i6 
ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
That the pride of the forest was folded up 
In the narrow space of its little cup ! 
And meekly to sink in the darksome earth, 
Which proves that nothing could hide her worth ! 
And, oh, how many will tread on me, 
To come and admire the beautiful tree, 
Whose head is towering toward the sky, 
Above such a worthless thing as I ! 
Useless and vain, a cumberer here, 
'I have been idling from ye^r to year. 
But never, from this, shall a vaunting word 
From the humble pebble again be heard, 
Till something without me or within, 
Shall show the purpose for which I’ve been ! ” 
The pebble its vow could not forget, 
And it lies there wrapped in silence yet. 
Hannah F. Gould. 
AUTUMN VOICES. 
W HEN I was in the wood to-day 
The golden leaves were falling round me, 
And I thought I heard soft voices say 
Words that with sad enchantment bound me. 
“ O, dying year ! O, flying year ! 
O, days of dimness, nights of sorrow ! 
O, lessening night! O, lengthening night! 
O, morn forlorn and hopeless morrow ! ” 
No bodies visible had these 
Whose voice I heard so sadly calling; 
They were the spirits of the trees 
Lamenting for the bright leaves falling. 
Prisoners in naked trunks they lie, 
In leafless boughs have lodging slender; 
But soon as Spring is in the sky 
They deck again the woods with splendor. 
The light leaves rustled on the ground, 
Wind-stirred, and when again I hearkened, 
Hushed were those voices. Wide around 
Night fell, and all the ways were darkened. 
F. W. B., in Spectator . 
