branch until they are encased in a crystal armor that bends them down until the tops of the slender birches touch the ice-paved forest floor. If the weather remains cold for several days, so that the ice does not fall from the heavily laden branches, the trees will never regain an erect position. The leaves of summer and the snows of winter will bend the bowed trees closer to the earth. Shoots may start up from the recumbent trunks, but the trees will be valueless for lumber, and the best thing that can be done is to have them cut down, so new growth can take their places. The paper birch-when they escape the bark gathering mania of small boys-oftentimes add the completing touch of beauty to New Hampshire highland landscapes. They give the necessary touch of color to the tangle of green along the roadsides, and bend to catch the music of the crystal streams on their rapid course over granite ledges and water-worn rocks. The fallen birch trunks across the brooks, with the ghostly bark hanging in tatters swayed by every breeze, are also a royal bridge for the squirrels and other little denizens of the fields and woods. Last summer we crossed one of the small New Hampshire lakes-that sparkle among the granite hills like jewels of the clearest water-to a camp on a point of land extending out into the lake on the farther shore. As we drew near we noticed several paper birches, the open and free growing tops forking into several branches that did not droop or curl down like the white birch. These trees, with chalky white trunks and branches hanging out over the surface of the lake for quite a distance along the shore, added much to the sylvan beauty of the scenery. They caught the first gleam of the morning sun and their graceful foliage was mirrored in the placid surface of the lake. In the bordering woods they reminded one of marble pillars supporting the forest roof, and the morning songs of the birds, softened by the distance, came through the forest aisles like an anthem, echoing from the vaulted roof of an old cathedral. One afternoon we watched a storm gather on the distant mountains. Every few moments the clouds were rent by jagged lightning flashes. The report of thunder echoed louder and louder, and a white belt, high up among the clouds, showed that a hail storm was in progress. The storm rolled nearer, and raindrops and wind began to whiten the surface of the water at a distant point on the lake. The dark wall of raindrops driven by the gale advanced upon us, and the lightning brought out the birches ghostly white on the point. The water of the lake was dashed into foam, and small branches were driven against the tent roof. The storm swept onward, and the crash of trees riven by the lightning was heard on the heights beyond. The report of thunder grew fainter in the distance and the sun shone out, touching the wet trunks of the paper birches with an additional luster. IN LIFE'S EVENING. By Bela Chapin. An old man sits by his warm winter fire, While the cold north wind sweeps along in its ire, But he dwells in the past, for his thoughts never tire To rove in the loved long ago. And he wanders in thought to the beautiful land, To the regions of unending day; There mingles in joy with the numerous band Of kindred and friends gone away; And he hopes at the last in that kingdom to stand, In the evening of life so he sits in his chair, Born on passage to this country July 28, 1720. Died at Henniker, February 13, 1814. (A true incident.) By Ida J. Graves. "Elizabeth," spake James Wilson "Could you leave our home in Ireland We are young, with our lives before us, Shall we go to seek our fortunes An emigrant ship is coming, A ship of the very best class. Our neighbors and friends are going, "My Jamie," the young wife answered, 'You surely must know what is best, So, when the good ship sails away, We will go along with the rest." It was then in early springtime, And one sunny July day, They, on the deck of the vessel, Watched Ireland's shores fade away. From Londonderry in Ireland To the same in our own Granite state. The journey was partly accomplished, The emigrant ship was powerless There was only one thing to do. Naught else could she do so she waited- For soon alongside came the robbers, Over the deck of the good ship Swarmed the pirates, as men who knew Their unholy business of plundering, Binding officers and crew. Below, to the officers' quarters The pirate chieftain went; But, seeing a woman lying. On a berth just inside the place, "Why are you there?" he cried, roughly; Have you named her?" "No." He took up the child's tiny hand. 'May I name her? If I may I will go, taking all of my band. We will leave unharmed both ship and men, But my word is good and I give it Oh tiny ocean-born baby, Your presence was timely indeed; You softened the heart of the pirateA little child truly did lead! "Now loose all the captives," he ordered, "And goods and money restore; We'll go aboard our own vessel, And trouble these people no more." The astonished emigrants, grateful That their lives had been spared that day, Thanked God for timely deliverance And joyfully went on their way. But scarce had the good ship started On her lonely ocean track, When the emigrants were dismayed to see He came on board alone, and went And placing a parcel near her Said, "For Mary's wedding-day!" Knelt a moment on the floor, The gift that the robber chieftain Was a silk of marvelous texture- Why the pirate should be so mild, The ship, with fair winds and God's favor," Came to our own Granite state. A hundred and seventy years ago, The pirate's gift her gown. Four sons were born to Mary. In a town where hills abound, One built by far the grandest house In all the country around. There, in the town of Henniker, "Ocean Mary" lived many years; Having her share, with others, Of sweet happiness and tears. Awaiting the judgment day. |