“Although the forest may have, on the whole, but little appreciable effect in increasing the rainfall and the annual run-off, its economic importance in regulating streams is beyond computation. The great indirect value of the forest is the effect which it has in preventing wind and water erosion, thus allowing the soil on hills and mountains to remain where it is formed, and in other ways providing an adequate absorbing medium at the sources of the water courses of the country. It is the amount of water that passes into the soil, not the amount of rainfall, that makes a garden or a desert.” With such evidence as this before them, what farmer in the South will dare question the importance of forestry to the agricultural interests of every section of the South, and especially those sections lying adjacent to streams having their sources in the territory of the proposed Appalachian Forest Reserve? By protecting the forest growth on the watersheds of these streams the flow of the water is rendered more continuous, and the dangers from violent floods, which destroy fences and carry away the most fertile soil, are lessened. The South to-day is pre-eminent in agriculture and timber production, but the wasteful destruction of our forest resources bids fair to transfer the laurels to the great undeveloped West, where we find over 60,000,000 acres of forest reserves, which will for all time to come offer a continuous supply of lumber for the manufacturer and an abundance of water for the farmers who have made a garden of the deserts. It is the duty of the Southern farmer to join with the hardwood lumberman in his efforts to introduce forestry in the South, and by so doing give to succeeding generations the heritage that except for the destructive forces of man would have come to them in nature’s great scheme of things. * * * * * TO THE CAHABA RIVER Ay, laugh along, thou cypress-crown’d stream, Thou echo of the cloud’s kiss on the hills, A Southern maid with eyes of deep-pool gleam And cheeks of dimpled whorls and smiles of rills. Dance, sweet, on sward of violet-crested green, Marked with the silvery pathway of thy track-- With blue embossing ridge of hills between And hair mist in the soft wind floating back. And sweet with soul of aromatic leaves, Steeped in thy crucible of sun-warmed pool, And with the warm breath of the bay, that grieves His love-sigh out amid thy shadows cool. Dance, sweet, adown thy pathway’s wooded hush, Laughing to ’scape the red arms of the hills, Yet bringing on thy cheek the telltale blush, For chattering tongues of all the old dame mills. The live-oak bends to kiss thee, and his sigh Is mingled with the passing of thy charms; The willows start from hidden coverts by To clasp thee in their looping, lover arms.