Among the Trees at Elmridge by Ella Rodman Church (page 2)

[Illustration: GARDEN OF GETHSEMANE.]

“‘If you visit that garden and look upon its old olive trees, the keeper of the place will tell you that you are in Gethsemane, the spot of our Saviour’s betrayal. He will point out the “Grotto of the Agony,” the place where the disciples slumbered, and that where Judas, before his brethren, ceased publicly to be a follower and became the betrayer of Jesus. Some things you very naturally may question as the guardian of the enclosure tells his story. Whether any one of the venerable olive trees ever threw its shadow across the prostrate form of Jesus is more than doubtful, but that these trees are burdened with the history of centuries all must concede. “Gethsemane” means “oil-press,” and olive trees long ago gave Olivet its name. That somewhere in this neighborhood the Saviour suffered cannot be doubted, and within that closed wall may have been the very spot where he bowed in his agony, and where he heard the tongue of Judas utter his treacherous “Rabbi!” and where he felt the serpent-breath of the traitor as that traitor kissed him.'”

Miss Harson read of this solemn spot in a low, reverent tone; and the little audience were very quiet, until at last Clara said,

“Whenever we see an ash tree or olives, how much there will be to think of!”

CHAPTER VII.

_THE USEFUL BIRCH_.

“Oh, Miss Harson!” called out Clara, in great excitement, as she caught up with her governess on a run; “hasn’t Edie poisoned herself? She has been eating this twig.”

Edith, of course, at once began to cry.

“You are not poisoned, dear,” said Miss Harson, very quickly, after trying the twig herself; “for this is birch-wood, and it cannot possibly hurt you. But remember, Edie, that this must not happen again; _never_ put anything to your mouth unless you know it to be harmless. The birds and squirrels and other animals that are obliged to pick up their own living as soon as they are able to use their limbs have the faculty given them of knowing what is good for them to eat, but little girls are not intended to live in the woods, and they cannot tell whether or not the things they find there are fit to eat.”

“I took only a little bit,” sobbed Edith; “Clara snatched it away as soon as it tasted good.”

Malcolm laughingly tossed his little sister into a sort of evergreen cradle where the branches grew low–for they were enjoying an afternoon in the woods–and held her there securely, while their governess replied,

“‘A little bit’ is too much of a thing that might be harmful. You must remember to ‘touch not, taste not, handle not,’ until you have asked permission. But I am going to let you all chew as many birch-shoots as you want, and I too shall chew some; for when I was a little girl, I used to think they were ‘puffickly d’licious.'”

The children were much amazed to think that Miss Harson had ever talked like Edith–indeed, the two older ones could scarcely believe that they once did so themselves; but all soon had their hands full of birch-twigs, and they began gnawing like so many squirrels. All approved of the “birchskin,” as Edith called it, and Malcolm declared that “it would be grand fun to live in the woods all the time.”

“Couldn’t we have a tent, Miss Harson,” asked Clara, “and try it?”

“I have no doubt,” was the reply, “that your indulgent papa would have a tent put up here for you if he thought it would make you happier, but I have my doubts as to whether it would do so. In the first place, I should object very much to living in the tent with you, and how could you possibly live there alone?”

Clara and Edith were quite sure that they could not get along without their friend and governess, but Malcolm thought he would like to try being a hermit or an Indian, he was not quite ready to say which.

“While you are deciding,” said Miss Harson, with a smile, “it may be as well for us to go on as usual; but I think that a little tent could be put up here somewhere, which we might enjoy for an hour or so on pleasant days. I will see about it.”

The little girls were delighted, and Malcolm finally condescended to be pleased with the idea.

“This is a very young birch,” continued their governess, “and you see how slender and graceful it is; also that the bark, or ‘skin,’ is very dark. For this reason it is called the black, or cherry, birch, and also because the tree is very much like the black cherry. It is also called sweet birch and mahogany birch; the _sweet_ part you can probably understand, and it gets its other name from the color of the wood, which often resembles mahogany and at one time was much used for furniture. There are larger trees of the same kind all around us, and I should like to know if anything else has been noticed besides the twigs of this little one.”

“_I_ see something,” replied Malcolm: “there are flowers–purple and yellow.”

“And what is the particular name for these tree-blossoms?” asked Miss Harson.

“Isn’t it _catkins_?” inquired Clara, timidly.

“Yes, catkins, or aments. They hang, as you see, like long tassels of purple and gold, and are as fragrant as the bark. Bryant’s line,

“‘The fragrant birch above him hung her tassels in the sky,’

“was written of this same black birch. Some of these trees are sixty or seventy feet high, and all are very graceful, this species being considered the most beautiful of the numerous birch family. The leaves, which are just coming out, are two or three inches long and about half as wide; they taper to a point and have serrate, or sawlike, edges. The wood is firm and durable, and is much used for cattle-yokes as well as for bedsteads and chairs. The large trees yield a great quantity of sweetish sap, which makes a pleasant drink. The trees are tapped just as the sugar-maples are, and in some parts of the country gathering this sap, which is sometimes used to make vinegar, is quite an important event.”

“Oh! oh! _oh_!” screamed Edith, and began to run.

“Oh! oh! oh!” echoed Clara; and Malcolm declared that she was just like “Jill,” who “came tumbling after.”

“What is the matter, children?” asked their governess, in dismay; but she stood perfectly still.

“Only a poor little garter-snake,” said Malcolm, “putting his head out to see if it’s warm enough for him yet. But he has gone back into his hole frightened to death at such dreadful noises. Hello! what’s the matter with Edie now?”

The little sister had fallen, tripped up by some rough roots, and, expecting the poor startled garter-snake to come and make a meal off her, she was calling loudly for help.

Miss Harson had her in her arms in a moment, and it was soon found that one foot had quite a bad bruise.

“If only you had not run away!” said her governess. “He was such an innocent little snake to make all this fuss about, and very pretty too, if you had stopped to look at him.”

“Are snakes ever pretty?” asked Edith, in great surprise.

“Certainly they are, dear, and this one had lovely stripes. I wish you could have seen him.”

The little girl began to wish so too, it was so funny to think of a snake being pretty, and she felt quite ashamed that she had scampered away in such a silly fashion.

“What a goose I was!” said Clara, doing her thinking aloud. “But I thought it must be something dreadful, when Edie screamed so.”

“How much better it would have been to have found out before you screamed!” replied Miss Harson.–“But come, Edith; see what a nice cane Malcolm has just cut to help your lame foot with. He is offering you his arm, too, on the other side, and between the two I think you will get along finely.”

Edith thought the same thing, and enjoyed being helped home in this fashion. Her foot was quite painful, though, and considerably swollen; and Clara bathed it with arnica when the little girl had been comfortably established on the schoolroom sofa.

“Perhaps,” said Miss Harson, “our little invalid will not care to hear about trees this evening?”

But the little invalid did care, and it was decided to take a further ramble among the birches.

“I want to hear about birch-bark,” said Malcolm–“not the kind we’ve been eating, but the kind that canoes and things are made of.”

[Illustration: THE CUT-LEAVED WHITE BIRCH.]

“You have already heard about the black birch,” replied his governess, “and, besides this, we have the white, or gray, birch, the bark of which is white, chalky and dotted with black; the red birch, with bark of a reddish or chocolate color; the yellow birch, bark yellowish, with a silvery lustre; and the canoe birch, which has a white bark with a pearly lustre. There is also a dwarf, or shrub, birch. The list, you see, is quite a long one.”

“What kind grow in _our_ woods?” asked Clara.

“You certainly know of one kind,” was the reply–“the black, or sweet, birch, which we have all tried and like so well. Besides this, there is the white, or little gray, birch, which is seldom over twenty-five or thirty feet high. It is, however, a graceful and beautiful object, enjoying to an eminent decree the lightness and airiness of the birch family, and spreading out its glistening leaves on the ends of a very slender and often pensile spray with an indescribable softness. An English poet has called this tree the

“‘most beautiful
Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods.'”

The children laughed at the idea of calling a tree a _lady_, it seemed so comical; but Miss Harson said that she thought this was a very good description of a slender, graceful tree.

[Illustration: WHITE-BIRCH LEAF.]

“Four or five inches,” she continued, “will span its waist, or trunk, and this seems a very good reason for calling it _little_. Another name for this tree is poplar birch, because the triangular-shaped leaves, which taper to a very long, slender point, have a habit of trembling like those of the poplars. The branches are of a dark chocolate color which contrasts very prettily with the grayish-white trunk, and their extreme slenderness causes them to droop somewhat like those of the willow. The white birch will spring up in the poorest kind of soil, and it is found in the highest latitude in which any tree can live. Its leaf is ‘deltoid’ in shape and indented at the edge. The bark of this species is said to be more durable than any other vegetable substance, and a piece of birch-wood was once found changed into stone, while the outer bark, white and shining, remained in its natural state,”

“I don’t see how it could,” said Malcolm. “What kept it from turning into stone too?”

“Its peculiar nature,” was the reply, “which is a thing that we cannot explain, and we shall have to take the story just as it is. We certainly know that the wood has been proved to be very strong, and it is much used for timber.”

“Is the red birch really red, Miss Harson?” asked Clara, who thought that this promised to be the prettiest member of the family.

“The bark has a reddish tinge, and it is so loose and ragged-looking that it has been said to roll up its bark in coarse ringlets, which are whitish with a stain of crimson. The red birch, which is more rare than any of the other kinds, is a much larger tree than the white birch, but, like all its relations, it is very graceful. The wood is white and hard and makes very good fuel, while the twigs are made into brooms for sweeping streets and courtyards.”

“But there isn’t very much red about it, after all,” said Malcolm.

“It wasn’t red,” murmured Edith; “it was green;” and the next moment “the baby” was fast asleep, but Miss Harson was afraid that she had taken the snake with her to the land of Nod, so restless was her sleep.

“I hope the yellow birch is yellow,” said Clara again.

“We will see what is said of its color,” replied her governess, “and here it is: ‘Distinguished by its yellowish bark, of a soft silken texture and silvery or pearly lustre,’ It is a large tree, and has been named _excelsa_–‘lofty’–because of its height. The slender, flowing branches are very graceful, and the tree is often as symmetrical as a fine elm, but droops less. The roots of the yellow birch seem to enjoy getting above the ground and twisting themselves in a very fantastic manner, and, taken altogether, it is a strikingly handsome and ornamental tree. The wood was at one time much liked for fuel, and many of the logs were of immense size.”

“Now,” said Malcolm, gleefully, “the canoe birch has _got_ to come next, because there isn’t anything else to come.”

“That is an excellent reason,” replied Miss Harson, “and the canoe birch it shall be. There is more to be said of it than of any of the others, and it also grows in greater quantities. Thick woods of it are found in Maine and New Hampshire–for it loves a cold climate–and in other Northern portions of the country. The tall trunks of the trees resemble pillars of polished marble supporting a canopy of bright-green foliage. The leaves are something of a heart-shape, and their vivid summer green turns to golden tints in autumn. The bark of the canoe birch is almost snowy white on the outside, and very prettily marked with fine brown stripes two or three inches long, which go around the trunk. This bark is very smooth and soft, and it is easily separated into very thin sheets. For this reason the tree is often called the paper birch, and the smooth, thin layers of bark make very good writing-paper when none other can be had.”

“Oh, Miss Harson!” exclaimed Clara; “did you ever see any that was written on?”

“Yes,” was the reply; “I once wrote a letter on some myself.”

“Did you _really_?” cried two eager voices. “How _could_ you? Oh, do tell us about it!”

“I was making a visit at a village in Maine,” said their governess, “where the beautiful trees are to be seen in all their perfection, and I thought it would be appropriate to write a letter from there on birch bark. So I split my bark very thin and got a respectable sheet of it ready; then I cut another piece, to form an envelope, and gummed it together. I had quite a struggle to write on it decently with a steel pen, because the pen would go through the paper; but I persevered, and finally I accomplished my letter. It seemed odd to put a postage-stamp on birch bark, and I smiled to think how surprised the home-people would be to get such a letter. They _were_ surprised, and they told me afterward that the postman laughed when he delivered it.”

The children thought this very interesting, and they wished that there were canoe-birch trees growing at Elmridge, that they might be enabled to try the experiment for themselves.

“Now,” continued Miss Harson, “I am going to read you an account of canoe-making, and of some other uses to which the bark is put:

“‘In Canada and in the district of Maine the country-people place large pieces of the bark immediately below the shingles of the roof, to form a more impenetrable covering for their houses. Baskets, boxes and portfolios are made of it, which are sometimes embroidered with silk of different colors. Divided into very thin sheets, it forms a substitute for paper, and placed between the soles of the shoes and in the crown of the hat it is a defence against dampness. But the most important purpose to which it is applied, and one in which it is replaced by the bark of no other tree, is in the construction of canoes. To procure proper pieces, the largest and smoothest trunks are selected. In the spring two circular incisions are made, several feet apart, and two longitudinal ones on opposite sides of the tree; after which, by introducing a wooden wedge, the bark is easily detached. These plates are usually ten or twelve feet long and two feet nine inches broad. To form the canoe, they are stitched together with fibrous roots of the white spruce about the size of a quill, which are deprived of the bark, split and suppled in water. The seams are coated with resin of the balm of Gilead.

“‘Great use is made of these canoes by the savages and by the French Canadians in their long journeys into the interior of the country; they are very light, and are easily transported on the shoulders from one lake or river to another, which is called the _portage_. A canoe calculated for four persons, with their baggage, weighs from forty to fifty pounds; some of them are made to carry fifteen passengers.’

“And now let me show you a picture of the Kentucky pioneer in a birch-bark canoe.”

“Why, Miss Harson, the Indians are trying to kill him!” exclaimed Malcolm.

“Yes,” she replied; “when you read the history of the United States, you will find that not only Daniel Boone, but the most of the early settlers of these Western lands, had trouble with the Indians. Nor is this strange. These pioneers were often rough men, and were looked upon by the natives as invaders of their country and treated as enemies. But to come back to the uses of the bark of the birch:

“‘In the settlements of the Hudson Bay Company tents are made of the bark of this tree, which for that purpose is cut into pieces twelve feet long and four feet wide. These are sewed together by threads made of the white-spruce roots; and so rapidly is a tent put up that a circular one twenty feet in diameter and ten feet high does not occupy more than half an hour in pitching. Every traveler and hunter in Canada enjoys these “rind-tents,” as they are called, which are used only during the hot summer months, when they are found particularly comfortable.'”

[Illustration: IN THE BIRCH-BARK CANOE]

“Well, that’s the funniest thing yet!” exclaimed Malcolm. “‘Rind-tents’! I wish I could see one. Did they have any in Maine where you were, Miss Harson?”

“No,” was the reply, “I did not even hear of such a thing there, and to see it you would probably have to go far to the north. The English birch, which is found also in many parts of Europe, is put to a great many uses; the leaves produce a yellow dye, and the wood, when mixed with copperas, will color red, black and brown. An old birch tree that is supposed to be giving an account of itself says,

“‘How many are the uses of my bark! Thrifty men who sit beside the blazing hearth when my branches throw up a clear bright flame, and follow the example of their fathers in making their own shoes and those of their families, tan the hides with my bark. Kamschadales construct from it both hats and vessels for holding milk, and the Swedish fisherman his shoes. The Norwegian covers with it his low-roofed hut and spreads upon the surface layers of moss at least three or four inches thick, and, having twisted long strips together, he obtains excellent torches with which to cheer the darkness of his long nights. Fishermen, in like manner, make great use of them in alluring their finny prey. For this purpose they fit a portion of blazing birch in a cleft stick and spear the fish when attracted by its flickering light.'”

The children exclaimed at this queer way of fishing, but Malcolm was very much taken with the idea of doing it by night with blazing torches, and he thought that he would like to be a Norwegian fisherman even better than a hermit or an Indian.

“The old tree goes on to say,” continued Miss Harson, “that ‘Finland mothers form of the dried leaves soft, elastic beds for their children, and from me is prepared the _mona_, their sole medicine in all diseases. My buds in spring exhale a delicious fragrance after showers, and the bark, when burnt, seems to purify the air in confined dwellings.’

“In Lapland the twigs of the birch, covered with reindeer-skins, are used for beds, but they cannot be so comfortable, I should think, as the leaves. The fragrant wood of the tree makes the fires which have to be kept up inside the huts even in summer to drive away the mosquitoes, and the people of those Northern regions would find it hard to get along without the useful birch.”

“I like to hear about it,” said Clara. “Can you tell us something more that is done with it, Miss Harson?”

“There is just one thing more,” replied her governess, with a smile, “which I will read out of an old book; and I desire you all to pay particular attention to it.”

Little Edith was wide awake again by this time, and her great blue eyes looked as if she were ready to devour every word.

“Birch rods,” continued Miss Harson, “are quite different from birch _twigs_, and the uses to which they were put were not altogether agreeable to the boys who ran away from school or did not get their lessons. ‘My branches,’ says the birch, ‘gently waving in the wind, awakened in those days no feelings of dread with truant urchins–for _all_ might be truants then, if so it pleased them–but at length a scribe arose who thus wrote concerning my ductile twigs: “The civil uses whereunto the birch serveth are many, as for the punishment of children both at home and abroad; for it hath an admirable influence upon them to quiet them when they wax unruly, and therefore some call the tree _make-peace_”‘” Malcolm and Clara both laughed, and asked their young governess when the birch rods were coming; but Edith did not feel quite so easy, and, with her bruised foot and all, it took a great deal of petting that night to get her comfortably to bed.

CHAPTER VIII.

_THE POPLARS_.

The bruised foot was not comfortable to walk on for two or three days, and Edith was settled in the great easy arm-chair with dolls and toys and picture-books in a pile that seemed as if it would not stop growing until every article belonging to herself and Clara had been gathered there. “We can go on with our trees,” said Miss Harson, “even if we do not see them just yet; and this evening I should like to tell you something about the poplar, a large tree with alternate leaves which is often found in dusty towns, where it seems to flourish as well as in its favorite situation by a running stream. An old English writer calls the poplars ‘hospitable trees, for anything thrives under their shade.’ They are not handsomely-shaped trees, but the foliage is thick and pretty. In the latter part of this month–April–the trees are so covered with their olive-green catkins that large portions of the forests seem to be colored by them.”

[Illustration: IN THE EASY CHAIR]

“Are there any poplars at Elmridge?” asked Malcolm.

“Not nearer than the woods,” was the reply, “where we must go and look for them when Edith’s foot is quite well again, though there are a good many in the city. The poplar is often planted by the roadside because it grows so rapidly and makes a good shade. The _Abele_, or silver poplar, is an especial favorite for this purpose.

“The balm of Gilead, or Canada poplar, is the largest of the species, and really a handsome tree, often growing to the height of fifty or sixty feet, with a trunk of proportionate size. It has large leaves of a bright, glossy green, which grow loosely on long branches, A peculiarity of this tree is that before the leaves begin to expand the buds are covered with a yellow, glutinous balsam that diffuses a penetrating but very agreeable odor unlike any other. The balsam is gathered as a healing anodyne, and for many ailments it is a favorite remedy in domestic medicine. All the poplars produce more or less of this substance.

“The river poplaris found on the banks of rivers and brooks and in wet places, and is a noble and graceful tree. The trunk is light gray in color, and the young trees have a smooth, leather-like bark. The broad leaves, of a very rich green, grow on stems nearly as long as themselves, and the flowering aments are of a light-red color. The leaf-stalks and young branches are also brightly tinted. Another of these trees has a very singular name: it is called the necklace poplar.”

[Illustration: LOMBARDY POPLAR.]

“Do the flowers grow like real necklaces?” asked Clara.

“Not quite,” replied her governess, “but the reason given is something like it. The tree is so called from the resemblance of the long ament, before opening, to the beads of a necklace. In Europe it is known as the Swiss poplar and the black Italian poplar. Its timber is much valued there for building. There are also the black poplar and that queer, stiff-looking tree the Lombardy poplar. Cannot one of you tell me where there are some tall, narrow trees that look almost as if they had been cut out of wood and stuck there?”

“I know where there are some,” said Malcolm: “right in front of Mrs. Bush’s old house; and I think they’re miserable-looking trees.”

“When old and rusty, they are not in the least cheerful,” replied Miss Harson; “and it is so long since Lombardy poplars were admired that few are found except about old places. The tree is shaped like a tall spire, and in hot, calm weather drops of clear water trickle from its leaves like a slight shower of rain. It was once a favorite shade-tree, and a century ago great numbers of Lombardy poplars were planted by village waysides, in front of dwelling-houses, on the borders of public grounds, and particularly in avenues leading to houses that stand at some distance from the high-road.

[Illustration: A GROUP OF POPLARS IN CASHMERE]

“The poplar is found in many lands. The Lombardy poplar, as its name indicates, was brought from Italy, where it grows luxuriantly beside the orange and the myrtle; but after one of our cold winters many of its small branches will decay, and this gives it a forlorn appearance. When fresh and green, the Lombardy poplar is quite handsome. Some one wrote of it long ago: ‘There is no other tree that so pleasantly adorns the sides of narrow lanes and avenues, and so neatly accommodates itself to limited enclosures. Its foliage is dense and of the liveliest verdure, making delicate music to the soft touch of every breeze. Its terebinthine odors scent the vernal gales that enter our open windows with the morning sun. Its branches, always turning upward and closely gathered together, afford a harbor to the singing-birds that make them a favorite resort, and its long, tapering spire that points to heaven gives an air of cheerfulness and religious tranquillity to village scenery.'”

“I wish we had some,” said Edith, “with singing-birds in ’em.”

“Why, my dear child,” replied her governess, “have we not the beautiful elms, in which the birds build their nests and where they fly in and out continually? They are the very same birds that build in the Lombardy poplars.”

“I thought that singing-birds always lived in cages,” said the little queen in the easy-chair.

“And did you think they were hung all over the Lombardy poplars?” asked Malcolm, in a broad grin.

Edith laughed too, and Miss Harson said smilingly.

“I thought that the birds about Elmridge did a great deal of singing, and the blue-birds and robins kept it up all day. But I should not like to see the old Lombardy poplars hung with gilded cages, and the birds which should happen to be prisoners in the cages would like it still less.”

“Well,” said Edith, contentedly, as she settled herself again to listen.

“The poplar,” continued Miss Harson, “has a great many insect enemies, and the Lombardy is not often seen now, because a great many of these trees were destroyed on account of a worm, or caterpillar, by which they were infested. Poplar-wood is soft, light and generally of a pale-yellow color; it is much used for toy-making and for boarded floors, ‘for which last purpose it is well adapted from its whiteness and the facility with which it is scoured, and also from the difficulty with which it catches fire and the slowness with which it burns. A red-hot poker falling on a board of poplar would burn its way without causing more combustion than the hole through which it passed.'”

“I should think, then,” said Malcolm, “that all wooden things would be made of poplar.”

“It is generally thought not to be durable,” was the reply, “but it is said that if kept dry the wood will last as long as that of any tree. Says the poplar plank,

“‘Though heart of oak be ne’er so stout, Keep me dry and I’ll see him out.’

“The poplar has been highly praised, for every part of this tree answers some good purpose. The bark, being light, like cork, serves to support the nets of fishermen; the inner bark is used by the Kamschadales as a material for bread; brooms are made from the twigs, and paper from the cottony down of the seeds. Horses, cows and sheep browse upon it.

“And now,” said Miss Harson, when the children were wondering if that were the end, “we have come to the most interesting tree of the whole species–the aspen, or trembling poplar. It is a small, graceful tree with rounded leaves having a wavy, toothed border, covered with soft silk when young, which remains only as a fringe on the edge at maturity, supported by a very slender footstalk about as long as the leaf, and compressed laterally from near the base. They are thus agitated by the slightest breath of wind with that quivering, restless motion characteristic of all the poplars, but in none so striking as this. ‘To quiver like an aspen-leaf has become a proverb. The foliage appears lighter than that of most other trees, from continually displaying the under side of the leaves.

“The aspen has been called a very poetical tree, because it is the only one whose leaves tremble when the wind is apparently calm. It is said, however, to suggest fickleness and caprice, levity and irresolution–a bad character for any tree. The small American aspen, which is quite common, has a smooth, pale-green bark, which gets whitish and rough as the tree grows old. The foliage is thin, but a single leaf will be found, when examined, uncommonly beautiful. A spray of the small aspen, when in leaf, is very light and airy-looking, and the leaves produce a constant rustling sound. ‘Legends of no ordinary interest linger around this tree. Ask the Italian peasant who pastures his sheep beside a grove of _Abele_ why the leaves of these trees are always trembling in even the hottest weather when not a breeze is stirring, and he will tell you that the wood of the trembling-poplar formed the cross on which our Saviour suffered.'”

“Oh, Miss Harson!” said Clara, in a low tone. “Is that _true_?”

“We do not know that it is, dear, nor do we know that it is not. Here are some verses about it which I like very much:

“‘The tremulousness began, as legends tell, When he, the meek One, bowed his head to death E’en on an aspen cross, when some near dell Was visited by men whose every breath That Sufferer gave them. Hastening to the wood– The wood of aspens–they with ruffian power Did hew the fair, pale tree, which trembling stood As if awestruck; and from that fearful hour Aspens have quivered as with conscious dread Of that foul crime which bowed the meek Redeemer’s head.

“‘Far distant from those days, oh let not man, Boastful of reason, check with scornful speech Those legends pure; for who the heart may scan Or say what hallowed thoughts such legends teach To those who may perchance their scant flocks keep On hill or plain, to whom the quivering tree Hinteth a thought which, holy, solemn, deep, Sinks in the heart, bidding their spirits flee All thoughts of vice, that dread and hateful thing Which troubleth of each joy the pure and gushing spring?'”

CHAPTER IX.

_ALL A-BLOW: THE APPLE TREE_.

It certainly was a beautiful sight, and the children exclaimed over it in ectasy. It was now past the middle of April, and Miss Harson had taken her little flock to visit an apple-orchard at some distance from Elmridge, and the whole place seemed to be one mass of pink-and-white bloom.

“And how deliciously _sweet_ it is!” said Malcolm as he sniffed the fragrant air.

“Oh!” exclaimed Edith, turning up her funny little nose to get the full benefit of all this fragrance; “I can’t breathe half enough at once.”

“That is just my case,” said her governess, laughing, “but I did not think to say it in that way. Get all you can of this deliciousness, children; I wish that we could carry some of it away with us.”

“And so you shall,” replied a hearty voice as Mr. Grove, the owner of the orchard, came up with a knife in his hand and began cutting off small branches of apple–blossoms. “I like to see folks enjoy things.”

“I hope you don’t mind our trespassing on your grounds?” said Miss Harson. “I can engage that my little friends will do no injury, and I particularly wished them to see your beautiful orchard in bloom; it is almost equal to a field of roses.”

“Don’t mind it at all, miss,” was the reply–“quite the contrary; and I think, myself, it’s a pretty sight. Smells good, too. Now, here’s a nosegay big enough for you three young ladies, and Bub there can carry it.”

Malcolm, who was quite proud of his name, felt so indignant at being called “Bub” that he almost forgot the farmer’s generosity; but his governess acknowledged it, very much to the worthy man’s satisfaction.

Edith, however, was rather shocked.

“I thought it was wicked,” said she, “to cut off flowers from fruit trees? Won’t these make apples?”

“Not them particular ones, Sis,” replied Mr. Grove, with a laugh; “they’re done for now. But it ain’t wicked to cut off your own apple blows when there’s too many on the tree to make good apples, and there’s plenty to spare yet.” He was very much amused at the little girl’s serious face over this wholesale destruction of infant apples, and he invited them all to come to the house and get a drink of fresh milk. The children thought this a very pleasant invitation, and Miss Harson was quite willing to gratify them.

The farmer led his guests into a very cheerful and wonderfully clean kitchen, where Mrs. Groves was busy with her baking, and the loaves of fresh bread looked very inviting. She was as pleasant and hospitable as her husband, and after shaking up a funny-looking patchwork cushion in a rocking-chair for the young lady to sit down on she told the little girls that she would get them a couple of crickets if they would wait a minute, and disappeared into the next room.

The two little sisters looked at each other in dismay and wondered what they could do with these insects, but before they could consult Miss Harson good Mrs. Grove had returned carrying in each hand a small flat footstool. The girls sat down very carefully, for they were not accustomed to such low seats; but the whole party were tired with their walk and glad to rest for a short time. Malcolm, being a boy, was expected to sit where he could, and he speedily established himself in the corner of a wooden settle.

In spite of the apple-blossoms, the kitchen fire was very comfortable; and, as the baking was just coming to an end, Mrs.

Grove said that “she would be ready to visit with them in a minute:” she did not seem to allow herself more than a “minute” for anything. Besides the milk, some very nice seed-cakes in the shape of hearts were produced, and Edith thought them the most delightful little cakes she had ever tasted. Clara and Malcolm, too, were quite hungry, and Miss Harson enjoyed her glass of milk and seed-cake as well as did the young people. The farmer and his wife seemed really sorry to part with their guests when they rose to go, but Miss Harson said that it was time for them to be at home, and the children were obedient on the instant.

“Well,” said the worthy couple, “you know now where to come when you want more apple-blows and a drink of milk.”

Malcolm was quite laden with the mass of rosy flowers which Mr. Grove piled up in his arms, and he enjoyed the delicious scent all the way home.

“I must get out the big jar,” said Miss Harson as she surveyed their treasures, “and there are so many buds that I think we may be able to keep them for some days.–What would you say, Edith, if I told you that people cut off not only the blossoms, but even the fruit itself, while it is green, to make what is left on the tree handsomer and better?”

Edith looked her surprise, and the other children could not understand why all the fruit that formed should not be left on the tree to ripen.

“It is very often left,” replied their governess, “but, although the crop is a large one, it will be of inferior quality; and those who understand fruit-raising thin it out, so that the tree may not have more fruit than it can well nourish. But now it is time for papa to come, and after dinner we will have a regular apple-talk.”

“How nice it was at Mrs. Grove’s to-day!” said Clara, when they were gathered for the talk. “I think that kitchens are pleasanter to sit in than parlors and school-rooms.”

“So do I,” chimed in Edith; “but I was afraid about the crickets at first. I thought we’d have to hold ’em in our hands, and I didn’t like that.”

Why _would_ people always laugh when there was nothing to laugh at? The little girl thought she had a very funny brother and sister, and Miss Harson, too, was funny sometimes.

“Have you so soon forgotten about the real insect-crickets, dear?” asked her governess, kindly. “Why, it will be months yet before we see one. Besides, I thought I told you that in some places a little bench is called a ‘cricket’?–Do you know, Clara, why you thought Mrs. Grove’s kitchen so pleasant? It is larger and better furnished than kitchens usually are, there were pleasant people in it, and you were tired and hungry and ready to enjoy rest and refreshments; but I am quite sure that, on the whole, you would like your own quarters best, because you are better fitted for them, as Mrs. Grove is for hers. We had a very pleasant visit, though, and some day we may repeat it–perhaps when the apples are ripe.”

“Good! good!” cried the children, clapping their hands; and Malcolm added that he “would like to be let loose in that apple-orchard.”

“Perhaps you would like it better than Farmer Grove would,” was the reply. “But we haven’t got to the apples yet; we must first find out a little about the tree. We learn in the beginning that it was one of the very earliest trees planted in this country by the settlers, because it is both hardy and useful. There is a wild species called the Virginia crab-apple, which bears beautiful pink flowers as fragrant as roses, but its small apples are intensely sour. The blossoms of the cultivated apple tree are more beautiful than those of any other fruit; they are delicious to both sight and scent.”

“And do look, Miss Harson,” said Clara, “at these lovely half-open buds! They are just like tiny roses, and _so_ sweet!”

Down went Clara’s head among the clustered blossoms, and then Edith had to come too; and Malcolm declared that between the two they would smell them to death.

“It seems,” continued Miss Harson, “that the apple tree grows wild in every part of Europe except in the frigid zone and in Western Asia, China and Japan. It is thought to have been planted in Britain by the Romans; and when it was brought here, it seemed to do better than it had done anywhere else. It is said that ‘not only the Indians, but many indigenous insects, birds and quadrupeds, welcomed the apple tree to these shores. The butterfly of the tent-caterpillar saddled her eggs on the very first twig that was formed, and it has since shared her affections with the wild cherry; and the canker-worm also, in a measure, abandoned the elm to feed on it. As it grew apace the bluebird, robin, cherry-bird, king-bird, and many more, came with haste and built their nests and warbled in its boughs, and so became orchard-birds and multiplied more than ever. It was an era in the history of their race in America. The downy woodpecker found such a savory morsel under its bark that he perforated it in a ring quite round the tree before he left it. It did not take the partridge long to find out how sweet its buds were, and every winter eve she flew, and still flies, from the wood to pluck them, much to the farmer’s sorrow. The rabbit, too, was not slow to learn the taste of its twigs and bark; and when the fruit was ripe, the squirrel half rolled, half carried, it to his hole. Even the musquash crept up the bank from the brook at evening, and greedily devoured it, until he had worn a path in the grass there; and when it was frozen and thawed, the crow and the jay were glad to taste it occasionally. The owl crept into the first apple tree that became hollow, and fairly hooted with delight, finding it just the place for him; so, settling down into it, he has remained there ever since.’

“Speaking of these buds, Clara,” said her governess, “I think I forgot to tell you that the apple tree belongs to the family Rosaceae, and therefore the half-opened blossoms have a right to look like roses. The tree is not a handsome one, being a small edition of the oak in its sturdy outline, but it is less graceful or picturesque-looking, being often broader than it is high and resembling in shape a half globe. The leaves are not pretty except when first unfolded, and their color is then a beautiful light tint known as apple-green. But the foliage soon becomes dusty and shabby-looking. An old apple tree, with its gnarled, and often hollow, trunk, is generally handsomer than a young one, unless in the time of blossoms; for only a young apple-orchard is covered with such a profusion of bloom as that we saw to-day.”

“I am glad,” said Clara, “that it belongs to the rose family, for now the dear little buds seem prettier than ever.”

“The apples are prettier yet,” observed

Malcolm; “if there’s anything I like, it’s apples.”

“I am afraid that you eat too many of them for your good,” replied his governess; “I shall have to limit you to so many a day.”

“I have eaten only six to-day,” was the modest reply, “and they were little russets, too.”

“Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm!” said Miss Harson, laughing; “what shall I do with you? Why, you would soon make an apple-famine in most places. Three apples a day must be your allowance for the present; and if at any time we go to live in an orchard, you may have six.”

“Why, _we_ have only one,” exclaimed little Edith, “and we don’t want any more.–Do we, Clara?”

[Illustration: Apple Blossoms.]

“If you don’t want ’em,” said Malcolm, “there’s no sense in eating ’em.–But I’ll remember, Miss Harson. I suppose three at one time ought to be enough.”

Malcolm’s expression, as he said this, was so doleful that every one laughed at him; and his governess continued:

“The apple tree is said to produce a greater variety of beautiful fruit than any other tree that is known, and apples are liked by almost every one. They are a very wholesome fruit and nearly as valuable as bread and potatoes for food, because they can be used in so many different ways, and the poorer qualities make very nourishing food for nearly all animals.”

“Rex fairly snatches the apple out of my hand when I go to give him one,” said Malcolm.

“So does Regina,” added Clara, who trembled in her shoes whenever she offered these dainties to the handsome carriage-horses.

Edith had not dared to venture on such a feat yet, and therefore she had nothing to say.

“All horses are fond of apples,” said Miss Harson, “and the fruit is very thoroughly appreciated. Ancient Britain was celebrated for her apple-orchards, and the tree was reverenced by the Druids because the mistletoe grew abundantly on it. In Saxon times, when England became a Christian country, the rite of coronation, or crowning of a king, was in such words as these: ‘May the almighty Lord give thee, O king, from the dew of heaven and the fatness of the earth, abundance of corn and wine and oil! Be thou the lord of thy brothers, and let the sons of thy mother bow down before thee. Let the people serve thee and the tribes adore thee. May the Almighty bless thee with the blessings of heaven above, and the mountains and the valleys with the blessings of the deep below, with the blessings of grapes and _apples_! Bless, O Lord, the courage of this prince, and prosper the work of his hands; and by thy blessing may his land be filled with _apples_, with the fruit and dew of heaven from the top of the ancient mountains, from the _apples_ of the eternal hills, from the fruit of the earth and its fullness!’ You will see from this how highly apples were valued in England in those ancient times.”

“I should like to pick them up when they are ripe,” said Clara, and Malcolm expressed a desire to hire himself out by the day to Mr. Grove when that time arrived.

“An apple-orchard in autumn,” continued their governess, “is often a merry scene. Ladders are put against the trees, and the finest apples are carefully picked off, but such as are to be used for cider-making are shaken to the ground. Men and boys are at work, and even women and children are there with baskets and aprons spread out to catch the fruit; and they run back and forth wherever the apples fall thickest, with much laughter at the unexpected showers that come down upon their heads and necks. Large baskets filled with these apples are carried to the mill, where, after being laid in heaps a while to mellow, they are crushed and pressed till their juice is extracted; and this, being fermented, becomes cider. From this cider, by a second fermentation, the best vinegar is made.”

[Illustration: THE APPLE-HARVEST.]

“Miss Harson,” asked Edith, as the talk seemed to have come to an end, “isn’t there any more about apple trees? I like ’em.”

“Yes, dear,” was the reply; “there is more. I was just looking over, in this little book, some queer superstitions about apple trees in England, and here is a strange performance which is said to take place in some very retired parts of the country:

“‘Scarcely have the merry bells ushered in the morning of Christmas than a troop of people may be seen entering the apple-orchard, often when the trees are powdered with hoarfrost and snow lies deep upon the ground. One of the company carries a large flask filled with cider and tastefully decorated with holly-branches; and when every one has advanced about ten paces from the choicest tree, rustic pipes made from the hollow boughs of elder are played upon by young men, while Echo repeats the strain, and it seems as if fairy-musicians responded in low, sweet tones from some neighboring wood or hill. Then bursts forth a chorus of loud and sonorous voices while the cider-flask is being emptied of its contents around the tree, and all sing some such words as these:

“‘”Here’s to thee, old apple tree! Long mayest thou grow.
And long mayest thou blow, and ripen the apples that hang on thy bough!

“‘”This full can of apple wine, Old tree, be thine:
It will cheer thee and warm thee amid the deep snow;

“‘”Till the goldfinch–fond bird!– In the orchard is heard
Singing blithe ‘mid the blossoms that whiten thy bough.”‘”

“But what did they do it for?” asked Malcolm, who enjoyed the account as much as the others. “There doesn’t seem to be any sense in it.”

“There _is_ no sense in it,” replied his governess, “but these ignorant people had inherited the custom from their fathers and grandfathers, and they really believed–and perhaps still believe–that this attention would be sure to bring a fine crop of apples. We are distinctly told, though, that ‘it is God that giveth the increase;’ and to him alone belong the fruits of the earth. Sometimes the crop is so great that the trees fairly bend over with the weight of the fruit, and there is an old English saying: ‘The more apples the tree bears, the more she bows to the folk.'”

“How funny!” laughed Edith. “Does the apple tree move its head, Miss Harson?”

“It cannot go quite so far as that,” was the reply; “it just stays bent over like a person carrying a heavy burden. The branches of overladen fruit trees are sometimes propped up with long poles to keep them from breaking. There is another strange custom, which used to be practiced on New Year’s eve. It was called ‘Apple-Howling,’ and a troop of boys visited the different orchards–which would scarcely have been desirable when the apples were ripe–and, forming a ring around the trees, repeated these words:

“‘Stand fast, root! bear well, top! Pray God send us a good howling crop– Every twig, apples big;
Every bough, apples enow.’

“All then shouted in chorus, while one of the party played on a cow’s horn, and the trees were well rapped with the sticks which they carried. This ceremony is thought to have been a relic of some heathen sacrifice, and it is quite absurd enough to be that.”

“What is ‘a howling crop,’ Miss Harson?” asked Clara. “That name sounds so queer!”

“I don’t know what it can be,” replied her governess, “unless it refers to the strange expression sometimes used, ‘howling with delight.’ We hear more commonly of ‘howling with pain,’ but ‘a howling crop’ must be one that makes the owner scream, as well as dance for joy.”

“Why, _I_ scream only when I’m frightened,” said Edith, who began to think that there were much sillier people in the world than herself.

“At garter-snakes,” added Malcolm, giving his sister a sly pinch; but Edith did not mind his pinches, because he always took good care not to hurt her.

Miss Harson said that the best way was not to scream at all, as it was both a silly and a troublesome habit, and the sooner her charges broke themselves of it the better she should like it. Clara and Edith both promised to try–just as they had promised before, when the ants were so troublesome; but they were nine months older now, and seemed to be getting a little ashamed of the habit.

“Are apples mentioned anywhere in the Bible?” asked Miss Harson, presently.

Clara and Malcolm were busy thinking, but nothing came of it, until their governess said,

“Turn to the book of Proverbs, Clara, and find the twenty-fifth chapter and the eleventh verse.”

Clara read very carefully:

“‘A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.’ But what does it mean?” she asked.

“It probably means ‘framed in silver’ or ‘in silver frames[11],'” was the reply; “and then it is easy to understand how important our words are, and that ‘fitly-spoken’ ones are as valuable and lasting as golden apples framed in silver. The apple tree is mentioned in Joel, where it is said that ‘all the trees of the field are withered[12],’ and both apple trees and apples are mentioned in several places of the Old Testament. But, to tell the whole truth, scholars are not agreed as to whether the Hebrew word denotes the apple or some other fruit that grew in the land of Israel.”

[11] The Revised Version renders the phrase “in baskets of silver.”

[12] Joel i. 12.

The children had all enjoyed the “apple-talk,” and they felt that the fruit which they were so accustomed to seeing would now have a new meaning for them.

CHAPTER X.

_A FRUITFUL FAMILY: THE PEACH, ALMOND, PLUM AND CHERRY_.

Snowdrops, crocuses, hyacinths and tulips were blooming out of doors and in-doors; the grass looked green and velvety, and the fruit trees were, as John expressed it, “all a-blow.” The peach trees, without a sign of a leaf, looked, as every one said of them, like immense bouquets of pink flowers, while pear, cherry and plum trees seemed as if they were dressed in white.

One cloudy, windy day, when the petals fell off in showers and strewed the ground, Edith declared that it was snowing; but she soon saw her mistake, and then began to worry because there would be no blossoms left for fruit.

“If the flowers stayed on, there would be no fruit,” said Miss Harson. “Let me show you just where the little green germ is.”

“Why, of course!” said Malcolm; “it’s in the part that stays on the tree.”

Edith listened intently while her governess showed her the ovary of a blossom safe on the twig where it grew, and explained to her that it was this which, nourished by the sap of the tree, with the aid of the sun and air, would ripen into fruit, while the petals were merely a fringe or ornament to the true blossom.

At Elmridge, scattered here and there through garden and grounds, as Mr. Kyle liked to have them, there were some fruit trees of every kind that would flourish in that part of the country, but there was no orchard; and for this reason Miss Harson had taken the children to see the grand apple-blossoming at Farmer Grove’s. Two very large pear trees stood one on either side of the lawn, and there were dwarf pear trees in the garden.

“I think pears are nicer than apples,” said Clara as they stood looking at the fine trees, now perfectly covered with their snowy blossoms.

But Malcolm, who found it hard work to be happy on three apples a day, stoutly disagreed with his sister on this point, and declared that nothing was so good as apples.

“How about ice-cream?” asked his governess, when she heard this sweeping assertion.

The young gentleman was silent, for his exploits with this frozen luxury were a constant subject of wonder to his friends and relatives.

“You will notice,” said Miss Harson, “that the shape of these trees is much more graceful than that of the apple tree. They are tall and slender, forming what is called an imperfect pyramid. Standard pear trees, like these, give a good shade, and the long, slender branches are well clothed with leaves of a bright, glossy green. This rich color lasts late into the autumn, and it is then varied with yellow, and often with red and black, spots; so that pear-leaves are not to be despised in gathering autumn-leaf treasures. The pear is not so useful a fruit as the apple, nor so showy in color; but it has a more delicate and spicy flavor, and often is of an immense size.”

“Yes, indeed!” said Clara. “Don’t you remember, Miss Harson, that sometimes Edith and I can have only one pear divided between us at dessert because they are so large?”

“Yes, dear; and I think that half a duchess pear is as much as can be comfortably managed at once.”

“Well,” observed Malcolm, “I don’t want half an apple.–But, Miss Harson, do they ever have ‘pear-howlings’ in England?”

“I have never read of any,” was the reply, “and I think that strange custom is confined to apple trees. And there is no mention made of either pears or pear trees in the Scriptures.”

“What are prickly-pears?” asked Clara. “Do they have thorns on ’em?”

“There is a plant by this name,” replied her governess, “with large yellow flowers, and the fruit is full of small seeds and has a crimson pulp. It grows in sandy places near the salt water; it is abundant in North Africa and Syria, and is considered quite good to eat; but neither plant nor fruit bears any resemblance to our pear trees: it is a cactus.”

“Won’t you have a story for us this evening, Miss Harson?” asked Edith, rather wistfully.

“Perhaps so, dear–I have been thinking of it–but it will not be about pear trees.”

“Oh, I don’t care,” with a very bright face; “I’d as soon have it about cherry trees, or–‘Most anything!”

Miss Harson laughed, and said,

“Well, then, I think it will be about cherries; so you must rest on that. This morning we will go around among the fruit trees and see what we can learn from seeing them.”

Of course it was Saturday morning and there were no lessons, or they would not have been roaming around “promiscuous,” as Jane called it; for the young governess was very careful not to let the getting of one kind of knowledge interfere with the getting of another.

“How do you like these pretty quince trees?” asked Miss Harson as they came to some large bushes with great pinkish flowers.

“I like ’em,” replied Edith, “because they’re so little. And oh what pretty flowers!”

“Some more relations of the rose,” said her governess. “And do you notice how fragrant they are? The tree is always low and crooked, just as you see it, and the branches straggle not very gracefully. The under part of the dark-green leaves is whitish and downy-looking, and the flowers are handsome enough to warrant the cultivation of the tree just for their sake, but the large golden fruit is much prized for preserves, and in the autumn a small tree laden down with it is quite an ornamental object. The quince is more like a pear than an apple. As the book says, ‘it has the same tender and mucilaginous core; the seeds are not enclosed in a dry hull, like those of the apple; and the pulp of the quince, like that of the pear, is granulated, while that of the apple displays in its texture a firmer and finer organization.’ The fruit, however, is so hard, even when ripe, that it cannot be eaten without cooking. It is said to be a native of hedges and rocky places in the South of Europe.”

[Illustration: PEACH-BLOSSOM.]

“These peach trees,” said Clara, “look like sticks with pink flowers all over ’em.” “They are remarkably bare of leaves when in bloom,” was the reply: “the leaves burst forth from their envelopes as the blossoms pass away; but how beautiful the blossoms are! from the deepest pink to that delicate tint which is called peach-color. But do you know that we have left the apple and rose family now, and have come to the almond family?”

The children were very much surprised to hear this, and they looked at the peach trees with fresh interest.

“Yes,” continued Miss Harson, “the family consists of the almond tree, the peach tree, the apricot tree, the plum tree and the cherry tree; and one thing that distinguishes them from the other families is the gum which is found on their trunks.–Look around, Malcolm, at the peach, plum and cherry trees, which are the only members of the family that we have at Elmridge, and you will find gum oozing from the bark, especially where there are knotholes.”

Malcolm not only found the gum, but succeeded in helping himself to some of it, which he shared with his sisters. It had a rather sweet taste, and the children seemed to like it, having first obtained permission of their governess to eat it.

“That is another of the things that I thought ‘puffickly d’licious’ when I was a child,” said the young lady, laughing. “But there is another peculiarity of this family of trees which is not so innocent, and that is that in the fruit-kernel, and also in the leaves, there is a deadly poison called prussic acid.”

“O–h!” exclaimed the children, drawing back from the trees as though they expected to be poisoned on the spot.

“But, as we do not eat either the kernels or the leaves,” continued their governess, “we need not feel uneasy, for the fruit never yet poisoned any one. Here are the cherry trees, so covered with blossoms that they look like masses of snow; and the smaller plum trees are also attired in white. We will begin this evening with the almond tree, and see what we can find out about the family.”

“Do almond trees and peach trees look alike?” asked Clara, when they were fairly settled by the schoolroom fire; for the evenings were too cool yet for the piazza.

“Very much alike,” was the reply; “only the almond tree is larger and it has white instead of pink blossoms. Then it is the _fruit_ of the peach we eat, but of the almond we eat the kernel of the stem. I will read you a little account of it:

“‘The common almond is a native of Barbary, but has long been cultivated in the South of Europe and the temperate parts of Asia. The fruit is produced in very large quantities and exported in to northern countries; it is also pressed for oil and used for various domestic purposes. There are numerous varieties of this species, but the two chief kinds are the bitter almond and the sweet almond. The sweet almond affords a favorite article for dessert, but it contains little nourishment, and of all nuts is the most difficult of digestion. The tree has been cultivated in England for about three centuries for the sake of its beautiful foliage, as the fruit will not ripen without a greater degree of heat than is found in that climate. The distilled water of the bitter almond is highly injurious to the human species, and, taken in a large dose, produces almost instant death.’ The prussic acid which can be obtained from the kernel of the peach is found also in the bitter almond.”

[Illustration: THE ALMOND.–BRANCH AND FRUIT.]

“But what do they want to find it for,” asked Malcolm, “when it kills people?”

“Because,” replied his governess, “like some other noxious things, it can be made valuable when used moderately and in the right way. But it is often employed to give a flavor to intoxicating liquors, and this is _not_ a right way, as it makes them even more dangerous than before. But we will leave the prussic acid and return to our almond tree. It flourishes in Palestine, where it blooms in January, and in March the ripe fruit can be gathered.”

This seemed wonderfully strange to the children–flowers in January and fruit in March; and Miss Harson explained to them that in that part of the world they do not often have our bitter cold weather with its ice and snow to kill the tender buds.

“This tree,” continued Miss Harson, “is occasionally mentioned in the Old Testament. In Jeremiah the prophet says, ‘I see a rod of an almond tree[13];’ also in Ecclesiastes it is said that ‘the almond tree shall flourish[14].'”

[13] Jer. i. II.

[14] Eccl. xii. 5.

“Are there ever many peach trees growing in one place,” asked Clara, “like the apple trees in Mr. Grove’s orchard?”

“Yes,” was the reply, “for in some places there are immense peach-orchards, covering many acres of ground; and when the trees in these are in blossom, the spring landscape seems to be pink with them. These great peach-fields are found in Delaware and Maryland, where the fruit grows in such perfection, and also in some of the Western States. We all know how delicious it is, but, unfortunately, so does a certain green worm, who curls up in the leaves which he gnaws in spite of the prussic acid. This insect will often attack the finest peaches and lay its eggs in them when the fruit is but half grown. In this way the young grubs find food and lodging provided for them all in one, and they thrive, while the peach decays.”

“What a shame it is,” exclaimed Malcolm, in great indignation, “to have our best peaches eaten by wretched little worms who might just as well eat grass and leave the peaches for us!”

“Perhaps they think it a shame that they are so often shaken to the ground or washed off the trees,” replied Miss Harson; “and, as to their eating grass, they evidently prefer peaches. ‘Insects as well as human beings have discriminating tastes, and the poor plum tree suffers even more than the peach from their attentions. In some parts of the country it has been entirely given up to their depredations, and farmers will not try to raise this fruit because of these active enemies. The whole almond family are liable to the attacks of insects. Canker-worms of one or of several species often strip them of their leaves; the tent-caterpillars pitch their tents among the branches and carry on their dangerous depredations; the slug-worms, the offspring of a fly called _Selandria cerasi_, reduce the leaves to skeletons, and thus destroy them; the cherry-weevils penetrate their bark, cover their branches with warts and cause them to decay; and borers gnaw galleries in their trunks and devour the inner bark and sap-wood.’ So you see that, with such an army of destroyers, we may be thankful to get any fruit at all.”

“I’m glad to know the name of that fly,” said Malcolm, who considered it an additional grievance that it should have such a long name, “but I won’t try to call him by it if I meet him anywhere.”

“I think it’s pretty,” said Clara, beginning to repeat it, and making a decided failure.

“Fortunately,” continued their governess, after reading it again for them, “there are other things much more important for you to remember just now, and I could not have said it myself without the book. And now let us see what else we can learn about the plum. It is a native, it seems, of North America, Europe and Asia, and many of the wild species are thorny. The cultivated plums, damsons and gages are varieties of the _Prunus domestica_, the cultivated plum tree. These have no thorns; the leaves are oval in shape, and the flowers grow singly. The most highly-valued cultivated plum trees came originally from the East, where they have been known from time immemorial. In many countries of Eastern Europe domestic animals are fattened on their fruits, and an alcoholic liquor is obtained from them; they also yield a white, crystallizable sugar. The prunes which we import from France are the dried fruit of varieties of the plum which contain a sufficient quantity of sugar to preserve the fruit from decay.”

“Do prunes really grow on trees, Miss Harson?” asked Edith, who was rather disposed to think that they grew in pretty boxes.

“Yes, dear,” was the reply; “they grow just as our plums do, only they are dried and packed in layers before they reach this country. We have two species of wild plum in North America–the beach-plum, a low shrub found in New England, the fruit of which is dark blue and about the size of damsons; while the other is quite a large tree, and very showy when covered with its scarlet fruit. In Maine it is called plum-granate, probably from its red color,” “I know what’s coming next,” said Clara–“cherries; because all the rest have been used up. And then we’re to have the story.”

“But they’re all interesting,” replied Malcolm, gallantly, “because Miss Harson makes them so.”

“I hope that is not the only reason,” said his governess, laughing, “for trees are always beautiful and interesting and it is a privilege to be able to learn something of their habits and history.–Like most fruit trees, the cherry has many varieties, but it is always a handsome tree, and less spoiled by insects than others of the almond family. The black cherry is the most common species in the United States, and is both wild and cultivated. The garden cherry has broad, ovate, rough and serrate leaves, growing thickly on the branches, and this, with the height of the tree, makes a fine shade. Some old cherry trees have huge trunks, and their thick branches spread to a great distance. The branches of the wild cherry are too straggling to make a beautiful tree, and the leaves are small and narrow. The blossoms of the cultivated cherry are in umbels, while those of the wild cherry are borne in racemes.”

“I remember that, Miss Harson,” said Clara, pleased with her knowledge. “‘Umbel’ means ‘like an umbrella,’ and ‘raceme’ means ‘growing along a stem.'”

“Very well indeed!” was the reply; “I am glad you have not forgotten it.–Of our cultivated cherries, we have here at Elmridge, besides the large black ones, which are so very sweet about the first of July, the great ox-hearts, which look like painted wax and ripen in June, and those very acid red ones, often called pie-cherries, which are used for pies and preserves. The cherry is a beautiful fruit, and one that is popular with birds as well as with boys. The great northern cherry of Europe, which was named by Linnaeus the ‘bird-cherry,’ is encouraged in Great Britain and on the Continent for the benefit of the birds, which are regarded as the most important checks to the over-multiplication of insects. The fact not yet properly understood in America–that the birds which are the most mischievous consumers of fruit are the most useful as destroyers of insects–is well known by all farmers in Europe; and while we destroy the birds to save the fruit, and sometimes cut down the fruit-trees to starve the birds, the Europeans more wisely plant them for the food and accommodation of the birds.”

“Isn’t it wicked to kill the poor little birds?” asked Edith.

“Yes, dear; it is cruel to kill them just for sport, as is often done, and very foolish, as we have just seen, to destroy them for the sake of the fruit, which the insects make way with in much greater quantities than the birds do.”

“Miss Harson,” asked Clara, “do people cut down real cherry trees to make the pretty red furniture like that in your room?”

“It is the wood of the wild cherry,” replied her governess, “that is used for this purpose. It is of a light-red or fresh mahogany color, growing darker and richer with age. It is very close-grained, compact, takes a good polish, and when perfectly seasoned is not liable to shrink or warp. It is therefore particularly suitable, and much employed, for tables, chests of drawers, and other cabinet-work, and when polished and varnished is not less beautiful for such articles than are inferior kinds of mahogany.”

“‘Cherry’ sounds pretty to say,” continued Clara. “I wonder how the tree got that name?”

“That wonder is easily explained,” said Miss Harson, “for I have been reading about it, and I was just going to tell you. ‘Cherry comes from ‘Cerasus,’ the name of a town on the Black Sea from whence the tree is supposed to have been introduced into Italy, and it designates a genus of about forty species, natives of all the temperate regions of the northern hemisphere. They are trees or shrubs with smooth serrated leaves, which are folded together when young, and white or reddish flowers growing in bunches, like umbels, and preceding the leaves or in terminal racemes accompanying or following the leaves. A few species, with numerous varieties, produce valuable fruits; nearly all are remarkable for the abundance of their early flowers, sometimes rendered double by cultivation. And now,” added the young lady, “we have arrived at the story, which is translated from the German; and in Germany the cherries are particularly fine. A plateful of this beautiful fruit was, as you will see, the cause of some remarkable changes.”

CHAPTER XI.

_THE CHERRY-STORY._

On the banks of the Rhine, in the pleasant little village of Rebenheim, lived Ehrenberg, the village mayor. He was much respected for his virtues, and his wife was greatly beloved for her charity to the poor. They had an only daughter–the little Caroline–who gave early promise of a superior mind and a benevolent heart. She was the idol of her parents, who devoted their whole care to giving her a sound religious education.

Not far from the house, and close to the orchard and kitchen-garden, there was another little garden, planted exclusively with flowers. The day that Caroline was born her father planted a cherry tree in the middle of the flower-garden. He had chosen a tree with a short trunk, in order that his little daughter could more easily admire the blossoms and pluck the cherries when they were ripe.

When the tree bloomed for the first time and was so covered with blossoms that it looked like a single bunch of white flowers, the father and mother came out one morning to enjoy the sight. Little Caroline was in her mother’s arms. The infant smiled, and, stretching out her little hands for the blossoms, endeavored at the same time to speak her joy, but in such a way as no one but a mother could understand:

“Flowers! flowers! Pretty! pretty!”

The child engaged more of the parents’ thoughts than all the cherry-blossoms and gardens and orchards, and all they were worth. They resolved to educate her well; they prayed to God to bless their care and attention by making Caroline worthy of him and the joy and consolation of her parents. As soon as the little girl was old enough to understand, her mother told her lovingly of that kind Father in heaven who makes the flowers bloom and the trees bud and the cherries and apples grow ruddy and ripe; she told her also of the blessed Son of God, once an infant like herself, who died for all the world.

The cherry tree in the middle of the garden was given to Caroline for her own, and it was a greater treasure to her than were all the flowers. She watched and admired it every day, from the moment the first bud appeared until the cherries were ripe. She grieved when she saw the white blossoms turn yellow and drop to the earth, but her grief was changed into joy when the cherries appeared, green at first and smaller than peas, and then daily growing larger and larger, until the rich red skin of the ripe cherry at last blushed among the interstices of the green leaves.

“Thus it is,” said her father; “youth and beauty fade like the blossoms, but virtue is the fruit which we expect from the tree. This whole world is, as it were, a large garden, in which God has appointed to every man a place, that he may bring forth abundant and good fruit. As God sends rain and sunshine on the trees, so does he send down grace on men to make them grow in virtue, if they will but do their part.”

In the course of time war approached the quiet village which had hitherto been the abode of peace and domestic bliss, and the battle raged fearfully. Balls and shells whizzed about, and several houses caught fire. As soon as the danger would permit, the mayor tried to extinguish the flames, while his wife and little daughter were praying earnestly for themselves and for their neighbors.

In the afternoon a ring was heard at the door, and, looking out of the window, Madame Ehrenberg saw an officer of hussars standing before her. Fortunately, he was a German, and mother and daughter ran to open the door.

“Do not be alarmed,” said the officer, in a friendly tone, when he saw the frightened faces; “the danger is over, and you are quite safe. The fire in the village, too, is almost quenched, and the mayor will soon be here. I beg you for some refreshment, if it is only a morsel of bread and a drink of water. It was sharp work,” he added, wiping the perspiration from his brow, “but, thank God, we have conquered,” Provisions were scarce, for the village had been plundered by the enemy, but the good lady brought forth a flask of wine and some rye bread, with many regrets that she had nothing better to offer. But the visitor, as he ate the bread with a hearty relish, declared that it was enough, for it was the first morsel he had tasted that day.

Caroline ran and brought in on a porcelain plate some of the ripest cherries from her own tree.

“Cherries!” exclaimed the officer. “They are a rarity in this district. How did they escape the enemy? All the trees in the country around are stripped.”

“The cherries,” said the mother, “are from a little tree which was planted in Caroline’s flower-garden on her birthday. It is but a few days since they became ripe; the enemy, perhaps, did not notice the little tree.”

“And is it for me you intend the cherries, my dear child?” asked the officer. “Oh no; you must keep them. It were a pity to take one of them from you.”

“How could we refuse a few cherries,” said Caroline, “to the man that sheds his blood in our defence? You must eat them all,” said she, while the tears streamed down her cheeks. “Do, I entreat you! Eat them all.”

He took some of the cherries and laid them on the table, near his wine-glass; but he had scarcely placed the glass to his lips when the trumpet sounded. He sprang up and girded on his sword.

“That is the signal to march,” said he. “I cannot wait one instant.”

Caroline wrapped the cherries in a roll of white paper and insisted that he should put them in his pocket.

“The weather is very warm,” said she, “and even cherries will be some refreshment.”

“Oh,” said the officer, with emotion, “what a happiness it is for a soldier, who is often obliged to snatch each morsel from unwilling hands, to meet with a generous and benevolent family! I wish it were in my power, my dear child, to give you some pledge of my gratitude, but I have nothing–not so much as a single groat. You must be content with my simple thanks.” With these words, and once more bidding Caroline and her mother an affectionate farewell, he took his departure, and walked rapidly out of sight.

The joy of the good family for their happy deliverance was, alas! of short continuance. Some weeks after, a dreadful battle was fought near the village, which was reduced to a heap of ruins. The mayor’s house was burned to the ground and all his property destroyed. Alas for the horrors of cruel war! Father, mother and daughter fled away on foot, and wept bitterly when they looked back on their once happy village, now but a mass of blazing ruins.

The family retired to a distant town, and lived there in very great distress. The mayor endeavored to obtain a livelihood as a scrivener, or clerk; his wife worked at dressmaking and millinery, and Caroline, who soon became skillful in such matters, faithfully assisted her.

A lady in town–the Countess von Buchenhaim–gave them much employment, and one day Caroline went to this lady’s house to carry home a bonnet. She was taken to the garden, where the countess was sitting in the summer-house with her sister and nieces, who had come to visit her. The young ladies were delighted with the bonnet, and their mother gave orders for three more, particularly praising the blue flowers, which were the work of Caroline’s own hands.

The Countess von Buchenhaim spoke very kindly of the young girl to her sister, and related the sad story of the worthy family’s misfortunes. The count was standing with his brother-in-law, the colonel, at some little distance from the door of the summer-house, and the colonel, a fine-looking man in a hussar’s uniform and with a star on his breast, overheard the conversation. Coming up, he looked closely at Caroline.

“Is it possible,” said he, “that you are the daughter of the mayor of Rebenheim? How tall you have grown! I should scarcely have recognized you, though we are old acquaintances.”

Caroline stood there abashed, looking full in the face of the stranger, her cheeks covered with blushes. Taking her by the hand, the colonel conducted her to his wife, who was sitting near the countess.

“See, Amelia,” said he; “this is the young lady who saved my life ten years ago, when she was only a child.”

“How can that be possible?” asked Caroline, in amazement.

“It must indeed appear incomprehensible to you,” answered the colonel, “but do you remember the hussar-officer that one day, after a battle, stood knocking at the door of your father’s house in Rebenheim? Do you remember the cherries which you so kindly gave him?”

“Oh, was it you?” exclaimed Caroline, while her face beamed with a smile of recognition. “Thank God you are alive! But how I could have done anything toward saving your life I cannot understand.”

“In truth, it would be impossible for you to guess the great service you did me,” said he, “but my wife and daughters know it well; I wrote to them of it at once. And I look upon it as one of the most remarkable occurrences of my life.”

“And one that I ought to remember better than any other event of the war,” said his lady, rising and affectionately embracing Caroline.

“Well,” said the countess, “neither I nor my husband ever heard the story. Please give us a full account of it.”

“Oh, it is easily told,” said the colonel. “Hungry and thirsty, I entered the house in which Caroline and her parents dwelt, and, to tell the plain truth, I begged for some bread and water. They gave me a share of the best they had, and did not hesitate to do so, though their village and themselves were in the greatest distress. Caroline robbed every bough on her cherry tree to refresh me. Fine cherries they were–the only ones, probably, in the whole country. But the enemy did not give me time to eat them; I was obliged to depart in a hurry. Caroline insisted, with the kindest hospitality, that I should take them with me, but that was no easy matter: my horse had been shot under me the day before. I took from my knapsack whatever articles I could in a hurry, and, thrusting them into my pockets, I fought on foot until a hussar gave me his horse. All that I was worth was in my pockets, so that to make room for the cherries I was obliged to take the pocket-book out of my pocket and place it here beneath my vest. The enemy, who had been driven back, made a feint of advancing on us, and I led down my hussars in gallant style. But suddenly we found ourselves in front of a body of infantry concealed behind a hedge. One of them fired at me, and the fellow had taken good aim, for the ball struck me here on the breast. But it rebounded from the pocket-book; otherwise, I should have been shot through the body and fallen dead on the spot. Tell me,” said he, in a tone of deep emotion; “was not that little child an instrument in the hand of God to save me from death? Am I right or not when I give Caroline the credit, under God, of having saved my life? Her must I thank that my Amelia is not a widow and my daughters orphans.”

All agreed with him. His wife, who had Caroline’s hand locked in her own during the whole narrative, now pressed it affectionately and with tears in her eyes.

“You, then,” said she, “were the good angel that averted such a terrible misfortune from our family?”

Her two daughters also gazed with pleasure at Caroline.

“Every time we ate cherries,” said the younger, “we spoke of you without knowing you.”

All had kind and grateful words for the young girl, but the colonel soon bade her farewell for the present, and said that he had some business to attend to with his brother-in-law. This business was to urge the count to appoint Ehrenberg his steward in place of the one who had died a few months before. A better man, he said, could not be found; for when he had visited Rebenheim to make inquiries for the family, although none could tell where they had gone, all were loud in their praise, and the mayor was pronounced a pattern of justice, honor and charity.

The count drew out the order, signed it, and gave it to his brother-in-law, who wished himself to take it to Mr. Ehrenberg; and he went at once to the house and saluted him as “master-steward of Buchenhaim.”

“Read that,” he said to the astonished man as he handed him the paper in which he was duly appointed steward of Buchenhaim, with a good salary of a thousand thalers and several valuable perquisites.

“And you,” said the colonel to Caroline and her mother, “must prepare to remove at once. Your lodgings are so confined! But you will find it very different in the house which you are to occupy in Buchenhaim. The dwelling is large and commodious, with a fine garden attached, well stocked with cherry trees. Next Monday you will be there, and this very day you must start. What a happy feast we shall have there!–not like the hasty meal you gave the hussar-officer amid the thunder of cannon and the blazing roofs of Rebenheim. Do not forget to have cherries, dear Caroline, for dessert; I think they will be fully ripe by that time.”

With these words the colonel hurried away to escape the thanks of this good family, and, in truth, to conceal his own tears. So rapidly did he disappear that Ehrenberg could scarcely accompany him down the steps.

“Oh, Caroline,” said the happy father when he returned, “who could have imagined that the little cherry tree I planted in the flower-garden the day you were born would ever produce such good fruit?”

“It was the providence of God,” exclaimed the mother, clasping her hands. “I remember distinctly the first time the blossoms appeared on that tree, when you and I went out to look at it, and little Caroline, then an infant in my arms, was so much delighted with the white flowers. We resolved then to educate our daughter piously, and prayed fervently to God that she, who was then as full of promise as the blossoms on the tree, might by his grace one day be the prop of our old age. That prayer is now fulfilled beyond our fondest anticipations. Praise for ever be to the name of God!”

Edith declared that this was one of the very sweetest stories Miss Harson had ever told them, and Clara and Malcolm were equally well pleased with it.

“Were those cherries like ours?” asked Clara.

“They were larger and finer than ours generally are, I think,” was the reply, “being the great northern cherry, or bird-cherry, of Europe, which grows in Germany to great perfection. And the little German girl’s plate of cherries, which she so generously urged upon a stranger when food of any kind was so scarce, is a beautiful illustration of the first verse of the eleventh chapter of Proverbs: ‘Cast thy bread upon the waters; for thou shalt find it after many days.'”

CHAPTER XII.

_THE MULBERRY FAMILY_.

“There is a fruit tree,” said Miss Harson, “belonging to an entirely different family, which we have not considered yet; and, although it is not a common tree with us, one specimen of it is to be found in Mrs. Bush’s garden, where you have all enjoyed the fruit very much. What is it?”

“Mulberry,” said Clara, promptly, while Malcolm was wondering what it could be.

“Oh yes,” said Edith, very innocently; “I like to go and see Mrs. Bush when there are mulberries.”

Mrs. Bush was not a cheerful person to visit, as she was quite old and rather hard of hearing, and she lived alone in the gloomy old house with the Lombardy poplars in front, where everything looked dark and shut up. A queer woman in a sunbonnet, nearly as old as Mrs. Bush, lived close by, and “kept an eye on her,” as she said.

Mrs. Bush’s great enjoyment was to have visitors of all ages, to whom she talked a great deal, and cried as she talked, about a daughter who had died a few years ago. The little Kyles did not care to go there except when, as Edith said, there were ripe mulberries; but Mrs. Bush liked very much to have them, and Miss Harson took her little charges there occasionally, because, as she explained to them, it gave pleasure to a lonely old woman, and such visits were just as much charity, though of a different kind, as giving food and clothes to those who need them. The children delighted in the mulberries just because they did not have them at home, although they had fruit that was very much nicer; but Miss Harson never wished even to taste them, although she too had liked them when a little girl.

“The mulberry tree,” continued their governess, “belongs to the bread-fruit family, but the other members of this remarkable family, except the Osage orange, are found only in foreign countries. The bread-fruit tree itself, the fig, the Indian fig, or banyan tree, and the deadly upas tree, are all relations of the mulberry.”

“Well, trees are queer things,” exclaimed Malcolm, “to belong to families that are not a bit alike.”

“They are alike in important points, when we examine them carefully,” was the reply. “The bread-fruit genus consists, with a single exception, of trees and shrubs with alternate, toothed or lobed or entire leaves and milky juice. This reminds me that the famous cow tree of South America, which yields a large supply of rich and wholesome milk, is one of the members; and you see what a number of famous trees we have on hand now. There are several kinds of mulberries–the red, black, white and paper mulberry, which are all occasionally found in this country, and they were once quite popular here for their shade. The fruit is unusually small for tree-fruit, and very soft when ripe, as you all know; it is not unlike a long, narrow blackberry, and forms, like it, a compound fruit, as though many small berries had grown together. The tree in Mrs. Bush’s garden is the black mulberry, as any one might know by the stained lips and hands that sometimes come from there; and it has been cultivated from ancient times for its fine appearance and shade. It is found wild in the forests of Persia, and is thought to have been taken from there to Europe. The tree is more beautiful than useful, for the silkworms do not thrive well on the leaves and the wood is neither strong nor durable.”

“Why, I thought,” said Clara, “that silkworms always lived on mulberry-leaves?”

“The white mulberry is their favorite food; and another species, called the _Morus multicaulis_–for _Morus_ is the scientific name of the family–has more delicate leaves than any other, and produces a finer quality of silk. These trees are natives of China, and the white mulberry grows very rapidly to the height of thirty or forty feet. The paper mulberry is so called because in China and Japan–of which it is a native–its bark is manufactured into paper. In the South-Sea Islands, where it is also found, the bark is made into the curious dresses which we sometimes see imported thence. It is a low, thick-branched tree with large light-colored downy leaves and dark-scarlet fruit.”

“I wonder,” said Malcolm, “if the bark is like birch-bark?”

“It does not look like it,” replied Miss Harson, “but it seems to be very much of the same nature. The red mulberry and black mulberry are the most hardy of these trees, and the red mulberry will thrive farther north than any of the family. The wood is valuable for many purposes for which timber is used, and especially in boat-building. And now, as we learned something about silkworms and their cocoons in our talks about insects[15], there is little more to be said of the mulberry tree which any but learned people would care to know.”

[15] See _Flyers and Crawlers_. Presbyterian Board of Publication.

“I want to hear about the bread tree,” said little Edith, “and how the loaves of bread grow on it.”

“Do they, Miss Harson?” asked Clara, not exactly seeing how this could be.

“I don’t believe they’re very hot,” remarked Malcolm, who was puzzled over the bread-fruit tree himself, but who laughed at his little sister’s idea in a very knowing way. It was not an ill-natured laugh, though, and a glance from his governess always quieted him.

“No, dear,” replied Miss Harson, answering Clara; “loaves of bread do not grow on any tree. But I will tell you about the bread-fruit presently; let us finish the _Morus_ family and their kindred in our own country before we go to their foreign relations. The Osage orange is so much used in the United States, and in this part of it, for hedges, on account of its rapid growth and ornamental appearance, that we really ought to know something about it. ‘It is a beautiful low, spreading, round-headed tree with the port and splendor of an orange tree. Its oval, entire, polished leaves have the shining green of natives of warmer regions, and its curiously-tesselated, succulent compound fruit the size and golden color of an orange. It was first found in the country of the Osage Indians, from whom it gets its name, and it has since been cultivated in many parts of this country and in Europe. The Osages belonged to the Sioux, or Dacotah, tribe of Indians, and their home was in the south-western part of the old United States. The Osage orange–a tree from thirty to forty feet high with leaves even more bright and glossy than those of the ordinary orange–was first found growing wild near one of their villages.”

“But what a very high hedge it would make!” said Malcolm.

“Yes, if left to its natural growth, it would be a very absurd fence indeed. But this is not the case; the branches spread out very widely, and by cutting off the tops and trimming the remainder twice in a season a very handsome thickset hedge is produced, with lustrous leaves and sharp, straight thorns. Another name for this tree is yellow-wood, or bow-wood, because the wood is of a bright-yellow color, and the grain is so fine and elastic that the Southern Indians have been in the habit of using it to make their bows. The experiment of feeding silkworms upon the leaves has been tried, but it was not very successful.”

“I suppose the worms didn’t know that it belonged to the mulberry family,” said Clara, “and I don’t see now why it does.”

For reply, her governess read:

“‘The sap of the young wood and of the leaves is _milky_ and contains a large proportion of caoutchouc.'”

“Oh!” exclaimed Malcolm; “that sounds just like sneezing. What is it, Miss Harson?”

“Something that you wear on your feet and over your shoulders in wet weather; so now guess.”

“Overshoes!” replied Clara, in a great hurry.

“How many of them do you wear over your shoulders at once?” asked her brother. “And it must be a queer kind of sap that has overshoes in it. Why couldn’t you say ‘India-rubber’?”

“And why couldn’t _you_ say it before Clara put it into your head by saying ‘Overshoes?” asked Miss Harson. “Clara has the right idea, only she did not express it in the clearest way. The sap of the caoutchouc, or India-rubber, tree is the most valuable yet discovered, and, as it is of a milky nature, it can very properly be brought into the present class of trees.”

“Is _that_ a mulberry too?” asked Clara, who thought that the size of the family was getting beyond all bounds.

“It is not really set down as belonging to the bread-fruit family,” was the reply, “but it certainly has the peculiarity of their milky sap. However, as I know that you are all eager to hear about the bread-fruit tree, we will take that next. This tree is found in various tropical regions, but principally in the South-Sea Islands, where it is about forty feet high. The immense leaves are half a yard long and over a quarter wide, and are deeply divided into sharp lobes. The fruit looks like a very large green berry, being about the size of a cocoanut or melon, and the proper time for gathering it is about a week before it is ripe. When baked, it is not very unlike bread. It is cooked by being cut into several pieces, which are baked in an oven in the ground. It is often eaten with orange-juice and cocoanut-milk. Some of the South-Sea islanders depend very much upon it for their food. The large seeds, when roasted, are said to taste like the best chestnuts. The pulp, which is the bread-part, is said to resemble a baked potato and is very white and tender, but, unless eaten soon after the fruit is gathered, it grows hard and choky.”

[Illustration: THE BREAD-FRUIT.]

“So Edie’s ‘loaves of bread’ are green?” said Malcolm, rather teasingly.

“That’s because they grow on a tree,” replied Clara. “Our loaves of bread are raw dough before they’re baked, and they are grains of wheat before they are dough.”

“That is quite true, dear,” replied her governess, laughing, “and we must teach Malcolm not to be quite so critical.–The bread-fruit is a wonderful tree, and it certainly does bear uncooked loaves of bread, at least, for they require no kneading to be ready for the oven. The fruit is to be found on the tree for eight months of the year–which is very different from any of our fruits–and two or three bread-fruit trees will supply one man with food all the year round.”

“Put what does he do when there is no fresh fruit on them?” asked Malcolm. “You told us that it was not good to eat unless it was fresh.”

“We should not think it good, but the native makes it into a sour paste called _mahe_, and the people of the islands eat this during the four months when the fresh fruit is not to be had. The bread-fruit is said to be very nourishing, and it can be prepared in various ways. The timber of this tree, though soft, is found useful in building houses and boats; the flowers, when dried, serve for tinder; the viscid, milky juice answers for birdlime and glue; the leaves, for towels and packing; and the inner bark, beaten together, makes one species of the South-Sea cloth.”

“What a very useful tree!” exclaimed Clara.

“It is indeed,” replied Miss Harson; “and this is the case with many of the trees found in these warm countries, where the inhabitants know little of the arts and manufactures, and would almost starve rather than exert themselves very greatly. There is another species of bread-fruit, called the jaca, or jack, tree, found on the mainland of Asia, which produces its fruit on different parts of the tree, according to its age. When the tree is young, the fruit grows from the twigs; in middle age it grows from the trunk; and when the tree gets old, it grows from the roots.”

[Illustration: JACK-FRUIT TREE.]

There was a picture of the jack tree with fruit growing out of the trunk and great branches like melons, and the children crowded eagerly around to look at it. All agreed that it was the very queerest tree they had yet heard of.

“The fruit is even larger than that of the island bread-fruit,” continued their governess, “but it is not so pleasant to our taste, nor is it so nourishing. It often weighs over thirty pounds and has two or three hundred seeds, each of which is four times as large as an almond and is surrounded by a pulp which is greatly relished by the natives of India. The seeds, or nuts, are roasted, like those of smaller fruit, and make very good chestnuts. The fruit has a strong odor not very agreeable to noses not educated to it.”

“Miss Harson,” said Malcolm, “what is the upas tree like, and why is it called _deadly_?”

“It is a tree eighty feet high, with white and slightly-furrowed bark; the branches, which are very thick, grow nearly at the top, dividing into smaller ones, which form an irregular sort of crown to the tall, straight trunk. There is no reason for calling it _deadly_ except a foolish notion and the fact that a very strong poison is prepared from the milky sap. The tree grows in the island of Java, and for a long time many fabulous stories were told of its dangerous nature. Travelers in that region would send home the wildest and most improbable stories of the poison tree, until the very name of the upas was enough to make people shudder. It is said that a Dutch surgeon stationed on the island did much to keep up the impression. He wrote an account of the valley in which the upas was said to be growing alone, for no tree nor shrub was to be found near it. And he declared that neither animal nor bird could breathe the noxious effluvia from the tree without instant death. In fact, he called this fatal spot ‘The Valley of Death.'”

“And wasn’t it true, Miss Harson?”

“Not all true, Clara; some one who had spent many years in Java proved these stories to be entirely false. Instead of growing in a dismal valley by itself, the graceful-looking upas tree is found in the most fertile spots, among other trees, and very often climbing plants are twisted round its trunk, while birds nestle in the branches. It can be handled, too, like any other tree; and all this is as unlike the Dutch surgeon’s account as possible. One of his stories was that the criminals on the island were employed to collect the poison from the trunk of the tree; that they were permitted to choose whether to die by the hand of the executioner or to go to the upas for a box of its fatal juice; and that the ground all about the tree was strewed with the dead bodies of those who had perished on this errand.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Edith, “wasn’t that dreadful?”

“The story was dreadful, dear, but it was only a story, you know: the upas tree did not kill people at all; and to turn the milky juice into a dangerous poison took a great deal of time and trouble. It was mixed with various spices and fermented; when ready for use, it was poured into the hollow joints of bamboo and carefully kept from the air. Both for war and for the chase arrows are dipped in this fatal preparation, and the effect has been witnessed by naturalists on animals, and also on man. The instant it touches the blood it is carried through the whole system, so that it may be felt in all the veins and causes a burning sensation, especially in the head, which is followed by sickness and death.”

“Well,” said Clara, drawing a long breath, “I’m glad that I don’t live in Java.”

“The poisoned arrows are not constantly flying about in Java, dear,” replied her governess, with a smile, “and I do not think you would be in any danger from them; but there are a great many other reasons why it is not pleasant, except for natives, to live in Java. There are a number of Dutch settlers there, because the island was conquered by the Dutch nation, but while war with the natives was going on they suffered terribly from these poisoned arrows; so that the very name of upas caused them to tremble. The word ‘upas,’ in the language of the natives, means poison, and there is in the island a valley called the upas, or poison, valley. It has nothing, however, to do with the tree, which does not grow anywhere in the neighborhood. That valley may literally be called ‘The Valley of Death.’ We are told that it came to exist in this way: The largest mountain in Java was once partly buried in a very dreadful manner. In the middle of a summer night the people in the neighborhood perceived a luminous cloud that seemed wholly to envelop the mountain. They were extremely alarmed and took to flight, but ere they could escape a terrific noise was heard, like the discharge of cannon, and part of the mountain fell in and disappeared. At the same moment quantities of stones and lava were thrown to the distance of several miles. Fifteen miles of ground covered with villages and plantations were swallowed up or buried under the lava from the mountain; and when all was over and people tried to visit the scene of the disaster, they could not approach it on account of the heat of the stones and other substances piled upon one another. And yet as much as six weeks had elapsed since the catastrophe. This upas valley is about half a mile in circumference, and the vapor that escapes through the cracks and fissures is fatal to every living thing. Here, indeed, are to be seen the bones of animals and birds, and even the skeletons of human beings who were unfortunate enough to enter and were overpowered by the deadly vapor. And now,” added Miss Harson, “I have given you this account to make you understand that the famous upas valley of Java is not a valley of upas trees, but one of poisonous vapors.”

“And the deadly upas,” said Malcolm, “is not deadly, after all! I think I shall remember that.”

“And I too,” said Clara and Edith, who had listened with great interest to the description.