236 
ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
THE BLUSHING MAPLE TREE. 
W HEN on the world’s first harvest day, 
The forest trees before the Lord 
Laid down their autumn offerings 
Of fruit in sunshine stored, 
The maple only, of them all, 
Before the world’s great harvest King, 
With empty hands and silent stood — 
She had no offering to bring; 
For in the early summer time, 
While other trees laid by their hoard, 
The maple winged her fruit with love, 
And sent it daily to the Lord. 
There ran through all the leafy wood 
A murmur and a scornful smile, 
But silent still the maple stood, 
And looked to God the while. 
And then, while fell on earth a hush, 
So great it seemed like death to be, 
From His white throne the mighty Lord 
Stooped down and kissed the maple tree; 
At that swift kiss there sudden thrilled, 
In ever}' nerve, thro’ every vein, 
An ecstacy of joy so great 
It seemed almost akin to pain. 
And there before the forest trees, 
Blushing and pale by turns she stood; 
In ev’ry leaf, now red and gold, 
She knew the kiss of God. 
And still, when comes the autumn time. 
And on the hills the harvest lies, 
Blushing, the maple tree recalls 
Her life’s one beautiful surprise. 
A DREAM OF SUMMER. 
LAND as the morning breath of June, 
The south-west breezes play; 
And, through its haze, the winter noon 
Seems warm as summer’s day. 
The snow-plumed angel of the north 
Has dropped his icy spear; 
Again the messy earth looks forth, 
Again the streams gush clear. 
The fox his hillside cell forsakes. 
The muskrat leaves his nook, 
The bluebird in the meadow brakes 
Is singing with the brook. 
■“ Bear up, O Mother Nature ! ” cry 
Bird, breeze, and streamlet free; 
“ Our winter voices prophesy 
Of summer days to thee ! ” 
So, in those winters of the soul. 
By bitter blasts and drear, 
O’erswept from memory’s frozen pole, 
Will sunny days appear. 
Reviving hope and faith, they show 
The soul its living powers, 
And how beneath the winter’s snow 
Lie germs of summer flowers ! 
The night is mother of the day. 
The winter of the spring, 
And ever upon old decay 
The greenest mosses cling. 
Behind the cloud the starlight lurks, 
Through showers the sunbeams fall; 
For God, who loveth all His works, 
Has left His hope with all. 
Whittier. 
