So the spring came and day by day she sent from her own store of life-blood to enrich that of her companion and soon his garments assumed the most brilliant hues of all the trees in the forest; the leaves glinted and glistened in the sunlight, and from the branches there was ever a low murmur of song; the birds came to build their nests and rear their young in his arms; and over all there floated a delicate perfume born of the love which she had breathed over him all the long winter. So in all the forest there was none so beautiful and stately as he. His companion said, "Now will he be happy," but her own great heart began to beat more slowly, the life-blood of which she had given him could not be replaced, and her garments gradually assumed a sombre hue and her arms were empty, for the birds no longer nested there. One morning she awakened and found her companion gone. He had joined the other trees in the forest; and now the limbs that had borne the weight of snow began to wither, her leaves began to fall, and when the winter came again there was no raiment to cover her. And the woodman said, "We will cut this tree down, it is dead." [Illustration] THE WIND [Illustration] "Hark to the voice of the wind!" we say, as the windows rattle and house shakes; the winds as they shout in angry voices, clamoring louder in their fury, are telling of storms at sea, of the battles with the ships and the brave hearts that have gone to their death. "It has been on the desolate ocean When the lightening struck the mast; It has heard the cry of the drowning, Who sank as they hurried past. The words of despair and anguish That were heard by no living ear; The gun that no signal answered-- It brings them all to us here. Hark to the voice of the wind!" It shakes angrily the trees whose limbs are swaying in protest against the onslaught; it carries the leaves rustling to the ground, and in its fury uproots the giant oaks, which groan in agony as they are hurled to the ground, lying like soldiers on the field of battle. "Hark to the voice of the wind!" Its fury is abated, and softly, like a benediction it enters the room where the weary mother is watching by the bedside of her sick child; it gently fans the fevered head; it touches with a caress the parched lips of the babe, and with murmur of song it lulls the child to rest. "Hark to the voice of the wind." It enters the counting room of the tired man of business, bringing a perfume of flowers: he lays down his pen, while his thoughts go back to the home of his boyhood, to the meadows, to the hillside covered with flowers, the new-mown hay, and the tired brain is refreshed, he knows not how, and the unseen messenger is gone-- "Hark to the voice of the wind!"