The things are mighty few on earth That wishes can attain. Whate'er we want of any worth We've got to work to gain. It matters not what goal you seek, Its secret here reposes: You've got to dig from week to week To get Results or Roses. EDGAR A. GUEST UNDERNEATH THE BOUGH MIRACLE _Yesterday the twig was brown and bare; To-day the glint of green is there To-morrow will be leaflets spare; I know no thing so wondrous fair No miracle so strangely rare._ _I wonder what will next be there!_ L. H. BAILEY THE AWAKENING You little, eager, peeping thing-- You embryonic point of light Pushing from out your winter night, How you do make my pulses sing! A tiny eye amid the gloom-- The merest speck I scarce had seen-- So doth God's rapture rend the tomb In this wee burst of April green! And lo, 'tis here--and lo! 'Tis there-- Spurting its jets of sweet desire In upward curling threads of fire Like tapers kindling all the air. Why, scarce it seems an hour ago These branches clashed in bitter cold; What Power hath set their veins aglow? O soul of mine, be bold, be bold! If from this tree, this blackened thing, Hard as the floor my feet have prest, This flame of joy comes clamoring In hues as red as robin's breast Waking to life this little twig-- O faith of mine, be big! Be big! ANGELA MORGAN SHADE The kindliest thing God ever made, His hand of very healing laid Upon a fevered world, is shade. His glorious company of trees Throw out their mantles, and on these The dust-stained wanderer finds ease. Green temples, closed against the beat Of noontime's blinding glare and heat, Open to any pilgrim's feet. The white road blisters in the sun; Now, half the weary journey done, Enter and rest, Oh, weary one! And feel the dew of dawn still wet Beneath thy feet, and so forget The burning highway's ache and fret. This is God's hospitality, And whoso rests beneath a tree Hath cause to thank Him gratefully. THEODOSIA GARRISON SELECTION FROM "UNDER THE TREES" The wonderful, strong, angelic trees, With their blowing locks and their bared great knees And nourishing bosoms, shout all together, And rush and rock through the glad wild weather. They are so old they teach me, With their strong hands they reach me, Into their breast my soul they take, And keep me there for wisdom's sake. They teach me little prayers; To-day I am their child; The sweet breath of their innocent airs Blows through me strange and wild. * * * * *