THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

BY HENRY FOTHERGILL CHORLEY.

[Born in Lancashire, 1808; died 1872. He was for many years literary and musical critic on the London Athenæum, and of very high quality as such from his taste and insight; and wrote also novels and plays of minor rank.]

A SONG of 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 midnight,

When the storms through his branches shout.
Chorus - 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!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,

Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet,

To gather the dew of May.

And on that day, to the rebeck gay,

They frolicked with lovesome swains;

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid,
But the tree it still remains.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Was a merry sound to hear,

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small

Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he;

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Chorus-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!

Chorus.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE !

BY GEORGE P. MORRIS.

[GEORGE POPE MORRIS, American poet and journalist, was born at Philadelphia in 1802. He founded with Samuel Woodworth (author of the "Old Oaken Bucket ") the New York Mirror in 1823. This was discontinued in 1842, and with N. P. Willis he established the New Mirror in 1843, in 1845 the National Press, shortly renamed the Home Journal, which with Willis he edited till near his death in 1864. He edited anthologies, and wrote "Briar Cliff” (1825).]

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 aged 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 chance to save,

Thy ax shall harm it not!

THE IVY GREEN.

BY CHARLES DICKENS.

[For biographical sketch, see page 247.]

Он, ▲ dainty plant is the Ivy Green,

That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals, I ween,

In his cell so lone and cold.

The wall must be crumbled, the stone decayed, To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the moldering dust that years have made Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings,
And a stanch old heart has he:

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge Oak Tree!
And slyly he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

As he joyously hugs and crawleth round
The rich mold of dead men's graves.

Creeping where grim Death has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

Whole ages have fled and their works decayed,
And nations have scattered been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days
Shall fatten upon the past;

For the stateliest building man can raise
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping on where Time has been,
A rare old plant is the Ivy Green.

VOL. XXVI. - 21

THE SUCCESSFUL EXPERIMENT IN DESICCATION.

BY EDMOND ABOUT.

(From "The Man with the Broken Ear.")

[EDMOND ABOUT, French novelist, was born in Lorraine, February 14, 1828. He became a journalist, war correspondent in the Franco-Prussian War, and editor of Le XIXme Siècle of Paris, and in 1884 a member of the Academy. He wrote, among other books: "Tolla Feraldi" (1855), "The King of the Mountains" (1856), "The Man with the Broken Ear" (1861), "The Nose of a Notary" (1862), "Madelon " (1863), "The Infamous One" (1869), and "The Romance of a Good Man" (1880). He died January 17, 1885.]

On this 20th day of January, 1824, being worn down by a cruel malady and feeling the approach of the time when my person shall be absorbed in the Great All;

I have written with my own hand this testament, which is the expression of my last will.

I appoint as executor my nephew Nicholas Meiser, a wealthy brewer in the city of Dantzic.

I bequeath my books, papers, and scientific collections of all kinds, except item 3712, to my very estimable and learned friend, Herr Von Humboldt.

I bequeath all the rest of my effects, real and personal, valued at 100,000 Prussian thalers or 375,000 francs, to Colonel Pierre Victor Fougas, at present desiccated, but living, and entered in my catalogue opposite No. 3712 (Zoölogy).

I trust that he will accept this feeble compensation for the ordeals he has undergone in my laboratory, and the service he has rendered to science.

Finally, in order that my nephew Nicholas Meiser may exactly understand the duties I leave him to perform, I have resolved to inscribe here a detailed account of the desiccation of Colonel Fougas, my sole heir.

It was on the 11th of November in that unhappy year 1813, that my relations with this brave young man began. I had long since quitted Dantzic, where the noise of cannon and the danger from bombs had rendered all labor impossible, and retired with my instruments and books under the protection of the Allied Armies in the fortified town of Liebenfeld. The French garrisons of Dantzic, Stettin, Custrin, Glogau, Hamburg, and several other German towns could not communicate

with each other or with their native land; meanwhile General Rapp was obstinately defending himself against the English fleet and the Russian army. Colonel Fougas was taken by a detachment of the Barclay de Tolly corps, as he was trying to pass the Vistula on the ice, on the way to Dantzic. They brought him prisoner to Liebenfeld on the 11th of November, just at my supper time, and Sergeant Garok, who commanded in the village, forced me to be present at the examination and act as interpreter.

The open countenance, manly voice, proud firmness, and fine carriage of the unfortunate young man won my heart. He had made the sacrifice of his life. His only regret, he said, was having stranded so near port, after passing through four armies ; and being unable to carry out the Emperor's orders. He appeared animated by that French fanaticism which has done so much harm to our beloved Germany. Nevertheless, I could not help defending him; and I translated his words less as an interpreter than as an advocate. Unhappily, they found upon him a letter from Napoleon to General Rapp, of which I preserved a copy:

Abandon Dantzic, break the blockade, unite with the garrisons of Stettin, Custrin, and Glogau, march along the Elbe, arrange with St. Cyr and Davoust to concentrate the forces scattered at Dresden, Forgau, Wittenberg, Magdeburg, and Hamburg; roll up an army like a snowball; cross Westphalia, which is open, and come to defend the line of the Rhine with an army of 170,000 Frenchmen which you will have saved!

NAPOLEON.

This letter was sent to the headquarters of the Russian army, whilst a half-dozen illiterate soldiers, drunk with joy and bad brandy, condemned the brave Colonel of the 23d of the line to the death of a spy and a traitor. The execution was fixed for the next day, the 12th, and M. Pierre Victor Fougas, after having thanked and embraced me with the most touching sensibility (he is a husband and a father), was shut up in the little battlemented tower of Liebenfeld, where the wind whistles terribly through all the loopholes.

The night of the 11th and 12th of November was one of the severest of that terrible winter. My self-registering thermometer, which hung outside my window with a southeast exposure, marked nineteen degrees below zero, centigrade. I went early