40 



RECREATION 



National Park and Forest Reserve, a 

 railroad thunders up to its entrance and 

 the foot of the tourist has already 

 crossed the threshold. 



The smoke of the wigwam will soon 

 ascend no more and in its place will 

 appear that blot on God's out-of-doors 

 — the summer hotel. 



The silent lakes which we learned 



to love so well, where now no sound 

 is heard but the dip of the paddle, the 

 call of the moose, and the lonely cry 

 of the loon, will before long resound 

 with the whistle of the "fire canoe" 

 and all the influx of human life which 

 it will bring. 



When that day comes, may we not 

 be there to see. 



REQUIEM 



By STACY E. BAKER 



Pale, solemn, and still, are the dells to-night ; 

 The hills are but ghosts of the hills we knew. 

 For the snow mounds rise where the blue-bells grew, 



And wan are the ways that were rose bedight. 



The flakes, in their fluttering robes of white, 

 Wing hither and yon, in a dull review — 



Pale, solemn, and still, are the dells to-night ; 

 The hills are but ghosts of the hills we knew. 



In a winter sky gleams a moon, clear-bright, 

 To lighten the gems that the frost-king threw, 

 And the North Wind, mouthing a song long due, 



Is restlessly waiting his wayward flight. 



Pale, solemn, and still, are the dells to-night ; 

 The hills are but ghosts of the hills we knew. 





