"You are not going to cut that tree down, surely?"

"Yes, that is just what I am going to do," said the woodman.

"Why are you going to cut it down?" inquired my friend with choking emotion.

"Why? Well, I'll tell you. I want the tree for firewood," was the answer.

"What is the tree worth to you for firewood?" "Well, I suppose about ten dollars."

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'Suppose I should give you that sum," said my friend, "would you let it stand?"

"Then give me a bond to that effect."

We went into the little cottage, once the home of my companion, now occupied by the woodman and his family. I drew up the bond. It was signed, and the money paid over. As we left the house, the young daughter of the woodman assured us that while she lived the tree should not be cut down.

These circumstances made a strong impression on my mind, and furnished me with the materials for the poem which follows.

II. "WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE!"

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!

In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand,
Thy ax shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,

Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea ----
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!

Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd oak

Now towering to the skies!

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.

PLANTING A TREE1

He who plants a tree,

He plants love.

Tents of coolness spreading out above
Wayfarers, he may not live to see.

Gifts that grow are best;

Hands that bless are blest;

Plant! Life does the rest!

Heaven and earth help him who plants a tree,
And his work its own reward shall be.

EXPRESSION: Choose parts and read the conversation on page 75. Be sure to speak distinctly and in natural tones. To whom is Mr. Morris's poem addressed?

Read Lucy Larcom's poem silently, then aloud. Be sure to observe the pauses that are marked.

By Lucy Larcom.

THE SPIDER AND THE FLY1

"Will you walk into my parlor?" said the spider to the fly,

""Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did

spy.

The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

And I have many curious things to show when you are there."

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Oh, no, no," said the little fly, "to ask me is in vain,

For who goes up your winding stair, can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high;

Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly.

1 By Mary Howitt.