FORTY-SECOND ANNUAL REPORT. 101 



how very few young men there were. In one township 90% were above 

 this age, and only six men of his age. This impressed him with the 

 fact that Michigan was losing her most valuable crop from the farm, 

 the young men, and he thought it was time that something be done to 

 change the current of migration. So far as he had gone with the ex- 

 periment, he had met with excellent success, although he did not 

 have the cooperation of the school officers to the extent he would like. 

 He enlisted in one experiment some thirty boys from 16 to 18 years 

 old. The land they had was laid out by the surveyor in plots. "We 

 were told that we could have this land to work, but that we must fur- 

 nish everything with which to do the work," he said, and the boys went 

 at it and worked with a will, secured what they needed, and the work 

 was done with a will. This is the work, he declared, that should be 

 done in every school, and he hoped the time was not far distant when 

 from every school there would be practical instruction in agriculture 

 given, and an effort, not only to keep the boys of the country on the 

 farm, but encourage many of the city to go to the farm instead of 

 remaining in the city. 



Mrs. M. E. Campbell was called upon, and she responded to the toast 

 "Trees of Memory" saying however, that she hardly knew just what to 

 say. She could talk about the trees of history, of poetry — tell of the 

 trees in the garden, the tree that is by the river of life, trees of experi- 

 ence — but the tree she recalled most vividly was the old Harvest Red 

 Apple tree, among whose branches she sat in her childhood days and 

 read the poems of J. G. Whittier, and so she thought she would recite 

 a portion of one of those poems, "The River and the Tree," which she 

 gave as follows : 



Through a desolate course the stream had come, 

 From a spring whence its waters all timidly crept; 



And its spirit was stilled and its lips were dumb 

 Though the passion of music within it slept. 



But it came one night when the moon outsailed 



The storm that had fretted her summer sea, 

 To the spot where waited with branches trailed 



Like garments afloat, a beautiful tree. 



Lonely in its own loneliness! 



Lone in that loneliness lives must bear 

 Whom Beauty has made companionless, 



But left them longing for something as fair. 



And the current long wandering alone and apart, 



Came close to the side of the Tree — at last ! 

 So close that it gathered and held in its heart 



The image of beauty the moonbeams cast. 



And the Tree from the River's deep fountains drank, 

 And it gave to the stream what it longed for when first 



It saw the sweet violets lean from its bank — 

 The love of a spirit for love athirst. 



And thro' all the years and the years are long 



Ere the tree shall wither, the river cease, 

 There swells from the waters the voice of song 



There falls from the branches the dews of peace. 



