THE CALENDAR OP NATURE. 55 



warble of the vireo, the chatter of the fox 

 squirrel, the drone of the bumble-bee, the caw 

 of the crow joyous sounds of nature, which to- 

 day are repeated much as they were on the first 

 August morn after you were dropped here, far 

 from your parent ledge. Time then was here 

 but Augusts were not set aside in its calendars. 

 The days and months and years were unmeas- 

 ured except by the coming and going of the 

 King of All. Supreme as he doth to-day, he 

 reigned here then the one great and seemingly 

 unchangeable master. 



The black oak by your side whose rough and 

 rugged coating of bark delights my eye was 

 then undreamed of. The white oak at your 

 left and the maple behind you were unknown. 

 Centuries after you arrived they sprang from 

 the sward. The soil, in part your offering, did 

 nourish them until in time they sheltered you 

 and became a prominent part of that small 

 area which I revere. 



Not you alone I love, but you and your sur- 

 roundings. Not man alone is eulogized, but 

 man and his deeds. Ten thousand men are 

 born, grow to man's stature, toil, die and axe 

 forgotten. One other arises, hopes, dreams, 

 lives, does. He too dies but is remembered be- 

 cause what he dreamed and did were original 

 with him, were carved by him oat of the un- 

 known, out of the matter and by the forces 



