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ARBOR DA Y MANUAL. 
NEW YORK STATE PROGRAM, 1889. 
(Original.) 
A HYMN IN PRAISE OF THE NATURAL WORLD. 
[Air— “ Auld Lang Syne.”] 
The winter storms have passed away, 
And spring-time now is here 
With sunshine smiling all around, 
And heavens blue and clear. 
The gifts of Nature brighten earth. 
And make her garden gay ; 
They give a cheery greeting bright 
On this, the Arbor Day. 
The flowers have risen from their sleep. 
And, decked in garments gay, 
They lift their smiling faces bright 
On this, the Arbor Day. 
They shed forth all their fragrance rare, 
And loving tribute pay. 
And give of all their little wealth 
On this, the Arbor Day. 
The birds with gladsome voices sing, 
Each its melodious lay. 
And music swells each little throat 
On this, the Arbor Day. 
The trees put forth their greenest leaves 
On this, the Arbor Day, 
And welcome now the chosen tree 
Which we shall plant to-day. 
Ellen Beauchamp, Baldwinsville, N. Y, 
(Original.) 
THE OLD WOOD. 
To me, no dull insensate growth 
Those heirs of Time appear; 
But life, with thought and feeling both 
My fancy findeth here. 
A purpose held, an upward aim. 
Those sylvan monarchs teach; 
The finer traits that man may claim, 
Seem attributes of each. 
How deep the strong Oaks grasp the soil, 
At danger, loud they scoff. 
The tempest in its strength they foil, 
And hurl its dark clouds off. 
Theirs is the nature that achieves, 
No yielding there is found; 
The very rustle of their leaves 
Assumes a martial sound. 
Of gentler mould, of softer mood. 
One prone to pause or dream; 
A stately poet of the wood, 
The lofty Pine doth seem. 
And softly through its slender leaves. 
The wind is mourning on, 
As when some noble spirit grieves 
For some great hope now gone. 
Scarce matched in beauty of them all 
On high the Elms extend; 
Graceful as fountain in its fall, 
Their long lithe branches bend. 
When Autumm’s touch of beauty brings 
New charms upon the trees; 
The glory of a thousand kings 
May not compare with these. 
The Maple, dyed in sunset hues. 
Would dim the Hebrew’s throne, 
And Sheba’s Queen would scarce refuse 
To say she was outshone. 
A saffron tint the Beech receives, 
The Birch’s boughs turn pale; 
O’er ledge and crag the Berry leaves 
In dark red streamers trail. 
In russet robes the Ivy lies 
Upon its mound of stone ; 
A scarlet sash the Woodbine ties 
Around the Cedar’s cone. 
And over all the Autumn air 
Lies like a golden flood ; 
The works of God seem perfect there. 
Within the grand old wood. 
Hugh Kelso, Kinderhook, N. V. 
