STATE POMOLOGICAL SOCIETY. 35 



'' How true ! No— false I " I thought, " but comment spare. 



That distant sound may some new counsel bear." 



The rushing wind this quiet wood alarms. 



As men of old the herald's call to arms. 



On dress parade the brilliant Maples stand; 



Their winged messengers fly o'er the land : — 

 " Life is in conquest, in warfare victorious, 

 Proudly our standards shall gleam in the field ; 

 When many fall is our triumph most glorious, 

 Only to all-conquering time will we yield." 



I wondered more as each new voice I heard, 

 A gentle breeze the upper branches stirred, 

 Symmetrical in form and towering high 

 Above the thi'ong so soon to fall and die, 

 A lofty PiXE with dignity serene 

 Waved its majestic top of evergreen : — 



"Life is rising aliove all these passions that blind ; 



What is nobler indeed than the conquest of mind? 



To the truth and to justice your energies give. 



For 'tis wisdom alone that is destined to live." 



A stately Elm, betraAing mild surprise, 

 Lii<e one who hears, but tacitly denies, 

 With queenly gesture and becoming grace. 

 Declared what seemed most worthy of embrace. 

 "Life is art. Towards the ideal 



Sliould all effort tend. 

 Aim beyond the low and real ; 

 Beauty is the end." 



Feeling responded quickly : " This is best. 



Why further wait, or listen to the rest? " 



Just then a noble Oak, with royal mien, 



Spread out in generous strength its sheltering green. 



" 'Life IS kindly service,' greatest hearts will say; 



Goodness holds the strongest, most extensive sway. 



That one is the wisest, fairest is his fame, 



Whose success the peopl? gratefully proclaim." 



Conflicting murmurs then began to cease, 

 And all the wood around was hushed in peace. 

 Perplexing doubt within my soul was stilled, 

 But — why the thought of something unfulfilled? 

 The orchard trees my question seemed to meet, 

 And, silent, dropped their offerings at my feet. 

 "In leaves," I mused, "the wild wood trees abound, 

 But on their thrifty boughs no fruit is found. 

 No precious product of their own they give, 



