IO4 



CONSERVATION 



ment from its financial side alone, to say 

 nothing of the blessings that unques- 

 tionably would come to the whole peo- 

 ple from forest preservation. 



It ought to be easy for the Com- 

 mittee to see that the Nation is demand- 



ing this legislation in no uncertain way 

 and that in the long run it will finally 

 get it. 



We believe that the committee will 

 act, and that we shall soon see our 

 fight for the forests, won! 



FROM SEASHORE TO SANDHILLS 



By HELEN MAR D'ANBY 



FROM tierce wild wind, that pierces, 

 And howls in wrath and might, 

 To soft, sweet breezes crooning 

 Like voices of the night 

 From gleam of white-sailed commerce 



O'er blue waves passing by, 



To glittering pine-tops, tossing, 



Sun lighted 'gainst the sky 



For roar of rocky cavern, 



And moan of surf-worn sea, 

 The soft sweet silence of the fields, 



With mocking birds aglee. 

 For cradle lined with shell tints, 



Where infant day is born, 

 All dimpled, from his ocean bed, 



A radiant fresh made morn. 



For the wide blue, that stretches 



("Like to God's patient love,) 

 To meet the deep on deep of blue, 



That bends serene above ; 

 The sweet encircling fragrance 



Of forest, hill, and mead, 

 The tender whisper of the leaf, 



The drop of nut or seed 



For silver sea gull, poising, 



With breast and wing of snow, 

 The black, majestic buzzard, 



Alert-eyed, circling low ; 

 For lessening fisher dory 



Afar o'er tossing brine. 

 The lakelet boat, with mirrored oars 



Adripping, and ashine. 



The half grown kisses of the sun, 



Through pine tops o'er the hill, 

 Aglint with shadows, where the stream 



Is playing whh the mill; 

 Ah ! who so bold and blind, to breathe 



A prayer for purer bliss, 

 In other, far off, mystic worlds, 



Than may be had in this ? 



Who hopes for brighter heaven, 



Than in this world below, 

 Has never caught its meaning. 



Has never learned to know 

 The violet from the cowslip. 



Has never learned to read 

 The lesson of the brookside fern. 



Or of the wayside weed. 



All nature sings its anthem, 



A love song, soft and clear. 

 And he who will but listen, 



'Shall surely know and hear ; 

 Each pebble has its secret, 



Each grain of sand its lore, 

 Each pine-engirdled hill slope 



Has kinship with the shore. 



