CHIPS, 
The quivering forest groans, 
And tosses her arms on high, 
And struggles, and writhes, and moans, 
Like a soul in agony ; 
Till her high, imperial crown, 
In cowering pain and fear, 
At the pitiless presence near 
Bends blindly and wretchedly down. 
— Mrs. A. D. T. Whitney. 
Thou art weighed and wanting, O nation; 
The writing is seen on the wall! 
With the scepter and crown of the forest 
The kingdoms of men will fall. 
—Lilian H. Shuey. 
v? 
He plants the forest’s heritage, 
The harvest of the coming age. 
The joy that unborn eyes shall see,— 
These things he plants who plants a tree. 
—The Century. 
