42 



FORESTRY AND IRRIGATION 



January 



tree tops, and in hunting several sea- 

 sons for male or female flowers of 

 some of the species which do not bear 

 fruit every year. We do not know of 

 any book, Sargent's Silva not except- 

 ed, which contains such a wealth of 

 good and true reproductions of trees, 

 as Mr. Hough's book does. It is not 



only a popular book which affords 

 the easiest and most pleasant way of 

 getting acquainted with our forest 

 trees, but is at the same time a neces- 

 sary tool, which takes the place of an 

 herbarium, for all who have to refer 

 constantly to the different species of 

 trees. 



THE CITY ON THE PLAIN 



BY 



Millard F. Hudson, Washington, D. C. 



Strange, indeed, were the sounds I heard 



One day, on the side of the mountain; 



Hushed was the stream and silent the 



bird. 

 The restless wind seemed to hold its 



breath. 

 And all things there were as still as death 

 Save the hoarse-voiced god of the 

 mountain. 



Through the tangled growth, with a hur- 

 ried stride, 

 I saw him pass on the mountain, 

 Thrusting the briars and bushes aside, 

 Crackling the sticks and spurning the 



stones. 

 And talking in loud and angry tones 

 On the side of the ancient mountain. 



The tips of his goat-like ears were red, 

 Though the day was cool on the 



mountain. 

 And they lay close drawn to his horned 



head; 

 His bushy brows o'er his small eyes 



curled, 

 And he stamped his hoofs — for all the 



world 

 Like Pan in a rage on the mountain. 



"Where are my beautiful trees," he cried, 

 "That grew on the side of the moun- 

 tain? 

 The stately pines which were once my 



pride. 

 My shadowy, droop-limbed junipers; 

 And my dewy, softly whispering firs, 

 'Mid their emerald glooms on the 

 mountain? 



"They all are ravished away," he said, 

 "And torn from the arms of the 

 mountain, 

 Away from the haunts of cooling shade^ 

 From the cloisters green which flourish- 

 ed here — 

 My lodging for many a joyous year 

 On the side of the pleasant mountain. 



"The song-bird is bereft of its nest. 



And voiceless now is the mountain. 

 My murmurous bees once took their rest. 

 At shut of day, and knew no fear. 

 In the trees whose trunks lie rotting here 

 On the side of the ruined mountain. 



"Man has let in the passionate sun 



To suck the life-blood of the mountain. 



And drink up its fountains one by one; 



And out of immortal freshness made 



A thing of barter, and sold in trade 

 The sons of the mother-mountain. 



"Down in the valley I see a town. 



Built of his spoils from my mountain — 



A jewel torn from a monarch's crown, 



A grave for the lordly groves of Pan; 



And for this, on the head of vandal man, 

 I hurl a curse from the mountain: 



"His palpitant streams shall all go dry- 

 Henceforth, on the side of the moun- 

 tain. 

 And his verdant plains as a desert lie 

 Till he plants again the forest fold 

 And restores to me my kingdom old. 

 As in former days on the mountain."' 



Long shall the spirit of silence brood 

 On the side of the wasted mountain, 

 E'er out of the sylvan solitude, 

 To lift the curse from off the plain, 

 The crystal streams pour forth again 

 From the gladdened heart of the 

 mountain. 



