It matters not what goal you seek, Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses.

EDGAR A. GUEST

UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH

MIRACLE

_Yesterday the twig was brown and bare; To-day the glint of green is there To-morrow will be leaflets spare; I know no thing so wondrous fair No miracle so strangely rare._

_I wonder what will next be there!_

L. H. BAILEY

THE AWAKENING

You little, eager, peeping thing-- You embryonic point of light Pushing from out your winter night, How you do make my pulses sing!

A tiny eye amid the gloom-- The merest speck I scarce had seen-- So doth G.o.d's rapture rend the tomb In this wee burst of April green!

And lo, 'tis here--and lo! 'Tis there-- Spurting its jets of sweet desire In upward curling threads of fire Like tapers kindling all the air.

Why, scarce it seems an hour ago These branches clashed in bitter cold; What Power hath set their veins aglow?

O soul of mine, be bold, be bold!

If from this tree, this blackened thing, Hard as the floor my feet have prest, This flame of joy comes clamoring In hues as red as robin's breast Waking to life this little twig-- O faith of mine, be big! Be big!

ANGELA MORGAN

SHADE

The kindliest thing G.o.d ever made, His hand of very healing laid Upon a fevered world, is shade.

His glorious company of trees Throw out their mantles, and on these The dust-stained wanderer finds ease.

Green temples, closed against the beat Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, Open to any pilgrim's feet.

The white road blisters in the sun; Now, half the weary journey done, Enter and rest, Oh, weary one!

And feel the dew of dawn still wet Beneath thy feet, and so forget The burning highway's ache and fret.

This is G.o.d's hospitality, And whoso rests beneath a tree Hath cause to thank Him gratefully.

THEODOSIA GARRISON

SELECTION FROM "UNDER THE TREES"

The wonderful, strong, angelic trees, With their blowing locks and their bared great knees And nourishing bosoms, shout all together, And rush and rock through the glad wild weather.

They are so old they teach me, With their strong hands they reach me, Into their breast my soul they take, And keep me there for wisdom's sake.

They teach me little prayers; To-day I am their child; The sweet breath of their innocent airs Blows through me strange and wild.

I never feel afraid Among the trees; Of trees are houses made; And even with these, Unhewn, untouched, unseen, Is something homelike in the safe sweet green, Intimate in the shade.

We are all brothers! Come, let's rest awhile In the great kinship. Underneath the trees Let's be at home once more, with birds and bees And gnats and soil and stone. With these I must Acknowledge family ties. Our mother, the dust, With wistful and investigating eyes Searches my soul for the old st.u.r.diness, Valor, simplicity! Stout virtues these, We learned at her dear knees.

Friend, you and I Once played together in the good old days.

Do you remember? Why, brother, down what wild ways We traveled, when-- That's right! Draw close to me!

Come now, let's tell the tale beneath the old roof-tree.

ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH

A GARDEN FRIEND

O comrade tree, perhaps alive as I-- One process lacking of this mortal clay-- Give me your constant outlook to the sky, The courtesy and cheer that fill your day.

Your n.o.ble gift of perfect service teach; Your wisdom in the wild storm softly bent Aware 'twill end; your patience that can reach Across the years from clod to firmament.

CATHERINE MARKHAM (MRS. EDWIN MARKHAM)

A LADY OF THE SNOWS

The mountain hemlock droops her lacy branches Oh, so tenderly In the summer sun!

Yet she has power to baffle avalanches-- She, rising slenderly Where the rivers run.

So pliant yet so powerful! Oh, see her Spread alluringly Her thin sea-green dress!

Now from white winter's thrall the sun would free her To bloom unenduringly In his glad caress.

HARRIET MONROE

THE TREE

Spread, delicate roots of my tree, Feeling, clasping, thrusting, growing; Sensitive pilgrim root tips roaming everywhere.

Into resistant earth your filaments forcing, Down in the dark, unknown, desirous: The strange ceaseless life of you, eating and drinking of earth, The corrosive secretions of you, breaking the stuff of the world to your will.

Tips of my tree in the springtime bursting to terrible beauty, Folded green life, exquisite, holy exultant; I feel in you the splendour, the autumn of ripe fulfilment, Love and labour and death, the sacred pageant of life.

In the sweet curled buds of you, In the opening glory of leaves, tissues moulded of green light; Veined, cut, perfect to type, Each one like a child of high lineage bearing the sigil of race.