ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. I 1 3 



THE TREE THAT TRIED TO GROW. 



ONE time there was a seed that wished to be a tree. It was fifty years ago, 

 and more than fifty a hundred, perhaps. 



But first there was a great bare granite rock in the midst of the Wendell 

 woods. Little by little, dust from a squirrel's paw, as he sat upon it eating a 

 nut; fallen leaves, crumbling and rotting, and perhaps the decayed shell of 

 the nut, made earth enough in the hollows of the rock for some mosses to 

 grow ; and for the tough little saxifrage flowers, which seem to thrive on the 

 poorest fare, and look all the healthier, like very poor children. 



Then, one by one, the mosses and blossoms withered, and turned to dust ; 

 until, after years, and years and years, there was earth enough to make a bed 

 for a little feather}- birch seed which came flying along one da}-. 



The sun shone softly through the forest trees ; the summer rain pattered 

 through the leaves upon it; and the seed felt wide awake and full of life. So it 

 sent a little, pale-green stem up into the air, and a little white root down into 

 the shallow bed of earth. But you Avould have been surprised to see how much 

 the root found to feed upon in only a handful of dirt. 



Yes, indeed ! And it sucked and sucked away with its little hungry mouths, 

 till the pale-green stem became a small brown tree, and the roots grew tough 

 and hard. 



So, after a great many years, there stood a tall tree as big around as your body, 

 growing right upon a large rock, with its big roots striking into the ground on 

 all sides of the rock, like a queer sort of wooden cage. 



Now, I do not believe there was ever a boy in this world who tried as hard to 

 grow into a wise, or a rich or a good man, as this birch seed did to grow into a 

 tree, that did not become what he wished to be. And I don't think anybody 

 who hears the story of the birch tree, growing in the woods of Wendell, need 

 ever give up to any sort of difficulty in his way, and say, "I can't." Only try 

 as hard as the tree did, and you can do every thing. 



FRANCIS LEE. 



ELM BLOSSOM. 



THE bloom of the elm is falling, On the sloping roof's brown thatching; 



Falling hour by hour, And on the springing grass; 



On the buds and the golden blossoms, On the dappled, meek-eyed cattle; 



That are badges of spring's sweet power; On lover and on lass. 

 On the white throat little builder, 



That, as he buildeth sings; With the rain and with the snow-flakes 



On the chattering, glittering starling; The angel of the year 



And on the swallow's wings. Comes with his swift wings glancing, 



Bringing us hope or fear; 



The bloom of the elm is falling, Now dying leaves, now blossoms, 



Upon the passing bee; He scatters o'er the land: 



And on the rosy clusters In storms and in the sunshine, 



That stud the apple tree: I've seen his beckoning hand. 



8 Hours at Home, 



