The species vary so much that the 

 genus is puzzling to botanists. The 

 character of the wood is affected by 

 the soil and locality in which the trees 

 grow, lumbermen making distinctions 

 not recognized by botanists. The white 

 oak is long-lived, and specimens sup 

 posed to have been in existence before 

 the settlement of the country are still 



standing. It is of slow growth, but 

 does not cease to grow as it gets 

 larger. The oak is much esteemed as 

 an ornamental tree. The names of 

 some of the varieties are: Post oak, 

 burr oak, swamp oak, live oak, black 

 oak, willow oak, scrub oak, scarlet oak, 

 and California evergreen oak. 



THAT ROOSTER. 



BY ELANORA KINSLEY MARBLE. 



HE was a noble looking fowl, that 

 rooster, and challenged my ad 

 miration by his unusual pro 

 portions, glossy plumage, and 

 proud, exultant air. 



As I paused in my walk to view him 

 his sharp eyes were instantly fastened 

 upon mine and a note of warning issued 

 from his handsome throat. Away 

 scampered the hens and young chicks, 

 but the rooster, advancing a pace or 

 two, lifted one foot menacingly, as if 

 to defy my taking one step further. 



"Dear, dear!" I exclaimed, "you 

 make a great fuss over nothing. I only 

 stopped to admire you and your fam 

 ily. Be assured I meant you no harm." 



" Gluck, gluck, gluck" replied he 

 angrily. 



The spectacle of a champion stand 

 ing on one leg and sending forth such 

 a cry of defiance struck me as so rid 

 iculous that I involuntarily burst into 

 laughter. 



Every fowl in the inclosure at the 

 sound stood motionless. 



"What was that?" questioned one 

 motherly old hen of another. 



It was a queer gibberish which she 

 spoke, and most people would have 

 failed to understand it, but to me 

 who had been listening to the voices 

 of nature the whole day long, to whom 

 the trees had whispered their secrets, 

 the brooks had murmured their com 

 plaints, the birds had caroled their 

 stories to me the language of these 

 feathered creatures was perfectly in 

 telligible. 



u I don't know, I'm sure," replied 

 the other, " but somehow it sounded 

 rather pleasant." 



" Pleasant!" exclaimed a young white 

 and buff hen, tossing her pretty head, 

 " it appeared to me she was making 

 fun of us." 



" Will you be quiet, you cackling old 

 hens?" roared Mr. Rooster, giving them 

 a swift glance from one eye, while fur- 

 tively watching me with the other. 

 " What business is it of yours what the 

 intentions of this intrusive person may 

 be? I am the one to decide that ques 

 tion. What do females know about 

 war, anyway, especially hens? If she 

 means fight, why " 



"You'll run, no doubt, and hide be 

 hind your wives," I interrupted, feeling 

 the old fellow to be a boaster. "I've 

 a notion to scale the fence and see," I 

 added mischievously. 



He stepped back a pace or two in 

 evident alarm. 



" Never fear," I hastened to say. 

 " Only cowardly hearts find pleasure in 

 giving pain to innocent and defense 

 less creatures. My only object in stop 

 ping was to view your happy family 

 and and in fact. Mr. Rooster, to 

 interview yourself." 



" Interview me?" he exclaimed. 

 " Well, I never!" and filled with a sense 

 of his importance the old fellow set 

 up such a crowing that even a Jersey 

 cow/ munching grass by the wayside, 

 paused to ruminate over what it might 

 mean. 



"A reporter," sneered the ill-natured 

 young hen. " A woman reporter! How 

 unnatural!" 



" Louisa Mercedes," sharply cried 

 the rooster, " how many times have I 

 told you to bridle your tongue?" 



" I'm not a horse," sulkily replied 



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