THE OAK
A song to the oak
The brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long:
Here's health and renown
To his broad green crown
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown
When the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
And he showeth his might
On a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak
The brave old oak!
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he,
A hale, green tree
When a hundred years are gone.
H. F. Chorley.
SUMMER SNOW
Mrs. Humphrey Ward
A king once lived in a very hot part of Spain, where they have little rain and where it hardly ever snows or freezes.
This king had a very beautiful wife whom he loved very much. But the queen had one great fault. She was always wishing for the most impossible things.
The king always tried to give her everything she wanted, but she was never satisfied.
At last, one day in winter, a very strange thing happened. A shower of snow fell in the town where the king and queen lived. It made the hills white, so that they looked as if some one had been dusting white sugar over them.
Now snow was hardly ever seen in the town, so the people talked about it, a great deal. After the queen had looked at it a little while, she began to cry bitterly.
None of the ladies could comfort her, nor would she tell any one what was the matter. There she sat at her window weeping, till the king came to her. He could not imagine why she was crying, and begged her to tell him.
"I am weeping," she said, sobbing all the time, "because the hills are not always covered with snow. See how pretty they look! And yet, I have never, till now, seen them look like that. If you really love me, you would find some way or other to make it snow once a year at any rate."
"But how can I make it snow?" cried the king, in great trouble, because she would go on weeping and weeping, and spoiling her pretty eyes.
"I am sure I don't know," said the queen crossly.
Well, the king thought and thought, and at last he hit upon a beautiful plan. He sent to all parts of Spain to buy almond trees to plant. The almond tree has a lovely pink-white blossom, you know.
When the next spring arrived, thousands of these almond trees came into bloom on all the hills around the town. At a distance, the hills looked as if they were covered with white snow.
For once the discontented queen was delighted. She could now keep saying a nice "Thank you" to the king for all the trouble he had taken to please her. And suddenly it seemed to the king as if a black speck in the queen's heart had been washed away and so they lived happy ever afterwards.
THE BOY WHO HATED TREES
Alice L. Beckwith
"Good night, Dick. Remember, now, to wake up with the robins so that you may be ready to help me set out our new trees."
"Good night," answered Dick in a sulky tone, for Dick was cross.
"Trees, trees, trees!" he mumbled to himself, as he began to undress. "I'm so sick of hearing about trees. And now father has bought some old twigs to set out to-morrow, and I want to go fishing.
"I wish I lived in a land where there were no trees. We could get along well enough without them." And with this thought he jumped into bed.
Dick had been asleep perhaps an hour or more when he heard a queer, rustling noise, and then a voice called out: "Here he is—the boy who hates trees!"
There was the strangest procession coming toward him. It was made up of trees of all kinds. The Pine and Elm came first; the Maple and Oak followed: the Maple's leaves were flushed scarlet, she was so excited. The Willow was weeping, and the Poplar was trembling all over.
Next came all the fruit trees, led by the Cherry, while the Walnut, the White Birch, and the Palm were behind.
What did it all mean? Dick was frightened for a moment. It seemed as if every tree of which he had ever heard was there, and he wondered how the room could hold them all.
When they had all grown quiet, the Pine said: "Dear brothers and sisters, here is a boy who hates trees; he cannot see that we are of any use. It is more than I can stand, and I have called this meeting to see what can be done about it. Has anyone anything to say?"
The Cherry looked very sour. "I cannot see that boys are of any use," she said. "Many years ago, when cherry trees were scarce in this country, a boy named George cut down my great-grandfather just to try his new hatchet."
"And boys know so little," said the White Birch; "they are always hacking me with knives, and taking off my coat, no matter how cold the weather is. I loved a boy once, but it was many years ago. He was a little Indian boy. He loved trees. I remember how he stood beside me one day and said:
"'Give me of your bark, O Birch Tree!
For the summer time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white skin wrapper.'
"Then he took off my bark so carefully that he did not hurt me a bit. But he is not living now. This boy is not like him."
"I don't like boys, either," spoke up the Apple. "One day a boy climbed up into my branches and broke off one of my limbs. He was a very silly boy, for he wanted green apples. Had my fruit been ripe, I would have tossed one down to him. How happy we should be if it were not for boys!"
The Maple was very angry. "This boy said we were of no use, but it was only this morning that I heard him tease his grandfather for a cake of my sugar."
"He ate it as if he liked it, too," said the Palm. "I saw him; he was fanning himself with one of my leaves."
The Willow wiped her eyes. "Boys, boys, boys!" she said. "I'm so sick of boys! This same boy made a whistle out of one of my children this very night, when he went for the cows."
Then a queer tree in the corner spoke in a thick voice: "We are of no use, are we? If it were not for me, where would he get the tires for his bicycle? There are his rubber boots, too. Why, he uses me every day about something. But I've thought of a plan."
The trees crowded around him, talking together excitedly. "But how shall we do it?" Dick heard them say. "Oh," said the Elm, "the Wind will help us. He is our friend."
Before Dick could cry out, he found himself being carried away by the Wind.
"Where am I going?" he called.
"To the land of no trees," they answered; and they bowed and smiled. Even the Willow held up her head long enough to call, "Good-by!" and then home and trees were left far behind.
How fast the Wind traveled! On and on they rushed, until suddenly the Wind dropped him and went whistling away.
Dick felt really frightened when he found himself all alone.
"Oh, I'm so hot!" he exclaimed. "Where am I?"
Certainly he had never before been in such a place.
There were no trees nor green grass anywhere in sight. As far as he could see, there was only sand—white sand, hot and scorching.
"It seems to me I've seen pictures in my geography like this," he said to himself. "I can't stay here. What shall I do?"
All at once he noticed a tiny speck far away in the distance. Now it looked larger. He brushed away something that looked very much like a tear, though he told himself that it was only because he was so warm.
Yes, that speck surely moved, and was coming nearer. What if it were a bear!
"There is no tree to climb, and I cannot run—I am so tired, and it is very hot."
Nearer and nearer it came, moving slowly. Dick watched it with a beating heart. At last he saw that it was not a single animal, but a great many in line.
"Oh, they are camels!" he cried. "Yes, I know they are. Once at a circus I saw some that looked just like them—but what queer-looking men are on them!"
They were now very near him, and one of the men beckoned with his hand and said something.
"I can't understand him," said Dick to himself, "but I suppose he meant he'll give me a ride."
The man helped him up and they journeyed on. After a time Dick grew very tired even of riding.
"The camel joggles me so," he said, "and I am so thirsty I shall die. If they would only stop a minute!"
What was the matter? What were they saying? Each man was bowing himself toward the ground and waving his hands.
"I don't see what they are making all that fuss about. I can't see anything; the sun hurts my eyes so." And Dick covered his eyes with his hand.
Suddenly there was a shout, and the camels stood still. Dick lifted his head. Could he believe his eyes? Right before him was a little spot of green grass, a spring of cool water, and one of those things he hated—a tree.
Hate a tree? He thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.
He fairly tumbled off the camel in his haste to reach it. The tears ran down his face as he threw his arms around its trunk.
"Dear tree!" he cried.
"Dick, Dick, are you going to help me plant the new trees?" called his father.
Opening his eyes, Dick found himself in his own little room, both hands clasping his pillow.
Dick was soon dressed and downstairs, and so anxious was he to plant trees that he could hardly eat his breakfast.
In just one night he had learned to see
The wonderful beauty there is in a tree.
THE FRIENDLY SUMMER TREES
Frank A. Waugh
It is curious how friendly the forests are to the sick. The trees reach out their arms to shelter them. In the stillness of the morning and through the long nights they whisper to every one who listens; there lie the patients listening and looking up through the gently waving branches to the floating clouds by day, and to the twinkling stars by night, until presently they are overcome by the spirit of health, which is the spirit of the pine-trees.
Trees appear at their best in the forest company, I think, just as men and women appear at their best in society. The single maple tree or the elm may be very proud and beautiful, but alone it cannot cure the sick or even accommodate a picnic.
So we ought to become acquainted with the trees, in their own society and in their native surroundings. We shall then understand them much better than when we find them lonely on our city lawns.
There is a glorious wealth waiting for us when we come to choose our tree friends for our homes. There are the elm, several kinds of maples, two kinds of sycamores, the linden, many sorts of oaks, the pines and the spruces, and almost a hundred others. Besides these big, lusty, shade-yielding trees, there are many small, more curious or more ornamental ones. Such are the magnolias, the maidenhair-tree, the Kentucky coffee-tree, the sweet-gum, and the flowering dogwood. These smaller trees are, of course, particularly suited to small lawns and close quarters; though, wherever possible, the true American will give first place to the big, noble, native trees like the elm and the maple. Even if there is room for only one of these, it will seem to be the one best friend in the garden.
And while I am speaking of these trees, I would not forget the apple. There is no kind of tree more beautiful in spring, more comfortable and homelike summer and winter, and more to be chosen for a life-long friend. Recently I was consulted by a committee of a Massachusetts town who wanted to cut down a half-dozen sturdy old apple trees, because a new library had been built in their midst, and the committee thought some more rare trees were needed to keep the balance. Blue spruce or Camperdown elm would have been choice, strange, and outlandish, but the homely, common apple tree they would gladly sacrifice.
We admire the tree for its size; the mere bigness of it draws our attention; we look up to it. We admire it for its form, the form of the elm, or the maple, or the pine, or the palm is wonderful. We admire the tree in its leafage, for its texture and color. Why, even the shadow of a tree is beautiful. The clever gardener places his best tree where its shadow will be traced all the afternoon across the lawn. How cool and pleasant the shadow lies there!
Nowhere do trees seem so useful as in the street. Even the city yearns for trees, and the best residence and suburban sections make these their greatest pride. The citizens turn to the city trees as one of the most important forms of public property. Tree-planting is to be encouraged, and the trees now grown to maturity must be saved at any cost. Leaky gas mains are the deadly enemies of street trees. Electric wires kill thousands more.
For the protection of street trees and those on public parks and grounds, every city should have a tree-warden. These are provided for by law in some states, but the system should become general. Truly modern cities have officers with the title of "city forester," with the extremely useful occupation of caring for the public trees. Such officers should be appointed everywhere.
The annual festival called Arbor Day, established in this country for the promotion of tree-planting, has, unfortunately, been turned over exclusively to the public schools, whereas it ought to be observed also by the churches, lodges, political clubs, and women's clubs. At all events, tree-planting should go on constantly, and should everywhere accompany the campaign for the preservation of street trees. We may well remember that as a rough, general rule, only one tree out of every twenty planted ever comes to maturity. Let us, therefore, plant liberally.
In rural and semi-rural communities everywhere, it is a custom to secure from the woods and pastures those trees needed for street and house-lot planting. Where stock is collected from the wild in this way, it is best to take the trees from the open pasture—or from recently cultivated land, where possible. Effort should be made also to select those which have grown on rich, well-drained soil. The theory that trees taken from the forest will be more hardy, runs quite opposite to the fact. Indeed, the best plan is everywhere to buy young trees from nurseries. Nursery trees have clean, symmetrical tops, and are likely to have a hundred times more good rootage than trees taken from the field.
Everything is in favor of the nursery-grown tree, except the price; however, very often the expense of digging and bringing in a half-dozen good-sized maples from the woods is greater than the cost of better trees of like size from the most expensive nursery in the country.
Arbor Day is not necessarily the best day for tree-planting, especially in the matter of big trees for streets, school grounds, and public places. The experts prefer to handle such trees in mid-winter; they do this even in sections where the ground freezes to a depth of two or three feet; in fact, it is considered the height of good practice to take up the tree from its place, accompanied by a huge block of frozen earth. Evergreen trees, such as pines and spruces, may be handled very successfully in August, and this season is widely chosen for the purpose by knowing treemen.
Many tree-lovers make the mistake of crowding their small private grounds with their pets. If one has only a city lot thirty feet wide by a hundred feet deep, he cannot grow a large forest. One or two large trees will be all such a place can reasonably support; any more will make the premises too crowded. The trees themselves will suffer, and, besides that, there will be no opportunity to view them. There will be no room for a flower garden, and no lawn for any purpose.
The common mistake in planting trees on small home grounds is to place the individual in the middle of the lawn. As a matter of design, the center of the lawn should be kept open, and trees, at any rate, should file along the boundaries. In our northern climate sturdy, protecting evergreens will naturally choose a north boundary, and the shady summer trees with heavy foliage will cast their comfortable shadows from the south side of the garden.
The tree-lover who hopes to get the most satisfaction out of his hobby will not always wait to see his trees grow. It requires too many years. About the best way to do is to adopt a tract of well-grown woodland, and then to make the most of it. Improvement cuttings will come first; for the axe is as important as the spade, and trees have to be cut as well as planted. The best trees can be left and nursed and admired. If there is space enough, forest effects can be developed; roads and paths can be built; game-cover can be introduced, and wild life encouraged. Birds and boys and others friends will visit you in your woods, and the days will go by like a lusty ballad. Between you and me and the beech-tree, it will be a jolly, pleasant company.
FOREST DAY
Selma Lagerlöf
On the mountain's broad back there had been a forest fire ten years before. Since that time the charred trees had been felled and removed and the great fire-swept area had begun to deck itself with green along the edges, where it skirted the healthy forest. However, the larger part of the top was still barren and appallingly desolate. Charred stumps, standing sentinel-like between the rock ledges, bore witness that once there had been a forest fire here; but no fresh shoots sprang from the ground.
One day in the early summer all the children in the parish had assembled in front of the schoolhouse near the fire-swept mountain. Each child carried either a spade or a hoe on its shoulder and a basket of food in its hand. As soon as all were assembled they marched in a long procession toward the forest. The banner came first, with the teachers on either side of it. Then followed a couple of foresters and a wagon load of pine shrubs and spruce seeds; then the children.
The procession did not pause in any of the birch groves near the settlements, but marched on deep into the forest. As it moved along the foxes stuck their heads out of their lairs in astonishment and wondered what kind of backwoods people these were. As they marched past the old coal pits where charcoal kilns were fired every autumn, the cross-beaks twisted their hooked bills and asked one another what kind of coalers these might be, who were now thronging the forest.
Finally, the procession reached the big burnt mountain plain. The rocks had been stripped of the fine twin-flower creepers that once covered them; they had been robbed of the pretty silver moss and the attractive reindeer moss. Around the dark water gathered in clefts and hollows there was now no wood-sorrel. The little patches of soil in crevices and between stones were without ferns, without star-flowers, without all the green and red and light and soft and soothing things that usually clothe the forest ground.
It was as if a bright light flashed upon the mountain when all the parish children covered it. Here again was something sweet and delicate, something fresh and rosy, something young and growing. Perhaps these children would bring to the poor abandoned forest a little new life.
When the children had rested and eaten their luncheon, they seized hoes and spades and began to work. The foresters showed them what to do. They set out shrub after shrub on every clear spot of earth they could find.
As they worked, they talked quite knowingly among themselves of how the little shrubs they were planting would bind the soil so that it could not get away, and of how new soil would form under the trees. By and by seeds would drop, and, in a few years, they would be picking both strawberries and raspberries where now there were only bare rocks. The little shrubs which they were planting would gradually become tall trees. Perhaps big houses and great splendid ships would be built from them!
If the children had not come here and planted while there was still a little soil in the clefts, all the earth would have been carried away by winds and water, and the mountain could never more have been clothed in green.
"It was well that we came," said the children. "We were just in the nick of time." They felt very important.
While they were working on the mountain their parents were at home. By and by they began to wonder how the children were getting along.
Of course it was only a joke about their planting a forest, but it might be amusing to see what they were trying to do.
So presently both fathers and mothers were on their way to the forest. When they came to the outlying stock farms they met some of their neighbors.
"Are you going to the fire-swept mountain?" they asked.
"That's where we're bound for."
"To have a look at the children?"
"Yes, to see what they are up to."
"It's only play, of course."
"It isn't likely that there will be many forest trees planted by the youngsters. We have brought the coffee pot along so that we can have something warm to drink, since we must stay there all day with only lunch-basket provisions."
So the parents of the children went on up the mountain. At first they thought only of how pretty it looked to see all the rosy-cheeked little children scattered over the gray hills. Later they observed how the children were working,—how some were setting out shrubs, while others were digging furrows and sowing seeds. Others again were pulling up heather to prevent its choking the growing trees. They saw that the children took the work seriously and were so intent upon what they were doing that they scarcely had time to glance up.
The fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked on; then they, too, began to pull up heather,—just for the fun of it. The children were the instructors, for they were already trained and had to show their elders what to do.
Then it happened that all the grown-ups who had come to watch the children took part in the work. Then, of course, it became greater fun than before. By and by the children had even more help. Other implements were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent down to the village for spades and hoes. As they ran past the cabins, the stay-at-homes came out and asked, "What's wrong? Has there been an accident?"
"No, indeed! But the whole parish is up on the fire-swept mountain planting a forest."
"If the whole parish is there, we can't stay at home."
So party after party of peasants went crowding to the top of the burnt mountain. They stood a moment and looked on. The temptation to join the workers was irresistible.
"It's a pleasure to sow one's own acres in the spring and to think of the grain that will spring up from the earth, but this work is even more thrilling," they thought.
Not only slender blades would come from that sowing, but mighty trees with tall trunks and sturdy branches. It meant giving birth not merely to a summer's grain, but to many years' growths. It meant the awakening hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play of grouse, and all kinds of life, on the desolate mountain. Moreover, it was like raising a memorial for coming generations. They could have left a bare, treeless height as an heritage. Instead, they were to leave a glorious forest.
Coming generations would know their forefathers had been a good and wise folk and they would remember them with reverence and gratitude.