away the almshouse and the slum That the little homes and garden plots may come. Yes, the gardens green and sweet Shall replace the stony street.

p. 95Let the wise man hear the menace that is blent In this ever-growing sound of discontent. Let him hear the rising clamour of the race That the few shall yield the many larger space. For the crucial hour is coming when the soil Must be given to, or taken back by Toil Oh, that mighty plough of God; Hear it breaking through the sod!

p. 95

p. 96GO PLANT A TREE

p. 96

God, what a joy it is to plant a tree, And from the sallow earth to watch it rise, Lifting its emerald branches to the skies In silent adoration; and to see Its strength and glory waxing with each spring. Yes, ’tis a goodly, and a gladsome thing To plant a tree.

Nature has many marvels; but a tree Seems more than marvellous. It is divine. So generous, so tender, so benign. Not garrulous like the rivers; and yet free In pleasant converse with the winds and birds; Oh! privilege beyond explaining words, To plant a tree.

p. 97Rocks are majestic; but, unlike a tree, They stand aloof, and silent. In the roar Of ocean billows breaking on the shore There sounds the voice of turmoil. But a tree Speaks ever of companionship and rest. Yea, of all righteous acts, this, this is best, To plant a tree.

p. 97

There is an oak (oh! how I love that tree) Which has been thriving for a hundred years; Each day I send my blessing through the spheres To one who gave this triple boon to me, Of growing beauty, singing birds, and shade. Wouldst thou win laurels that shall never fade? Go plant a tree.

p. 98PAIN’S PURPOSE

p. 98

How blind is he who prays that God will send All pain from earth. Pain has its use and place; Its ministry of holiness and grace. The darker tones upon the canvas blend With light and colour; and their shadows lend The painting half its dignity. Efface The sombre background, and you lose all trace Of that perfection which is true art’s trend.

Life is an artist seeking to reveal God’s majesty and beauty in each soul. If from the palette mortal man could steal The precious pigment, pain, why then the scroll Would glare with colours 

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