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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 axe shall harm it not !



“Little by little," an acorn said,

As it slowly sank in its mossy bed ;
“I am improving every day,
Hidden deep in the earth away."
Little by little each day it grew,
Little by little it sipped the dew;
Downward it sent out a thread-like root,
Up in the air sprung a tiny shoot.
Day after day, and year after year,
Little by little the leaves appear;
And the slender branches spread far and wide,

Till the mighty oak is the forest's pride.
“Little by little," said a thoughtful boy,
“Moment by moment I'll well employ,

Learning a little every day,
And not spending all my time in play;
And still this rule in my mind shall dwell-
• Whatever I do, I'll do it well.'
Little by little I'll learn to know
The treasured wisdom of long ago;
And one of these days, perhaps, we'll see
That the world will be the better for me.”
And do you not think that this simple plan
Made him a wise and useful man?


“ Help one another," the snowflakes said,

As they cuddled down in their fleecy bed; “One of us here would not be felt,

One of us here would quickly melt;
But I'll help you, and you help me,
And then what a big white drift we'll see !"

“Help one another," the maple spray

Said to its fellow leaves one day;
“ The sun would wither me here alone,

Long enough ere the day is gone;
But I'll help you and you help me,
And then what a splendid shade there'll be!"

“Help one another," the dewdrop cried,

Seeing another drop close to its side;
“This warm south breeze would dry me away,
And I should be gone ere noon to-day;
But I'll help you, and you help me,
And we'll make a brook and run to the sea."

“Help one another," a grain of sand

Said to another grain just at hand;
“ The wind may carry me over the sea,
And then, O! what will become of me?
But come, my brother, give me your hand;
We'll build a mountain, and there we'll stand.”

And so the snowflakes grew to drifts,

The grains of sand to mountains,
The leaves became a pleasant shade,
And dewdrops fed the fountains.

-Rev. GEORGE F. HUNTING, in the Parish Visitor.


November woods are bare and still,
November days are clear and bright;
Each noon burns up the morning's chill,
The morning's snow is gone by night;
Each day my steps grow slow, grow light,
As through the woods I reverent creep,
Watching all things “lie down to sleep."

I never knew before what beds,
Fragrant to smell and soft to touch,
The forest sifts, and shapes, and spreads;
I never knew before how much
Of human sound there is in such
Low tones as through the forest sweeps,
When all wild things "lie down to sleep.”

Each day I find new coverlids
Tucked in and more sweet eyes shut tight;
Sometimes the viewless mother bids
Her ferns kneel down full in my sight;
I hear their chorus of “good night,”
And half I smile and half I weep,
Listening while they “lie down to sleep."


There is no rhyme that is half so sweet
As the song of the wind in the rippling wheat;
There is no meter that's half so fine
As the lilt of the brook under rock and vine;
And the loveliest lyric I ever heard
Was the wildwood strain of a forest bird.



A song to the oak,

The brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long !

Here's health and renown

To his broad, green crown And his fifty arms so strong!

There's fear in his frown

When the sun goes down
And the fire in the west fades out;

And he showeth his might,

On a wild, stormy night,
When the storms through his branches shout.

Then here's to the oak,

The brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;

And still flourish he,

A hale, green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!




My country, 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing.
Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrim's pride;
From every mountain side

Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee,
Land of the noble free,

Thy name I love;
I love thy rocks and rills;
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills

Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze
And ring from all the trees

Sweet freedom's song;
Let mortal tongues awake,
Let all that breathe partake,
Let rocks their silence break,

The sound prolong.

Our father's God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing.
Long may our land be bright
With freedom's holy light,
Protect us by Thy might,

Great God, our King.



How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view !
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And ev'ry loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide spreading pond, and the mill that stood by it,

The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket that hung in the well.

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