| “Her tunic is of silver, Her veil of green tree-hair, The woodland Princess donning Her pomp of summer wear. White arms to heaven reaching, Shy buds that, tiptoe, meet The kiss of June’s awaking, The season’s hast’ning feet! Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping In each uncurling leaf; The joy of June is thrilling Some sense to transport brief! Sister of mine, White Birch Tree! That sense my own sets free, For in thy dim soul-stirrings My Father speaks to me.” |
It was Tanpa, with the sunburst upon her right breast, general symbol of the Camp Fire, and the birch tree in grace of green and silver embroidered above it upon emerald khaki, who read the verses which she had scribbled in the skiff’s stern under cover of the general interest in water-snails, eggboats and “fresh-water sheep.”
“Most beautiful of forest trees–the Lady of the Woods!” came the responsive hail from eighteen green-clad maidens, tiptoeing around the Silver Lady, the emerald tassels of their Tam-o’-shanters skipping in the June breeze that peeped under her fluttering veil, still tucked with buds, to kiss those white limbs lifted to the skies, with surely, some bud of conscious joy.
It was June! Upon the cliff-brow, above the lake, wild roses were budding, too; and the girls’ cheeks painted themselves with their reflection–even as did the blushing minnows in the lake.
But the lady of the woods had the best of it so far as decoration went. Never new-crowned head wore in its coronet Life as hers did,–fledgling life.
For amid the heart-shaped leaves, so brightly green, was the cap-sheaf of summer wear:
| “A nest of robins in her hair.” |
The poet who penned that line would have gloried in the sight of her, that bungalow birch tree, a tall, straight specimen, radiant as a silver taper from the black, frescoed ring about the foot to the topmost ivory twig, and here and there amid the fluttering, pea-green tresses a little tuft of conscious life–a nestling with open beak and craving, coralline throat.
He would have joyed in the sight of the tree-loving Group, too, as the earth was turned and the first silver sapling rooted deep to the music of Tomoke’s voice, softly proclaiming:
| “He who plants a tree, He plants love. Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers he may not live to see. Gifts that grow are best, Hands that bless are blest, Plant! Life does the rest.” |