no 



THE GUIDE TO NATURE 



the afternoon. The outing" days will 

 be Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays 

 and Thursdays save when heavy rains 

 make changes of schedule necessary. 

 An occasional rainy day may be spent 

 indoors preserving and classifying 

 specimens. In general it is the deep 

 appreciation of a number of the more 

 interesting and beautiful types rather 

 than the memorizing of undigested and 

 unpalatable facts that we shall aim for. 



MY CREED. 



'My creed is work; to follow duty's call 

 However far it leads across the plains — 

 Through trackless woods, or ringing on the 



hills: 

 To seek for pleasure in the realms of toil — 

 Still ever striving for a larger self 

 With which to do a service for the rest. 

 To lay a new path through the unknown 



way, 

 And leave some heritage e'en though so 



small 

 No other hand would love or care to leave. 

 Rejoicing ever in my brother's craft, 

 To follow system and the perfect law — 

 Be what I am, and do my very best 

 To lead a life which towers above the hills, 

 And points the way across the plains to 



God." 



THE MOUNTAIN GARDEN. 



By Emma Peirce, Sunset Hill, New Hamp- 

 shire. 



Straggling on, as stone-walls do, 



A wall of verdure it straggles through; 



On one side nature has done her part, 



On the other is seen the gardener's art. 



Near ferns and brakes of coolest green, 



The gleam of golden-rod is seen, 



St. John's wort with its neighbor vies. 



And buttercups of golden dyes. 



Clover blooms are all around, 



Gay in white and crimson gowned; 



The red of raspberries is seen, 



Like jewels in a casket green. 



With pendent cherries ruddy wine, 



The white of clematis is fine; 



Tall grasses wave in summer air, 



And meadow-sweet is everywhere. 



Beyond the wall is golden-glow, 



A fitting crown for blooms below, 



Weaving its gold, in discs of light, 



Through nature's woof of colors bright. 



The flag has waved its last adieu, 



Though still the larkspur wears its blue. 



And hollyhocks in stately row, 



Show every tint, from wine to snow. 



Sweet William won an early fame, 



And left behind a fragrant name; 



And now in fine array is phlox, 



A picture in its crimson frocks. 



At this regal beauty's feet 



Nestles white alyssum sweet, 



While mignonette the border makes, 



And from its tawny tresses shakes 



The perfume that is ne'er forgot, 



The incense of the garden-plot. 



"The Charm of Expression." 



One of our subscribers, Mr. C. D. 

 Jackson of New York, recently re- 

 ceived the following letter from his ten 

 year old boy who is at present in Paris. 

 We publish it because of the originality 

 and terseness of expression. 



Hotel Astoria, Avenue Des Champs-Elysees, 



Paris. 

 June 14, 1912. 

 Dear Father, 



Excuse me for writing to you so late. But 

 I have had all my time taken up. 



Sunday when with my friends one of them 

 had a water pistol with which he squirted 

 everybody. Once he squirted a little boy on 

 the legs, and he went and told it to his 

 mother. 



The ones who had squirted him ran away 

 and another boy and I staid alone. 



The lady came up to us, and in an impet- 

 uous tone demanded of us if we had squirted 

 her son. We answered that we had not but 

 that it was our friends. "Where are your 

 friends?" she asked. "We don't know," we 

 answered. But we did know. Then she said, 

 "The next one who touches my boy gets a 

 good slap." 



The governess of the one who had squirted 

 the boy had her chair right next to the 

 mother of the squirted boy. Now the boy 

 that had the water pistol needed his gouter 

 so he sent another boy to get it for him for 

 he knew that the squirted boy would recog- 

 nize him. But unluckily his governess 

 wanted him to come and get it himself. I 

 am sorry to say I cannot tell any more for 

 just then I had to go home. 



I meet Fred nearly every morning on the 

 Avenue Du Boie. 



Your loving son, 

 Charles Douglas Jackson. 



P. S. Alan cannot put in a few lines be- 

 cause he is sleeping. 



Walking With God. 



Very few men cultivate the habit 

 of walking with God, or have any in- 

 ward assurance of God. They have 

 merely heard pious rumours of such a 

 personage. These rumours have given 

 me no comfort; but now and again in 

 the years, sometimes with little chil- 

 dren, sometimes alone under the sky, 

 I have experienced the Divine Pres- 

 ence, have felt that the great comrade 

 was here, and those have been the 

 richest hours of life. I have walked 

 with the Master a little way in the 

 silent fields — with the only master. — 

 Stanton Davis Kirkham in "Outdoor 

 Philosophy" 



Study the birds, the trees, the flowers, 

 An antidote for weary hours. 



