The Little Fir-Trees

Hey! little evergreens,
Sturdy and strong,
Summer and autumn-time
Hasten along.
Harvest the sunbeams, then,
Bind them in sheaves,
Range them and change them
To tufts of green leaves.
Delve in the mellow-mold,
Far, far below.
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Up, up so airily,
To the blue sky,
Lift up your leafy tips
Stately and high;
Clasp tight your tiny cones,
Tawny and brown,
By and by buffeting
Rains will pelt down.
By and by bitterly
Chill winds will blow,
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Gather all uttermost
Beauty, because,—
Hark, till I tell it now!
How Santa Claus,
Out of the northern land,
Over the seas,
Soon shall come seeking you,
Evergreen trees!
Seek you with reindeer soon,
Over the snow:
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
What if the maple flare
Flaunting and red,
You shall wear waxen white
Taper instead.
What if now, otherwhere,
Birds are beguiled,
You shall yet nestle
The little Christ-Child.
Ah! the strange splendor
The fir-trees shall know!
And so,
Little evergreens, grow!
Grow! Grow!
Grow, little evergreens, grow!
Evaleen Stein.

He Worried About It

The sun's heat will give out in ten million years more—
And he worried about it.
It will sure give out then, if it doesn't before—
And he worried about it.
It will surely give out, so the scientists said
In all scientifical books he had read,
And the whole boundless universe then will be dead—
And he worried about it.
And some day the earth will fall into the sun—
And he worried about it—
Just as sure and as straight as if shot from a gun—
And he worried about it.
When strong gravitation unbuckles her straps,
"Just picture," he said, "what a fearful collapse!
It will come in a few million ages, perhaps"—
And he worried about it.
And the earth will become much too small for the race—
And he worried about it—
When we'll pay thirty dollars an inch for pure space—
And he worried about it.
The earth will be crowded so much, without doubt,
That there won't be room for one's tongue to stick out,
Nor room for one's thought to wander about—
And he worried about it.
And the Gulf Stream will curve, and New England grow torrider—
And he worried about it—
Than was ever the climate of southernmost Florida—
And he worried about it.
Our ice crop will be knocked into small smithereens,
And crocodiles block up our mowing-machines,
And we'll lose our fine crops of potatoes and beans—
And he worried about it.
And in less than ten thousand years, there's no doubt—
And he worried about it—
Our supply of lumber and coal will give out—
And he worried about it.
Just then the ice-age will return cold and raw,
Frozen men will stand stiff with arms outstretched in awe,
As if vainly beseeching a general thaw—
And he worried about it.
His wife took in washing—half a dollar a day—
He didn't worry about it—
His daughter sewed shirts the rude grocer to pay—
He didn't worry about it.
While his wife beat her tireless rub-a-dub-dub
On the washboard drum of her old wooden tub,
He sat by the stoves and he just let her rub—
He didn't worry about it.
Sam Walter Foss.

The President

No gilt or tinsel taints the dress
Of him who holds the natal power,
No weighty helmet's fastenings press
On brow that shares Columbia's dower,
No blaring trumpets mark the step
Of him with mind on peace intent,
And so—HATS OFF! Here comes the State,
A modest King:
THE PRESIDENT.
No cavalcade with galloping squads
Surrounds this man, whose mind controls
The actions of the million minds
Whose hearts the starry banner folds;
Instead, in simple garb he rides,
The King to whom grim Fate has lent
Her dower of righteousness and faith
To guide his will:
THE PRESIDENT.
The ancient lands are struck with awe,
Here stands a power at which they scoffed,
Kings, rulers, scribes of pristine states.
Are dazed,—at Columbia they mocked;
Yet human wills have forged new states,
Their wills on justice full intent,
And fashioned here a lowly King,
The People's choice:
THE PRESIDENT.
War-ravaged, spent, and torn—old worlds
With hatred rent, turn to the West,
"Give help!" they cry—"our souls are wracked,
On every side our kingdom's pressed."
And see! Columbia hastens forth,
Her healing hand to peace is lent,
Her sword unsheathed has forged the calm,
Her sons sent by
THE PRESIDENT.
Full many a storm has tossed the barque
Since first it had its maiden trip,
Full many a conflagration's spark
Has scorched and seared the laboring ship;
And yet it ploughs a straightway course,
Through wrack of billows; wind-tossed, spent,
On sails the troubled Ship of State,
Steered forward by
THE PRESIDENT.
STAND UP! HATS OFF! He's coming by,
No roll of drums peals at his course,
NOW GIVE A CHEER! He's part of you,
Your will with his: the nation's force.
And—as he passes—breathe a prayer,
May justice to his mind be lent,
And may the grace of Heaven be with
The man who rules:
OUR PRESIDENT.
Charles H.L. Johnston.