"THE GROVES WERE GOD'S FIRST TEMPLES." OPPOSITE PAGE.

4

Arbor Day Manual.

THE SECRET.

E have a secret, just we three,

WE

The robin, and I, and the sweet cherry tree;

The bird told the tree, and the tree told me,
And nobody knows it but just us three.

But of course the robin knows it best,
Because he built the

And laid the four little

I shan't tell the rest;

somethings in it

I am afraid I shall tell it every minute.

But if the tree and the robin don't peep,

I'll try my best the secret to keep;

Though I know when the little birds fly about,
Then the whole secret will be out.

IT

THE KIND OLD OAK.

T was almost time for winter to come. The little birds had all gone far away, for they were afraid of the cold. There was no green grass in the fields, and there were no pretty flowers in the gardens. Many of the trees had dropped all their leaves. Cold winter, with its snow and ice, was coming.

At the foot of an old oak tree some sweet little violets were still in blossom. "Dear old oak," said they, "winter is coming; we are afraid that we shall die of the cold."

"Do not be afraid, little ones," said the oak, "close your yellow eyes in sleep, and trust to me. You have made me glad many a time with your sweetNow I will take care that the winter shall do you no harm."

ness.

So the violets closed their pretty eyes and went to sleep; they knew that they could trust the kind old oak. And the great tree softly dropped red leaf after red leaf upon them, until they were all covered over.

The cold winter came, with its snow and ice, but it could not harm the little violets. Safe under the friendly leaves of the old oak they slept and dreamed happy dreams until the warm rains of spring came and waked them again.

We bless ye for your summer shade,

When our weak limbs fail and tire;
Our thanks are due for your winter aid,
When we pile the bright log fire.

Oh! where would be our rule on the sea,
And the fame of the sailor band,

Were it not for the oak and cloud-crowned pine,
That spring on the quiet land?

When the ribs and masts of the good ship live,
And weather the gale with ease,

Take his glass from the tar who will not give
A health to the forest trees.

Ye lend to life its earliest joy,

And wait on its latest page;

In the circling hoop for the rosy boy,
And the easy chair for age.

The old man totters on his way,

With footsteps short and slow;

But without the stick for his help and stay

Not a yard's length could he

go.

The hazel twig in the stripling's hand

Hath magic power to please;

And the trusty staff and slender wand
Are plucked from the forest trees.

Ye are seen in the shape of the old hand loom
And the merry ringing flail;

Ye shine in the dome of the monarch's home
And the sacred altar rail.

In the rustic porch, the wainscoted wall,
In the gay triumphal car;

In the rude built hut or the banquet hall,
No matter! there ye are !

Then up with your heads, ye sylvan lords!
Wave proudly in the breeze;

From our cradle bands to our coffin boards

We're in debt to the forest trees.

ELIZA COOK.