"Most beautiful of forest trees--the Lady of the Woods!" came the responsive hail from eighteen green-clad maidens, tiptoeing around the Silver Lady, the emerald tassels of their Tam-o'-shanters skipping in the June breeze that peeped under her fluttering veil, still tucked with buds, to kiss those white limbs lifted to the skies, with surely, some bud of conscious joy. It was June! Upon the cliff-brow, above the lake, wild roses were budding, too; and the girls' cheeks painted themselves with their reflection--even as did the blushing minnows in the lake. But the lady of the woods had the best of it so far as decoration went. Never new-crowned head wore in its coronet Life as hers did,--fledgling life. For amid the heart-shaped leaves, so brightly green, was the cap-sheaf of summer wear: "A nest of robins in her hair." The poet who penned that line would have gloried in the sight of her, that bungalow birch tree, a tall, straight specimen, radiant as a silver taper from the black, frescoed ring about the foot to the topmost ivory twig, and here and there amid the fluttering, pea-green tresses a little tuft of conscious life--a nestling with open beak and craving, coralline throat. He would have joyed in the sight of the tree-loving Group, too, as the earth was turned and the first silver sapling rooted deep to the music of Tomoke's voice, softly proclaiming: "He who plants a tree, He plants love. Tents of coolness spreading out above Wayfarers he may not live to see. Gifts that grow are best, Hands that bless are blest, Plant! Life does the rest." And Life would do the rest--oh! surely--in the case of her father and herself, was the dewy thought of Pemrose Lorry as she planted her baby tree in honor of that novel Wayfarer, that would first traverse space and conquer it--bridge the gulf which made Earth a hermit amid the heavenly bodies--of the great invention, whereof poets in future ages would sing, that daringly took the first step towards linking planet with planet. And the tender sapling was rooted in the hope that long before it was a mature tree that comet-like Wayfarer would start,--the Thunder Bird would fly. Well! star-dust never blinded the eyes. But it certainly dazzled those of Pemrose, that young visionary, as she pressed earth around her sapling's root: would there ever come a time when the Camp Fires of Earth would hail the Camp Fires of some other planet across that illimitable No Man's Land of Space, first--oh! thought transcendent--first bridged by her father's genius?