ARBOR DA V MANUAL. 
16 
A CHILD TO A ROSE. 
W HITE Rose, talk to me ! 
I don’t know what to do. 
Why do you say no word to me 
Who say so much to you ? 
I’m bringing you a little rain 
And I shall feel so proud 
If, when you feel it in your face, 
You take me for a cloud. 
Here I come so softly 
You cannot hear me walking ; 
If I take you by surprise 
I may catch you talking. 
White Rose, are you tired 
Of staying in one place? 
Do you ever wish to see, 
The wild flowers, face to face? ' 
Do you know the woodbines, 
And the big brown-crested reeds? 
Do you wonder how they live 
So friendly with the weeds? 
Have you any work to do 
When you’ve finished growing ? 
Shall you teach your little buds 
Pretty ways of blowing ? 
Do you ever go to sleep ? 
Once I woke by night, 
And looked out of the window: 
And there you stood,, moon-white, 
Moon-white in a mist of darkness,— 
With never a word to say ; 
But you seemed to move a little, 
And then I ran away. 
White Rose, do you love me? 
I only wish you’d say. 
I would work hard to please you 
If I but knew the way. 
I think you nearly perfect 
In spite of all your scorns ; 
But, White Rose, if I were j r ou, 
I wouldn't have those thorns. 
LEGEND OF THE ASPEN. 
Some Canadians have conceived a very superstitious idea of this tree. They say that 
of its wood the cross was made on which our Saviour was nailed, and that since the time 
of the crucifixion, its leaves have not ceased to tremble —Indian Sketches of P. DeSmet. 
O ’ER the forests of Judea 
Gayly early morning played, 
When some men came armed with axes 
Deep into the forest shade. 
Passed by manj' a tree maj estic — 
Cypress grove and olive wood, 
Till they came wherein the thicket 
Fair and proud the Aspen stood. 
“ This will serve,—we choose the Aspen, 
For its stem is strong and high. 
For the cross on which to-morrow 
Must a malefactor die.” 
In the air did listening spirits 
Shrink those men to hear and see. 
And with awful voice they whisper: 
“Jesus, ’tis, of Galilee !” 
Hours.at Home, 1865. 
The Aspen heard them and she trembled — 
Trembled at that fearful sound — 
As they hewed her down and dragged her 
Slowly from the forest ground. 
On the morrow stood she trembling 
At the awful weight she bore, 
When the sun in midnight blackness 
Darkened on Judea’s shore. 
Still,— when not a breeze is stirring, 
When the mist sleeps on the hill, 
And all other trees are moveless, 
Stands she ever trembling still. 
For in hush of noon or midnight 
Still she seems that sight to see. 
Still she seems to hear that whisper; 
“Jesus, ’tis, of Galilee ! ” 
