tory and tradition. There is one in 

 England which is claimed to be more 

 than eleven hundred years old ; , more- 

 over, it is said to be the first tree planted 

 in Great Britain. It stands in Lord 

 Ducie's Park at Tortworth, and the fol- 

 lowing description appears in an old 

 magazine in the early years of the last 

 century: 'At Tortworth, in Gloucester- 

 shire, is a chestnut tree fifty-two feet 

 around ; it is proved to have stood the^-e 

 since 1150, and was then so remarkable 

 that it was called The Great Chestnut 

 of Tortworth. It fixes the boundary 

 of a manor.' It is also stated that King 

 John held a Parliament under its great 

 spreading branches. 



''Now that tree is a mere babe in size 

 compared with the Chestnut of One 

 Hundred Horses, which grows on 

 Mount Etna. Strange, is it not, to think 

 of chestnut trees growing on the side of 

 a volcano ! This particular one is be- 

 lieved to be formed of five shoots grown 

 together; it measured two hundred feet 

 in circumference and it gets its name 

 from a story which states that once 

 while travelling through the island, the 

 Queen of Aragon was overtaken by a 

 storm, when she, and all her guard found 

 shelter beneath its branches." 



"I should think she would be afraid 

 of being struck by lightning." 



"Struck by lightning!" came in tones 

 of surprise from the Beech. "Do you 

 know it is claimed that lightning never 

 strikes a Beech ?" 



"It is consoling to know that, but 

 please tell me more about this giant 

 member of your family." 



"There is little more to tell — it is old 

 and decayed, its heart is gone and its 

 sides are broken ; still it bears leaves and 

 fruit. A litle hut has been built in its 

 empty heart for the use of the people 

 who gather its nuts, which they grind 

 into flour and make into all kinds of 

 dainty dishes." 



*T would rather enjoy those dishes, I 

 think ; certain it is there would be ^ 

 spice of novelty about them which ought 

 to make them appetizing. I wonder, 

 Beech Tree, why so many people cut 

 their names on, your trunk. You are 

 certainly good to retain them so long." 



"We are the only tree which pos- 



sesses a bark smooth enough to be easily 

 cut, and that very peculiarity is the 

 reason why we are called Beech or 'book 

 tree.' We are often more faithful than 

 those who carve the names. Do you 

 remember the story of Paris, the hand- 

 some shepherd, who was chosen to pre- 

 sent the prize apple to the goddess of 

 beauty? He carved on a Beech tree 

 the name of his girl friend, ^none ; 

 as the tree grew the letters enlarged and 

 the tree retained them, but the handsome 

 Paris forgot his early love." 



The birds were piping loudly, flitting 

 hither and thither with bits of dead 

 grass or wool, the frogs added their 

 tuneful choruses to the delightful noises 

 borne on the breeze ; bright-eyed squir- 

 rels peeped at Mabel as they went scam- 

 pering along; the sky was a clear, deep, 

 beautiful blue, where great, fleecy 

 clouds, like fairy ships, floated along, 

 changing from deep gray to pearly white 

 and glistening like molten silver in the 

 glorious sunlight. The south wind, so 

 full of hope and promise, blew gently ; 

 Mabel heard it as it passed, saw it play 

 with the dead leaves ; watched the trees 

 toss their naked arms in greeting, and 

 felt the full force of those exquisite 

 words of I. Noble : 



Nature speaks in language olden, 

 Speaks in tones that all may hear ; 



Tells of ages that were golden, 



Tells of storm-nights dark and drear. 



She has secrets in her keeping, 

 Secrets hid from you and me. 



They have been for ages sleeping, 

 Stored in earth and air and sea. 



In the streamlets you will hear them, 

 As they ripple o'er the stone, 



In the forests you are near them. 

 Near them in the desert, lone. 



Hear them in the tempest raging; 



Hear them in the summer breeze; 

 See them in the seasons ageing ; 



See them in the spreading trees. 



Every flower, it has its story; 



Every stone its tale to tell ; 

 Legends tint the sunset's gl,ory, 



History moulds the mollusk's shell. 



A few of last year's dead leaves fell 

 at Mabel's feet; she took one, and, fin- 

 gering it gently, said : 



"^*()n like mvself have a historv. I 



