1 6 ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



That the pride of the forest was folded up 



In the narrow space of its little cup ! 

 And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 



Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! 

 And, oh, how many will tread on me, 



To come and admire the beautiful tree, 

 Whose head is towering toward the sky, 



Above such a worthless thing as I ! 

 Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 



I have been idling from year to year. 

 But never, from this, shall a vaunting word 



From the humble pebble again be heard, 

 Till something without me or within, 



Shall show the purpose for which I've been ! " 

 The pebble its vow could not forget, 



And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 



HANNAH F. GOULD. 



AUTUMN VOICES. 



WHEN I was in the wood to-day 

 The golden leaves were falling round me, 

 And I thought I heard soft voices say 



Words that with sad enchantment bound me. 



' O, dying year ! O, flying year ! 



O, days of dimness, nights of sorrow ! 

 O, lessening night! O, lengthening night ! 

 O, morn forlorn and hopeless morrow ! " 



No bodies visible had these 



Whose voice I heard so sadly calling,; 

 They were the spirits of the trees 



Lamenting for the bright leaves falling. 



Prisoners in naked trunks they lie, 



In leafless boughs have lodging slender ; 

 But soon as Spring is in the sky 



They deck again the woods with splendor. 



The light leaves rustled on the ground, 



W T ind-stirred, and when again I hearkened, 

 Hushed were those voices. Wide around 



Night fell, and all the ways were darkened. 



F. W. B., in Spectator. 



