When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy,
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here,
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend;
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot!
While I've a hand to save,
Thy ax shall harm it not.

_George P. Morris_.




LESSON XXXI

FLOWERS

He who cannot appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied, like any other
man who is born imperfect. It is a misfortune not unlike blindness.
But men who reject flowers as effeminate and unworthy of manhood reveal