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9. THE LITTLE TREE.

LITTLE tree stood up in the wood
In bright and dirty weather;
And nothing but needles it had for leaves
From top to bottom together.

The needles stuck about,
And the little tree spoke out:-

"My companions all have leaves
Beautiful to see:

While I've nothing but these needles;
No one touche me.

Might I have my fortune told,
All my leaves should be pure gold."

The little tree's asleep by dark,
Awake by earliest light;

And now its golden leaves you mark:
There was a sight!

The little tree says, "Now I'm set high:
No tree in the wood has gold leaves but I."

But now again the night came back:

Through the forest there walked a Jew, With great thick beard and great thick sack, And soon the gold leaves did view. He pockets them all, and away does fare, Leaving the little tree quite bare.

The little tree speaks up distressed, -
"Those golden leaves how I lament!
I'm quite ashamed before the rest,
Such lovely dress to them is lent.
Might I bring one more wish to pass,
I would have my leaves of the clearest glass."

The little tree sleeps again at dark,

And wakes with the early light.

And now its glass leaves you may mark:
There was a sight!

The little tree says, "Now I'm right glad :
No tree in the wood is as brightly clad."

There came up now a mighty blast,
And a furious gale it blew;
It swept among the trees full fast,
And on the glass leaves it flew:
There lay the leaves of glass
All shivered on the grass!

The little tree complains,

"My glass lies on the ground:

Each other tree remains

With its green dress all sound.

Might I but have my wish once more,

I would have of those good green leaves good store."

Again asleep is the little tree,

And early wakes to the light:

He is covered with green leaves fair to see ;
He laughs outright,

And says, "I am now all nicely dressed,
Nor need be ashamed before the rest."

And now, with udders full,

Forth a wild she-goat sprung,

Seeking for herbs to pull,

To feed her young.

She sees the leaves, nor makes much talk,
But strips all clear to the very stalk!

The little tree again is bare,

And thus to himself he said:
"No longer for any leaves I care,
Whether green or yellow or red.
If I had but my needles again,
I would nevermore scold or complain."

The little tree slept sad that night,
And sadly opened his eye :
He sees himself in the sun's first light,
And laughs as he would die.
And all the trees in a roar burst out;
But the little tree little cared for their shout.

What made the little tree laugh like mad?
And what set the rest in a roar?
In a single night, soon back he had
Every needle he had before!
And everybody may see them such :
Go out and look; but do not touch.
Why not, I pray?
They prick, some say.

N. L. Frothingham (from the German of Rückert). 10. A DOUBTING HEART.

HERE are the swallows fled?

W Frozen and dead,

Perchance, upon some bleak and frozen shore.

O doubting heart!

Far over purple seas,

They wait in sunny ease

The balmy southern breeze

To bring them to their northern home once more.

Why must the flowers die?

Prisoned they lie

In the cold tomb, heedless of tears or rain.

O doubting heart!

They only sleep below

The soft white ermine snow,

While winter winds shall blow,

To breathe and smile upon you soon again.

The sun has hid his rays

These many days:

Will dreary hours never leave the earth?

O doubting heart!

The stormy clouds on high

Veil the same sunny sky

That soon (for Spring is nigh)

Shall wake the Summer into golden mirth.

Fair hope is dead, and light
Is quenched in night.

What sound can break the silence of despair?

O doubting heart!

Thy sky is overcast;
Yet stars shall rise at last,

Brighter for darkness past,

And angels' silver voices stir the air.

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11. UNDER THE SNOW.

NDER the snow the violets are budding, Nurtured and cherished within the warın earth;

Rich fragrance imbibing, while patiently waiting The word of command that shall wake them to birth.

Under the snow the streamlets are sleeping'; Lulled is the voice of their murmuring flow: Their rest is not death; but life is renewing, While Spring's brightest promise is ice-bound below.

Under the snow, oh! under the snow,

Earth sleeps but to waken, and rests but to rise,

And silently toils in her storehouse below, Adding tint to the floweret, and splendor to skies.

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