Linden Tree, I must say that I am at 

 a loss as to how you can apply the 

 term to yourself." 



''Come closer, still clooser, right up 

 against my trunk. That's right, now 

 look upward. What do you see?" 



"I cannot see much but a thick 

 mass of green. Oh, why it looks like 

 a tiny forest — a dense thicket of — of — ■ 

 brushwood." 



''You need not be afraid of offend- 

 ing me; I am proud of that brush- 

 wood. There's where the little song- 

 sters are safe from hawks and birds 

 of prey, safe, too. from prowling cats 

 and from the thieving, mischievous 

 hands of boys. Now it is almost alive 

 with birds; think what would have 

 become of that exhausted little one, 

 if there had not been something in 

 my branches to protect it." 



"Or if you had been twenty feet 

 farther away, its little wings seemed 

 unable to carry it a foot farther. What 

 a pretty trunk you have," said Mabel, 

 as she patted it. "How bright and 

 clean and sunshiny it looks ! 



"That surely is what one poet 

 thought and he put it into words: 



"There a linden tree stood brightening 



All adown its silver rind ; 

 For as some trees draw the lightning, 



So this tree, unto my mind, 

 Drew to earth the blessed sunshine 



From the sky where it was shrined ! 



"There is a big basswood tree be- 

 side the river and its beautiful trunk 

 rises, oh, it must be seventy feet 



high " Mabel caught her breath 



and paused for fear that she had over- 

 estimated its height. 



"No doubt," came reassuringly from 

 the tree. "Some of the White Bass- 

 woods reach the height of nearly one 

 hundred and thirty feet, but the usual 

 height is about seventy feet. They 

 ^re the tallest members of our family." 



"Well, this tree," continued Mabel, 

 "has the most beautiful leaves, they 

 are so wide and broad, almost the size 

 of a small plate; I've often watched 

 them .drifting down the river in the 

 fall; but now when the wind stirs 

 them and they flutter on their long, 

 slender stems, the silvery whiteness 

 of the underside contrasts so prettily 



with the dark green of the upper." 



Mabel ceased, and as she gazed at 

 the sky, which could be seen between 

 the fluttering leaves, she heard what 

 seemed to be the voice of the Tree 

 in tones clear, .distinct and proud. 



"You have heard of Linnaeus, the 

 'Father of Botany'?" 



"Yes, I have; there is a society in 

 yonder city named for him." 



"That is only one of many. He 

 was a Swedish naturalist, but his re- 

 searches in botany were much wider. 

 Perhaps it will interest you to know 

 that his name was derived from a 

 member of my family." 



"Is that so?'"' 



"It is, indeed. The father of Lin- 

 naeus belonged to a race of peasants 

 who had Christian names only; when 

 he, by his own efforts, raised him- 

 self to the .dignity of parson of his 

 native village, he followed the Swedish 

 custom of adopting a surname. Now 

 it happened that a Linden Tree grew 

 near his humble home, of which, also 

 a botanist, he was very fond, so he 

 chose the name Linne, which is 

 Swedish for Linden. His son Carl was 

 a very precocious child, and at the 

 early age of four, asked his father 

 many questions in botany; the father. 

 Nils Linne, would refuse to answer 

 if he had forgotten what had been pre- 

 viously explained. When in after 

 years Carl became Professor of Bot- 

 any at the University of Upsala, the 

 name was Latinized into Linnoeus, as 

 we know it today. The King of Spain 

 became much interested in Linnaeus, 

 and conferred upon him the patent of 

 nobility as Count von Linne, or Count 

 of the Linden Tree, and made him a 

 munificent offer if he would reside in 

 Spain. Linnaeus, however, refused, 

 saying that his country deserved all 

 he had to give." 



"There was loyalty," said Mabel, ad- 

 miringly, but no answer came from 

 the Tree. Bees and insects buzzed 

 about, birds twittered in the branches, 

 but listen as intently as she would, no 

 sound that she could construe into 

 words, so rising, she slowly wended 

 her way homeward. 



Evelyn Singer. 



(58 



