Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered, or unexpressed;The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of the eye,When none but God is near.Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer, the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voiceReturning from his ways,While angels in their songs rejoice,And cry, Behold, he prays!Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,The Christian’s native air;His watchword at the gates of death;He enters Heaven with prayer.The saints, in prayer, appear as one,In word, and deed, and mind;While with the Father and the SonSweet fellowship they find.Nor prayer is made by man alone:The Holy Spirit pleads;And Jesus, on the eternal Throne,For mourners intercedes.O Thou, by whom we come to God!The Life, the Truth, the Way!The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:Lord! teach us how to pray!
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered, or unexpressed;The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of the eye,When none but God is near.Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer, the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voiceReturning from his ways,While angels in their songs rejoice,And cry, Behold, he prays!Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,The Christian’s native air;His watchword at the gates of death;He enters Heaven with prayer.The saints, in prayer, appear as one,In word, and deed, and mind;While with the Father and the SonSweet fellowship they find.Nor prayer is made by man alone:The Holy Spirit pleads;And Jesus, on the eternal Throne,For mourners intercedes.O Thou, by whom we come to God!The Life, the Truth, the Way!The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:Lord! teach us how to pray!
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,Uttered, or unexpressed;The motion of a hidden fireThat trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire,
Uttered, or unexpressed;
The motion of a hidden fire
That trembles in the breast.
Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,The falling of a tear,The upward glancing of the eye,When none but God is near.
Prayer is the burthen of a sigh,
The falling of a tear,
The upward glancing of the eye,
When none but God is near.
Prayer is the simplest form of speechThat infant lips can try;Prayer, the sublimest strains that reachThe Majesty on high.
Prayer is the simplest form of speech
That infant lips can try;
Prayer, the sublimest strains that reach
The Majesty on high.
Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voiceReturning from his ways,While angels in their songs rejoice,And cry, Behold, he prays!
Prayer is the contrite sinner’s voice
Returning from his ways,
While angels in their songs rejoice,
And cry, Behold, he prays!
Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,The Christian’s native air;His watchword at the gates of death;He enters Heaven with prayer.
Prayer is the Christian’s vital breath,
The Christian’s native air;
His watchword at the gates of death;
He enters Heaven with prayer.
The saints, in prayer, appear as one,In word, and deed, and mind;While with the Father and the SonSweet fellowship they find.
The saints, in prayer, appear as one,
In word, and deed, and mind;
While with the Father and the Son
Sweet fellowship they find.
Nor prayer is made by man alone:The Holy Spirit pleads;And Jesus, on the eternal Throne,For mourners intercedes.
Nor prayer is made by man alone:
The Holy Spirit pleads;
And Jesus, on the eternal Throne,
For mourners intercedes.
O Thou, by whom we come to God!The Life, the Truth, the Way!The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:Lord! teach us how to pray!
O Thou, by whom we come to God!
The Life, the Truth, the Way!
The path of prayer Thyself hast trod:
Lord! teach us how to pray!
Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him.—Psalm CIII.
All substances produce in us, when we touch them, the sensation of heat or of cold. The degree of heat of any substance is called its temperature; and the temperature varies from time to time, according to circumstances. Boiling water, for example, contains so much heat that it scalds the skin; but, when removed from the fire, the water gradually becomes less and less warm, until at last it contains so little heat that it cools the hand instead of scalding it.
Our feelings do not always give us true information about the temperature of the bodies by which we are surrounded. A person comes into a warm room from the open air on a cold day, and exclaims, “How warm it is here!” Another person enters the same room from one still warmer, and cries, “How cold it is here!” The first person gains heat, and therefore calls the room warm; the second loses heat, and calls it cold; while, in reality, the air of the room, all the while, is at the same degree of temperature.
A nurse prepares water for a child’s bath, and measures the heat by the feeling of her hand; but she learns from the quick and sudden cry of the child, when placed in the bath, that what seemed warm to her is cold to the child.
These examples show that our sensations are not always a true test of temperature; and thus, if we wish to measure heat and cold accurately, we must have someinstrument made for the purpose. Such an instrument we have: it is called a thermometer, a word which means heat-measurer.
It was long ago noticed that bodies expand, or swell out, when they are heated; and that they contract, or shrink into less bulk, when they are cooled. This observation led to the construction of the thermometer; for to measure the expansion or contraction of a substance is the same as to measure the quantity of heat that has produced this effect.
The thermometer consists of a small glass tube of very fine bore and ending in a hollow bulb. The bulb is entirely filled with a fluid metal, called mercury, or quicksilver, which rises or falls in the tube according as it is heated or cooled. The space in the tube above the mercury is empty: it does not even contain air; for in preparing the instrument, sufficient heat is applied to the bulb to make the fluid, by expansion, fill the whole tube, which is then closely sealed at the upper end by melting the glass: the mercury sinks as it cools, and leaves the space empty.
The tube is fastened to a metal or wooden plate, marked so as to measure the expansion of the mercury. This is called the scale, and the divisions upon it are called degrees. The degrees are counted upwards from the bottom, and are expressed by placing a small circle over the number. There are three different scales in use; that commonly used in this country is called Fahrenheit’s scale, from the name of the inventor.
When the tube of the thermometer is immersed inmelting ice or freezing water, the upper surface of the mercury stands always at the same point, which is called thefreezing point of water. On Fahrenheit’s thermometer this point is marked 32°. Again, when the bulb is held in the steam of boiling water, the mercury rises to a fixed point, which is called theboiling point of water, and is marked 212°. All bodies that are as hot as boiling water, raise the mercury to 212°; and all bodies that are as cold as freezing water, make the mercury shrink to 32°. The space between these two points is divided into 180 equal parts, each being called a degree. Similar equal divisions are carried below the point marked 32°, till 0° is reached, and this last point is calledzero.
The tube of the thermometer may contain some other fluid than mercury; but, as this metal is in every respect well fitted for the purpose, it is most generally used in construction of the instrument.
The thermometer is one of the most useful inventions of science. It enables travellers to compare the climates of different countries, and to give us, who stay at home, a distinct idea of them. It is also necessary in the arts: it enables workmen to apply the exact amount of heat required in delicate operations, where a little excess might spoil the whole work.
Word Exercise.scald´ing (skawld-´)Mer´cu-ryin-vĕnt´ordĕl´i-cateim-mersed (im-merst´)sen-sā´tionssur-round´edfast´ened (fas´snd)in´stru-mentcon-trac´tionex-păn´sion (eks-păn´shun)op-er-a´tionsFah´ren-heītther-mom´e-tertem´per-a-tūrecon-struc´tion
scald´ing (skawld-´)Mer´cu-ryin-vĕnt´ordĕl´i-cateim-mersed (im-merst´)sen-sā´tionssur-round´edfast´ened (fas´snd)in´stru-mentcon-trac´tionex-păn´sion (eks-păn´shun)op-er-a´tionsFah´ren-heītther-mom´e-tertem´per-a-tūrecon-struc´tion
What is a golden deed? It is something which we do for the good of others when we think more of them than we do of ourselves. And it is calledgolden, because the rarest and most precious things in all the world are the acts of unselfish men.
Let me tell you the story of a golden deed that was performed by Sir Philip Sidney. This brave English knight was fighting in the Netherlands, to help the Dutch in their struggle for liberty against the tyrant, Philip of Spain. In a fierce battle he was struck by a musket ball, which broke his thigh-bone. Thirsty and faint from loss of blood, he called for water.
He had just raised the cup to his lips, when his eye fell on a poor, dying soldier, who was looking longingly at the cool drink. Without so much as tasting it, Sidney handed the cup to the poor fellow with these words: “Thy necessity is greater than mine.”
Here is the story of another golden deed. A little boy, named Peter, who lived in Holland a long time ago, was once on his way home late in the evening, when he became alarmed at hearing water trickling through a sluice or gate in one of the many dikes which are so necessary for the safety of that country; for you must know that Holland is so flat and low that it is in constant danger of finding itself under water.
He stopped and thought of what would happen if thehole were not closed. He had often heard his father tell of the sad disasters which had come from such small beginnings as this—how, in a few hours, the little aperture gradually enlarged until the whole defence was washed away, and the rolling, dashing, angry sea rushed in, and swept on to the next village, destroying life and property. Should he run home and alarm the villagers, it would be dark before they could arrive; and the hole, even then, might become so large as to defy all attempts to close. What could he do to prevent such a terrible ruin—he, only a little boy? He sat down on the bank of the canal, stopped the opening with his hand, and patiently awaited the passing of a villager. But no one came. Hour after hour rolled by, yet there sat the heroic boy, in cold and darkness, shivering, wet, and tired, but stoutly pressing his hand against the water that was trying to pass the dangerous breach. The remainder of the story is thus told by an American poet, Miss Phœbe Cary:—
He thinks of his brother and sisterAsleep in their safe, warm bed;He thinks of his father and mother,Of himself as dying—and dead;And of how, when the night is over,They must come and find him at last:But he never thinks he can leave the placeWhere duty holds him fast.The good dame in the cottageIs up and astir with the light,For the thought of her little PeterHas been with her all the night.And now she watches the pathway,As yester eve she had done;But what does she see so strange and blackAgainst the rising sun?Her neighbors bearing between themSomething straight to her door;Her child is coming home, but notAs he ever came before!“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”And the startled father hears,And comes and looks the way she looks,And fears the thing she fears:Till a glad shout from the bearersThrills the stricken man and wife—“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,And God has saved his life!”So there in the morning sunshineThey knelt about the boy,And every head was bared and bent,In tearful, reverent joy.’Tis many a year since then; but still,When the sea roars like a flood,Their boys are taught what a boy can do,Who is brave, and true, and good;For every man in that countryTakes his son by the hand,And tells him of little Peter,Whose courage saved the land.They have many a valiant hero,Remembered through the years,But never one whose name so oftIs named with loving tears.And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,And told to the child on the knee,As long as the dikes of HollandDivide the land from the sea.
He thinks of his brother and sisterAsleep in their safe, warm bed;He thinks of his father and mother,Of himself as dying—and dead;And of how, when the night is over,They must come and find him at last:But he never thinks he can leave the placeWhere duty holds him fast.The good dame in the cottageIs up and astir with the light,For the thought of her little PeterHas been with her all the night.And now she watches the pathway,As yester eve she had done;But what does she see so strange and blackAgainst the rising sun?Her neighbors bearing between themSomething straight to her door;Her child is coming home, but notAs he ever came before!“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”And the startled father hears,And comes and looks the way she looks,And fears the thing she fears:Till a glad shout from the bearersThrills the stricken man and wife—“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,And God has saved his life!”So there in the morning sunshineThey knelt about the boy,And every head was bared and bent,In tearful, reverent joy.’Tis many a year since then; but still,When the sea roars like a flood,Their boys are taught what a boy can do,Who is brave, and true, and good;For every man in that countryTakes his son by the hand,And tells him of little Peter,Whose courage saved the land.They have many a valiant hero,Remembered through the years,But never one whose name so oftIs named with loving tears.And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,And told to the child on the knee,As long as the dikes of HollandDivide the land from the sea.
He thinks of his brother and sisterAsleep in their safe, warm bed;He thinks of his father and mother,Of himself as dying—and dead;And of how, when the night is over,They must come and find him at last:But he never thinks he can leave the placeWhere duty holds him fast.
He thinks of his brother and sister
Asleep in their safe, warm bed;
He thinks of his father and mother,
Of himself as dying—and dead;
And of how, when the night is over,
They must come and find him at last:
But he never thinks he can leave the place
Where duty holds him fast.
The good dame in the cottageIs up and astir with the light,For the thought of her little PeterHas been with her all the night.And now she watches the pathway,As yester eve she had done;But what does she see so strange and blackAgainst the rising sun?Her neighbors bearing between themSomething straight to her door;Her child is coming home, but notAs he ever came before!
The good dame in the cottage
Is up and astir with the light,
For the thought of her little Peter
Has been with her all the night.
And now she watches the pathway,
As yester eve she had done;
But what does she see so strange and black
Against the rising sun?
Her neighbors bearing between them
Something straight to her door;
Her child is coming home, but not
As he ever came before!
“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”And the startled father hears,And comes and looks the way she looks,And fears the thing she fears:Till a glad shout from the bearersThrills the stricken man and wife—“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,And God has saved his life!”So there in the morning sunshineThey knelt about the boy,And every head was bared and bent,In tearful, reverent joy.
“He is dead!” she cries; “my darling!”
And the startled father hears,
And comes and looks the way she looks,
And fears the thing she fears:
Till a glad shout from the bearers
Thrills the stricken man and wife—
“Give thanks, for your son has saved our land,
And God has saved his life!”
So there in the morning sunshine
They knelt about the boy,
And every head was bared and bent,
In tearful, reverent joy.
’Tis many a year since then; but still,When the sea roars like a flood,Their boys are taught what a boy can do,Who is brave, and true, and good;For every man in that countryTakes his son by the hand,And tells him of little Peter,Whose courage saved the land.They have many a valiant hero,Remembered through the years,But never one whose name so oftIs named with loving tears.And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,And told to the child on the knee,As long as the dikes of HollandDivide the land from the sea.
’Tis many a year since then; but still,
When the sea roars like a flood,
Their boys are taught what a boy can do,
Who is brave, and true, and good;
For every man in that country
Takes his son by the hand,
And tells him of little Peter,
Whose courage saved the land.
They have many a valiant hero,
Remembered through the years,
But never one whose name so oft
Is named with loving tears.
And his deed shall be sung by the cradle,
And told to the child on the knee,
As long as the dikes of Holland
Divide the land from the sea.
Now let us hear of a golden deed done more than two thousand years ago—a deed that has made the names of Damon and Pythias famous for ever.
In Syracuse there was so hard a ruler that the people made a plot to drive him out of the city. The plot was discovered, and the king commanded that the leaders should be put to death. One of these, named Damon, lived at some distance from Syracuse. He asked that before he was put to death, he might be allowed to go home to say good-bye to his family, promising that he would then come back to die, at the appointed time.
The king did not believe that he would keep his word, and said, “I will not let you go unless you find some friend who will come and stay in your place. Then, if you are not back on the day set for execution, I shall put your friend to death in your stead.” The king thought to himself, “Surely no one will ever take the place of a man condemned to death.”
Now, Damon had a very dear friend named Pythias, who at once came forward and offered to stay in prison while Damon was allowed to go away. The king was very much surprised, but he had given his word; Damon was therefore permitted to leave for home, while Pythias was shut up in prison.
Many days passed,—the time for the execution wasclose at hand, and Damon had not come back. The king, curious to see how Pythias would behave, now that death seemed so near, went to the prison. “Your friend will never return,” he said to Pythias.
“You are wrong,” was the answer. “Damon will be here if he can possibly come. But he has to travel by sea, and the winds have been blowing the wrong way for several days. However, it is much better that I should die than he. I have no wife and no children, and I love my friend so well that it would be easier to die for him than to live without him. So I am hoping and praying that he may be delayed until my head has fallen.”
The king went away more puzzled than ever. The fatal day arrived. Still Damon had not come, and Pythias was brought forward and mounted the scaffold. “My prayers are heard,” he cried. “I shall be permitted to die for my friend. But mark my words. Damon is faithful and true; you will yet have reason to know that he has done his utmost to be here.”
Just at this moment a man came galloping up at full speed, on a horse covered with foam! It was Damon. In an instant he was on the scaffold, and had Pythias in his arms. “My beloved friend,” he cried, “the gods be praised that you are safe. What agony have I suffered in the fear that my delay was putting your life in danger!”
There was no joy in the face of Pythias, for he did not care to live if his friend must die. But the king had heard all. At last he was forced to believe in the unselfish friendship of these two. His hard heart melted at the sight, and he set them bothfree, asking only that they would be his friends also.
Reginald Heber.
By cool Siloam’s shady rillHow sweet the lily grows!How sweet the breath beneath the hillOf Sharon’s dewy rose!Lo! such the child whose early feetThe paths of peace have trod,Whose secret heart with influence sweetIs upward drawn to God!By cool Siloam’s shady rillThe lily must decay;The rose that blooms beneath the hillMust shortly fade away.And soon, too soon, the wintry hourOf man’s maturer ageWill shake the soul with sorrow’s power,And stormy passion’s rage!O thou, whose infant feet were foundWithin thy Father’s shrine!Whose years with changeless virtue crownedWere all alike divine!Dependent on thy bounteous breath,We seek thy grace alone,In childhood, manhood, age, and death,To keep us still thy own!
By cool Siloam’s shady rillHow sweet the lily grows!How sweet the breath beneath the hillOf Sharon’s dewy rose!Lo! such the child whose early feetThe paths of peace have trod,Whose secret heart with influence sweetIs upward drawn to God!By cool Siloam’s shady rillThe lily must decay;The rose that blooms beneath the hillMust shortly fade away.And soon, too soon, the wintry hourOf man’s maturer ageWill shake the soul with sorrow’s power,And stormy passion’s rage!O thou, whose infant feet were foundWithin thy Father’s shrine!Whose years with changeless virtue crownedWere all alike divine!Dependent on thy bounteous breath,We seek thy grace alone,In childhood, manhood, age, and death,To keep us still thy own!
By cool Siloam’s shady rillHow sweet the lily grows!How sweet the breath beneath the hillOf Sharon’s dewy rose!Lo! such the child whose early feetThe paths of peace have trod,Whose secret heart with influence sweetIs upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam’s shady rill
How sweet the lily grows!
How sweet the breath beneath the hill
Of Sharon’s dewy rose!
Lo! such the child whose early feet
The paths of peace have trod,
Whose secret heart with influence sweet
Is upward drawn to God!
By cool Siloam’s shady rillThe lily must decay;The rose that blooms beneath the hillMust shortly fade away.And soon, too soon, the wintry hourOf man’s maturer ageWill shake the soul with sorrow’s power,And stormy passion’s rage!
By cool Siloam’s shady rill
The lily must decay;
The rose that blooms beneath the hill
Must shortly fade away.
And soon, too soon, the wintry hour
Of man’s maturer age
Will shake the soul with sorrow’s power,
And stormy passion’s rage!
O thou, whose infant feet were foundWithin thy Father’s shrine!Whose years with changeless virtue crownedWere all alike divine!Dependent on thy bounteous breath,We seek thy grace alone,In childhood, manhood, age, and death,To keep us still thy own!
O thou, whose infant feet were found
Within thy Father’s shrine!
Whose years with changeless virtue crowned
Were all alike divine!
Dependent on thy bounteous breath,
We seek thy grace alone,
In childhood, manhood, age, and death,
To keep us still thy own!
Mark the perfect man, and behold the upright: for the end of that man is peace.—Psalm XXXVII.
Man counts his life by years; the oak by centuries. At one hundred years of age, the tree is but a sapling; at five hundred, it is mature and strong; at six hundred, the gigantic king of the greenwood begins to feel the touch of Time; but the decline is as slow as the growth was, and the sturdy old tree rears its proud head and reckons centuries of old age just as it reckoned centuries of youth.
It has been said that the patriarch of the forest laughs at history. Is it not true? Perhaps when the balmy zephyrs stir the trees, the leaves whisper strange stories to one another. The oaks, and the pines, and their brethren of the wood, have seen so many suns rise and set, so many seasons come and go, and so many generations pass into silence, that we may well wonder what the “story of the trees” would be to us, if they had tongues to tell it, or we ears fine enough to understand.
“The king of white oak trees,” says a letter-writer in the year 1883, “has been chopped down and taken to the saw-mill. It was five hundred and twenty-five years old, and made six twelve-foot logs, the first one being six feet in diameter and weighing seven tons.” What a giant that oak-tree must have been, and what changes in this land of ours it must have witnessed! It looked upon the forest when the red man ruled there alone; it was more than a century old when Columbus landed in the New World; and to that good age it added nearly four centuries before the ax of the woodman laid it low.
Yet, venerable as this “king of white oak trees” was, it was but an infant, compared with other monarchs of the Western solitudes. One California pine, cut down about 1855, was, according to very good authority, eleven hundred and twenty years old; and many of its neighbors in its native grove are no less ancient than it was. Who shall presume, then, to fix the age of the hoary trees that still rear their stalwart frames in the unexplored depths of American wildernesses.
Tall trees
In England there are still in existence many trees that serve to link the far-off past with the living present. Some of them were witnesses of thefierce struggles between Norman and Saxon when William the Conqueror planted his standard—“the three bannered lions of Normandy old”—upon English soil. Then there is the King’s Oak, at Windsor, which, tradition informs us, was a great favorite with William, when that bold Norman first enclosed the forest for a royal hunting-ground.
The Conqueror loved to sit in the shade of the lofty, spreading tree, and muse—upon what? Who knows what fancies filled his brain, what feelings stirred his proud spirit, what memories, what regrets, thrilled his heart, as he sat there in the solitude? Over eight hundred years have rolled away since the Norman usurper fought the sturdy Saxon, and, for conqueror as for conquered, life, and its ambitions, and its pangs, ended long ago; but the mighty oak, whose greenness and beauty were a delight to the Conqueror, still stands in Windsor Forest. Eight centuries ago its royal master saw it a “goodly tree.” How old is it now?
Older even than this, are the oaks near Croydon, nine miles south of London. If the botanist may judge by the usual evidences of age, these trees saw the glitter of the Roman spears as the legions of the Empire wound their way through the forest-paths or in the green open spaces in the woodland. Now, the Roman legions left Britain fourteen centuries ago, having been summoned home to Rome because the Empire was in danger,—in fact, was hastening to its fall. How wonderful, if fourteen centuries have spared these oaks at Croydon!
There is a famous yew that must not go without noticein our record of ancient trees. This venerable tree stands in its native field, ever green and enduring, as if the years had forgotten it. Yet it was two centuries old when, in the adjacent meadow, King John signed Magna Charta. If we bear in mind that in 1215, the stout English barons compelled their wicked king to sign the Great Charter, protecting the rights of his subjects, we may conclude that this patriarch-yew is at least eight hundred and fifty years old.
The Parliament Oak—so called because it is said that Edward I., who ruled England from 1272 to 1307, once held a Parliament under its branches—is believed to be fifteen hundred years old. If Fine-Ear, of the fairy-tale, could come and translate for us the whispers of these ancient English trees, and tell us ever so little of what the stately monarchs of the wood have seen, what new histories might be written, what old chronicles reversed!
On the mountains of Lebanon, a few of the cedars, famous in sacred and in profane history, yet remain. One of these relics of the past has been estimated to be three thousand five hundred years old. The patriarchs of the English forests cannot, then, so far as age is considered, claim equal rank with the “cedars of Lebanon.” But the baobab, or “monkey-bread,” of Senegal, must take the first rank among long-lived trees. Even the “goodly trees” of Lebanon must, if ordinary proofs can be trusted, yield the palm to their African rival.
An eminent French botanist of the eighteenth century, whose discoveries in natural history are of great interest to the world of science, lived some years in Senegal, andhad ample opportunity to observe and study the wonderful baobab. He saw several trees of this species growing, and from the most careful calculations, he formed his opinion as to the age of some of these African wonders. One baobab, which even in its decay measured one hundred and nine feet in circumference, he believed to be more than five thousand years old. Truly, the patriarchs of the forest laugh at history.
Elizabeth Akers Allen.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,Make me a child again, just for to-night;Mother, come back from the echoless shore;Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears—Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—Take them and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you.Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between;Yet with strong yearning and passionate painLong I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence, so long and so deep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Over my heart, in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood’s years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,Make me a child again, just for to-night;Mother, come back from the echoless shore;Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears—Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—Take them and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you.Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between;Yet with strong yearning and passionate painLong I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence, so long and so deep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Over my heart, in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood’s years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,Make me a child again, just for to-night;Mother, come back from the echoless shore;Take me again to your heart as of yore;Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;Over my slumbers your loving watch keep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight,
Make me a child again, just for to-night;
Mother, come back from the echoless shore;
Take me again to your heart as of yore;
Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care,
Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair;
Over my slumbers your loving watch keep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!I am so weary of toil and of tears—Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—Take them and give me my childhood again!I have grown weary of dust and decay—Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;Weary of sowing for others to reap—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years!
I am so weary of toil and of tears—
Toil without recompense—tears all in vain—
Take them and give me my childhood again!
I have grown weary of dust and decay—
Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away;
Weary of sowing for others to reap—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you.Many a summer the grass has grown green,Blossomed and faded, our faces between;Yet with strong yearning and passionate painLong I to-night for your presence again.Come from the silence, so long and so deep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue,
Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you.
Many a summer the grass has grown green,
Blossomed and faded, our faces between;
Yet with strong yearning and passionate pain
Long I to-night for your presence again.
Come from the silence, so long and so deep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,No love like mother-love ever has shone;No other worship abides and endures—Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;None like a mother can charm away painFrom the sick soul and the world-weary brain.Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Over my heart, in the days that are flown,
No love like mother-love ever has shone;
No other worship abides and endures—
Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours;
None like a mother can charm away pain
From the sick soul and the world-weary brain.
Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old;Let it drop over my forehead to-night,Shading my faint eyes away from the light;For with its sunny-edged shadows once moreHaply will throng the sweet visions of yore;Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold,
Fall on your shoulders, again, as of old;
Let it drop over my forehead to-night,
Shading my faint eyes away from the light;
For with its sunny-edged shadows once more
Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore;
Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been longSince I last listened your lullaby song;Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seemWomanhood’s years have been only a dream.Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,With your light lashes just sweeping my face,Never hereafter to wake or to weep—Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
Mother, dear mother, the years have been long
Since I last listened your lullaby song;
Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem
Womanhood’s years have been only a dream.
Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace,
With your light lashes just sweeping my face,
Never hereafter to wake or to weep—
Rock me to sleep, mother—rock me to sleep.
In a former lesson you read a description of the thermometer, a useful instrument which enables us to estimate the temperature, or sensible heat, of substances.
All bodies, even the coldest, contain heat; and they have also a tendency to part with their heat to colder substances around them, until all have the same temperature. Thus, when you lay your hand on a block of iron or marble, heat leaves your hand to enter the less warm material and raise its temperature; and it is this abstraction of heat that produces in you the sensation of cold.
There is, then, a constant communication or transmission of heat from one body to another. This communication is effected chiefly in two ways—byconductionand byradiation. In conduction, the bodies are in contact; in radiation, they are at some distance apart.
If you push one end of a cold poker into the fire, that end will soon become warm, and the heat will be propagated from particle to particle through the poker, until the end most distant from the fire becomes too hot to be touched without injury. This mode of transmission is called conduction. Different substances possess this power in very different degrees. Thus, if instead of a poker you thrust into the fire a bar of wood of equal length and thickness, you will find that, even when the inserted end is in flames, the other remains comparativelycold, and may be handled with impunity. Hence we say that iron is agoodconductor, and wood abadconductor of heat.
The conducting power of bodies depends in a great measure on the closeness of their particles—dense, solid substances being much better conductors than those which are light and porous. The metals are the best conductors, but they differ very much among themselves. The best is silver; the others stand in this respect in the following order—copper, gold, brass, tin, iron, steel, lead.
You will now understand why metals feel cold to the touch: it is because, being good conductors, they carry the heat rapidly away from that part of our body with which they are in contact.
Among the bad conductors of heat are fur, wool, cotton, silk, and linen; straw, paper, feathers, wood, earth, snow, water, and air; and loose bodies, such as sawdust and shavings, which contain a large amount of air in the spaces between their particles.
Our clothing, as you know, is made of wool, cotton, or linen. Can you tell why such materials are selected for the purpose? It is not, as many ignorant people suppose, because they are best adapted toimpartwarmth. The true reason is that, being bad conductors, they prevent the cold air and other objects around us from robbing us of the heat which is produced within our bodies.
When once you understand what is meant by conduction of heat, and can distinguish between substances which are good conductors and those which are not, you will be able to give a reason for many facts that mustappear strange to every one who does not possess such information. A little reflection, for instance, will enable you to explain why a linen garment feels colder to the skin than one made of cotton or wool; why a silver spoon becomes hot when the bowl is left for a few minutes in a cup of hot liquid; why a metal tea-pot or kettle is commonly furnished with a handle of wood or ivory; why ice may be preserved by being wrapped in flannel or covered with sawdust; why a pump, in frosty weather, should be encased in straw or matting; and why the farmer welcomes the snow, and regards it as a protection to his crops.
Every warm body has the power of sending out rays of heat, as a luminous body gives out rays of light. This mode of communicating heat is calledradiation, and it serves, as we shall see, a very important purpose in the economy of nature.
When you stand before a fire, heat-rays stream forth from the burning fuel, and create in you the sensation of warmth. In this case, the heat of the fire is communicated to you, not by conduction, but by radiation.
Everything in nature is constantly radiating heat from its surface. If a body be surrounded by objects hotter than itself, it becomes heated by radiation; if it be exposed to the influence of objects colder than itself, it becomes cooled by radiation; and if the objects around it are neither hotter nor colder than itself, its temperature remains unaltered.
But though all bodies radiate heat, they have not all the same radiating power. Some substances possess this powerin a far greater degree than others. The metals, though they are the best conductors, are the worst radiators. This is particularly the case when they are polished. Dull, dark substances, and especially those which have a rough or scratched surface, are good radiators; light-colored and smooth substances, on the other hand, are bad radiators; and this explains why, as every good housewife knows, a polished metal tea-pot keeps tea warmer than a black earthen one—it does not part with its heat so readily.
Bodies which radiate freely have the power in an equal degree ofabsorbingheat; that is, they are as ready to take it in, as they are to throw it out again. Dark substances, therefore, must be good absorbers, as they are good radiators of heat. A very simple experiment will illustrate this fact very clearly. If you spread upon snow, in a place exposed to the sunbeams, two pieces of cloth of the same texture, one black and the other white, you will find, after some time, that under the black cloth the snow has been melted, but under the white cloth it remains as it was at first. The black material has been heated quickly and intensely; the white has not been heated at all: the former hasabsorbedthe sun’s rays; the latter hasreflectedthem.
The laws of absorption and radiation enable us to explain many curious facts. Thus, dark-colored clothes are cold in the shade, because they are then radiating heat from our bodies; but they are warm in the sunshine, because they are then absorbing the heat that falls upon them from the sun. On the other hand, light coloredclothes are warm in the shade, and cool in the sunshine. Again, a dish-cover or metal tea-pot is kept as brightly polished as possible, in order to prevent the escape of the heat by radiation; a black earthenware tea-pot, on the contrary, has a dull and dark surface, so that it may be placed on the hob and absorb the heat. So, too, if a kettle is to heat quickly, the bottom and sides should be covered with soot, to absorb the heat; while the upper part should be bright, to prevent radiation.
It is radiation, also, that accounts for the deposition of dew. It is a common error to suppose that dew falls in the same manner as rain or mist, only in much finer particles. Dew, in fact, does not fall, but is formed on the surface of bodies by the condensation of the moisture of the atmosphere.
The air around us contains at all times a quantity of moisture in the form of vapor. Now this vapor has been formed from water by the action of heat; and it may again be turned into water by being brought in contact with objects that are cold. And this is just what takes place in the formation of dew. When the sun has set, the trees and grass and other objects on the earth’s surface immediately begin to radiate the heat which they have absorbed from its beams during the day. The best radiators, of course, become cool most rapidly, and quickly condense the vapor that floats in the air around them; and in the morning we find those objects which radiate freely, such as blades of grass, leaves of plants, and floating cobwebs, covered with this condensed vapor in the form of glittering dewdrops.
Clouds, in a great measure, prevent radiation, and hence the dew will be most plentiful on a clear and cloudless night. If the radiation continues till the temperature of the ground is very low, the dew freezes as it is deposited and formshoar-frost.
You may see a smooth road or gravel walk quite dry in the morning, while the grass or box by its side is thickly coated with moisture. Why is this? It is simply because the road or walk is a bad radiator and cools slowly, while the grass and box, being good radiators, become rapidly cold and condense the vapor of the passing air into dew.
Thus by a wise arrangement, the cultivated fields receive an abundance of precious moisture, while not a drop is wasted on the bare rock, or the sterile sands of the desert.
Word Exercise.ster´ĭleprecious (prĕsh´us)ĭg´no-rantrā-di-ā´tionpō´rousil-lŭs´trāteăt´mos-phēre (ăt´mos-fēr)text´ure (tekst´yure)par´ti-clesen-sā´tionse-lĕct´eddep-o-sĭ´tion (-zĭsh´un)trăns-mis´sion (trăns-mish´un)e-cŏn´o-mylū´mi-noŭsab-sorb´ingin´flu-encecŏn-dŭc´tionar-rānge´ment
ster´ĭleprecious (prĕsh´us)ĭg´no-rantrā-di-ā´tionpō´rousil-lŭs´trāteăt´mos-phēre (ăt´mos-fēr)text´ure (tekst´yure)par´ti-clesen-sā´tionse-lĕct´eddep-o-sĭ´tion (-zĭsh´un)trăns-mis´sion (trăns-mish´un)e-cŏn´o-mylū´mi-noŭsab-sorb´ingin´flu-encecŏn-dŭc´tionar-rānge´ment
Phrase Exercise.1. Have atendency to partwith their heat.—2. Constant communication.—3. Heat will bepropagated.—4. May behandledwithimpunity.—5. Adapted to impart warmth.—6. Regards it as a protection.—7. Exposed to the influence.—8. Remains unaltered.—9. A simple experiment.—10. Heatedintensely.—11. Immediately begin to radiate.—12. Thickly coated with moisture.—13. Wise arrangement.—14. Cultivated fields.—15. Precious moisture.—16.Wastedon thebarerock.
1. Have atendency to partwith their heat.—2. Constant communication.—3. Heat will bepropagated.—4. May behandledwithimpunity.—5. Adapted to impart warmth.—6. Regards it as a protection.—7. Exposed to the influence.—8. Remains unaltered.—9. A simple experiment.—10. Heatedintensely.—11. Immediately begin to radiate.—12. Thickly coated with moisture.—13. Wise arrangement.—14. Cultivated fields.—15. Precious moisture.—16.Wastedon thebarerock.
Joseph Addison.
When all Thy mercies, O my God,My rising soul surveys,Transported with the view, I’m lostIn wonder, love, and praise.O how shall words with equal warmthThe gratitude declare,That glows within my ravished heart!But Thou canst read it there.Thy Providence my life sustained,And all my wants redressed,When in the silent womb I lay,And hung upon the breast.To all my weak complaints and cries,Thy mercy lent an ear,Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learntTo form themselves in prayer.Unnumbered comforts to my soulThy tender care bestowed,Before my infant heart conceivedFrom whence these comforts flowed.When in the slippery paths of youth,With heedless steps I ran,Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,And led me up to man.Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,It gently cleared my way;And through the pleasing snares of vice,More to be feared than they.When worn with sickness, oft hast ThouWith health renewed my face;And when in sins and sorrows sunk,Revived my soul with grace.Thy bounteous hand with worldly blissHas made my cup run o’er;And in a kind and faithful friendHas doubled all my store.Ten thousand thousand precious giftsMy daily thanks employ;Nor is the least a cheerful heart,That tastes those gifts with joy.Through every period of my lifeThy goodness I’ll pursue;And after death, in distant worlds,The glorious theme renew.When nature fails, and day and nightDivide thy works no more,My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,Thy mercy shall adore.Through all eternity, to TheeA joyful song I’ll raise:But O! eternity’s too shortTo utter all thy praise!
When all Thy mercies, O my God,My rising soul surveys,Transported with the view, I’m lostIn wonder, love, and praise.O how shall words with equal warmthThe gratitude declare,That glows within my ravished heart!But Thou canst read it there.Thy Providence my life sustained,And all my wants redressed,When in the silent womb I lay,And hung upon the breast.To all my weak complaints and cries,Thy mercy lent an ear,Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learntTo form themselves in prayer.Unnumbered comforts to my soulThy tender care bestowed,Before my infant heart conceivedFrom whence these comforts flowed.When in the slippery paths of youth,With heedless steps I ran,Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,And led me up to man.Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,It gently cleared my way;And through the pleasing snares of vice,More to be feared than they.When worn with sickness, oft hast ThouWith health renewed my face;And when in sins and sorrows sunk,Revived my soul with grace.Thy bounteous hand with worldly blissHas made my cup run o’er;And in a kind and faithful friendHas doubled all my store.Ten thousand thousand precious giftsMy daily thanks employ;Nor is the least a cheerful heart,That tastes those gifts with joy.Through every period of my lifeThy goodness I’ll pursue;And after death, in distant worlds,The glorious theme renew.When nature fails, and day and nightDivide thy works no more,My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,Thy mercy shall adore.Through all eternity, to TheeA joyful song I’ll raise:But O! eternity’s too shortTo utter all thy praise!
When all Thy mercies, O my God,My rising soul surveys,Transported with the view, I’m lostIn wonder, love, and praise.
When all Thy mercies, O my God,
My rising soul surveys,
Transported with the view, I’m lost
In wonder, love, and praise.
O how shall words with equal warmthThe gratitude declare,That glows within my ravished heart!But Thou canst read it there.
O how shall words with equal warmth
The gratitude declare,
That glows within my ravished heart!
But Thou canst read it there.
Thy Providence my life sustained,And all my wants redressed,When in the silent womb I lay,And hung upon the breast.
Thy Providence my life sustained,
And all my wants redressed,
When in the silent womb I lay,
And hung upon the breast.
To all my weak complaints and cries,Thy mercy lent an ear,Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learntTo form themselves in prayer.
To all my weak complaints and cries,
Thy mercy lent an ear,
Ere yet my feeble thoughts had learnt
To form themselves in prayer.
Unnumbered comforts to my soulThy tender care bestowed,Before my infant heart conceivedFrom whence these comforts flowed.
Unnumbered comforts to my soul
Thy tender care bestowed,
Before my infant heart conceived
From whence these comforts flowed.
When in the slippery paths of youth,With heedless steps I ran,Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,And led me up to man.
When in the slippery paths of youth,
With heedless steps I ran,
Thine arm, unseen, conveyed me safe,
And led me up to man.
Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,It gently cleared my way;And through the pleasing snares of vice,More to be feared than they.
Through hidden dangers, toils, and death,
It gently cleared my way;
And through the pleasing snares of vice,
More to be feared than they.
When worn with sickness, oft hast ThouWith health renewed my face;And when in sins and sorrows sunk,Revived my soul with grace.
When worn with sickness, oft hast Thou
With health renewed my face;
And when in sins and sorrows sunk,
Revived my soul with grace.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly blissHas made my cup run o’er;And in a kind and faithful friendHas doubled all my store.
Thy bounteous hand with worldly bliss
Has made my cup run o’er;
And in a kind and faithful friend
Has doubled all my store.
Ten thousand thousand precious giftsMy daily thanks employ;Nor is the least a cheerful heart,That tastes those gifts with joy.
Ten thousand thousand precious gifts
My daily thanks employ;
Nor is the least a cheerful heart,
That tastes those gifts with joy.
Through every period of my lifeThy goodness I’ll pursue;And after death, in distant worlds,The glorious theme renew.
Through every period of my life
Thy goodness I’ll pursue;
And after death, in distant worlds,
The glorious theme renew.
When nature fails, and day and nightDivide thy works no more,My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,Thy mercy shall adore.
When nature fails, and day and night
Divide thy works no more,
My ever-grateful heart, O Lord,
Thy mercy shall adore.
Through all eternity, to TheeA joyful song I’ll raise:But O! eternity’s too shortTo utter all thy praise!
Through all eternity, to Thee
A joyful song I’ll raise:
But O! eternity’s too short
To utter all thy praise!
James Brown, LL.D.
The principal evergreen, or cone-bearing trees, natives of Canada, arePines,Firs, andThujas.
As every one cannot distinguish a Pine from a Fir, this lesson is illustrated with drawings, showing the peculiar character of each, so that any boy or girl may be able, when looking at a cone-bearing tree, to decide whether it is a Pine or a Fir.
Fig. 1 represents a small piece of the twig of a White Pine. On examination it will be seen that the leaves are needle-shaped, and spring from the young shoot in little tufts of fives, all issuing from one point. This arrangement and form of the leaf are peculiar to Pines, and should be kept in mind when examining a tree, in order to know whether it is a Pine or a Fir. Every Pine tree, however, has notfiveleaves issuing from one point; some have only two, and there are others, again, that have three.
Twig of the White PineFig. 1.
Fig. 1.
Fig. 2 represents a twig of the Hemlock Spruce Fir, atree well-known to nearly every young person in Canada. Looking at this illustration, we at once observe that the leaves are distributedsinglyon the young shoot, and stand out in two rows. In the case of a few species of Fir, however, the leaves are not thus arranged, but are scattered all round the twigs, being stiff and pointed, as shown in Fig. 3, which represents a twig of the common Black Spruce Fir. In all cases, Firs have their leaves springingsinglyfrom the twigs, an arrangement by which any child can distinguish them from Pines.
Twig of the Hemlock Spruce FirFig. 2.
Fig. 2.
Of all our native trees, Pines are considered the most valuable, as their timber can be used for almost every purpose for which wood is required, especially for house-building, ship-building, fencing, and railway construction. The two principal species are the White and the Red Pine.
Twig of the Black Spruce FirFig. 3.
Fig. 3.
The White Pine is one of the grandest trees of our Canadian forests. It grows to very large proportions on dry, gravelly lands, where it is not crowded by other trees. We often find individual pine trees rising to the height of 200 feet, with stems from four to six feet in diameter near the ground; but in general they may be said to reach 150 feet, with a diameter of about threefeet. In the earlier settled parts of the country, the best and largest trees of this species were cut down long ago; but thousands of fine specimens are still to be met with in the backwoods.
The Red Pine does not grow to so large a size as the White, nor is it found so plentifully in our forests. It is to be met with only on dry, gravelly knolls, and in rocky parts of the country, generally in patches of small extent, and seldom among other trees. Its timber is of the best description, and is much sought after by lumbermen. Owing to this cause it is now comparatively scarce. All Pines are reared from seeds, which may be found ripe in their cones in the month of November.
Although our Fir trees are, generally speaking, not so important as our Pines, still, there are two or three of them well worthy of being brought under notice here, particularly the Douglas Fir, the Hemlock Spruce Fir, the common Black Spruce Fir, and the Balsam Fir.
The Douglas Fir is not found in the woods east of the Rocky Mountains, but it grows in the immense forests of British Columbia to heights varying from 150 to 250 feet, with trunks from three to ten feet in diameter. A peculiar feature of this Fir is, that the bark on old trees is found from ten to fourteen inches thick. Where full grown, this grand Fir usually stands apart from other trees, and forms a majestic object in the landscape, being clothed with horizontal branches from the base to the top. The timber is exceedingly durable, and in its native province is much used for general purposes. It is also exported for ship-masts, the tall,clean stems making the best of material for this purpose.
The Hemlock Spruce Fir, most young people of Canada are acquainted with, as it is widely distributed, and found in many bushes of the country. In open situations, and on cool-bottomed lands, the Hemlock is a noble tree; while young it is very graceful in form, and when approaching maturity its horizontal limbs give it the appearance of the Cedar of Lebanon. Its timber, however, is not esteemed so highly as that of the Pine, being of a loose and open character. But, although this is the case, it is largely used for rough boarding purposes, as in building barns, and in making side-walks. The bark of this tree is valuable for tanning leather.
The Black Spruce Fir, orGum Spruce, as it is often called, is very common on most flat and cool-bottomed lands in Canada, and also on the banks of lakes and rivers. It is a tall and beautifully formed tree, having a dark brown bark, and very dark green leaves. It is from these characteristics that it derives its name. It grows to a height varying from 70 to 100 feet, but the stems seldom attain diameters over two feet at the bottom. The timber, though light, is very tough and strong.
The Balsam is one of the handsomest members of this family. Commercially it is not of much value, but as an ornamental tree it is unsurpassed—its regular conical form, closely set branches, and deep green leaves, rendering it a conspicuous object in any landscape. The Balsam seldom exceeds forty or fifty feet in height.
Although the Firs, like the Pines, are reared from seedswhich ripen in October and November, they may be grown from cuttings of the young wood, as rare kinds sometimes are when their seeds cannot be had.
The Thuja, orArbor vitæ, as it is generally called, is a very useful class of Canadian trees. It grows to a large size, and is found chiefly on the Pacific slope. There is only one species which is a native of Ontario, and to it alone we shall here refer. It is known to most people in Ontario under the name of theWhite Cedar. How it came to be called aCedarwe do not know; but its true name is theArbor vitæ. This species is too familiar to the people of the eastern provinces of Canada to require any lengthened description, as many farmers have it growing in the swampy parts of their bushes, and find it useful for various purposes, especially as rails for fencing.
The leaves of this tree are so small, that to a casual observer, they scarcely appear to be leaves. If they are closely looked at, however, it will be seen that they are in opposite pairs, and lie flat and pressed on the twigs, each pair overlapping the other like the shingles on a house-top. When they are roughly handled, they give out a strong aromatic smell. The tree, although it grows to large dimensions—some times to eighty or ninety feet in height, with stems from two to three feet in diameter—cannot be considered an ornamental one, as its branches are too loose and open, and its leaves too small, to give it a clothed look. Its timber, however, is of the most valuable description, being very durable, and in this respect it is not surpassed by any other tree. Much of it is used for railway ties. The Thujas are all grown fromseeds, but like the Firs, they may be reared from cuttings.
Hon. Mrs. Norton.