years, neglect
God's ancient sanctuaries and adore
Only among the crowd and under roofs
That our frail hands have raised? Let me, at least,
Here, in the shadow of this ancient wood,
Offer one hymn, thrice happy if it find
Acceptance in His ear.

--BRYANT.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

We can hardly see or think of trees without being reminded of Mr.
Lowell, whose death during the last year was so great a loss. He was
eminently a lover of trees, and they were the inspiration of some of
his best prose and poetry. This love of trees led him to call his
pleasant place of residence, in Cambridge, "Elmwood." In making up our
selections for reading or recitation on Arbor Day, the writings of no
one have been turned to more often, probably, than those of Mr.
Lowell, and it will be very proper if we make this year's observance
distinguished by the abundance of our extracts from his various works.
We may well also plant memorial trees in honor of him. No one is more
worthy of such honor, and we can hardly do any better thing than to
plant trees which shall bear his name and remind us hereafter of his
noble words and noble life. And no memorial of him would be more
appropriate or more accordant with his own feelings than a growing
tree. This is abundantly shown by the following letter, written only a
few years ago, when it was proposed in one of our schools, to plant on
Arbor Day, a tree in his memory.

"I can think of no more pleasant way of being remembered than by the
planting of a tree. Like whatever things are perennially good, it will
be growing while we are sleeping, and will survive us to make others
happier. Birds will rest in it and fly thence with messages of good
cheer. I should be glad to think that any word or deed of mine could
be such a perennial presence of beauty, or show so benign a destiny."

[Illustration]

THE OAK.

What gnarled stretch, what depth of shade, is his?
There needs no crown to mark the forest's king;
How in his leaves outshines full summer's bliss!
Sun, storm, rain, dew, to him their tribute bring,
Which he, with such benignant royalty
Accepts, as overpayeth what is lent;
All nature seems his vassal proud to be,
And cunning only for his ornament.

How towers he, too, amid the billowed snows,
An unquelled exile from the summer's throne,
Whose plain, uncintured front more kingly shows,
Now that the