Then, too, my dear children,
The sweet Sugar-pine,
On Pacific's wild coast,
In our own soil we find;
Cut or scoop out the trunk,
And the juices ooze forth,
And harden, for sugar,
Like icicles, North.
* * * * *
THE BUTTER-TREE.
And, funny enough,
There's a Butter-tree, too;
Its seeds, when boiled down,
Will make butter for you.
In India and Africa
The Butter-tree grows,
With coffee and spices,
As every one knows.
THE BREAD-FRUIT TREE,
And listen, dear children,
In hot countries too,
The Bread-fruit tree grows,
Most delicious for you;
Its great roasted nuts,
Like soft, sweet loaves of bread,
Form most of the food
On which natives are fed. [{164}]
And further, its fibres
Of bark, will make cloth;
Its wood, boats and houses;--
Its leaves are not loath
To be used for a towel,
A table-cloth, napkin;
Its juice will make bird-lime,
And tinder, its catkin.
THE CLOVE-TREE.
