182 ARBOR DAY 



distant glade, and, occasionally, a hawk passes 

 like thought. 



The something that may be in the shadow or the 

 thicket, the vain, pleasant chase that beckons us 

 on, still leads the footsteps from tree to tree, till by 

 and by a lark sings, and, going to look for it, we find 

 the stubble outside the forest stubble still bright 

 with the blue and white flowers of gray speedwell. 

 One of the earliest to bloom in the spring, it con- 

 tinues till the plow comes again in autumn. 

 Now looking back from the open stubble on the high 

 wall of trees, the touch of autumn here and there 

 is the more visible oaks dotted with brown, horse 

 chestnuts yellow, maples orange, and the bushes 

 beneath red with haws. 



THE VOICE OF THE PINE* 



BY RICHARD WATSON GILDER 



'Tis night upon the lake. Our bed of boughs 

 Is built where, high above, the pine-tree soughs. 

 'Tis still and yet what woody noises loom 

 Against the background of the silent gloom! 

 One well might hear the opening of a flower 

 If day were hushed as this. A mimic shower 

 Just shaken from a branch, how large it sounded, 

 As 'gainst our canvas roof its three drops bounded! 



* By permission of the Century Company, New York. 



