For us the raftsmen down the stream
Their island barges steer.

Rings out for us the ax-man's stroke
In forests old and still,
For us the century-circled oak
Falls crashing down his hill.

Up!-up!-in nobler toil than ours
No craftsmen bear a part:
We make of Nature's giant powers
The slaves of human Art.

Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,
And drive the treenails free;

Nor faithless joint nor yawning seam
Shall tempt the searching sea!

Where'er the keel of our good ship

The sea's rough field shall plow, -
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip

With salt spray caught below, —
That ship must heed her master's beck,
Her helm obey his hand,

And seamen tread her reeling deck

As if they trod the land.

Her oaken ribs the vulture beak

Of Northern ice may peel;

10

Look! how she moves adown the grooves,

In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves
Sinks down her virgin prow!

God bless her! wheresoe'er the breeze
Her snowy wing shall fan,
Aside the frozen Hebrides,
Or sultry Hindostan !

Where'er, in mart or on the main,
With peaceful flag unfurled,
She helps to wind the silken chain
Of commerce round the world!

Be hers the prairie's golden grain,
The desert's golden sand,

The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

The spice of Morning-land!

Her pathway on the open main

May blessings follow free,

And glad hearts welcome back again

Her white sails from the sea!

pin: a wooden peg or bolt. — island barges: barges or rafts as large as islands. — century-circled: the age of a tree is shown by the circles in a cross section of the wood. -treenails: long wooden pins used to fasten the planks of a vessel.. nor: frequently used in poetry instead of neither. - beck: a beckoning call. — coral peak: coral reefs are the tops of submerged masses of lime formation. — citadel: fortress.—mart: trading place. Compare this with Longfellow's poem, "The Building of the Ship."

ONE TOUCH OF NATURE

WILLIAM J. LONG

WILLIAM J. LONG is an American writer whose intimate knowledge of wood folk gives to his writings much interest and value.

The cheery whistle of the quail recalls to most New England people a vision of breezy upland pastures, with a 5 mottled brown bird calling melodiously from the topmost slanting rail of the old sheep fence. Farmers say he foretells the weather, calling, More-wet; much-more-wet! Boys say he only proclaims his name, Bob White! I'm Bob White! But whether he prognosticates or introduces 10 himself, his voice is always a welcome one. Those who know the call listen with pleasure, and speedily come to love the bird that makes it.

Bob White has another call, more beautiful than his boyish whistle, which comparatively few have heard. It 15 is a soft, liquid yodeling, which the male bird uses to call the scattered flock together. One who walks in the woods at sunset sometimes hears it from a tangle of grapevine and bull brier. If he has the patience to push his way carefully through the underbrush, he may see the beauti20 ful Bob on a rock or stump, uttering the softest and most

musical of whistles. He is telling his flock that here is a nice place he has found, where they can spend the night and be safe from owls and prowling foxes.