ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
65 
THE STORY OF A LEAF. 
I AM only a leaf. My home is one of the great trees that grow near the' 
school-house. All winter I was wrapped up in a tiny warm blanket, tucked) 
in a little brown cradle, and rocked by the winds as they blew. Do you not 
believe it, little reader? What I say is true. 
Next fall just break off a branch of a tree, and see whether you cannot find a 
leaf-bud on it. It will look like a little brown knot. 
Break it open, and inside you will see some soft, white down; that is the. 
blanket. The brown shell that you break is the cradle. 
Well, as I was telling you, I was rocked all winter in my cradle on the branch’. 
When the warm days came, and the soft rains fell, then I grew very fast indeed, 
I soon pushed myself out of my cradle, dropped my blanket, and showed my 
pretty green dress to all who came by. 
Oh, how glad every one was to see me ! And here I am, so happy with my 
little brothers and sisters about me ! Every morning the birds come and sing, 
to us; the great sun shines upon us, and the winds fan us. 
We dance with the winds, we smile back at the bright sun, and make w 
pleasant shade for the dear birds. Every day, happy, laughing school children 
pass under our tree. 
We are always glad to see you, boys and girls—glad to see your bright eyes.: 
and hear you say, “ How beautiful the leaves are ! ” 
Rebecca D. Rickoff, 
IN A FOREST. 
S TRANGER! whose steps have reached this solitude. 
Know that this lonely spot was dear to one 
Devoted with no unrequited zeal 
To nature. Here, delighted, he has heard 
The rustling of these woods, that now perchance- 
Melodious to the gale of summer move ; 
And underneath their shade on yon smooth rock, 
With gray and yellow lichens overgrown, 
Often reclined, watching the silent flow 
Of this perspicuous rivulet, that steals 
Along it's verdant course,— till all around 
Had filled his senses with tranquillity, 
And ever soothed in spirit he returned 
A happier, better man. Stranger ! perchance, 
Therefore, the stream more lovely to thine eye 
Will glide along, and to the summer gale 
The woods wave more melodious. Cleanse thou, then, 
The weeds and mosses from this lettered stone. 
Robert Southey, 1798, 
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