ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
*39 
THE FUNERAL TREE OF THE SOKOKIS. 
“ I have always admired,” says Whittier, “ the good taste of the Sokoki Indians around 
Sebago Lake, who, when their chief died, dug around a beech tree, swaying it down, 
and placed his body in the rent, and then let the noble tree fall back into its original 
place, a green and beautiful monument for a son of the forest .”—Extract from letter. 
A ROUND Sebago’s lonely lake 
There lingers not a breeze to break 
The mirror which its waters wake. 
The solemn pines along its shore, 
The firs which hang its gray rocks o’er 
Are painted on its glassy floor. 
Here in their hour of bitterness, come the 
broken band of Sokokis seeking a grave 
for their slaughtered chief. 
Fire and axe have swept it bare, 
Save one lone beech unclosing there 
Its light leaves in the vernal air. 
With grave cold looks all sternly mute, 
They break the damp turf at its foot, 
And bare its coiled and twisted root. 
They heave the stubborn trunk aside. 
The firm roots from the earth divide,— 
The rent beneath yawns dark and wide. 
And there the fallen chief is laid * 
In tasselled garbs of skins arrayed 
And girded with his wampum-braid. 
’Tis done : the roots are backward sent 
The beechen tree stands up unbent,— 
The Indian’s fitting monument. 
There shall his fitting requiem be, 
In northern winds, that, cold and free, 
Howl nightly in the funeral tree. 
***** Whittier. 
LADY GOLDEN-ROD. 
0 PRETTY Lady Golden-rod, 
I’m glad you’ve come to town 1 
I saw you standing by the gate, 
All in your yellow gown. 
No one was with me, and I thought 
You might be lonely, too ; 
And so I took my card-case 
And came to visit you. 
You ’re fond of company, I know ; 
You smile so at the sun, 
And when the winds go romping past, 
You bow to every one. 
How you should ever know them all, 
I’m sure-1 cannot tell ; 
But when I come again, I hope 
You’ll know me just as well. 
Carrie W. Bronson. 
PINE-NEEDLES. 
I F Mother Nature patches 
The leaves of trees and vines, 
I’m sure she does her darning 
With needles of the pines ! 
They are so long and slender ; 
And sometimes, in full view, 
They have their thread of cobwebs, 
And thimbles made of dew ! 
Wm. H. HAvne. 
