not as of old do you enjoy earth’s pleasures (The only joys that last are those we give). Across the grave you cannot take gains, treasures ; But good and kind deeds live. I would not wait for any great achievement; You may not live to reach that far off goal. Speak soothing words to some heart in bereavement— - Aid some up-struggling soul. Teach some weak life to strive for independence ; Reach out a hand to some one in sore need. Though it seem idle, yet in their descendants May blossom this chance seed. On each life path, like costly flowers faded And cast away, are pleasures that are dead; Good deeds, like trees, whereunder, fed and shaded, Souls yet unborn may tread. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. HOW TO MAKE A WHISTLE. IRST take a willow bough, Slip the bark off carefully, Smooth, and round, and dark, So that it will not break, And cut a little ring And cut away the inside part, Just through the outside bark And then a mouth-piece make. Then tap and rap it gently Now put the bark all nicely back With many a pat and pound And in a single minute, To loosen up the bark, Just put it to your lips So it may turn around. And blow the whistle in it. “ Nature s sepulchre is breaking, And the earth, her gloom forsaking, Into life and light is waking.” PHBE CARY 2” “ Resurgam.” 86 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE STORY OF THE MORNING-GLORY SEED. LITTLE girl one day in the month of May dropped a morning-glory seed A inito a smal] hole in the ground and said: ‘ Now, morning-glory seed, hurry and grow, grow, grow until you area tall vine covered with pretty green leaves and lovely trumpet flowers.” But the earth was very dry, for there had been no rain for a long time, and the poor wee seed could not grow at all. So, after lying patiently in the small hole for nine long days and nine long nights, it said to the ground around it: ‘‘O ground, please give me a few drops of water to soften my hard brown coat, so that it may burst open and set free my two green seed-leaves, and then I can begin to be a vine!” But the ground said: “That you must ask of the rain.” So the seed called to the rain: ‘O rain, please come down and wet the ground around me so that it may give me a few drops of water. Then will my hard brown coat grow softer and softer until at last it can burst open and set free my two green’ seed-leaves and I can begin to bea vine!” But the rain said: “I cannot unless the clouds hang lower.” So the seed said to the clouds: ‘O clouds, please hang lower and let the rain come down and wet the ground around me, so that it may give me a few drops of water. Then will my hard brown coat grow softer and softer until at last it can burst open and set free my two green seed-leaves and I can begin to be avine!” But the clouds said: ‘‘The sun must hide, first.” So the seed called to the sun: ‘‘O sun, please hide for a little while so that the clouds may hang lower, and the rain come down and wet the ground around me. Then will the ground give mea few drops of water and my hard brown coat grow softer and softer until at last it can burst open and set free my two green seed-leaves and I can begin to be avine!” ‘‘I will,” said the sun, and he was gone in a flash. Then the clouds began to hang lower and lower, and the rain began to fall faster and faster, and the ground began to get wetter and wetter, and the seed- coat began to grow softer and softer until at last open it burst !— and out came two bright green seed-leaves and the Morning-glory Seed began to be a Vine! St. Nicholas, 1888. MARGARET EYTINGE. FOOLISH LITTLE ROBIN. NCE there was a robin lived outside the door, Who wanted to go inside, and hop upon the floor. ‘“‘Oh, no!” said the mother, “you must stay with me; Little birds are safest sitting in a tree.” ‘‘T don’t care,”’ said robin, and gave his tail a fling; ‘‘T don’t think the old folks know quite every thing.” Down he flew,—and kitty seized him, before he’d time to blink; ‘©Oh,” he cried, ‘I’m sorry! but I didn’t think.” * ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 87 THE PRETTY ROSE-TREE. EING weary of love, I flew to the grove, And chose me a tree of the fairest ; Saying, “ Pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, I'll worship each bud that thou bearest, For the hearts of this world are hollow, And fickle the smiles we follow; And ‘tis sweet, when all their witcheries pall, To have a pure love to fly to: So, my pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, And the only one now I shall sigh to.” When the beautiful hue of thy cheek through the dew Of morning is bashfully peeping, ‘Sweet tears,” I shall say (as I brush them away), ‘At least there’s no art in this weeping. Although thou shouldest die to-morrow, "Twill not be from pain or sorrow, And the thorns of thy stem are not like them With which hearts wound each other: So, my pretty rose-tree, thou my mistress shalt be, And I'll ne’er again sigh to another.” THOMAS MOORE. ECHO. I love the proud grandeur of the old forest trees, ‘With their leaves whispering softly their thoughts to the breeze ; And T love the bright streamlet that flows at their feet, Whose low distant murmurs faint echoes repeat, They say that an echo dwells here in the dell, Who every fond wish of the young heart can tell. Hark, the echo! hark, the echo! Who every fond wish of the young heart can tell. 1 love the bright woodland, where the echoes are found, Where the rocks and the hills with sweet music resound, As the echoes awake to the shepherd’s shrill horn, And the notes of the thrush on the breezes are borne. 1 love the green fields, and the fragrant wild flowers, That drink with the dew generous light from above. Here’s an echo, here’s an echo, Here’s an echo that wakes to the voice of my love. L. V. HALL. 88 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. , THE OLIVE TREES OF PALESTINE, 1 am like a green olive tree in the house of God.— Psat 52:8. MONG the gray old rounded hills, * O’er regions broad of Holy Land, A grateful scene the vision fills, Where clustering groves of olive stand. Rich in the vales, the slopes they trace, And oft the rocky summits crown, The thrifty saplings grow apace Beside the trees of gnarled renown. Slowly the grafted stems mature — From olives wild no fruit appears — But long the sturdy plants endure, And measure oft a thousand years. They love the hard and flinty soil, Drive down their roots amid the rocks, Draw out from thence their choicest oil, And stand secure from stormy shocks. Symmetric beauty, humble, calm, Their pleasant features clearly mark, Not like the tall and tufted palm, Nor tapering cvpress, slender, dark. When vernal airs and skies appear, Star-blooms of purest white are seen, ’Mid narrow leaves that all the year Keep an unchanging evergreen. While blossoms fade, or falling oft From arching boughs they lately decked, That dusky hue of foliage soft With deeper emerald gems is flecked. Through arid heats of summer time, When fountains fail and leaves are brown, That fadeless verdure holds its prime, And rounding berries fill its crown. As autumn days their exit make, Ring all the groves in merry gale, While stalwart hands the branches shake, And purple fruit descends like hail. Their sacks the gleeful maidens fill, And bear them on their heads away; On topmost boughs are berries still, To cheer the poor who hither stray. When sacred hills in mantling snow Feel winter storms along them sweep, And torrents cold through valleys flow, Unwithered leaves the olives keep. The richest wealth the people know, The largest comforts that they see, Each daily meal, the lamp’s bright glow, Attest the value of the tree. Down to their life’s remotest stage, Though trunk decays and boughs are grim, The reverend forms are green in age, And berries hang from every limb. Such are the grand old sacred trees I saw in sweet Gethsemane, And thought of Him whose holy knees Bowed under burdens there for me. Along the slope of that dear hill, To where He vanished in the sky, Infrequent stands the olive still, To bring the days of Jesus nigh. And o’er the ridge they cluster sweet, Where Bethany, beloved for Him, So oft received His weary feet, When day declined to twilight dim. Emblem of peace! I would like thee In living faithfulness abound; Oh! let me, like the olive tree, Within the house of God be found. Hours at Home, 1866. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. AN it be that it is snowing, On this clear and sunny day? Are the snow-flakes thickly falling In the pleasant month of May? No, it is the apple blossoms Falling, falling from the trees, Dancing in a whirl of rapture To the music of the breeze. Till the orchard grass is covered With a carpet pure and white; Like the crystal snow of winter Dipped in rosy sunset light. MAY. May, the month of song and story, Singing birds and fairest flowers; May, the month of nature’s glory, Sunshine bright and gentle showers. Listen to the robins singing ‘Mid the branches of the trees; Listen to the blue-birds’ carol And the drowsy hum of bees. All the land is filled with sunshine, Every heart is light and gay, Nature smiles upon her children For it is the month of May. May, the month of song and story, Singing birds and fairest flowers; May, the month of nature’s glory, Sunshine bright and gentle showers. Wm. G. PARK. A BUT TERCUP: LITTLE yellow buttercup A Stood laughing in the sun; The grass all green around it, The summer just begun! Its saucy little head abrim With happiness and fun. Near by — grown old and gone to seed, A dandelion grew, To right and left with every breeze His snowy tissues flew. He shook his saucy head and said: ‘«T’ve some advice for you. ‘‘Don't think because you’re yellow now, That golden days will last; I was as gay as you are, once; But now my youth is past. This day will be my last to bloom; The hours are going fast. ‘* Perhaps your fun may last a week, But then you'll have to die.” The dandelion ceased to speak,— A breeze that capered by Snatched all the white hairs from his head; And wafted them on high. His yellow neighbor first looked sad, Then, cheering up, he said: ‘Tf one’s to live in fear of death, One might as well be dead.” The little buttercup laughed on, And waved his golden head. el OF gO ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Written for the ‘‘ ARsor Day Manuva.” RESURGAM. HEN the Great Architect conceived the plan _ 3 To build a habitation fit for man, Earth was not counted perfect from His hand, Till streams and forests gladdened all the land. Great forests, like huge temples builded h igh, With frondent cclumns reaching toward the sky, Firm founded in the rich and nurturing ground, Their roofs with nature’s glorious verdure Almighty Builder! with what wise design Didst rear the mighty oak, the giant pine How did Thy grand beneficence unfold crowned. i In beech and maple with their wealth untold ! Rivers and forests with their scenery grand, Made glad the earth fresh from the Maker The orb of day looked down on man’s abo And with the stars sang praise to nature’s *s hand; de, ‘God. So time passed on, till earth was peopled o’er ; Human abodes were built on every shore; While in the forests depths, in the soft shade, Four-footed beauties with their offspring played. High in their branches feathered warblers Till the dark woods with glad hosannas ra And all was life and beauty. But God’s pl sang, ng; an Too soon was marred by greedy, wanton man. Stroke upon stroke the cruel axeman plied, Nor rested he till nature’s choicest pride, “The grand old woods,” were ruthlessly laid low, Alton, N. VY. Entailing dark disaster and dire woe! But now, thank God! a noble band of men Come to the front. The woods shall rise again! An army of tree planters, bearing trees, Fling out their glorious banner to the breeze! Come, old and young and join the noble throng Who celebrate this day with speech and song ; And millions yet unborn shall own your sway, And rise to bless our glorious Arbor Day! SEYMOUR S. SHORT. teas ARBOR DAVY MANUAL. gI SUNSET. . HE evening shadows lengthen on the lawn: Westward, our immemorial chestnuts stand, A mount of shade; but o’er the cedars drawn, Between the hedge-row trees, in many a band Of brightening gold, the sunshine lingers on, And soon will touch our oaks with parting hand: And down the distant valley all is still, And flushed with purple smiles the beckoning hill. Come, leave the flowery terrace, leave the beds Where Southern children wake to Northern air: Let yon mimosas droop their tufted heads, These myrtle-trees their nuptial beauty wear, And while the dying day reluctant treads From tree-top unto tree-top, with me share The scene’s idyllic peace, the evening’s close, The balm of twilight, and the land’s repose. * * * wk * * xe BAYARD TAYLOR. UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE. NDER the greenwood tree, Who doth ambition shun, Who loves to lie with me, And loves to live in the sun, And tune his merry note Seeking the ‘food he eats, Unto the sweet bird’s throat ? And pleased with what he gets ? Come hither, come hither, come hither; Come hither, come hither, come hither ; Here shall we see Here shall we see No enemy No enemy But winter and rough weather. But winter and rough weather. SHAKSPEARE. TREES OF CORN. 7: child looked out upon the field The mother from the window looked And said with a little cry: Out in the rosy morn, ‘* Mamma, what is it makes the grass ‘What makes the grass grow up so high ? Grow up so big and high?” Why, those are trees of corn,” ‘** What, trees of corn?” said the happy child, Within the nursery walls, ** Are those the kind of trees that bear The great big pop-corn balls?” Goed Cheer. Q2 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. | THE SPIRIT ‘OF’ THE. PINE. * * * ¥ * * ¥ LL outward wisdom yields to that within, A Whereof nor creed nor canon holds the key ; We only feel that we have ever been, And evermore shall be. And thus I know, by memories unfurled In rarer moods, and many a nameless sign, That once in Time, and somewhere in the world, I was a towering Pine, Rooted upon a cape that overhung The entrance to a mountain gorge ; whereon The wintry shade of a peak was flung, Long after rise of sun. * * * * * * * There did I clutch the granite with firm feet, There shake my boughs above the roaring gulf, When mountain whirlwinds through the passes beat, And howled the mountain wolf. There did I louder sing than all the floods Whirled in white foam adown the precipice, ‘And the sharp sleet that stung the naked woods Answer with sullen hiss: But when the peaceful clouds rose white and high On blandest airs that April skies could bring, Through all my fibres thrilled the tender sigh, The sweet unrest of spring. She with warm fingers laced in mine, did melt In fragrant balsam my reluctant blood ; And with a smart of keen delight I felt The sap in every bud, And tingled through my rough old bark, and fast Pushed out the younger green, that smoothed my tones, When last year's needles to the wind I cast, And shed my scaly cones. I held the eagle till the mountain mist Rolled from the azure paths he came to soar, And like a hunter, on my gnarléd wrist The dappled falcon bore. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Poised o’er the blue abyss, the morning lark Sang, wheeling near in rapturous carouse ; And hart and hind, soft pacing through the dark, Slept underneath my boughs, * * * * * * ] felt the mountain walls below me shake, Vibrant with sound, and through my branches poured The glorious gust: my song thereto did make Magnificent accord. Some blind harmonic instinct pierced the rind Of that slow life which made me straight and high; And I became a harp for every wind, A voice for every sky; ~ When fierce autumnal gales began to blow, Roaring all day in concert, hoarse and deep ; And then made silent with my weight of snow— A spectre on the steep; * * * * * * * And thus for centuries my rhythmic chant Rolled down the gorge, or surged about the hill: Gentle, or stern, or sad, or jubilant, At every season’s will. No longer memory whispers whence arose The doom that tore me from my place of pride: Whether the storms that load the peak with snows And start the mountain slide, Let fall a fiery bolt to smite my top, Upwrenched my roots, and o’er the precipice Hurled me, a dangling wreck, erelong to drop Into the wild abyss; Or whether hands of men, with scornful strength And force from Nature’s rugged armory lent, Sawed through my heart and rolled my tumbling length, Sheer down the deep descent. All sense departed with the boughs I wore; And though I moved with mighty gales at strife, A mast upon the seas, I sang no more, And music was my life. 94 ARBOR DAY. MANUAL. Yet still that life awakens, brings again Its airy anthems, resonant and long, Till Earth and Sky, transfigured, fill my brain With rnythmic sweeps of song. Thence am J made a poet: thence are sprung Those motions of the soul, that sometimes reach Beyond the grasp of Art,—for which the tongue Is ignorant of speech. And if some wild, full-gathered harmony Roll its unbroken music through my line, There lives and murmurs, faintly though it be, The Spirit of the Pine. BAYARD TAYLOR. MONTH OF MAY. ERE I am, and how do you do? _I’vea store of treasures rare I’ve come afar to visit you. Laid away with greatest care— Little children, glad and free, Days of sunshine, song and flowers, Are you ready now for me ?— Earth made into fairy bowers ! I’m the month of May! I’m the month of May! In my loaded trunk I bring Bees to buzz and birds to sing: Flowers to fill the balmy air, Violets are hiding there !— I’m the month of May! Youth's Companzon. THE MOUNTAIN AND THE SQUIRREL. HE mountain and the squirrel And I think it no disgrace Had a little quarrel ; To occupy my place. And the former called the latter “ Little You are not as small as I, Prig.” And not half so spry. i Bun replied: . I'll not deny Kae You are doubtless very big; You make a very pretty squirrel trap. But all sorts of things and weather Talents differ; all is well and wisely Must be taken in together, put ; To make up a year, If I cannot carry forests on my back, And a sphere. Neither can you crack a nut.” RALPH WALDO EMERSON. ARBOR DAY MANUAL, THE OAK OF OUR FATHERS. we for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood! It grew and it flourished for many an age, and many a tempest wreaked on it its rage; But, when its strong branches were bent with the blast, It struck its root deeper, and flourished more fast. Its head towered on high, and its branches spread round ; For its roots had struck deep, and its heart was sound; The bees o’er its honey-dewed foliage played, And the beasts of the forest fed under its shade. The Oak of our Fathers to Freedom was dear ; Its leaves were her crown, and its wood was her spear. - Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood, “In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood! There crept up an ivy, and ciung round the trunk ; It struck in its mouths, and its juices it drunk ; The branches grew sickly, deprived of their food, And the Oak was no longer the pride of the wood. The foresters saw, and they gathered around ; The roots still were fast, and the heart still was sound; They lopt off the boughs that so beautiful spread, Put the ivy they spared on its vitals that fed. No longer the bees o’er its honey-dews played, Nor the beasts of the forest fed under its shade; Lopt and mangled, the trunk in its ruin is seen, A monument now what its beauty has been. The Oak has received its incurable wound; They have loosened the roots, though the heart may be sound; What the travelers at distance green-flourishing see, Are the leaves of the ivy that poisoned the tree. Alas for the Oak of our Fathers, that stood In its beauty, the glory and pride of the wood! 95 ROBERT SOUTHEY, 1798. ‘‘ First, in green apparel dancing, The young spring smiled with angel grace.” THOMAS CAMPBELL. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE BOBOLINK. NCE, on a golden afternoon, With radiant faces and hearts in tune, Two fond lovers in dreaming mood, Threaded a rural solitude. Wholly happy, they only knew That the earth was bright and the sky was blue, That light and beauty and joy and song Charmed the way as they passed along ; The air was fragrant with woodland scents ; The squirrel frisked on the roadside fence ; And hovering near them, “chee, chee, chink ?”’ Queried the curious bobolink, Pausing and peering with sidelong head, As saucily questioning all they said ; While the ox-eye danced on its slender stem, And all glad nature rejoiced with them. Over the odorous fields were strewn Wilting winrows of grass new mown, And rosy billows of clover bloom Surged in the sunshine and breathed perfume. Swinging low on a slender limb, The sparrow warbled his wedding hymn, And balancing on a blackberry briar, The bobolink sang with his heart on fire :- **Chink ! If you wish to kiss her, do! Do it ! do it! You coward, you! Kiss her! kiss her! Who will see ? Only we three! we three! we three!” Tender garlands of drooping vines, Through dim vistas of sweet-breathed pines, Past wide meadow fields, lately mowed, Wandering the indolent country road, The lovers followed it, listening still, And loitering slowly, as lovers will, Entered a gray-roofed bridge that lay Dusk and cool in their pleasant way. Under its arch a smooth, brown stream, Silently glided with glint and gleam, Shaded by graceful elms, which spread Their verdurous canopy overhead,— The stream so narrow, the bough so wide, They met and mingled across the tide. He Se Ee ARBOR DAY MANUAL. . 97 Alders loved it, and seemed: to. keep Patient watch as it lay asleep, Mirroring clearly the trees and sky, And the flitting form of the dragon fly, Save where the swift-winged swallow played In and out in the sun and shade, And darting and circling in merry chase, Dipped and dimpled its clear, dark face. Fluttering lightly from brink to brink, Followed the garrulous bobolink, Rallying loudly with mirthful din, The pair who lingered unseen within. And when from the friendly bridge at last Into the road beyond they passed, Again beside them the tempter went, Keeping the thread of his argument-— “‘Kiss her! kiss her! chink-a-chee-chee! 11] not mention it". Don’t mind me! I’ll be sentinel —I can see All around from this tall birch tree!” But ah ! they noted — nor deemed it strange — In his rollicking chorus a trifling change: ‘*Do it! do it!’’—with might and main Warbled the tell-tale — “kiss her again!” | The Aldine. CWOoGl. tLe ROSES. NE merry summer day They stole along my fence ; Two roses were at play; They clambered up my wall; All at once they took a notion They climbed into my window They would like to run away ! To make a morning call! Queer little roses ; Queer little roses ; Funny little roses, Funny little roses,’ To want to run away ! To make a morning call! St. Nicholas, 1888. JULIA P. BALLARD. “Our ships were British oak, And hearts of oak our men.” S. J. ARNOLD'S Death of Nelson. 98 _ ARBOR DAY MANUAL THE PALM. AND THE Pink. \ \ ] HEN Peter led the first Crusade, A Norseman wooed an Arab maid. He loved her lithe and palmy grace, And the dark beauty of her face. She loved his cheeks, so ruddy fair, His sunny eyes and yellow hair. He called; she left her father’s tent ; She followed whereso’er he went. She left the palms of Palestine To sit beneath the Norland pine. She sang the musky Orient strains Where winter swept the snowy plains. Their natures met like Night and Morn What time the morning star is born. The child that from their meeting grew Hung like a star between the two. The glossy night his mother shed From her.long hair was on his head: But in its shade they saw arise The morning of his father’s eyes. Beneath the Orient’s tawny stain Wandered the Norseman’s crimson vein, Beneath the Northern force was seen The Arab sense, alert and keen. His were the Viking’s sinewy hands, The arching foot of Eastern lands. And in his soul conflicting strove Northern indifference, Southern love; The chastity of temperate blood, Impetuous passion’s fiery flood; The settled faith that nothing shakes, The jealousy a breath awakes; The planning Reason’s sober gaze, And Fancy’s meteoric blaze. And stronger as he grew to man, The contradicting natures ran,— As mingled streams from Etna flow, One born of fire, and one of snow. And one impelled, and one withheld, And one obeyed, and one rebelled. One gave him force, the other fire; This self-control, and that desire. One filled his heart with fierce unrest; With peace serene the other blessed. He knew the depth and knew the height, The bounds of darkness and of light; _ And who these far extremes has seen Must needs know all that lies between. So, with untaught, instinctive art He read the myriad-natured heart. He met the men of many a land; They gave their souls into his hand; And none of them was long unknown; The hardest lesson was his own. But how he lived, and where, and when, It matters not to other men; For, as a fountain disappears, To gush again in later years, So hidden blood may find the day, When centuries have rolled away: And fresher lives betray at last The lineage of a far-off Past. That nature, mixed of sun and snow, Repeats its ancient ebb and flow: The children of the Palm and Pine Renew their blended lives — in mine. BayYARD TAYLOR. ! ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 99 . en THE PATRIOT’S PASSWORD. * *¥ * * * * In arms the Austrian phalanx stood, A living wall, a human wood ! — A wall, where every conscious stone Seemed to its kindred thousands grown ; A rampart all assaults to bear, Till time to dust their frames should wear A wood,— like that enchanted grove In which with fiends Rinaldo strove, Where every silent tree possessed A spirit imprisoned in its breast, Which the first stroke of coming strife Might startle into hideous life: So still, so dense the Austrians stood, A living wall, a human wood! Impregnable their front appears, All-horrent with projected spears, Whose polished points before them shine, From flank to flank, one brilliant line, Bright as the breakers’ splendors run Along the billows to the sun. * + re * * “Make way for liberty!” he cried, Then ran with arms extended wide, As if his dearest friend to clasp ; Ten spears he swept within his grasp: “Make way for liberty !”’ he cried, Their keen points crossed from side to side He bowed amidst them, like a tree, And thus made way for liberty. JAMES MONTGOMERY. YOUNG TIMOTHY AND THE FORGET-ME-NOTS. OUNG Timothy crept to the old meadow bars, And between the brown rails peeping through, Saw,— what do you think,— on the opposite side ? Two eyes of the prettiest blue. Two eyes of the prettiest, bluest of blue, For-get-me-nots hid in the grass; But he couldn’t climb over, and couldn’t crawl through, And he’s peeping, still peeping, alas! St. Nicholas, 1888. ESTELLE THOMSON. 100 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. BIRDS IN SUMMER. OW pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in each leafy tree,— In the leafy trees, so broad and tall, Like a green and beautiful palace hall, With its airy chambers, light and boon, That open to sun and stars and moon! That open unto the bright blue sky, And the frolicsome winds as they wander by! They have left their nests in the forest bough, Those homes of delight they need not now ; And the young and the old they wander out, And traverse their green world round about ; And hark! at the top of this leafy hall, How one to the other they lovingly call: ‘Come up, come up!” they seem to say, ‘“ When the topmost twigs in the breezes sway.” ‘‘Come up, come up! for the world is fair When the merry leaves dance in the summer air.” And the birds below give back the cry, ‘We come, we come to the branches high!” How pleasant the life of a bird must be, Flitting about in a leafy tree ! And away through the air what joy to go, And to look on the bright green earth below! * * * * * What joy it must be, like a living breeze, To flutter about ‘mid the flowering trees ; Lightly to soar, and to see beneath The wastes of the blossoming purple heath, And the yellow furze, like fields of gold That gladdened some fairy region old ! On the mountain tops, on the billowy sea, On the leafy stems of the forest tree, How pleasant the life of a bird must be! Mrs. HEMANS. ‘¢Give me again my hollow tree A crust of bread, and liberty !” Pope, /mztatious of Horace. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 101 IN THE SWING. ERE we go to the branches high ! Here we come to the branches low! For the spiders and flowers and birds and I Love to swing when the breezes blow. Swing, little bird, on the topmost bough ; Swing, little spider, with rope so fine; Swing, little flower, for the wind blows now ; But none of you have such a swing as mine. Dear little bird, come sit on my toes; I’m just as careful as I can be; And oh, I tell you, nobody knows What fun we'd have if you'd play with me! Come and swing with me, birdie dear, Bright little flower, come swing in my hair; But you, little spider, creepy and queer,— You’d better stay and swing over there! The sweet little bird, he sings and sings, But he doesn’t even look in my face ; The bright little blossom swings and swings, But still it swings in the self-same place. Let them stay where they like it best ; Let them do what they'd rather do; My swing is nicer than all the rest, But may be it’s rather small for two. Here we go to the branches high! Here we come to the grasses low ! For the spiders and flowers and birds and I Love to swing when the breezes blow. Swing, little bird, on the topmost bough ; Swing, little spider, with rope so fine ; Swing, little flower, for the wind blows now ; But none of you have such a swing as mine. St. Nicholas, 1888. EUDORA S. BUMSTEAD. “Music hath charms to sooth a savage breast, To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.” CONGREVE'S The Mourning Bride. “The sweet Elcaya and that courteous tree Which bows to all who seek its canopy.” Moore's Lalla Rookh. 102 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. SOMEBODY’S KNOCKING. HERE'S somebody knocking. Hark! who can it be? f |; It’s.not at the door! no, it’s in the elm tree. I hear it again; it goes vat-a-tat-tat / Now, what in the world is the meaning of that? I think I can tell you. Ah, yes! it is he: It’s young Master Woodpecker, gallant and free. He’s dressed very handsomely (va¢-a-tat-tat), Just like a young dandy, so comely and fat. He’s making his visits this morning, you see: Some friends of his live in that elm tree; And, as trees have no door-bells (va¢-a-¢at-¢a?), Of course he must knock: what is plainer than that ? Now old Madam Bug hears him rap at her door: Why doesn’t she come? Does she think him a bore? She stays in her chamber, and keeps very still. I guess she’s afraid that he’s bringing a bill. “T’ve seen you before, my good master,” says she: ‘*Although I’m a bug, sir, you can’t humbug me. Rap on, if you please! at your rapping I laugh, I’m too old a bug to be caught with your chaff.” The Nursery. MY. TREE. HICH is the best of all the trees ? W Answer me, children all, if you please. Is it the oak, the king of the wood, That for a hundred years has stood ? The graceful elm, or the stately ash, Or the aspen, whose leaflets shimmer and flash? Is it the solemn and gloomy pine, With its million needles so sharp and fine? Ah, no! The tree that I love best, It buds and blossoms not with the rest; No summer sun on its fruit has smiled, But the ice and snow are around it piled ; But still it will bloom and bear fruit for me, My winter bloomer! my Christmas tree! * * * * *& Youth's Companion. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 103 PEACH BLOSSOMS. FOR RECITATION, OME here! come here! cousin Mary and see What fair, ripe peaches there are on the tree— On the very same bough that was given to me By father, one day last spring. When it looked so beautiful, all in the blow, And I wanted to pluck it, he told me, you know, I might, but that waiting a few months would show The fruit that patience might bring. And as I perceived by the sound of his voice, ‘And the look of his eye, it was clearly his choice That it should not be touched, I have now to rejoice That I told him we'd let it remain ; For, had it been gathered when full in the flower, Its blossoms had withered, perhaps in an hour, And nothing on earth could have given the power That would make them flourish again. But now, of a fruit so delicious and sweet I’ve enough for myself and my playmates a treat , They tell me besides, that the kernels secrete What, if planted, will make other trees : For the shell will come open to let down the root; A sprout will spring up, whence the branches will shoot; There’ll be buds, leaves, and blossoms; and then comes the fruit- Such beautiful peaches as these! And Nature, they say, like a mighty machine, Has a wheel in a wheel, which, if aught comes between, It ruins her work, as it might have been seen, Had it not given patience this trial. From this, I'll be careful to keep it in mind, When the blossoms I love, that there lingers behind A better reward, that the trusting shall find For a trifling self-denial. HANNAH F. GOULD. “ Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock’d in the cradle of the western breeze.” COWPER. Tzrocinzum, Line 43. The church was beautifully decorated with sweet spring flowers and the air was heavy with their fragrance. As the service was about to begin, small Kitty pulled her mother’s sleeve: ‘Oh, mamma, don’t it smell solemn ?” 104 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE STORM IN THE FOREST. HE storm in the forest is rending and sweeping ; While tree after tree bows its stately green head ; The flowerets beneath them are bending and weeping ; And leaves, torn and trembling, all round them are spread. The bird that had roamed, till she thinks her benighted, Dismayed, hastens back to her home in the wood; And flags not a wing, till her bosom, affrighted, Has laid its warm down o’er her own little brood. And they, since that fond one so quickly has found them, To shelter their heads from the rain and the blast, + Shall fearless repose, while the bolts burst around them; And lie calm and safe, till the darkness is past. Hast thou, too, not felt, when the tempest was drearest, And rending thy covert, or shaking thy rest, Thine own blessed angel that moment the nearest — Thy screen in his pinion — thy shield in his breast ? When clouds frowned the darkest, and perils beset thee, Till each prop of earth seemed to bend, or to break, Did e’er thy good angel turn off, and forget thee ? The mother her little ones, then, may forsake ! Ah, no! thou shalt feel thy protector the surer — The sun, in returning, more cheering and warm; And all things around thee, seem fresher and purer, And touched with new glory, because of the storm! HANNAH F. GOULD. GOD’S WISDOM AND POWER. ae not a tint that paints the rose, There’s not of grass a single blade Or decks the lily fair, Or tree of loveliest green, Or streaks the humbiest flower that blows, | Where Heavenly skill is not displayed, But God has placed it there. And Heavenly wisdom seen. * * * * * There’s not a place in earth’s vast round in ocean’s deep or air, Where skill and wisdom are not found, For God is everywhere. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 105 MAY DAY. H, 'tis bland, and oh, ’tis blooming, for it’s May ; Could there be a more delightful season, pray: P How the sunbeams skip and scatter, And the sparrows chirp and chatter, And the sweetly scented breezes softly stray ! And we're gladsome, and we’re gleeful, and wé’re gay, And we’re highly happy-hearted, For we're blithely briskly started For a joyful, jocund, jolly holiday. And oh, ’tis glum and gloomy, though ‘tis May ! Could there be a more distracting season, say? We must hustle, we must hurry, In a flutter and a flurry, For the sky is direly dark and grimly gray, And we'll have to hasten home the shortest way ; And we scuttle and we scamper! What a doleful, dismal damper! What a dreary, drizzly, dreadful holiday ! St. Nicholas, 1888. EMMA A. OPPER. EVE’S LAMENTATION. UST I thus leave thee Paradise! thus leave Thee, native soil! these happy walks and shades, Fit haunt of Gods! where I had hoped to spend, Quiet though sad, the respite of that day That must be mortal to us both! O flow’rs, That never will in other climate grow, My early visitation, and my last At e’en, which I bred up with tender hand From the first opening bud, and gave ye names, Who now shall rear ye to the sun, or rank Your tribes, and water from th’ ambrosial fount ? The lastly, nuptial bower! by me adorn’d With what to sight or smell was sweet, from thee How shall I part, and whither wander down Into a lower world, to this obscure - And wild? How shall we breathe in other air, Less pure, accustom’d to immortal fruits ? MILTON’S “ Paradzse Lost.” 106 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Written for the Arbor Day Manuat. LIFE IN ITS SPRING-TIME. FOR A BOY’S RECITATION. IFTXIS the time to be cheerful, when nature is gay, ale And others are bearing our burdens of care, The bright morning-glories of life’s coming day, All vie with the beauties and blossoms of May, Tis life in its spring-time all beauty and fair. ’Tis the time to be thankful, with guardians blest, Whose loves are as deep as the depths of the sea, When earth is new-robing and clad in her best ; In the anthem’s loud swell we will join with the rest With ever the chorus :— “the land of the free.” ’Tis the seed-time whose harvest the autumn shall bring, When treasures most precious we give to the soil, And trust to the nurture and vigor of spring While firm to the promise we joyfully cling, — That the sower shall reap the rich fruit of his toil. With nature’s great soul ’tis the time to commune, From the harmony outward, our thoughts turn within, To know if the voices of each are in tune; That the sweet buds of May bear the roses of June, And joy crown the harvest of sheaves gathered in. ’Tis the spring-time of youth, with the birds and the bowers; The seeding and budding, the fruit we must reap. Not all of our life will be sunshine and flowers ; But through summer and autumn the best will be ours, If to nature we’re true, and her harmony keep. 2 Watertown, N. Y. E. A. HOLBROOK. hg OES Oe LA Bs CHERRY RIPE. (ADAPTED. ) AY time! May time! «Cherry ripe! cherry ripe!” Hear the robins sing Happy children shout, : All through the cherry boughs Under the sunny skies :-— q Flits the restless wing. — What a jolly rout! ; { Bobolink ! come and drink Take your fill ;— pay no bill, 5 Wine from goblets red, Cherries ripe are free ;— ~ Such a chatter; what’s the matter Bob and robin have a party } In the boughs o’erhead ? In the cherry tree. KATE L. BROWN. 3 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. £O7 DEAR DANDELION. (ADAPTED. ) | \ JINTER is over! summer is coming! May time is with us, so balmy and sweet! All creatures feel it, all things reveal it, Soft skies above us, green grass at our feet. * oh * * * 4 Winter is ended, summer is coming ! May day and robin and crocus are here! Green grows the clover! still I roam over Garden and meadow for something more dear. Must I confess it? Surely you guess it, Dearest of flowers to the heart of a child; If I confide it, do not deride it, Call it not weed, dear, because it is wzld/ % * * * * * Foliage ragged — ever invading Terrace and lawn in spite of your care; When you're least thinking, up they come winking, Laugh in your face with the jolliest air. Duly at sunset droop the soft fringes, Only some little green tassels remain ; But with the dawning, bright as the morning, Golden and saucy they bloom out again, * * * * * * Crocus, arbutus, violet, snow-drop, Others may praise them, and love them the best, Give me my olden favorite golden ! Dear Dandelion! You're worth all the rest! Wide Awake, August, 1886. LAuRA D. NICHOLS. THE RETURN OF SPRING. 5 3 © 9 a Is it a spike of azure flowers, SPIRIT of beauty walks the hills, Deep in the meadows seen, A A spirit of love the plain; Or is it the peacock’s neck that towers The shadows are bright, and the sunshine fills Out of the spangled green ? The air with a diamond rain ! Is a white dove glancing across the blue, Before my vision the glories swim, Or an opal taking wing? To the dance of a tune unheard: For my soul is dazzled through and through, Is an angel singing where woods are dim, With the splendor of the Spring. * * * * * Or is it an amorous bird ? BAYARD TAYLOR. 108 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. UNDER) THEVAPPEE-TREE. N a home-nest of peace and joy, Bright and pleasant as a home can be, Lives a merry and sweet-faced boy Under a broad old apple-tree. Searching wide, you will seldom meet Child so blithesome and fair as he,— How can he help being pretty and sweet, Dwelling under an apple-tree ? In the spring when the child goes out, Glad as a bird that winter ’s past, Making his flower-beds all about, Liking best what he finished last; Then the tree from each blossomy limb Heaps its petals about its feet, And like a benison above him Scatters its fragrances, sweet to sweet. In the summer the dear old tree Spreads above him its cooling shade, Keeping the heat’from his cheek, while he, Playing at toil with rake and spade, Chasing the humming-bird’s gleam and dart, Watching the honey-bees drink and doze, Gathers in body and soul and heart, © Beauty and health like an opening rose. In the autumn, before the leaves Lose their greenness, the apples fall, Roll on the roof, and bounce from the eaves, Pile on the porch, and rest on the wall; Then he heaps on the grassy ground Rosy pyramids brave to see; How can he help being ruddy and sound, Dwelling under an apple-tree ?- In the winter, when winds are wild, Then, still faithful, the sturdy tree Keeps its watch o’er the darling child, Telling him tales of the May to be; Teaching him faith under stormy skies, Bidding him trust when he cannot see; How can he help being happy and wise, Dwelling under an apple-tree ? . ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. » TOD MARY AND HER PET SQUIRREL. O you think my pet squirrel will go quite away, If I let him be free just for one short day ? So bland is the sun, and so genial the air, It is cruel in me to imprison him there, “Tf I let him go once to the old chestnut-tree, Don’t you think, by to-night, he’ll come back to me?” So said little Mary, as I chanced to go by, And the inquiry glanced from her lip and her eye. It did seem quite hard, such a beautiful day, To keep the pet squirrel in a cage-house to play; So I told her the squirrel would come back again, When the shadows of evening fell over the glen; He would tire of the oak and the murmuring rill, And think his snug prison-house pleasanter still. So she lifted the latch of the prison-house door, When a doubt flitted over her features once more. “T don’t know,” Mary said, “I feel half afraid, He remembers too keenly the forest-tree’s shade ; On the gray mountain’s brow, when the night-shadows fall, Perhaps he won't come at my evening call.” ’ “No matter,— Ill try,—and I hope he loves me Far more than the nuts on the old chestnut-tree.” So she opened the door, and the squirrel popped out, And whisked his long tail as he capered about. He bobbed his pert head, and looked out of his eye With a mischievous wink, which said plainly, ‘‘Good-by;”’ And his swift, little feet, as they pattering ran, Sent back a defiance, ‘ Now catch if. you can!” Now dear little Mary looked ruefully on, When she saw that the squirrel had really gone. Till her bright eye was weary with tracing his track, And she.said to herself, “I hope he’ll come. back.” Well, she hoped, and she watched, and the evening came, And she listened to hear him respond to his name ; With her locks all flung back, and her animate eye Rambling o’er the brown hillocks, her squirrel to spy; But he came not with night, and night came so fast, That her hope all forsaken, she resigned it, at last. PTO « ARBOR DAY MANUAL.. ee a But whether in wild-wood, or shadowy glen, The squirrel had found him a shelter again ; Or whether, as some of our neighbors still say, He fell to the hunter’s sure rifle a prey, Most certain it is that he never returned To the hand which caressed him, the home which he spurned ; And Mary, as she looks on his tenantless pen, Says, “I never will trust a tame squirrel again !” THE SUNBEAM. HOU art no lingerer in monarch’s hall: A joy thou art and a wealth to all; A bearer of hope unto land and sea: Sunbeam, what gift hath the world like thee ? Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles; Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles ; ’ Thou hast lit up the ships, and the feathery foam, And gladdened the sailor like words from home. To the solemn depths of the forest shades Thou art streaming on through their green arcades, And the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow, Like fireflies glance to the pool below. I Jooked on the mountains: a vapor tay Folding their heights in its dark array ; Thou breakest, and the mist became A crown and a mantle of living flame. I looked on the peasant’s lowly cot: Something of sadness had wrapped the spot; But a gleam of thee on its casement fell, And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell. Sunbeam of summer, O, what is like thee, Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea? One thing is like thee, to mortals given — The faith touching all things with hues of heaven. ‘Mrs. HEMANS. ‘“‘ The trees were gazing up into the sky, Their bare arms stretched in prayer for the snows.” ALEX. SMitH.—" A Life Drama.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. II! AcLENULE PLANTER. OWN by the wall where the lilacs grow, Digging away with the garden hoe, Toiling as busily as he can — Eager and earnest, dear little man! Spoon and shingle are lying by, With a bit of evergreen, long since dry. ‘¢ What are you doing, dear?” I ask. Ted for an instant stops his task, Glances up with a sunny smile Dimpling his rosy cheeks, the while: “Why, it is Arbor Day, you see, And I’m planting a next year’s Christmas-tree. “For last year, auntie, Johnny Dunn Didn’t have even the smailest one; And I almost cried, he felt so bad, When I told ’bout the splendid one we had ; And 1 thought if I planted this one here, And watered it every day this year, It would grow real fast —I think it might ; (His blue eyes fill with an eager light), And I’m sure ’twill be, though very small, A great deal better than nothing at all.” Then something suddenly comes between My eyes and the bit of withered green, As I kiss the face of our Teddy boy Bright and glowing with giving’s joy. And Johnny Dunn, it is plain to see, Will have his next year’s Christmas-tree. Youth's Companion. “Now Nature hangs her mantle green On every blooming tree.” Burns, Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots. “Now the sun once more is glancing, And the oak trees roar with joy.” HEINE, Mescellaneous Poems, Germany, 1815. 112 | ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE GARDEN ON. THE SANDS. NCE, on a time, some little hands () Planted a garden on the sands; And with a wish to keep it dry, They raised a wall five inches high. Within the wall and round the walks, They made a fence of slender stalks ; And then they formed an arbor cool, And dug in front a tiny pool. Their beds were oval, round and square, Thrown up and trimmed with decent care: In these they planted laurel twigs, And prickly holly, little sprigs Of ash and poplar, and, for show, Bright daffodils and heart’s ease low; With pink-edged daises by the score, And buttercups and many more. One rose they found with great delight, ' And set it round with lilies bright; This finished, then they went away, Resolved to come another day. The sea, meanwhile, with solemn roar, Approached and washed the sandy shore; But, all this time, it did not touch The little spot they loved so much. The strangers that were passing by, The garden viewed with smiling eye; But no one ventured to disturb A single plant, or flower or herb. Still, when the children came again, They found their labor all in vain; The flowers were drooping side by side, The rose and lilies all had died. No one could make them grow or shoot, Because they had not any, root; And then the soil, it was so bad, They must have withered if they had. Now, so it is that children fail, Just like the garden in this tale; They have good wishes, pleasant looks, Are busy with their work and books; Their conduct often gives delight, And one would fancy all was right; But, by and by, with sad surprise, We see how all this goodness dies; Instead of*being rich with fruit, They fade away for want of root. Oh! pray that He who only can Renew the heart of fallen man, May plant you in His pleasant ground, Where trees of righteousness abound; So shall you be, in early youth, ‘Rooted and grounded in the truth.” MR. SPRING’S CONCERT. CONCERT once by Mr. Spring Was given in the wood ; “ He begged both old and young to come And all to sing who could. Miss Lark the music to begin, Her favorite ballad sang, A well-known air admired by all, So clear her sweet voice rang. And next a gentleman appeared, Come lately from abroad, His song was short but much admired, And so it was ezcored. He said that Cuckoo was his name, His style was quite his own; He sang most kindly while he stayed, But all too soon was gone. The Finches then were asked to sing,— Would they get up a glee With Mr. Linnet and his wife Who sing so prettily? And in the chorus many more No doubt would take a part; Young Blackcap has a splendid voice And sings with all his heart. Now came the much expected guest Young Lady Nightingale, So late that everybody feared She really meant to fail. At first she said she could not sing She was afraid to try; But then she sang, and all the air _ Was filled with melody. ARBOR DAY MANUAL, I13 THE TREE THAT TRIED: TO GROW. O°. time there was a seed that wished to bea tree. It was fifty years ago, and more than fifty —a hundred, perhaps. But first there was a great bare granite rock in the midst of the Wendell woods. Little by little, dust from a squirrel’s paw, as he sat upon it eating a nut; fallen leaves, crumbling and rottingy—and perhaps the decayed shell of the nut,— made earth enough in the hollows of the rock for some mosses to grow; and for the tough little saxifrage flowers, which seem to thrive on the poorest fare, and look all the healthier, like very poor children. Then, one by one, the mosses and blossoms withered, and turned to dust; until, after years, and years and years, there was earth enough to make a bed for a little feathery birch seed which came flying along one day. The sun shone softly through the forest trees; the summer rain pattered through the leaves upon it; and the seed felt wide awake and full of life. So it sent a little, pale-green stem up into the air, and a little white root down into the shallow bed of earth. But you would have been surprised to see how much the root found to feed upon in only a handful of dirt. Yes, indeed! And it sucked and sucked away with its little hungry mouths, till the pale-green stem became a small brown tree, and the roots grew tough and hard. So, after a great many years, there stood a tall tree as big around as your body, growing right upon a large rock, with its big roots striking into the ground on all sides of the rock, like a queer sort of wooden cage. Now, I do not believe there was ever a boy in this world who tried as hard to grow into a wise, ora rich or a good man, as this birch seed did to grow intoa tree, that did not become what he wished to be. And I don’t think anybody who hears the story of the birch tree, growing in the woods of Wendell, need ever give up to any sort of difficulty in his way, and say, “I can’t.” Only try as hard as the tree did, and you can do every thing. FRANCIS LEE. ELM BLOSSOM. : HE bloom of the elm is falling, On the sloping roof’s brown thatching; ay Falling hour by hour, And on the springing grass; On the buds and the golden blossoms, On the dappled, meek-eyed cattle; That are badges of spring’s sweet power; On lover and on lass. On the white throat little builder, That, as he buildeth sings; With the rain and with the snow-flakes On the chattering, glittering starling; The angel of the year And on the swallow’s wings. Comes with his swift wings glancing, Bringing us hope or fear; The bloom of the elm is falling, Now dying leaves, now blossoms, Upon the passing bee; He scatters o’er the land: And on the rosy clusters In storms and in the sunshine, That stud the apple tree: I’ve seen his beckoning hand. 8 Flours at Home. 114 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Written for the ‘‘Arnor Day Manuat.” NAMING THE TREE. ‘M a merry little maid With my pick and hoe and spade, And I'm digging, diggiwg, digging everywhere. This little sapling lately stood Within a dark and leafy wood, And kept nodding, nodding at the maiden-hair; Wi:ule the moss kept creeping, creeping, And the violets peeping, peeping, With those longing eyes so tender and so blue. But the sapling grew so slender, and I knew ‘Twas for its good. I shut my eyes, But oh! you should have heard the sighs, As blindly I with one rash blow, Brought such terror and such woe To the moss and maiden-hair And the violets springing there. I’m a merry little maid With my pick and hoe and spade, And I’m digging, digging, digging everywhere. And on this pleasant Arbor Day, ‘Amid the perfumes of the May, This sapling I transplant with tenderest care. Let each with shovel in his hand, Deposit here a bit of sand; Please don’t harm the clinging maiden-hair so true, Nor creeping moss with violets peeping through. I wonder if ’neath sunny skies Will swell to heavenly rhapsodies These youthful loves nursed in the wood ? Oh if they only, only could! Or do the giant oaks outgrow Their sapling loves as people dc? I’m a merry little maid * With my pick and hoe and spade, And I'm digging, digging, digging everywhere. Longfellow to his loves was true, And we bequeath his name to you, A noble name, an inspiration, royal, rare, And may moss keep creeping, creeping, And violets keep, peeping, peeping, ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ars Emblems of the clinging loves his manhood knew. May thy heart of oak like his be always true. And may thy branches o’er us sway, And in their rustling accents say, Repeating oft, ‘‘A psalm of life, ” To us who come worn with the strife. And may its wisdom guide our way Until shall dawn our Arbor Day. Suggestions by the author. “Little Maid” enters the grounds with a small pick, hoe and spade, in her hand, followed by her class. They arrange themselves around the place where the tree is to be planted, in the form of a half circle, if you please. She now holds up to view the young tree, with moss, maiden hair and violets clinging to its roots. She begins speaking, holding the sapling until she says, ‘‘ This sapling I transplant,” etc. She now stands it in the hole prepared for it, and a young lad of the class — if there be one, andif not, another girl — steps forward and steadies the tree while one of the class steps forward and throws in some dirt, enough so it will stand — only one shovel full if it will do—and steps back. After she has finished her recitation, each member of the class in passing out will pick up the shovel and deposit sand. After they have gone to their seats, the young boy who was holding the tree up will recite Longfellow’s ‘‘ Psalm of Life,” or some _ other appropriate poem by the same author. Or if thought best, let him recite it immediately after she is through, with the class stil] standing. _ St. Augustine, Fla. Mrs. B. C. RUDE. THE GOLDEN ROD. ROM the flying train, behold, Symbol flow’r American, F Ever changing fields of gold, Underneath I see thy plan — Sunny slopes in luster laid, Brotherhood of stems that run And old gold the hills in shade; Closer till they meet in one. Golden, golden! Wave the plume, Type of higher federation — Freedom's followers give thee room ; States unite, and lo, a nation ! Unsubdued by wit of man, To the world the lesson give, Symbol flower, American. How to govern, how to live. Like a bit of sky at night, Rich the bounty, here we see, Full of constellation light, To a people ever free; Comes the vision of thy plume Plenty flows as beauty beams Bending o’er with starry bloom, In a thousand golden streams. Sunshine, dew and burnished gold, To a nation, golden rod Each declare the story old, Lifts its head above the sod, How in endless chain of thought Love and justice to propose, Wisdom unto wonder wrought. Gold for friends, the rod for foes. Vick’s MAGAZINE. 116 ARBOR DAY MANUAL, THE DANDELION. RECITATION accompanied with music for nine little girls, four girls each A to recite a long paragraph, the short paragraphs to be recited in concert by the other five girls. All enter and sing first stanza of Gay Little Dandelion, from ‘‘The Vineyard of Song.” FIRST GIRL RECITES: There's a dandy little fellow, Who dresses all in yellow,— In yellow with an overcoat of green ; With his hair all crisp and curly, In the spring-time bright and early, Tripping o’er the meadow he is seen. SECOND GIRL: Through all the bright June weather, Like a jolly little tramp, He wanders o’er the hillside, down the road; Around his yellow feather The gypsy fire-flies camp ; His companions are the woodlark and the toad. FIVE GIRLS RECITE IN CONCERT: Spick and spandy, little dandy ; Golden dancer in the dell! Green and yellow, happy fellow, All the children love him well. (ALL SING SECOND STANZA OF GAY LITTLE DANDELION.) THIRD GIRL: But at last this little fellow, Doffs his dandy coat of yellow, And very feebly totters o’er the green; For he very old is growing, And with hair all white and flowing, Nodding in the sunlight he is seen. FOURTH GIRL: The little winds of morning, Come flying through the grass, And clap their hands around him in their glee; They shake him without warning — His wig falls off, alas! A little bald-head dandy now is he. FIVE GIRLS RECITE IN CONCERT: O poor dandy! once so spandy, Golden dancer on the lea! Older growing, white hair flowing, Bald-head dandy now is he. (ALL SING THIRD STANZA OF Gay LITTLE DANDELION.) N iG ye \3 —— * ———— EE= Published by courtesy of Messrs. E. H. Butler & Co., Philadelphia. THE OAK AND THE MISTLETOE SEED. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. i er THe OA AND THE MISTLETOE SEED. SEED of the beautiful mistletoe was separated from its parent. It went forth in search of a home wherein it might receive protection and care. “Perhaps,” said the little seed to itself, “ I may one day be a large and beautiful plant like that from which I have sprung.” It knew by instinct that the earth, in whose bosom the mighty forest trees buried their spreading roots, would have no welcome for a seed of mistletoe; that it must seek elsewhere the rest and nourishment it so desired. ‘‘ Surely there must be room for me in the world!” the wandering seed exclaimed. Seeing a stately elm it thought, ‘‘ Here is a tree that must be as generous as he is stately, here shall be my home.” But the elm was not generous. He scorned the humble petition of the seed, and said there was not a corner in his branches for a beggar. In vain did the seed plead its great need of help; the elm was as hard as a stone, and cared not at all for the tiny creature’s sorrow. A beech near by was even more narrow-minded than the elm, and fairly drove the seed away with the angry question: ‘‘Why should I afford a rest- ing place to vagrant shrubs of your kind?’’ Andthe poor weary wanderer began to think that it would be as well to die at once as to die at the end of a long and fruitless pursuit. An oak in the forest, to whom the seed next appealed, listened to the sor- rowing voice of the wanderer, and was more merciful than the elm or the beech had been. Satisfied at last, the little seed found rest in the arms of the mighty oak. Before long a delicate green leaf appeared, and then another and another; and in time a beautiful shrub grew upon the great forest tree. When the summer had passed, the winds of autumn came moaning through - the woods, and the leaves fell in showers. The stately elm ‘ost its beautiful foliage, the beech stood bare and shivering in the blast, and even the hospitable oak saw his splendid drapery of green change and fall. And soon the winter's ice and snow made the forest desolate. Yet was the oak grand and attractive still. The mistletoe covered the broad bosom of the tree, and was indeed life in the midst of death. Strong and ever green, the winter could not rob it of its beauty or its strength. Its waxen berries, rivaling the snow in whiteness, seemed to the beech and elm like so many mocking eyes turned upon them. But to the venerable oak they were like rare and precious jewels. One fine day in winter, the oak made this speech to a merry little group who stood admiring the mistletoe: ‘‘ When I received a tiny straying seed and gave it my protection, do you suppose that I knew what would follow ? If 1 had stood in the forest destitute of leaves as my fellow-trees are, would you have gathered around to admire me?” “I know that the mistletoe with its white berries attracted your eyes, yet am I not proud to bear that shrub in my arms and to call it my foster-child? Kind- ness enriches both the giver and the receiver. In my long, long life I have learned many lessons, but this is the best of all: be kind for the very sake of kindness, and you will have your reward.” 118 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. A SUMMER LONGING. MUST away to wooded hills and vales, Where broad, slow streams flow cool and silently, And idle barges flap their listless sails. For me the summer sunset glows and pales, And green fields wait forme. = =” I long for shadowy forests, where the birds Twitter and chirp at noon from every tree; I long for blossomed leaves and lowing herds ; And Nature’s voices say in mystic woods, “The green fields wait for thee.” I dream of uplands, where the primrose shines And waves her yellow lamps above the lea; Of tangled copses, swung with trailing vines ; Of open vistas, skirted with tall pines, Where green fields wait for me. I think of long, sweet afternoons, when I May lie and listen to the distant sea, Or hear the breezes in the reeds that sigh, Or insect voices chirping shrill and dry, In fields that wait for me. These dreams of summer come to bid me find The forest’s shade, the wild bird’s melody, While summer’s rosy wreaths for me are twined, While summer’s fragrance lingers on the wind, And green fields wait for me. GEORGE ARNOLD. OUR WILLOWS. T is when the east wind blows, But the moment the starm-wind blows, | And his cohorts gather and ride, And the storm-clouds gather and ride, That the willows before my window They lift up their branches to heaven, Show me their silver side. And show me the sz/ver side. % * * * * When the air is sweet and still, And all heaven beams light and mirth, Tis not to fear and sadness, - Though their green boughs quiver and They owe that silver sheen; sparkle, Unseen, in calm and gladness, They look and lean to earth. It underlies the green. And when the North-west triumphs, And baffled storm-clouds flee, They fling out their silvery streamers, And hail the VICTORY. Hours at Home. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 119 SPRING FLOWERS. 4 BY ic Spring came into the garden The sleeping daffodils heard her, Her holiday-time to keep, And nodded low as she passed : She walked about in the dawning, Each blossom dropped like a pennon And found the flowers asleep. Hung out from a tall green mast. At first she wakened the snow-drops Into the violet’s eyes she looked, And washed their faces with rain, And spoke till she made them hear. And then she fed them with sunlight, ** What are you dreaming now ?” she said. And gave them white frocks again. They answered, ‘‘ That Spring is here.” The crocuses next she summoned,— And then the trees stretched their fingers In purple stripes and yellow, — And opened their curled-up leaves, And she made the south wind shake them And the birds who sat and watched them Till each one kissed his fellow. Flew straight to their cool green eaves. One made her nest in the ivy, And one in the apple-tree ; But the thrush showed hers in secret To the south wind and the bee. THE FIELDS IN MAY. HAT can better please, When your mind is well at ease, Than a watk among the green fields in May ? To see the verdure new, And to hear the loud cuckoo, While sunshine makes the whole world gay: When the butterfly so brightly On his journey dances lightly, And the bee goes by with business-like hum ; When the fragrant breeze and soft, Stirs the shining clouds aloft, And the children’s hair, as laughingly they come: When the grass is full of flowers, And the hedge is full of bowers, And the finch and the linnet piping clear, Where the branches throw their shadows On a footway through the meadows, With a book among the cresses winding clear. W. ALLINGHAM. 120 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. APRIL AND MAY. IRDS on the boughs before the buds Begin to burst in the spring, Bending their heads to the April floods, Too much out of breath to sing! They chirp, ‘‘ Hey-day ! How the rain comes down! Comrades cuddle together! : Cling to the bark so rough and brown, For this is April weather. “Oh, the warm, beautiful, drenching rain ! I don’t mind it, do you? Soon will the sky be clear again, Smiling and fresh, and blue. “ Sweet and sparkling is every drop That slides from the soft, gray clouds ; Blossoms will blush to the very top Of the bare old trees in crowds. BOL the warm, delicious, hopeful rain ! Let us be glad together, Summer comes flying in beauty again, ‘Through the fitful April weather.” Skies are glowing in gold and blue, What did the briar bird say? ‘Plenty of sunshine to come, they knew, In the pleasant month of May! She calls a breeze from the south to blow And breathe on the boughs so bare, And straight, they are laden with rosy snow And there’s honey and spice in the air Oh, the glad green leaves! Oh, the happy wind! Oh, delicate fragrance and balm! Storm and tumult are left behind In a rapture of golden calm. From dewy morning to starry night The birds sing sweet and strong, That the radiant sky is filled with light, That the days are fair and long. That the bees are drowsy about the hive, Earth is so warm and gay! And ’tis joy enough to be alive In the heavenly month of May. CELIA THAXTER. x. Dust. 2. Peeped. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, ON TURNING IT DOWN WITH A PLOW. EE, modest, crimson-tipped flower, Thou’s met me in an evil hour; For I maun crush amang the stoure! Thy slender stem: To spare thee now is past my power, Thou bonnie gem ! Alas, it’s not thy neebor sweet, The bonnie lark, companion meet! Bending the ’mang the dewy weet, Wi’ speckled breast, When upward springing, blithe, to greet The purpling east. Cauld blew the bitter, biting north Upon thy early, humble birth; Yet cheerfully thou glinted? forth, Amid the storm! Scarce reared above the parent earth Thy tender form. The flaunting flowers our gardens yield, High sheltering woods and wa’s maun shield But thou, beneath the random bield? ‘ O’ clod or stane, Adorns the histie* stibble-field, Unseen, alane. There, in thy scanty mantle clad, Thy snawie bosom sunward spread, Thou lifts thy unassuming head In humble guise ; But now the share uptears thy bed, And low thou lies! Such is the fate of simple bard, On life’s rough ocean luckless starr’d! Unskiliful he to note the card Of prudent lore, Till billows rage, and gales blow hard, And whelm him o’er. 3. Shelter. 4. Dry. 121 22 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Such fate to suffering worth is given, Who long with wants and woes has striven,— By human pride or cunning driven To misery’s brink, Till, wrench’d of every stay but Heaven, He, ruined,,sink. E’en thou who mourn’st the daisy’s fate, That fate is thine,— no distant date ; Stern ruin’s plowshare drives, elate, Full on thy bloom; Till, crush’d beneath the furrow’s weight, Shall be thy doom! ROBERT BURNS. A WOODLAND HYMN. E seek remembered wood-paths, fragrant with breath of pines, W In flecks the sunlight golden through leafy arches shines, The wild birds sweet are calling through all the balmy day, The liquid song of wood-thrush pours forth in joyous lay, The phcebe near the cottage with plaintive call doth sing, From shaded nook the partridge soars aloft on whirring wing. Fair are the gentle blossoms, the first sweet gift of Spring, Anemones and violets from old-time haunts we bring, With round leaf green and glossy, with pure, rich, creamy bloom, The Pyrola in beauty distills its rare perfume ; Here find we velvet mosses, lichens with ruby cup, From out whose dainty chalice, a fairy well might sup. O treasures of the woodland! the lovely maidenr-hair, Soft ferns with feathery tresses where cooling shadows are; We find ’neath dried leaves hiding the trailing partridge-vine Bright mid its green leaves growing the scarlet berries shine; The chestnut burs are opening and from their velvet bed The brown nuts thickly falling with bright-hued leaves are shed. Oh! wondrous is the glory in Autumn's changing light, Like fairy land the beauty within the woodlands bright, The golden Autumn sunshine, ‘‘God’s everlasting smile,” With pure, sweet radiance lighteth each shadowy forest aisle: A subtle balsam odor breathes through the dreamy air, A charm steals o’er the spirits, a lulling rest from care. Chautauguan, October, 1885. PueEBE A. HOLDER. : : f ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 123 CHOOSING. A. “STATE. TREE.” Nominations made by Students at Sag Harbor, N. Y., May 3, 1889. THE MAPLE. There are about fifty species of maple, ten of which are found in North America. Some are large trees growing toa height of seventy or eighty feet, others are only small shrubs. They differ in the time at which the flowers appear. The flowers of some appear before the leaves, of others at the same time with the leaves, and of others not until the leaves are fully developed. The leaves are deciduous and from three to seven lobed. The seeds have wings so that they do not fall to the ground very quickly and are scattered about by the wind. The flowers of the red and silver maples appear in March or April, and the seeds ripen in June, and fall to the ground, when they soon commence to grow and by autumn form small trees, one or two feet in height. The seeds of these species will not retain their vitality if kept until the next spring. The sap of some species of maple contains sugar which is obtained from the sap by evap- oration. The timber of the maple is used for some purposes, that of the sugar maple being the most valuable. The maple is of rapid growth, good form and, has wide-spreading branches, with very thick, bright-green foliage, which makes it a good shade and ornamental tree. The maple is a clean tree not being fre- quented by noxious worms, and does not litter the ground with leaves and twigs during the summer. With the first frosts of autumn the leaves of the maple change to various shades of red and yellow, and present a very hand- some appearance. EVERETT L. TINDALL. \ THE BLACK-WALNUT. HE J. Nigra of the Juglans genus isa native of America. It flourishes in all parts of the United States, except in the extreme north, but principally in the fertile river basins, where it attains a height of seventy-five feet. It is one of the largest trees of North America, its branches spreading out in a horizon- tal direction for a long distance, giving it a very majestic appearance. The bark is thick, black, and becomes furrowed with age. The leaves, when bruised, emit a strong fragrant odor. The heart of the tree, after short expos- ure to the air, turns nearly black, hence the name, Alack-walnut. The follow- ing qualities make the wood very valuable: ist. It remains sound for a long time, even after much exposure. 2d. It is strong, tenacious, and when thoroughly seasoned, not liable to warp or split. 3d. Its grain being fine and compact, admits of a very fine polish; the wood is also free from worms. It is chiefly used by cabinet-makers, but is sometimes converted into lumber. Its fruit is very rarely sold, being inferior to that of many other species. The above qualities, many of which are symbolic of the features in which New York State leads the Union, strongly recommend it to the wise as a State emblem. JOHN W. RIPLEY. 124 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE HEMLOCK. The northern part of the United States and Canada abounds largely in this tree. Although not remarkable for its beauty except when young, its uniform- ity and great height give it a very stately appearance. Being seventy or eighty feet high and having a circumference of from six to nine feet, the timber ob- tained from it is necessarily large, but because of its tendency to split, is not very highly esteemed for building purpose. The bark is very valuable for tanning. The leaves are two-rowed, flatand obtuse. Different varieties of this same species are the Black and White Spruce. The former unlike the Hem- lock is a valuable timber tree. From it the essence of spruce is obtained which ‘is used for making spruce beer. From the fibres of the roots of the White Spruce the Canadians get the thread with which they sew their birch bark canoes, the seams being made water tight with its resin. Both of the last- named varieties have quadrangular leaves. The most important advantages to the State are the bark it yields, the shade it gives and to some extent the timber obtained from it. May I. BACHELDER. THE PINE TREE. The pines, which are distinguished from all other trees, by their foliage which consists of needle-shaped leaves in clusters of two to five, surrounded at the base by some of the withered bud scales, which form a sheath around them, constitute a large and interesting class of American forest trees. The most valuable species is that which is known as the Georgia Pitch Pine. Toward the north, the long-leaved pine makes its appearance near Norfolk, in Vir- ginia, where the pine barrens begin. It seems to be especially assigned to dry, sandy soils; and it is found almost without interruption, in the lower part of the Carolinas, Georgia and Florida, over a tract more than six hundred miles long, from north-east to south-west, and more than one hundred miles broad from the sea toward the mountains. The pines with the exception of one species in the Canaries, are confined to America, Europe and Asia, and are more abundant in the temperate and cooler portions of these. No treesare so useful to the arts of c vitized life as these, as they not only furnish in abundance kinds of wood for which there is no proper substitute, but their other products are of great utility, the abundant juice of some species, which consists of a resin dissolved in a volatile oil, affords turpen- tines of various kinds, spirits of turpentine, resin, tar and other minor products. In the northern States, the lands which at the commencement of their settle- ments were covered with pitch pine, were exhausted in twenty-five or thirty years, and for more than half a century have ceased to furnish tar. In several — species the nuts are edible, and are not only eaten by wild animals, but are col- lected for food. In ornamental planting, pines are exceedingly useful, as they present a great variety of habit and foliage, from species which never rise above a few feet up to those which have trunks large enough for a ship’s mast. The pine barrens are of vast extent and are covered with trees of forest growth, but they cannot be all rendered profitable, from the difficulty of com- municating with the sea. LOUISE YOUNGS. 5 tags ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 125 THE ASH. The White Ash is one of the most'interesting among the American species for the qualities of its wood, and the most remarkable for the rapidity of its growth and for the beauty of its foliage. A cold climate seems most congenial to its nature. It is everywhere called White Ash, probably from the color of its bark, by which it is easily distinguished. The White Ash sometimes attains a height of eighty feet, with a diameter of three feet, and is one of the largest trees of the United States. The trunk is perfectly straight and often undivided to the height of more than forty feet. On large stocks the bark is deeply furrowed, and divided into small squares from one to three inches in diameter. The leaves are twelve or fourteen inches long, opposite and composed of three or four pair of leaflets surmounted by an odd one. The leaflets are three or four inches long, about two inches broad, of a delicate texture and an undulated surface. Early in the spring they are covered with a light down, which gradually dis- appears, and at the approach of summer they are perfectly smooth, of a light green color above, and whitish beneath. It puts forth white or greenish flowers in the month of May, which are suc- ceeded by seeds that are (eighteen inches long, cylindrical near the base, and gradually flattened into a wing, the extremity of which is slightly notched. They are united in bunches four or five inches long, and are ripe in the begin- ning of autumn. The shoots of the two preceding years are of a bluish-gray color and perfectly smooth. The distance between their buds sufficiently proves the vigor of their growth. JENNIE PIERSON. THE. OAK. The oak is a very common tree, and consists of many species, of which the White Oak is most common, Oaks are found over nearly the whole of the northern hemisphere, except the extreme north and the tropics, along the Andes. There are both deciduous and evergreen species, representing a won- derful difference in their leaves and general aspect, some being small shrubs, but all are easily recognized by their peculiar fruit consisting of an acorn and a cup, which never completely incloses the nut. The oak is long-lived, and specimens supposed to have been in existence. before the settlement of this country, are still standing. As an ornamental tree, the White Oak is much esteemed. In autumn the leaves turn toa pur- plish color and remain upon the tree until a new growth next spring. Itis also a good shade tree. The oak is one of the largest and strongest trees which grows in this State, and is, therefore, well adapted to be chosen as the tree of the Empire State. The oak is extensively used in ship-building, and is, there- fore, emblematical of a commercial State. JOSEPH BROBECK. 126 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. TULIP TREE. This tree, which surpasses most others of North America in height and beauty of its foliage and flower, is one of the most interesting from the numerous and useful applications of its wood. It is a native of the United States, though the western States appear to be its natural soil, and it is there it displays its most powerful vegetation. It has a stem, sometimes from Ioo to 140 feet in height and three feet thick, with a grayish-brown cracked bark, and many gnarled and easily broken branches. The leaves are roundish, ovate and three-lobed. The flowers are solitary at the extremities of the branchlets, are large, brilliant, variegated with different colors, have an agreeable, odor, and are very numerous on detached trees, producing a fine effect. The flowers bloom in June or July. The fruit is composed of a great number of thin narrow scales attached toa common axis, and forming a cone two or three inches in length. Each cone consists of sixty or seventy seeds, of which never more than-a third are produc- tive. For three years before the tree begins to yield fruit, almost all the seeds are unproductive, and in large trees those from the highest branches are best. The bark of the tree has a bitter aromatic taste, and has been used as a sub- stitute for Peruvian bark in intermittent fevers, and is a good tonic. The tulip tree is one of the most beautiful ornaments of pleasure g erbanee whereon it grows and flowers well. The timber is easily wrought and is much used for many purposes. MADGE VAIL. THE ELM. The elm belongs to the order of ulmacez or elmworts. There are several kinds of elms, some native of North America, some of Europe and some of Asia; such as the cork elm, the slippery elm, the American or white elm, etc., the last mentioned being the one we are to consider. This elm, namely the American elm, is one of the largest and most beautiful of its species It isa native of the forests of North America, being most common in the northern, middle and western States. It grows from seventy to eighty feet high, attaining its greatest size between latitude 42 and 46 degrees, where it sometimes reaches one hundred feet. The roots of the elm are very long and numerous, often ex- tending from one to two hundred feet ; thus it is generally pretty secure from cyclones and heavy gales of wind. It has a fine straight trunk from three to five feet in diameter, covered with a rough dark-gray bark, and reaching from thirty to sixty feet before separating into branches. Its branches are large, wide-spreading, graceful and overhanging, and in the summer thickly covered with foliage. The flower of the American elm opens in April before the tree ‘comes into leaf. It is very small, of a purplish color, and collected in little ter- minal clusters. The leaves which appear in the month of May are from four to five inches long, and oval in shape. Its wood is white in color, flexible and very tough, and is used for a variety of purposes by wheelwrights. The Ameri- can elm is a great favorite as a shade tree. It is perfectly hardy, will grow in nearly any soil, and on the seacoast equally as well as in the interior. It is tall and stately in appearance, thus adding beauty and picturesqueness to the sur- i 4 g 3 q ; >> * ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 127 roundings; while its graceful, overhanging branches afford pleasant shade and favorite nesting places for birds. Many of the streets of New Haven city are lined on either side with long rows of fine large elm trees whose branches, gracefully pendent, meet and form lofty arches. It is, therefore, often called the City of Elms and is considered one of the most beautiful cities of the New England States. The American elm is very extensively planted as a shade-tree both in private grounds and along public roads; and on account of its many desirable qualities is universally liked as a village tree; and I think it one of the best adapted to be chosen for a State tree, and justly entitled to a large number of votes. F, C. STEUART. THE HICKORY. There have been a number of trees suggested as candidates for the honor of being the State tree of New York; the oak, the pine, the elm, the tulip-tree, the maple, the walnut and many others. All are beautiful, but there are other considerations besides beauty in choosing a State tree, and the one most symbol- ical of New York in its size, vigor and productiveness will receive the choice. The oak and pine fulfill many of these conditions, but they are the generally acknowledged soldier trees. The oak fights the storms of centuries, and is so strong that it has become a byword, and when we wish to say men are invinci- ble in their courage, we say they have “hearts of oak.’ The pine is a sentinel, and likes to choose some barren, lonely height to do solemn picket-duty. But these are not lovable trees, they are not productive trees; they are sturdy, independent, and hardy, and New York is all of these, but it is also a State of homes, a lovable State, and not a fighting State. It has no dangerous enemies to fight. Why should the population,—- sleek Dutch market-gardeners from West Long Island, hurried business men from the cities and inky and theoreti- cal model farmers from the center of the State,— turn out to make a bayonet charge among the handful of dirty and drunken Indians on the pcage reserva- tions, or some equally harmless people ? Neither is it a lazy, effeminate State, to be symbolized by that very fop of trees, the tulip-tree, with its gorgeous flowers in spring, and its brilliant leaves in fall; or by the dainty lady elm, with its graceful twig-drapery. Nor is ita State mourning over past glories and present decay ; a willow might be emblem of Egypt or Greece or Italy, but it is not of prosperous mercantile New York. But there is a tree which seems to typify the State,—a beautiful, vigorous, productive tree, not as large as some others perhaps, but size is not always strength, and important New York would cover a very small corner of unimpor- tant Texas; a distinctively Amerzcan tree, therefore fit to be a typical tree of a typical American State ; and this beautiful hickory tree has another quality, admirable in a tree, or a State, ora man, or any thing liable to misfortune; you back as before, unbroken. This recuperative power is as remarkable in the State as in the tree. Our own Principal told us, in his delightful address on the Centennial day, how a hundred years ago New York city was an impover- ished, war-ravaged little town of twenty-five thousand inhabitants. As soon as 128 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. the pressure of war was removed, New York recuperated, like the tree, so that there is no parallel for the growth of that second city in the world. As merely a beautiful shade tree, as merely a producer of delicious nuts, the hickory is unsurpassed; but as atype of vigorous, productive New York, it has no equal, and can have none. FLORENCE PAINTER. SILENCE IS:GOLDEN. HE flowers have no tongues. Ido not mean that you must not talk. God has given us tongues, and means us to use them. But let the silent beauty of the flowers teach us to do all the good we can and make no fuss about it. Never be in a hurry to tell people you are Christians, but act so that they cannot help finding it out. Did you ever watch beans grow? They come up out of the ground as if they had béen planted upside down. Each appears carrying the seed on top of his stalk, as if they were afraid folks would not know they were beans unless they immediately told tnem. But most flowers wait patiently and humbly to be known by their fruits. From ‘* The World to Come.’ Chautauguan, February, 1888. What a noble gift to man are the forests! What a debt of gratitude and ad- miration we owe for their utility and their beauty! How pleasantly the shad- ows of the wood fall upon our heads. when we turn from the glitter and turmoil of the world of man! The winds of heaven seem to linger amid their balmy branches, and the sunshine falls like a blessing upon the green leaves; the wild breath of the forest, fragrant with bark and berry, fans the brow with grateful freshness; and the beautiful woodlight, neither garish or gloomy, full of calm and peaceful influences, sheds repose over the spirit. SUSAN FENIMORE COOPER. The project of connecting the planting of trees with the names of authors is a beautiful one, and one certain to exert a beneficial influence upon the chil- dren who participate in these exercises. The institution of an ** Arbor Day” is highly commendable from its artistic consequences, and cannot fail to result in great benefit to the climate and to the commercial interests of the country when it becomes an institution of general adoption. Pror. B. PICKMAN MaNv, Son of Horace Mann: Extract from Letter. “ Plant the crab where you will, it will never bear pippins.” ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 129 PLANTING FOR THE FUTURE. N youth’s glad morning hour, All life a holiday doth seem ; We glance adown time’s vista long Beholding but the sunny gleam. The happy hearts that meet to-day, In a loving band are drawn more near By the loving end that crowns our work, Planting trees for a future year. O tender trees ! ye may thrive and grow, And spread your branches to the sun, When the youthful band assembled here, Has reaped life’s harvest, every one. When the shining eye shall lose its fire, When the rosy cheek shall fade away, Thou'lt drink of the dew and bask in the light Forgetful of this Arbor Day. The bounding heart, the active limb, The merry laugh and sparkling jest, Be mingled with the things of earth, And sink to solitude and rest. But o’er this ground with branching arms, These trees shall cast their leafy shade, And other hearts as light and gay, Shall reap the shelter we have made. So let our planting ever be, Something in store for a future year, When homeward with our harvest bound, We'll meet the Master without fear. Little Falls, N. Y., 1889. HARRIET B. WRIGHT. RAY in his ‘‘ Elegy ” speaks of “the nodding beech” withits “ old fantastic 2 roots,” the “favorite tree” of the ‘‘youth to fortune and to fame un- known,” for whom he writes his ‘‘ Epitaph.” He also says in his churchyard musings : “ Beneath those rugged elms, that yew trees shade When heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap. Each in his narrow cell, forever laid The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.” 9 130 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. WAITING TO GROW. ITTLE white snowdrop, just waking up, Violet, daisy, and sweet buttercup ! Think of the flowers that are under the snow, Waiting to grow! And think what hosts of queer little seeds — Of flowers and mosses, of ferns and weeds — Are under the leaves and under the snow, Waiting to grow! Think of the roots getting ready to sprout, Reaching their slender brown fingers about, Under the ice and the leaves and the snow, Waiting to grow! Only a month or a few weeks more, Will they have to wait behind that door ; Listen and watch for they are below -— Waiting to grow!. Nothing so small, or hidden so well, That God will not find it, and very soon tell His sun where to shine, and his rain where to go, To help them grow! FORGIVENESS. HEN on a fragrant sandal tree The woodman’s ax descends, And she who bloomed so beauteously, Beneath the weapon bends. E’en on the edge that wrought her death, Dying she breathes her sweetest breath, As if to token in her fall, Peace to her foes and love to all. How hardly man this lesson learns, To smile and bless the hand that spurns, To see the blow, to feel the pain, And render only love again ! One had it, but he came from heaven, Reviled, rejected and betrayed, No curse He breathed, no plaint He made, But when in death’s dark pang He sighed, Prayed for his murderers, and died. J. EDMONDSTON. oy ae Oe > > Sa ee well ace EE ES CRAP IEEE YORI Seis ae ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 131 THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK TREE. A CHRISTMAS TALE. N the forest high up on the steep shore, hard by the open sea-coast, stood a | very old oak tree. It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five years old, but that long time was not more for the tree than just as many days would be tous men. We wake by day and sleep through the night, and then we have our dreams: it is different with the tree, which keeps awake through three seasons of the year, and does not get its sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest, its night after the long day which is called spring, summer, and autumn. On many a warm summer day the ephemera, the fly that lives but for a day, had danced around his crown —-had lived, enjoyed, and felt happy; and then rested for a moment in quiet bliss the tiny creature, on one of the great fresh oak leaves; and then the tree always said: “Poor little thing! Your whole life is but a single day! How very short! It’s quite melancholy !” “Melancholy! Why do you say that?” the ephemera would then always reply. “It is wonderfully bright, warm, and beautiful all around me, and that makes me rejoice!” “ But only one day and then it’s all done!” “Done!” repeated the ephemera. ‘“ What’s the meaning of dome? Are you done too?” | “No; I shall perhaps live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole seasons long! It’s something so long, that you can’t at all manage to reckon it out.” “No? then I don’t understand you. You say you have thousands of my days ; but I have thousands of moments, in which I can be merry and happy. Does all the beauty of this world cease when you die?” “No,” replied the tree; “it will certainly last much longer — far longer than I can possibly think.” “Well, then, we have the same time, only that we reckon differently.” And the ephemera danced and floated in the air, and rejoiced in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, and rejoiced in the balmy breezes laden with the fragrance of meadows and of wild-roses and elder-flowers, of the garden hedges, wild thyme, and mint, and daisies; the scent of these was all so strong that the ephemera was almost intoxicated. The day was long and beautiful, full of joy and of sweet feeling, and when the sun sank low the little fly felt very agreeably tired of all its happiness and enjoyment. The delicate wings would not carry it any more, and quietly and slowly it glided down upon the soft grass-blade, nodded its head as well as it could nod, and went quietly to sleep —and was dead. “Poor little ephemera!” said the oak. ‘That was a terribly short life!” And on every summer day the same dance was repeated, the same question and answer, and the same sleep. The same thing was repeated through whole generations of ephemera, all of them felt equally merry and equally happy. 132 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ——<— The oak stood there awake through the spring morning, the noon of sum- mer, and the evening of autumn; and its time of rest, its night, was coming on apace. Winter was approaching. Already the storms were singing their “ good-night, good-night!” Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. “We'll rock you and dandle you! Go to sleep, go to sleep! We sing you to. sleep, we shake you to sleep, but it does you good in your old twigs, does it not? They seem to crack for very joy! Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly! It’s. your three hundred and sixty-fifth night. Properly speaking, you’re only a stripling as yet! Sleep sweetly! The clouds strew down snow, there will be quite a coverlet, warm and protecting, around your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams!” And the oak tree stood there denuded of all its leaves, to sleep through the long winter, and to dream many a dream, always about something that had. happened to it —just as in the dreams of men. The great oak had once been small — indeed, an acorn had been its cradle. _ According to human computation, it was now in its fourth century. It was the greatest and best tree in the forest; its crown towered far above all the other trees, and could be descried from afar across the sea, so that it served asa landmark to the sailors: the tree had no idea how many eyes were in the habit. of seeking it. High up in its green summit the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo sat in its boughs, and sang his song; and in autumn, when the leaves looked like thin plates of copper, the birds of passage came and rested there, before they flew away across the sea; but now it was winter, and the tree stood there leafless, so that every one could see how gnarled and crooked the branches were that shot forth from its trunk. Crows and rooks came and took their seat by turns in the boughs, and spoke of the hard times which were beginning, and of the difficulty of getting a living in winter. It was just at the holy Christmas time, when the tree dreamed its most glorious dream. The tree had a distinct feeling of the festive time, and fancied he heard the bells ringing from the churches all around; and yet it seemed as if it were a fine summer's day, mild and warm. Fresh and green he spread out his mighty crown; the sunbeams played among the twigs and the leaves; the air was full of the fragrance of herbs and blossoms; gay butterflies chased each other to and fro. The ephemeral insects danced as if all the world were created merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that the tree had experienced for years and years, and that had happened around him, seemed to pass by him again, as in a festive pageant. He saw the knights of ancient days ride by with their noble dames on gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their bonnets and fal- cons on their wrists. The hunting-horn sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors in colored jerkins and with shining weapons, with spear and halbert, pitching their tents and striking them again. The watch-fires flamed up anew, and men sang and slept under the branches of the tree. He saw loving couples meeting near his trunk, happily, in the moonshine; and they cut the initials of their names in the gray-green bark of his stem. Once —but long years had rolled by since then—citherns and olian harps had | i i =~ oa PE PTE Ws Oe ees Dont ‘ ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Lise been hung up on his boughs by merry wanderers; and now they hung there again, ana once again they sounded in tones of marvelous sweetness. The wood-pigeons cooed, as if they were telling what the tree felt in all this, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to live. Then it appeared to him as if new fife were rippling down into the remotest fibre of his root, and mounting up into his highest branches, to the tops of the leaves. The tree felt that he was stretching and spreading himself, and through his root he felt that there was life and motion even in the ground itself. He felt his strength increase, he grew higher, his stem shot up unceasingly, and he grew more and more, his crown became fuller, and spread out; and in pro- portion as the tree grew, he felt his happiness increase, and his joyous hope that he should reach even higher — quite up to the warm, brilliant sun. Already had he grown high above the clouds, which floated past beneath his crown like dark troops of passage-birds, or like great white swans. And every leaf of the tree had the gift of sight, as if it had eyes wherewith to see; the stars became visible in broad daylight, great and sparkling; each of them sparkled like a pair of eyes, mild and clear. They recalled to his memory well- known gentle eyes, eyes of children, eyes of lovers who had met beneath his boughs. It was a marvelous spectacle, and one full of happiness and joy! And yet amid all this happiness the tree felt a longing, a yearning desire that all other trees of the wood beneath him, and all the bushes, and herbs, and flowers, might be able to rise with him, that they too might see this splendor, and experience this joy. The great majestic oak was not quite happy in his happi- ness, while he had not them all, great and little, about him ; and this feeling of yearning trembled through his every twig, through his every leaf, warmly and fervently as through a human heart. The crown of the tree waved to and fro, as if he sought something in his silent longing, and he looked down. Then he felt the fragrance of thyme, and soon afterward the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the cuckoo answering him. Yes, through the clouds the green summits of the forest came peering up, and under himself the oak saw the other trees, as they grew and raised them- selves aloft. Bushes and herbs shot up high, and some tore themselves up bodily by the roots to rise the quicker. The birch was the quickest of all. Like a white streak of lightning, its slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, and the branches spread around it like green gauze and like banners; the whole woodland natives, even to the brown-plumed rushes, grew up with the rest, and the birds came too, and sang; and on the grass blade that fluttered aloft like a long silken ribbon into the air, sat the grasshopper cleaning his wings with his legs; the May beetles hummed, and the bees murmured, and every bird sang in his appointed manner; all was song and sound of gladness up into the high heaven. “But the little blue flower by the water-side, where is that?” said the oak; “and the purple bell-flower and the daisy?” for, you see, the old oak tree wanted to have them all about him. “We are here — we are here!” was shouted and sung in reply. 134 ARBOR DAY MANUAL, “But the beautiful thyme of last summer—and in the last year there was certainly a place here covered with lilies of the valley! and the wild apple tree that blossomed so splendidly ! and all the glory of the wood that came year by year —if that had only just been born, it might have been here now!” “ We are here, we are here!” replied voices still higher in the air. It seemed as if they had flown on before. “Why, that is beautiful, indescribably peademant !” exclaimed the old oak tree, rejoicingly. “1 have them all around me, great and small; not one has been forgotten ! How can so much happiness be imagined? How can it be possible?’ “Tn heaven, in the better land, it can be imagined, and it is possible!” the reply sounded through the air. And the old tree, who grew on and on, felt how his roots were tearing them- selves free from the ground. “That’s right, that’s better than all!” said the tree. ‘Now no fetters hold me! I can fly up now, to the very highest, in glory and in light! And all my beloved ones are with me, great and small — all of them, all!” That was the dream of the old oak tree; and while he dreamt thus a mighty ‘ storm came rushing over land and sea —at the holy Christmas-tide. The sea rolled great billows toward the shore; there was a crackling and crashing in the tree — his root was torn out of the ground in the very moment while he was dreaming that his root freed itself from the earth. He fell. His three hundred and sixty-five years were now as the single day of the ephemera. On the morning of the Christmas festival, when the sun rose, the storm had subsided. From all the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even from the smallest hut, arose the smoke in blue clouds, like the smoke from the altars of the druids of old at the feast of thanks-offerings. The sea became gradually calm, and on board a great ship in the offing, that had fought successfully with the tempest, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy suitable to the festive day. “The tree is down —the old oak tree, our land-mark on the coast!” said the sailors. “It fell in the storm of last night. Who can replace it? No one can.” This was the funeral oration, short but well meant, that was given to the tree, which lay stretched on the snowy covering on the sea-shore ; and over its prostrate form sounded the notes of a song from the ship, a carol of the joys of Christmas, and of the redemption of the soul of man by His blood, and of eternal life. . ‘Sing, sing aloud, this blessed morn — * It is fulfilled —and He is born: Oh, joy without compare! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!” Thus sounded the old psalm-tune, and every one on board the ship felt lifted up in his own way, through the song and the prayer, just as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, it most beauteous dream in the Christmas night. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN. Friendship is a sheltering tree. COLERIDGE, Youth and Age. . ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ei HISTORICAL TREES—Told in Rhyme. FOR A CLASS EXERCISE. ALL: ; The leaves of Time’s dusty book, And wonderful legends are written On each storied page we look, ae by one we are turning Legends of Indian warfare, Of crossing a trackless sea, Of hunger and cold endured by all, For the sake of being free. Far back when the world was younger The Romans, the stories say, When some wonderful thing had happened With a white stone marked the day. But instead of a stone for remembrance, We mark by a tall green tree, Full many a great event that’s passed Since the Mayflower crossed the sea. FIRST CHILD: So looking adown the centuries To those early frontier days, And ancient Philadelphia With its quaint old Quaker ways. I see ‘neath the sachem’s elm-tree, Penn and his fearless band, And the plumed and painted warriors Around him on ev’ry hand. SECOND CHILD: Here he called the Indian brothers And treated them like men, And none of the Indians ever broke That treaty made with Penn. THIRD CHILD: And even the British foemen Respected that ancient tree, And placed a guard to protect it From their hireling soldiery. FOURTH CHILD: But ere another century Had been told above its head, A strong wind swept above it, And the ancient elm lay dead. 136 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. Still the mother tells to her children As they climb upon her knee, Of the treaty of sixteen eighty-two, Beneath the old elm-tree. ALL. This tree was blown down in 1810, and proved by its rings to be 283 years old. A large part of it was sent to the members of Penn’s family, and the remainder was made into boxes, chairs, etc. FIFTH CHILD: Once when in England's stately halls, A new king wore the royal crown, And one with chains for liberty Sailed o’er the sea to Boston town. Throughout the land where e’er was heard The measured tread of soldiers’ feet In all New England’s colonies, The people’s heart, as one heart beat And when the haughty Jeader came, Then every slumb’ring patriot woke, And they hid Connecticut’s charter In the heart of a hollow oak. SIXTH CHILD: But when old England changed her king It was taken from out the tree, And Hartford's Charter Oak became The symbol of liberty. ALL: The Vice-President’s chair at Washington is made from the Charter Oak, which was blown down in 1856. SEVENTH CHILD: We've all of us heard of the Stamp Act, And Boston of ’sixty-five, And the meetings against taxation ’Neath the old elm then alive. And how one August morning, On a branch of that tree so green, The effigies of the Governor, And old Lord Bute were seen. The people crowded around them From every part of the town, As they swung from the elm-tree branches Till the summer sun went down. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 137 EIGHTH CHILD: And when four more months of trouble Into the past had sped, The royal governor ’neath that tree His resignation read. NINTH CHILD: But at last the lawless soldiery Beneath the old elm stood, And Boston’s liberty-tree Became the Briton’s firewood. 7. Os ; This elm was cut down by the British in 1775. The soldiers used it for firewood and got fourteen cords from it. TENTH CHILD: All over the land in ’sixty-five, In spite of king and crown, The liberty-trees were springing up, In every village and town. In Charleston, South Carolina, there was one, ’Twas a great live oak, There it stood till in seventeen-eighty It was burned by the British folk. ALL: The Declaration of Independence was read and meetings were held under this tree. In 1780, it was cut down and burned by the British. ELEVENTH CHILD: When the Stamp Act had been repealed On Norwich’s oak so green, On the topmost branch of the stately tree A Phrygian cap was seen. ALL: When the Stamp Act was repealed the people erected a tent under oak- spreading branches, and encouraged each other to resist all acts of oppression. TWELFTH CHILD: And Washington in ’seventy-five, "Neath Cambridge’s elm tree came, To take command of the army *Mid the people’s loud acclaim. THIRTEENTH CHILD: And still on the green at Cambridge The old tree stands to-day, , Though rebel and tory long ago, To dust have mouldered away. t 38 ARBOR DAY MANUAL, cA This famous elm is still standing. It is also celebrated as the one under which Whitefield preached. ALL: ; So to-day as we turn from the present To the dusty past, we see How many a great and noble deed Is marked by a famous tree. LizziE M. HADLEY. MAGNOLIA-GRANDIFLORA. AJESTIC flower! How purely beautiful M Thou art, as rising from thy bower of green, Those dark and glossy leaves so thick and full, Thou standest like a high-born forest queen Among thy maidens clustering round so fair; — I love to watch thy sculptured form unfolding, And look into thy depths, to image there A fairy cavern, and while thus beholding, And while thy breeze floats o’er thee, matchless flower, I breathe the perfume, delicate and strong, That comes like incense from thy petal-bower ; My fancy roams those southern woods along, Beneath that glorious tree, where deep among The unsunned leaves thy large white flower-cups hung ! CHRISTOPHER PEARSE CRANCH. THE YEW. REWHILE, on England’s pleasant shores, our sires Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades Or blossoms, but indulgent to the strong And natural dread of man’s last home, the grave, Its frost and silence — they disposed around, To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt Too sadly on life’s close, the forms and hues Of vegetable beauty. There the yew, Green ever amid the snows of winter, told Of immortality, and gracefully The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped ; ’ And there the gadding woodbine crept about, And there the ancient ivy. ; BryaNnT. The Burial Place. a 45 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 139 * THE FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. ‘*T have always admired,” says Whittier, ‘‘ the good taste of the Sokoki Indiansaround | Sebago Lake, who, when their chief died, dug around a beech tree, swaying it down, and placed his body in the rent, and then let the noble tree fall back into its original place, a green and beautiful monument for a son of the forest.”— Extract from letter. ROUND Sebago’s lonely lake There lingers not a breeze to break The mirror which its waters wake. The solemn pines along its shore, The firs which hang its gray rocks o’er Are painted on its glassy floor. * * * * * Here in their hour of bitterness, come the broken band of Sokokis seeking a grave for their slaughtered chief. Fire and axe have swept it bare, Save one lone beech unclosing there Its light leaves in the vernal air. With grave cold looks all sternly mute, They break the damp turf at its foot, And bare its coiled and twisted root. They heave the stubborn trunk aside, The firm roots from the earth divide,— The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. And there the fallen chief is laid In tasselled garbs of skins arrayed And girded with his wampum-braid. * * * * * *Tis done: the roots are backward sent The beechen tree stands up unbent,— The Indian’s fitting monument. * * * * * There shall his fitting requiem be, In northern winds, that, cold and free, Howl nightly in the funeral tree. * * 35 =a WHITTIER. LADY GOLDEN-ROD. PRETTY Lady Golden-rod, O I’m glad you’ve come to town ! I saw you standing by the gate, All in your yellow gown. No one was with me, and I thought You might be lonely, too ; And so I took my card-case And came to visit you. You’re fond of company, I know; You smile so at the sun, And when the winds go romping past, You bow to every one. How you should ever know them all, I’m sure I cannot tell ; But when I come again, I hope You'll know me just as well. CARRIE W. BRONSON, PINE-NEEDLES. F Motherx Nature patches | The leaves of trees and vines, I’m sure she does her darning With necdles of the pines! They are so long and slender ; And sometimes, in full view, They have their thread of cobwebs, And thimbles made of dew! Wo. H. Hayne. 140 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. UNDER THE WASHINGTON ELM, CAMBRIDGE. APRIL 27, 1861. IGHTY years have passed, and more, E Since under the brave old tree Our fathers gathered in arms, and swore They would follow the sign their banners bore, And fight till the land was free. Half of their work was done, Half is left to do,— Cambridge, and Concord and Lexington ! When the battle is fought and won, What shall be told of you? Hark !—’t is the south wind moans,— Who are the martyrs down ? Ah, the marrow was true in your children’s bones That sprinkled with blood the cursed stones Of the murder-haunted town ! What if the storm-clouds blow? What if the green leaves fall ? Better the crashing tempest’s throe Than the army of worms that gnawed below; Trample them one and all! Then, when the battle is won, And the land from traitors free, Our children shall tell of the strife begun When Liberty’s second April sun Was bright on our brave old tree. HOLMES. FLOWERS AND FOLIAGE. ID you ever think how different the world would be —.what a sad want there would be in it—if it wanted flowers? The green herbage and foliage are also beautiful both in form and in color. In winter, when the plants are withered, and the trees are bare, how bleak and dreary the country looks! When spring returns, how gladly we watch the bursting of the buds, and behold the trees and plants putting forth anew their leaves and blossoms! | Bright flowers, green trees, and singing birds! our hearts are the lighter for them. THE WASHINGTON ELM CAMBRIDGE, MASS. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. I4I )) DISCONTENT. OWN in a field, one day in June, The flowers all bloomed together, Save one, who tried to hide herself, And drooped, that pleasant weather. A robin who had flown too high, And felt a little lazy, Was resting near this buttercup For For Who wished she were a daisy; daisies grow so trig and tall ! — She always had a passion wearing frills around her neck, In just the daisies’ fashion. And buttercups must always be The same old tiresome color; While daisies dress in gold and white, Although their gold is duller. “Dear robin,” said this sad.young flower, ** Perhaps you'd not mind trying To find a nice white frill for me, Some day when you are flying?” “ You silly thing!” the robin said, **T think you must be crazy; I’d rather be my honest self Than any made-up daisy. “ You’re nicer in your own bright gown; The little children love you: Be the best buttercup you can, And think no flower above you. “ Though swallows leave me out of sight, We'd better keep our places: Perhaps the world would all go wrong With one too many daisies. ** Look bravely up into-the sky, And be content with knowing That God wished for a buttercup Just here, where you are growing.” SARA O. JEWETT. UNITED. SUMACH tall, A By a garden wall, Bloomed through the summer air; Within there grew, Of every hue, Flowers exceeding fair. The sumach burned, When the dahlia turned Her laughing face of gold, To where he stood, By the rough dogwood, Outside of the garden fold. An outcast he, Yet, tenderly He loved the garden queen, And well she knew, So close they grew, With but a wall between. What mattered birth ? The selfsame earth Had nursed their infant seed; But custom said: ** No flower should wed A rough, plebeian weed.” One chilly night, The frost king’s blight, Fell over woods and farms; Next day, quite dead, The dahlia’s head Lay in the sumach’s arms. HELEN F. O'NEILL. 142 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE MARRIAGE OF THE FLOWERS. 6 TT is six,” the swallows twittered, ‘and you're very late in rising — | If you really think of rising on this lovely morn at all — For the great red sun is peeping over wood and hill and meadow, And the unmilked cows are lowing in the dimly-lighted stall.” Oh, ye robins and ye swallows, thought I, throwing back the lattice, Ye are noisy, joyous fellows, and you waken when you will ; Then I saw a dainty letter, bound in ribbon-grass and clover, That the swallows had left swinging by the narrow window sill. Oh, the dainty, dainty letter, on an orange leaf, or lemon, / Signed, “ Your friend, the Queen of Roses,” writ in characters of dew; “You're invited to the garden, there’s a good time there at seven, And a place beside the apple-tree has been reserved for you.” “ There'll be matings there, and marriages, of every flower and blossom; Cross the brook behind the arbor, and come early, if you can.” Oh, my thoughts they all went bounding, and my heart leaped in my bosom, «“ And how sweetly she composes,” I reflected as I ran. There she sat, the Queen of Roses, with her virgins all about her, While the lilacs and the apple-blooms seemed waiting her command. Oh, how lovely, oh, how gracious, she did smile on each new comer; Oh, how sweet she kissed the lilies as she took them by the hand. Never had I seen her fairer than she was this happy morning, Never knew her breath delicious, half so boundless, half so rare; Oh, she seemed a thing of heaven, with the dew upon her bosom, And I wished I were some daffodil, that I might kiss it there. All at once the grass rows parted, and the sweetest notes were sounded, There was music, there was odor, there was loving in the air; And a hundred joyous gallants, robed in holiday apparel, Danced beneath the lilac bushes with a hundred maidens fair. There were tulips proud and yellow, with their great green spears beside them; There were lilies grandly bowing to the rose queen as they came; There were daffodils so stately, scenting all the air of heaven; Joyous buds and sleeping poppies, with their banners all aflame. There were pansies robed in purple, marching o’er the apple-blossoms And the foxgloves with their pages tripped coquettishly along; And the violets and the daisies, in their bonnets blue and yellow, Joined the marching and parading of th’ innumerable throng. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 143 All at once the dandelion blew three notes upon his trumpet ; “Choose ye partners for the dancing, gallant knights and ladies fair;” And the honeysuckle court’sied to the young sweet-breathed clematis, And remarked upon the sweetness of the blossoms in her hair. “ We’re the tallest,” said the tuberose to the iris, standing nearest, “ And suppose that now, for instance, I should offer you my heart?” “Oh, how sudden,” cried the-sly thing; “I am really quite embarrassed — Unexpected, but pray do it, just to give the rest a start.” Then a daisy kissed a pansy, with its jacket brown and yellow, And the crocus led a thistle to a seat beside the rose; And the maybells grouped together, close beside the lady-slipper, And commented on the beauty and the splendor of her clothes. “ Oh, a market this for beauty,” said a jasmine, gently clinging To the strong arm of an orange, as a glance on him she threw, “ Why, you scarcely would believe it, but I’ve had this very morning Twenty offers, and declined them, just to promenade with you.” So in groupings or in couples, led each knight some gentle lady, Led some fair companion blushing, past the windrows fresh and green; And the sweet rose gave her blessing, and a kiss at times, it may be, To the fairest brides and sweetest, mortal eye hath ever seen. Then again the grass it parted, and the sunshine it grew brighter, Till it seemed as if the curtains of high heaven were withdrawn, And each flower and bud and blossom pressed some fair one to its bosom, As the bannered train danced gaily ’twixt the windrows on the lawn, Oh, the musk-rose was so stately! and so stately was the queen rose! And how sweetly smiled she on me as she whispered in my ear, “Come again; you know you’re welcome; come again, dear, for it may be That our baby buds and blossoms will be chrzstened here next year.” ADJUTANT S. H. M. Byers, Oskaloosa, Iowa. A GRAIN OF CORN. GRAIN of corn an infant’s hand May plant upon an inch of land, Whence twenty stalks may spring and yield Enough to stock a little field. The harvest of that field might then Be multiplied to ten times ten, Which sown thrice more, would furnish bread Wherewith an army might be fed. 144 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. THE WILD: VIOLET. IOLET, violet, sparkling with dew, Down in the meadow-land wild where you grew, How did you come by the beautiful blue With which your soft petals unfold ? And how do you hold up your tender young head, When rude sweeping winds rush along o’er your bed, And dark, gloomy clouds, ranging over you, shed Their waters so heavy and cold? No one has nursed you or watched you an hour, Or found you a place in the garden or bower ; And no one can yield me so lovely a flower As here I have found at my feet. Speak, my sweet violet! answer and tell How you have grown up and flourished so well, And look so contented where lowly you dwell, And we thus by accident meet! “The same careful hand,”’ the violet said, “That holds up the firmament, holds up my head; And He who with azure the skies overspread Has painted the violet blue. He sprinkles the stars out above me by night, And sends down the sunbeams at morning with light, To make my new coronet sparkling and bright, When formed of a drop of His dew. “T’ve naught to fear from the black heavy cloud, Or the breath of the tempest that comes strong and loud, Where, born in the lowland, and far from the crowd, I know and I live but for One. He soon forms a mantle about me to cast, Of long, silken grass, till the rain and the blast, And all that seemed threatening, have harmlessly passed As the clouds scud before the warm sun !”’ HANNAH F. GOULD. APRIL. OW daisies pied, and violets blue, Do paint the meadows with delight ; And lady-smocks all silver white, The cuckoo now on every tree, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Sings cuckoo! cuckoo! SHAKESPEARE. ¢ s +S to Fp sh * ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 145 THE LIVE OAK. ITH his gnarled old arms, and his iron form Majestic in the wood, From age to age, in the sun and storm, The live-oak long hath stood, With his stately air, that grave old tree, He stands like a hooded monk, With the gray moss waving solemnly From his shaggy limbs and trunk. And the generations come and go, And still he stands upright, And he sternly looks on the wood below, As conscious of his might. But a mourner sad is the hoary tree, A mourner sad and lone, And is clothed in funeral drapery For the long-since dead and gone. For the Indian hunter, beneath his shade, Has rested from the chase ; ‘And he here has wooed his, dusky maid — The dark-eyed of her race; And the tree is red with the gushing gore, As the wild deer panting dies ; But the maid is gone and the chase is o’er, And the old oak hoarsely sighs. In former days, when the battle’s din Was loud amid the land, In his friendly shadow, few and thin, Have gathered Freedom's band ; And the stern old oak, how proud was he To shelter hearts so brave! But they all are gone,— the bold and free,— And he moans above their grave. And the aged oak, with his locks of gray, Is ripe for the sacrifice ; For the worm and decay, no lingering prey, Shall he tower towards the skies! He falls, he falls, to become our guard, The bulwark of the free ; And his bosom of steel is proudly bared To brave the raging sea! 10 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. When the battle comes, and the cannon’s roar Booms o’er the shuddering deep, Then nobly he’ll bear the bold hearts o’er The waves, with bounding leap. O, may those hearts be as firm and true, When the war-clouds gather dun, As the glorious oak that proudly grew Beneath our southern sun. . HENRY R. JACKSON, READY FOR DUTY. DAFFY-DOWN-DILLY. AFFY-down-dilly came up in the cold, D Through the brown mould, Although the March breezes blew keen on her face, Although the white snow lay on many a place. Daffy-down-dilly had heard under ground The sweet rushing sound Of the streams as they burst off their white winter chains— Of the whistling spring winds and the pattering rains. “Now, then,” thought Daffy, deep down in her heart, “It's time I should start !” So she pushed her soft leaves through the hard frozen ground, Quite up to the surface, and then she looked round. There was snow all about her,—gray clouds overhead, — The trees all looked dead: Then how do you think Daffy-down-dilly felt When the sun would not shine, and the ice would not melt ? “Cold weather!” thought Daffy, still working away: “The earth’s hard to-day! There's but a half inch of my leaves to be seen, And two-thirds of that is more yellow than green ! “T can’t do much yet; but I’ll do what I can, It’s well I began! For, unless I can manage to lift up my head, The people will think that the Spring-time is dead.” So, little by little, she brought her leaves out, All clustered about ; And then her bright flowers began to unfold, Till Daffy stood robed in her spring green and gold. O, Daffy-down-dilly ! so brave and so true! Would all were like you,— So ready for duty in all sorts of weather, : And loyal to courage and duty together. They’ve cut the wood away, The cool green wood, Wherein I used to play In happy mood. The woodman’s ax has cleft Each noble tree, And now, alas, is left No shade for me. The brooks that flow in May Are dry before The first hot summer day, And flow no more. _ The fields are brown and bare, And parched with heat; No more doth hover there The pine scents sweet. _ Boston Journal. ARBOR DAY MANUAL. 147 THE, GLADNESS OF: NATURE. S this a time to be cloudy and sad, When, our mother Nature laughs around, When even the deep blue heavens look glad, And gladness breathes from the blossoming ground? There are notes of joy from the hang-bird and wren, . And the gossip of swallows through all the sky ; The ground-squirrel gayly chirps by his den, And the wilding bee hums merrily by. The clouds are at play in the azure space, And their shadows at play on the bright green vale, And here they stretch to the frolic chase, And there they roll on the easy gale. There ’s a dance of leaves in that aspen bower; There ’s a titter of winds in that beechen tree ; There’s a smile on the fruit, and a smile on the flower, And a laugh from the brook that runs to the sea. And look at the broad-faced sun ; how he smiles On the dewy earth that smiles in his ray, On the leaping waters and gay young isles — Ay, look, and he'll smile thy gloom away ! BRYANT. THEY VECO. THE-WOOD AWAY. No more his note is heard To blithely ring Where erst the woodland bird Would sit and sing. No more the wood-flowers bloom Where once they bloomed Amid the emerald gloom Of ferns entombed. Fled, now, the woodland sights, The scented air ! Fled, all the sweet delights ‘That once were there ! And fled the gracious mood That came to me, When to that quiet wood I used to flee! 148 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. ARBUTUS. WEET welcome to thee, dainty winsome flower! Beloved! bringing joy for April’s tears, Upspringing in the track of wintry fears That ghostly haunt spring’s timid, ’wakening hour. The banished months have left thee beauty’s power : The autumn, crimson blush; its snowy kiss, The dying winter; and the summer's bliss Of fragrance in thy breath —a precious dower ! What blossom so beloved as thou dost hide As thou, ’neath rusty leaves that men despise ? Thus rest unseen, till covert torn aside Thy secret yields. Then gladden with surprise And new-born hope, some sad soul’s yearning eyes, That under death such living joys abide. Chautauguan, April, 1888. ANNE HALL. THE WOODLAND IN SPRING. EN in the spring and play-time of the year, E That calls th’ unwonted villager abroad With all her little ones, a sportive train, To gather kingcups in the yellow mead, And prink their hair with daisies, or to pick A cheap but wholesome salad from the brook ; These shades are all my own. The timorous hare, Grown so familiar with her frequent guest, Scarce shuns me; and the stock-dove, unalarmed, Sits cooing in the pine tree, nor suspends His long love-ditty for my near approach. Drawn from his refuge in some lonely elm, That age or injury has hollowed deep, Where on his bed of wool and matted leaves, He has outslept the winter, ventures forth To frisk awhile, and bask in the warm sun, The squirrel, flippant, pert and full of play; He sees me, and at once, swift as a bird, Ascends the neighboring beech; there whisks his brush, And perks his ears, and stamps and cries aloud, With all the prettiness of feigned alarm, And anger insignificantly fierce. COWPER. To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new. MILTON'S Lyczdas. ARBOR DAY MANUAL.. 149 AN APRIL DAY. HEN the warm sun that brings Seed time and harvest, has returned again, Tis sweet to visit the still wood, where springs The first flower of the plain. I love the season well, When forest glades are teeming with bright forms, Nor dark and many-folded clouds foretell The coming-on of storms. : From the earth’s loosening mould The sapling draws its sustenance, and thrives; Though stricken to the heart with winter’s cold, The drooping tree revives. The softly warbled song Comes from the pleasant woods, and colored wings Glance quick in the bright sun, that moves along . The forest openings. When the bright sunset fills The silver woods with light, the green slope throws Its shadows in the hollows of the hills, And wide the upland grows. And when the eve is born, In the blue lake the sky, o’er reaching far, Is hollowed out, and the moon dips her horn, And twinkles many a star. Inverted in the tide Stand the gray rocks, and trembling shadows throw, And the fair trees look over, side by side, And see themselves below. Sweet April! many a thought Is wedded unto thee, as hearts are wed; Nor shall they fail, till, to its autumn brought, Life’s golden fruit is shed. LONGFELLOW. One impulse from‘a vernal wood, May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can. WORDSWORTH. 150 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. SPRING POINTING TO GOD. Loosed from the bands of frost, the verdant ground Again puts on her robe of cheerful green, Again puts forth her flowers; and all around, Smiling, the cheerful face of spring is seen. Behoid the trees new-deck their withered boughs; Their ample leaves the hospitable plane, The taper elm, and lofty ash disclose; The blooming hawthorn variegates the scene. The lily of the vale, of flowers the queen, Puts on the robe she neither sewed nor spun: The birds on ground, or on the branches green, Hop to and fro, and glitter in the sun. Soon as o’er eastern hills the morning peers, From her low nest the tufted lark up-springs ; And cheerful singing, up the air she steers ; Still high she mounts, still loud and sweet she sings. On the green furze, clothed o’er with golden blooms, That fill the air with fragrance all around, The linnet sits, and tricks his glossy plumes, While o’er the wild his broken notes resound. While the sun journeys down the western sky, Along the greensward, marked with Roman mound, Beneath the blithesome shepherd’s watchful eye, The cheerful lambkins dance and frisk around. Now is the time for those who wisdom love, Who love to walk in virtue’s flowery road, Along the lovely paths of spring to rove, And follow Nature up to Nature’s God. BRUCE. O, willow, why forever weep, As one who mourns an endless wrong? . What hidden woe can lie so deep? What utter grief can last so long? Mourn on forever, unconsoled, And keep your secret, faithful tree ! No heart in all the world can hold A sweeter grace than constancy. ELIZABETH ALLEN. . ee ae ARBOR DAY MANUAL. I51 \ ] HEN apple-trees in blossom are, And cherries of a silken white; And king-cups deck the meadows fair; And daffodils in brooks delight; When golden wall-flowers bloom around, And purple violets scent the ground, And lilac ’gins to show her bloom,— We then may say the May is come. When happy shepherds tell their tale Under the tender leafy tree; And all adown the grassy vale The mocking cuckoo chanteth free; And Philomel, with liquid throat, Doth pour the welcome, warbling note, That had been all the winter dumb,— We then may say the May is come. When fishes leap in silver stream, And tender corn is springing high, And banks are warm with sunny beam, And twittering swallows cleave the sky, And forest bees are humming near, And cowslips in boys’ hats appear, And maids do wear the meadow’s bloom,— We then may say the May is come. CLARKE. EARLY SPRING. HE hawthorn whitens, and the juicy groves Put forth their buds unfolding by degrees, Till the whole leafy forest stands displayed, In full luxuriance, to the sighing gales; Where the deer rustle through the twining brake, And the birds sing concealed. At once, arrayed In all the colors of the flushing year, By Nature’s swift and secret-working hand, The garden glows, and fills the liberal air With lavish fragrance: while the promised fruit Lies yet a little embryo, unperceived, Within its crimson folds. Now from the town, Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes, and dash the trembling drops From the bent bush as through the verdant maze Of sweet-brier hedges I pursue my walk ; Or taste the smell of dairy : or ascend Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, And see the country far diffused around, One boundless blush, one white-empurpled shower Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy. THOMSON. 152 ARBOR DAY MANUAL. | THE SPIRITVOf POBTRY: HERE is a quiet spirit in these woods, aL. That dwells where’er the gentle south wind blows; Where, underneath the white thorn, in the glade, The wild flowers bloom, or kissing the soft air, The leaves above their sunny palms outspread. With what a tender and impassioned voice It fills the nice and delicate ear of thought, When the fast-ushering star of morning comes O’er riding the gray hills with golden scarf; Or when the cowled and dusky-sandaled Eve, In mourning weeds, from out the western gate, Departs with silent pace! That spirit moves In the green valley, where the silver brook, From its full laver, pours the white cascade ; And, babbling low amid the tangled woods, Slips down through moss-grown stones with endless laughter, And frequent on tne everlasting hills, Its feet go forth, when it doth wrap itself In all the dark embroidery of the storm, And shouts the stern strong wind. And here, amid The silent majesty of these deep woods, Its presence shall uplift thy thoughts from earth, As to the sunshine and the pure bright air Their tops the green trees lift. Hence gifted bards Have ever Joved the calm and quiet shades. For them there was an eloquent voice in all The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way, Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds, The swelling upland, where the sidelong sun Aslant the wooded slope, at evening, goes, Groves, through whose broken roof the sky looks in, Mountain, and shattered cliff, and sunny vale, The distant lake, fountains, and mighty trees, In many a lazy syllable, repeating Their old poetic legends to the wind. And this is the sweet spirit, that doth fill The world, and in these wayward days of youth, My busy fancy oft embodies it, As a bright image of the light and beauty That dwell in nature; of the heavenly forms We worship in our dreams, and the soft hues That stain the wild bird’s wing, and flush the clouds vara pie a ret