--From “LITTLE FLOWERS OF ST. FRANCIS.” * * * * * Teach me, O lark! with thee to gently rise, To exalt my soul and lift it to the skies. --EDMUND BURKE. THE PETRIFIED FERN petrified holiday avalanches design delicate reveled mysteries haughty mammoth veinings fissure holiday In a valley, centuries ago, Grew a little fern leaf, green and slender, Veining delicate and fibers tender; Waving when the wind crept down so low; Rushes tall, and moss, and grass grew round it, Playful sunbeams darted in and found it, Drops of dew stole in by night and crowned it, But no foot of man e’er trod that way; Earth was young and keeping holiday. Monster fishes swam the silent main, Stately forests waved their giant branches, Mountains hurled their snowy avalanches, Mammoth creatures stalked across the plain; Nature reveled in grand mysteries; But the little fern was not of these, Did not number with the hills and trees, Only grew and waved its wild sweet way,-- No one came to note it day by day. Earth, one time, put on a frolic mood, Heaved the rocks and changed the mighty motion Of the deep, strong currents of the ocean; Moved the plain and shook the haughty wood, Crushed the little fern in soft moist clay, Covered it, and hid it safe away. Oh, the long, long centuries since that day! Oh, the agony, oh, life’s bitter cost, Since that useless little fern was lost! Useless! Lost! There came a thoughtful man Searching Nature’s secrets, far and deep; From a fissure in a rocky steep He withdrew a stone, o’er which there ran Fairy pencilings, a quaint design, Veinings, leafage, fibers clear and fine, And the fern’s life lay in every line! So, I think, God hides some souls away, Sweetly to surprise us the last day. --MARY L. BOLLES BRANCH. * * * * * The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. --SHAKESPEARE. BIRD ENEMIES I recognize honor innocent complimentary assassin retorts bugaboo apparently suspect thrush social intolerable