ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
113 
THE TREE THAT TRIED TO GROW. 
O NE time there was a seed that wished to be a tree. It was fifty years ago,, 
and more than fifty — a hundred, perhaps. 
But first there was a great bare granite rock in the midst of the Wendell! 
woods. Little by little, dust from a squirrel’s paw, as he sat upon it eating m 
nut; fallen leaves, crumbling and rotting,— and perhaps the decayed shell of 
the nut,— made earth enough in the hollows of the rock for some mosses to 
grow; and for the tough little saxifrage flowers, which seem to thrive on the 
poorest fare, and look all the healthier, like very poor children. 
Then, one b} r one, the mosses and blossoms withered, and turned to dust; 
until, after years, and years and years, there was earth enough to make a bed 
for a little feathery birch seed which came flying along one day. 
The sun shone softly through the forest trees; the summer rain pattered 
through the leaves upon it; and the seed felt wide awake and full of life. So it 
sent a little; pale-green stem up into the air, and a little white root down into 
the shallow bed of earth. But you would have been surprised to see how much 
the root found to feed upon in only a handful of dirt. 
Yes, indeed ! And it sucked and sucked away with its little hungry mouths,, 
till the pale-green stem became a small brown tree, and the roots grew tough 
and hard. 
So, after a great many years, there stood a tall tree as big around as your body,, 
growing right upon a large rock, with its big roots striking into the ground on 
all sides of the rock, like a queer sort of wooden cage. 
Now, I do not believe there was ever a boy in this world who tried as hard to- 
grow into a wise, or a rich or a good man, as this birch seed did to grow into a. 
tree, that did not become what he wished to be. And I don’t think anybody 
who hears the story of the birch tree, growing in the woods of Wendell, need! 
ever give up to any sort of difficulty in his way, and say, “I can’t.” Only try 
as hard as the tree did, and you can do every thing. 
Francis Lee. 
ELM BLOSSOM. 
T HE bloom of the elm is falling. 
Falling hour by hour, 
On the buds and the golden blossoms, 
That are badges of spring’s sweet power; 
On the white throat little builder. 
That, as he buildeth sings; 
On the chattering, glittering starling; 
Andoruthe swallow’s wings. 
The bloom of the elm is falling. 
Upon the passing bee; 
And on the rosy clusters 
That stud the apple tree: 
8 
On the sloping roof’s brown thatching; 
And on the springing grass; 
On the dappled, meek-eyed cattle; 
On lover and on lass. 
With the rain and with the snow-flakes- 
The angel of the year 
Comes with his swift wings glancing. 
Bringing us hope or fear; 
Now dying leaves, now blossoms. 
He scatters o’er the land: 
In storms and in the sunshine, 
I’ve seen his beckoning hand. 
Hours at Home . 
