the sweetness of its sap and the excel- 

 lence of its sirup and sugar. I saw an 

 estimate that maples produce at least 

 one-fifth as much sugar as cane pro- 

 duces, and it is much more valuable per 

 pound." 



"I'll tell you the tree for me," inter- 

 rupted Howard. "It's our old persim- 

 mon." 



"It is a fine tree belonging to the ebony 

 family," Aunt Jane responded. "You 

 know its scientific name is Diospyros, 

 which means Dios — Jupiter, Pyros — 

 fruit — fruit of Jupiter. 



"And that fitly describes the golden 

 beauties which look like grandmother's 

 old-fashioned reticule, all drawn up with 

 strings and a little ruffle around the top. 

 The large, glossy leaves are polished. 

 The flowers — pale orange color — and 

 not conspicuous, are male and female, 



the former having the stamens arranged 

 in pairs, and the anthers opening by 

 slits. In the female flowers only traces 

 of the stamen, and the ovary with one 

 ovule in each of the eight cells sur- 

 mounted by four styles, hairy at the 

 base. In our common persimmon the 

 calyx lobes increase in size as the fruit 

 ripens." 



"I've noticed," said Howard, "that if 

 the fruit matures and ripens before frost 

 it is superior to that which requires frost 

 to remove the stringency, for frost does 

 not improve a really ripe persimmon." 



"Let's have papaws now," cried John. 



"No ; give me some chestnuts," said 

 Madge. 



"I'll take apricots," declared Alice. 



"You must all go to bed and dream 

 about trees," said Aunt Jane. 



Belle Paxson Drury. 



BIRD LEGENDS IN RHYME 



THE ROBIN 



Come, little one, to the window seat, 



A jolly old friend is here. 

 He has just come back from his warm retreat — 



Now listen : "Cheer up — cheer, cheer." 



'The best of the birdies!" I hear you say? 



Yes, little one, 'tis true. 

 He sings in our hearts while he sings out there. 



Though the skies be dark or blue. 



There's a 'legend old as ever was read. 



But better though oft it is told, 

 How the little brown bird got its breast so red 



Along with its heart of gold. 



On that saddest day of the long, long years. 



When the dear Christ bled and died — 

 Our little brown friend saw the falling tears, 



And flew to the Saviour's side. 



In his tiny beak some drops he brought. 



To cool that parching brow. 

 Then brushed his breast 'gainst the one he sought, 



And he wears the blood stains now. 



O tender heart ; O bird so kind. 



We will love 'thee to the end! 

 And the legend, though true or false we find. 



We are still your long-time friend. 



\ — Edith Drury Lemington. 



175 



