er account for the oaks and walnuts which spring up
in pastures; for, depend on it, every new tree comes from a seed. When I
examine the little oaks, one or two years old, in such places, I
invariably find the empty acorn from which they sprung.

DEFINITIONS.--1. Mem'brane, a thin, soft tissue of interwoven fibers. 2.
Prop-a-ga'tion, the continuance of a kind by successive production. 4.
Port'a-ble, capable of being carried. 7. Trans-por-ta'tion, the act of
conveying from one place to another. 8. De--cid'u-ous, said of trees whose
leaves fall in autumn. 11. Ger'mi-nat-ing, sprouting, beginning to grow.
14. Or-ni-thol'o-gist, one skilled in the science which treats of birds.
E-con'o-my, orderly system, Dis-sem'i-nat-ing, scattering for growth and
propagation. Nu-cif 'er-ous, bearing nuts.

XCII. SPRING AGAIN.

Celia Thaxter (b. 1836, d. 1894), whose maiden name was Laighton, was born
in Portsmouth, N.H. Much of her early life was passed on White Island, one
of a group of small islands, called the Isles of Shoals, about ten miles
from the shore, where she lived in the lighthouse cottage. In 1867-68, she
published, in the "Atlantic Monthly," a number of papers on these islands,
which were afterwards bound in a separate volume. Mrs. Thaxter was a
contributor to several periodicals, and in strength and beauty of style
has few equals among American writers. The following selection is from a
volume of her poems entitled "Drift Weed."

1. I stood on the height in the stillness
And the planet's outline scanned,
And half was drawn with the line of sea
And half with the far blue land.

2. With wings that caught the sunshine
In the crystal deeps of the sky,
Like shapes of dreams, the gleaming gulls
Went slowly floating by.

3. Below me the boats in the harbor
Lay still, with their white sails furled;
Sighing away into silence,
The breeze died off the world.

4. On the weather-worn, ancient ledges
Peaceful the calm light slept;
And the chilly shadows, lengthening,
Slow to the eastward crept.

5. The snow still lay in the hollows,
And where the salt waves met
The iron rock, all ghastly white
The thick ice glimmered yet.

6. But the smile of the sun was kinder,
The touch of the air was sweet;
The pulse of the cruel ocean seemed
Like a human heart to beat.

7. Frost-locked, storm-beaten, and lonely,
In the midst of the wintry ma