w
sort of valentine he had sent out made Davie smile to himself!

* * * * *

VALENTINES.

The wind was blowing down our street,
And it was snowing some;
But I watched from the chilly porch
To see the postman come.

Across the street to Elsie's door;
And then I meant to run
Before she got the valentine--
I knew that she'd get one.

I knew it would be beautiful,
With lace and hearts and things,
And pretty verses on the leaves,
And tied with ribbon strings.

I knew the verses all by heart;
I knew the bows were pink;
The hearts were gold; the lace was white--
Oh, what would Elsie think!

I saw the postman come at last,
And Elsie at the door;
She got a valentine, sure 'nough--
I knew she would before.

And then I hid inside our hall;
And, when his whistle blew,
The postman called: "Hello! hello!--
A valentine for you!"

Sure 'nough, I got a valentine,
With lace and hearts and things,
And pretty verses on the leaves,
And tied with ribbon strings.

And I have wondered, ever since,
And guessed if Elsie knew
For sure I'd get a valentine,
Before the postman blew,

Just like I knew that she'd get one
And knew her verses, too.
I never s'posed that I'd get one--
Do you guess Elsie knew?
--_Written for Dew Drops by Ellen D. Masters_.

* * * * *

A TREE TALK.

What a wonderful thing a tree is! A live thing, a useful thing, a
beautiful thing, and so common that we scarcely think of it as a
wonder at all.

Think of the great families of trees, the maple, the beech, the birch,
the hemlock, the spruce, the oak, and so on and on and on. So many
alike, and yet each one different. What a world of wonders!

In the human family there are oddities, you know, and so in the tree
family.

There is the whistling tree, for instance. It grows in the West India
Islands. It bears pods with open edges, and the wind passing through
them makes the whistling sound which gives the tree its name.

Then there is the cow tree, which yields a delicious creamy milk. This
tree grows in South America, and often looks like a dead tree, but if
it is tapped the milk will flow out freely. Sunrise is "milking time,"
when the natives come with their jugs and fill them with the swee