trees. This is really a habit, brought about by the conditions in which trees of temperate climates must live. The leaves of such trees are broad and thin, fitted for very active work. When the winter comes, they would be entirely unable to endure it. The tree might protect them by giving them narrow forms and thick walls (as in pines), but it would be at the expense of activity during the growing season. It is more economical for the tree to make an entirely new set of leaves each year than to protect the old ones.
Perhaps the most noticeable feature in connection with the fall of the leaves is that so many of them take on a rich coloration. Our mixed American forest is the most brilliantly colored autumnal forest in the world, and there can be no landscapes richer in color than those which include such a forest. While all this should appeal to our sense of the beautiful, it should raise the question as to what it means in the life of the trees. We are not at all sure that we know, for we cannot as yet explain the conditions which cause the colors to be produced. We observe that they occur towards the end of the activity of the leaf, but that they are necessarily associated with cold, or drought, or certain outside conditions, is not at all clear. The colors are various shades of red and yellow, sometimes pure, sometimes mixed. It has been recently suggested that the red color is to serve as a protection. It is known that before the fall of the leaf the living substances are gradually withdrawn into the permanent parts of the tree, and that when these living parts cease to work they are peculiarly helpless. At this unprotected period the red appears, and this color absorbs enough heat from the light to raise the temperature, and so the needed protection against chill is afforded. This seems reasonable, but the whole subject of the meaning of plant colors is very obscure.
Gen. Robert E. Lee was a great lover of forest trees. He owned a large and beautiful forest in northern Virginia at the time of the War of the Rebellion. While the army of Virginia was encamped near Fredericksburg, he was gazing at the great forest trees that beautified a homestead near by, the property of his companion. This companion quotes him as saying on this occasion: "There is nothing in vegetable nature so grand as a tree. Grappling with its roots the granite foundations of the everlasting hills, it reaches its sturdy and gnarled trunk on high, spreads its branches to the heavens, casts its shadow on the sward; and the birds build their nests and sing amid its umbrageous branches."
THE BRAVE OLD OAK
A song to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
And he showeth his might, on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale, green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brightened his branches gray,
Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet
To gather the dew of May;
And on that day, to the rebeck gay
They frolicked with lovesome swains;
They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid,
But the tree, it still remains.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale old tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Were a merry sound to hear,
When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.
Now gold hath the sway we all obey,
And a ruthless king is he;
But he never shall send our ancient friend
To be tossed on the stormy sea.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he, a hale, green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.
"CHEEPER," A SPARROW BABY
ONE day in May, as I was hurrying along the street, my steps were arrested by the distressed chirping of a sparrow on the opposite sidewalk. Thinking that probably a young sparrow had fallen from the nest, I picked my way across the muddy road to the other side to see what I could do.
The poor little sparrow-mother was wildly hopping about and chirping in sore distress. And what a pitiful sight greeted my eyes! Upon the wet grass, under the very jaws of an evil-looking little black-and-tan dog, was a poor, draggled, shivering baby sparrow.
At sight of me the dog coolly picked up the baby and trotted off. I followed and he soon dropped it; but I couldn't succeed in driving him away. He still remained in sight, bold and impudent.
I was in a sad dilemma. Of the two evils which confronted me, or rather the baby, which would prove the less?
The trees all about the place were tall ones, with no low branches. There was no hope of returning the baby to its nest. It was too weak from cold and fright, as well as too young, to fly. If I left it the dog would certainly return and devour it before its mother's eyes.
On the other hand, if I took it home with me it would probably die under my ignorant care. However, I decided on the latter course, so clasping it close in my hand, continued on my way.
Those who have a continual grudge against the English sparrow will say, "Why all this fuss over a miserable little nuisance of a sparrow?" and think the wisest thing would have been to leave it to its fate. But the superfluity of the English sparrow is not the question in a case like this. When something weak and helpless is thrown across our path, it simply remains for us to help and save it, if it is in our power.
On the way home I pondered a good deal over the question of how I should care for it and feed it, and what I could find to keep it in, as I had no bird-cage.
When I got Master Sparrow home, and had thoroughly warmed him and dried his little feathers (they were very few!) I put him into the best substitute for a bird-cage that I could find, and that was a large wire rat-trap!
The next question was, what to feed him. As I had seen sparrows picking at the cornmeal which we mixed and gave to the little chickens, I ventured to put some of it into his cage.
I watched him a good deal, that day and didn't see him eat a morsel. But as he seemed stronger and more lively the next day, I concluded he was bashful and only ate when I wasn't looking.
Soon, however, he grew less afraid of me and would hop about and peck at his food when I was near. I began to vary his diet, too, and gave him what green slugs I could find on the rosebushes, as well as minced earthworms. He ate the slugs eagerly and seemed to enjoy tugging at wriggling bits of earthworm.
He also began to develop quite a voice and "cheeped" so loudly that I named him "Cheeper."
I grew very fond of him and watched him grow and feather out with great pride and interest. As he became stronger he grew more eager to get out of his cage. It quite went to my heart to see him beating against, the wires, and vainly striving for freedom. But I feared he couldn't take care of himself; and also that the other birds might not receive him well.
So I kept him seven days. I put his cage in the window several times where he could look out on the world and become acquainted