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Though our watchers wait in vain, The wild white steeds of Neptune Will homeward come again. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Salute to the Trees

Henry Van Dyke

For biographical note concerning the author, see "An Angler's Wish," page 8.

This beautiful tribute to the trees will surely bring from every reader a sympathetic response. Full, round, ringing tones are required for effective delivery. The meter is such that you will need to be on your guard against falling into a "sing-song."

MANY a tree is found in the wood

And every tree for its use is good:
Some for the strength of the gnarlèd root,
Some for the sweetness of flower or fruit;
Some for shelter against the storm,
And some to keep the hearth-stone warm;
Some for the roof and some for the beam,
And some for a boat to breast the stream;—
In the wealth of the wood since the world began
The trees have offered their gifts to man.

But the glory of trees is more than their gifts:
'Tis a beautiful wonder of life that lifts,
From a wrinkled seed in an earth-bound clod,
A column, an arch in the temple of God,
A pillar of power, a dome of delight,
A shrine of song, and a joy of sight!
Their roots are the nurses of rivers in birth;

Their leaves are alive with the breath of the earth; They shelter the dwellings of man; and they bend O'er his grave with the look of a loving friend.

I have camped in the whispering forest of pines,
I have slept in the shadow of olives and vines;
In the knees of an oak, at the foot of a palm,
I have found good rest and a slumber's balm.
And now, when the morning gilds the boughs
Of the vaulted elm at the door of my house,
I open the window and make salute:

"God bless thy branches and feed thy root!
Thou hast lived before, live after me,

Thou ancient, friendly, faithful tree."

Reprinted by permission of the author and by special arrangement with, Charles Scribner's Sons, the publishers of the author's works.

The Green Inn

Theodosia Garrison Faulks

Theodosia Garrison Faulks was born in Newark, N. J., in 1874, and was educated in private schools. She is the author of a number of poems, and contributes verse and stories to magazines.

Where is the background of this poem, and why could it not be placed in our country at this time? In the delivery, watch especially for the proper placing of emphasis in order to express the thought. A slow rate, with expansion of the principal words, is required for the most effective reading of the last stanza.

I SICKEN of men's company,

The crowded tavern's din,

Where all day long with oath and song
Sit they who entrance win,

So come I out from noise and rout
To rest in God's Green Inn.

Here none may mock an empty purse
Or ragged coat and poor,

But Silence waits within the gates
And Peace beside the door;
The weary guest is welcomest,
The richest pays no score.

The roof is high and arched and blue,
The floor is spread with pine;
On my four walls the sunlight falls
In golden flecks and fine;

And swift and fleet on noiseless feet
The Four Winds bring me wine.

Upon my board they set their store,
Great drinks mixed cunningly,
Wherein the scent of furze is blent
With the odor of the sea;

As from a cup I drink it up
To thrill the veins of me.

It's I will sit in God's Green Inn
Unvexed by man or ghost,

Yet ever fed and comforted,

Companioned by my host,

And watched by night by that white light
High swung from coast to coast.

O you who in the House of Strife
Quarrel and game and sin,

Come out and see what cheer may be

For starveling souls and thin

Who come at last from drought and fast
To sit in God's Green Inn.

Reprinted by permission of the author and Scribner's Magazine. Copyright, 1907, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

Rebels

Louis Untermeyer

For biographical note concerning the author, see "The Laughers," Page 88.

This unique fancy, built around a single phenomenon in nature, will appeal especially to residents of the northern sections, where the scene described is frequently observed.

STIFF in midsummer green, the stolid hillsides

March with their trees, dependable and staunch, Except where here and there a lawless maple Thrusts to the sky one red, rebellious branch.

You see them standing out, these frank insurgents, With that defiant and arresting plume;

Scattered, they toss this flame like some wild signal, Calling their comrades to a brilliant doom.

What can it mean-this strange, untimely challenge;
This proclamation of an early death?

Are they so tired of earth they fly the banner
Of dissolution and a bleeding faith?

Or is it, rather than a brief defiance,

An anxious welcome to a vivid strife?

A glow, a heart-beat, and a bright acceptance
Of all the rich exuberance of life.

Rebellious or resigned, they flaunt their color,
A sudden torch, a burning battle-cry.

"Light up the world," they wave to all the others; "Swiftly we live and splendidly we die."

Reprinted by permission of the author and Henry Holt and Company.

Birches

Robert Frost

Robert Frost was born in San Francisco in 1875, but was brought up in New England. Most of his poetry deals with life in the North Atlantic States. He is now professor of English in the University of Michigan. Among his books are "North of Boston," "A Boy's Will," and "Mountain Interval," all published by Henry Holt and Co., New York.

This teasing sort of verse-more than half conversational-is difficult to render, but pleasing when it is rendered well. Bring out the picture in the early part of the poem, and the philosophy toward the end.

WHEN I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust

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