ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 



16 



A CHILD TO A ROSE. 



WHITE Rose, talk to me ! 

 I don't know what to do. 

 Why do you say no word to me 



Who say so much to you ? 

 I'm bringing you a little rain 



And I shall feel so proud 

 If. when you feel it in your face, 



You take me for a cloud. 

 Here I come so softly 



You cannot hear me walking ; 

 If I take you by surprise 



I may catch you talking. 



White Rose, are you tired 



Of staying in one place ? 

 Do you ever wish to see 



The wild flowers, face to face ? 

 Do you know the woodbines, 



And the big brown-crested reeds 

 Do you wonder how they live 



So friendly with the weeds? 



Have you any work to do 



When you 've finished growing ? 

 Shall you teach your little buds 



Pretty ways of blowing? 



Do you ever go to sleep ? 



Once I woke by night, 

 And looked out of the window: 



And there 3-011 stood, moon-white, 

 Moon-white in a mist of darkness, 



With never a word to say ; 

 But you seemed to move a little, 



And then I ran away. 



White Rose, do you love me? 



I only wish you'd say. 

 I would work hard to please you 



If I but knew the way. 

 I think you nearly perfect 



In spite of all your scorns ; 

 But, White Rose, if I were you, 



I wouldn't have those thorns. 



LEGEND OF THE ASPEN. 



Some Canadians have conceived a very superstitious idea of this tree. They say that 

 of its wood the cross was made on which our Saviour was nailed, and that since the time 

 of the crucifixion, its leaves have not ceased to tremble. Indian Sketches of P. DESMET. 



O'ER the forests of Judea 

 Gayly early morning played, 

 When some men came armed with axes 

 Deep into the forest shade. 



Passed by many a tree majestic 

 Cypress grove and olive wood, 



Till they came wherein the thicket 

 Fair and proud the Aspen stood. 



" This will serve, we choose the Aspen, 

 For its stem is strong and high, 



For the cross on which to-morrow 

 Must a malefactor die." 



In the air did listening spirits 



Shrink those men to hear and see, 

 And with awful voice they whisper: 



"Jesus, 'tis, of Galilee !" 

 Hours at Home, 1865. 



The Aspen heard them and she trembled 

 Trembled at that fearful sound 



As they hewed her down and dragged her 

 Slowly from the forest ground. 



On the morrow stood she trembling 

 At the awful weight she bore, 



When the sun in midnight blackness 

 Darkened on Judea's shore. 



Still, when not a breeze is stirring, 

 When the mist sleeps on the hill, 



And all other trees are moveless, 

 Stands she ever trembling still. 



For in hush of noon or midnight 



Still she seems that sight to see, 



Still she seems to hear that whisper; 

 "Jesus, 'tis, of Galilee ! " 



