372 



FORESTRY AND IRRIGATION 



quantity of basswood, which, being a 

 rapid grower, native to the locality, and 

 more valuable for its white wood before 

 reaching maturity, may give a harvest 

 sooner than some other species. The 

 white and Norway pine planted on 



higher land may take seventy years to 

 mature, but Mr. Mershon says that by 

 the time his children are as old as he is 

 there will be so much of value on this 

 piece of land, now waste, that they will 

 appreciate it as a fine legacy. 



THE NEXT GENERATION'S REPROACH AGAINST ITS ANCESTORS 



By RICHARD H. DOUNI BOERKER, Hanover, N, H, 



r\ Forest ! O divine inspiring creation ! 

 ^^ Thou temple of the sylvan gods ! 

 I I love to visit thy secret dells 



And hear thy birds' sweet melody. 

 I love the shade of the murmuring pines. 

 The fragrant zephyrs and cooling breezes, 

 And to sit by the side of the meandering brook, 

 As it babbles and warbles its melodious song. 



O Forest ! O divine inspiring creation ! 

 Thou temple of the sylvan gods ! 

 Within whose secluded haunts and glades 

 Played the wood-nymphs of ages past; 

 Thou, the home of primitive races ; 

 Thou, inspiration to poets of all ages ; 

 Indispensable to man and beast ; 

 Thy time has come, thy race is run. 



O Ancestors ! Sons of an accursed race, 

 Desecrators of our leafy temples ! 

 Within whose secluded haunts and glades 

 The wood nymphs never more shall play ! 

 O Forest ! once the home of primitive races ; 

 Once the inspiration to poets of all ages ; 

 Indispensable to man and beast ; 

 O, grief ! O, woe ! thy race is run. 



O Ancestors ! Sons of an accursed race, 

 Who have left but desolation in your path ! 

 Where are the birds, the murmuring pines, 

 The fragrant zephyrs, the babbling brooks ? 

 Down the valley rushes the turbulent flood. 

 Over our land sweeps the fire of hell; 

 Grim Death is master : Desolation king. 

 O, grief, O, woe ! 'Tis done, 'tis done. 



