Both are stored in the trunks of the trees, and when in the winter the
back log sends out its steady heat and the foresticks their cheerful
blaze, the old tree will give back, measure for measure, the light and
heat it has stored through the years. Let us rejoice in the fervent
heat and the grand work of the August days. So a man works as he
approaches his ideals. Feebly at first he begins. Winds of adversity
buffet him, cold disdain would freeze his ambition, hot scorn would
shrivel his soul. Still he perseveres, striving towards his ideal,
firmly rooted in faith and his heart ever open for the beauty and the
sunshine of the world. In periods of storm and cloud, his heart, like
the sun, makes its own warmth and splendor, knowing that the season
of its strength shall come. When he seems to be growing nearer his
ideal his fervor is at August heat; for him there is no burden in the
heat of the day; tirelessly, joyously, he strives, achieves, attains.
Thus he does his share of the work of the world and adds his mite to
the heritage of its future.

* * * * *

The plants of the woodlands seem strangely unfamiliar since the
springtime. If you have not called upon them during these months that
have fled so swiftly you will almost feel the need of being introduced
to them again. Some of them, such as the Dutchman's breeches and the
bluebell, have gone, like the beautiful children who died when life
was young. Others have grown away from you, like the children you used
to know in the days gone by, so strangely altered now. The little
uvularia, whose leaves were so soft and silky in May and whose blossom
drooped so prettily, like a golden bell, is tall, and branched now,
and its leaves are stiff and papery. Its curious, triangular,
leathery pods have lifted their lids at the top and discharged