62. George P. Morris was the author of the poem, "Woodman, Spare That Tree.” In a letter to a friend, under date of February 1, 1837, Mr. Morris gave the following history of the writing of the verses:

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Riding out of town a few days since in the company of an old gentleman, he invited me to turn down a little romantic pass, not far from Bloomingdale. "Your object?" inquired I. Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather long before I was born, under which I used to play, when a boy, and where my sisters played with me. There I often listened to the good advice of my parents. Father, mother, sisters, all are gone; nothing but the old tree remains." Tears came to his eyes, and after a moment's pause, he said, "Don't think me foolish. I don't know how it is,-I never go out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend." These words were scarcely uttered when the old gentleman cried out, "There it is!"

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Near the tree stood a man with his coat off, sharpening an axe. "You're not going to cut that tree down, surely?" Yes, but I am, though," said the woodman. What for?" inquired the old gentleman, with choked emotion. 'What for? I like that! Well, I will tell you. I want that tree for firewood." What is the tree worth to you for firewood?" 'Why, when down, about ten dollars." "Suppose I should give you that sum," said the old gentleman, "would you let it stand?" "Yes."

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Are you sure of it? Then give me a bond to that effect." We went into the little cottage in which my companion was born, but which was now occupied by the woodman. I drew up the bond, we all signed it, the old man paid the money, and the tree was left standing. The incident so impressed me that it furnished the material for the bit of verse:

63. Ralph Waldo Emerson was the author of the sentence: "If one write a better book, preach a better sermon, or make a better mouse-trap than his neighbor, though he build his home in the wilderness, the world will make a beaten path to his door."

64. Samuel Woodworth was the author of the

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popular song-poem, The Old Oaken

Bucket." It was in 1817 that Woodworth wrote the song that was to make his name immortal, and its composition came about in the following way: Meeting a friend one day and having a drink with him, Woodworth praised the excellent character of the beverage, whereupon his friend, setting the empty glass down on the table, said "No, Sam, this stuff

doesn't compare for a moment with the clear, cool, sparkling water we used to drink when we were boys, from the old oaken bucket that hung in the well." The two shook hands and parted. Woodworth went to his room, seized pencil and paper, and inside of forty minutes had composed the verses which were to become so popular.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

When fond recollection presents them to view! The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wildwood,

And every loved spot that my infancy knew; The wide-spreading pond and the mill which stood by it,

The bridge, and the rock where the cataract fell; The cot of my father, the dairy-house nigh it,

And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well. The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket, The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well. 65. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's beautiful poem, "Santa Filomena," was a tribute to the life and work of Florence Nightingale. It was she who organized a complete field hospital for the sick and wounded soldiers of the Crimean War. Before the war broke out she had studied the hospital systems of Europe, had taken a course in nursing with the Sisters of Saint Vincent de Paul in Paris, and another course with the Protestant Sisters at Kaiserwerth on the Rhine. Within a week's time she organized a band of trained nurses, and

set out on her mission of mercy. Many a pain-racked soldier kissed her shadow as she passed, or uttered a prayer of thanksgiving for the healing presence of the cheering angel," or the "Lady of the Lamp,” as they lovingly called her.

Longfellow, desiring to pay her a tribute worthy of her matchless service, referred to her as “Santa Filomena,” the “saint of healing.”

Where'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

66. Of the flag of the United States George F. Hoar said:

I have seen the glories of art and architecture, and of river and mountain. I have seen the sun set on the Jungfrau and the moon rise over Mount Blanc. But the fairest vision on which these eyes ever rested was the flag of my country in a foreign port. Beautiful as a flower to those who love it, terrible as a meteor to those who hate it, it is the symbol of power, and the glory and the honor of fifty millions of Americans.

67. Tom Sawyer was the hero of Mark Twain's book of the same title. Tom was a real boy, with all a boy's ingenuity and freemasonry. In one instance Tom was in real trouble. He wanted to go swimming with the boys, but his guardian told him he must whitewash the front fence, thirty yards of board fence nine feet

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high," because he had offended his sole guardian, Aunt Polly. At first he feared the ridicule of the boys, and even got out his toys, marbles, and trash to buy off the boys, but these he knows will not do. Finally, a great inspiration came to him. He would pretend that only a very careful and thoughtful boy could be trusted to whitewash a fence. He carried out this idea to the extent of having all the boys of the neighborhood parting with their most treasured possessions for an opportunity to spend a few minutes in manipulating the whitewash brush, while he sat calmly by and watched them work.

68. Francis M. Finch's poem, "Nathan Hale," was written in memory of young Nathan Hale, a brave officer of the Revolutionary Army, who was captured and executed as a spy, while gathering information in the camp of the British. His last words were, "I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."

69. Robert Louis Stevenson was the author of the following beautiful prayer:

The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man. Help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces. Let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day; bring us to our resting beds, weary and content and undishonored; and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.