A PLEA FOR THE TREES

Evening Star, Issue 22460, 3 October 1936, Page 8

A PLEA FOR THE TREES

TO THE WAYFARER Ye who pass by and would raise your hand against me, hearken ere you harm me. I am the heat of your hearth on the cold winter nights, the friendly shade screening you from the summer sun, and my fruits are refreshing draughts quenching your thirst as you journey on. I am the beam that holds your house, the board of your table, the bed on which you lie, and the timber that builds your boat. I am the handle

“ Oh, ye who enter the portals of the Mackenzie to found homes, take the word of a child of the misty gorges, and plant forest trees for your lives; So shall your mountain facing and river Hats be preserved to your children’s children and you ever more.”A HAPPY HOME Once I found a nest, and in it Sat a little bright-eyed linnet; When I peeped another day The pretty bird had flown away, And live round eggs I saw, quite plain, Before she fluttered home again. To-day I listened near and hoard The chirping of a baby bird—0, what a happy family Is living in the lilac tree! THE COST OF INSECTS A great expert in the American Department of Agriculture has estimated that the loss to agriculture through insects in a single year may reach £160,000,000 in the world. THE HERO He was alone. Even Nancy had gone. As she took care to explain to Jack, she would never bo able to tell him how exciting a rat hunt could be unless she went to see it! Cousin Tom, who overheard the remark, called her a sport. After that Nancy could not change her mind, though she did half want to when she saw Jack’s quivering lips. For it scorned so useless even to hope that anyone would call lame Jack a sport. He was so very lame, and the progress he made on his' crutches was very slow. lie was glad now to sit on the low parapet of the bridge which spanned the river. His left arm ached. So did something else—was it his heart? Splash! No, it wasn’t a water rat, though Jack was thinking of rats at the time. It was a brick—Jack had always been an enthusiast over bricks and mortar. Coo! It didn’t take such a very long time to discover what was wrong. It was so very wrong indeed. In fact, even Jack could realise that the bridge was giving way. The storm last night must have done it—the terrible storm that had swept across the country and kept them all awake for hours. The iron girder had gone—the brickwork was going. Any heavy weight passing over the bridge would finish it up. Any heavy weight. The lane was not very much used. The chances were that no cart would pass this way to-day. It would be all right if he went up to Forden’s cottage and told. That was just as far as Jack had decided when he heard the shrill shriek of a motor horn. Then down the slope towards the bridge came a big grey car. Any heavy weight, and crash would go the bridge! Not a brick next time. The bridge and the grey car swirling down the stream. And only a small boy, very lame on his legs, to prevent the tragedy. If only Cyril, or even Nancy, had been here they could have raced up the slope, shouting a warning. But Jack could not even walk properly. All he could do was to stand still. And that was just what he did. But he stood in the middle of the road. It doesn’t sound very heroic, does it? But it was! For Jack could not have moved quickly to get out of the way had the car failed to stop. Ho heard the scream of the horn, the Ihouts, the cries. He saw the big grey car creeping down the slope like some huge grey beetle. Nearer and nearer it came. The driver, seeing the motionless figure, jammed on the brakes. If they failed to respond the car would be over lame Jack before he could move. Things buzzed in Jack’s ears. He felt ever so green, and he thought of

Then the crutches suddenly slid away under him, and he fell all in a heap into the motorist’s arms. So that was how lame Hqratius kept the bridge. It was the big motorist who gave him the name, and Cousin Tom said it was fine, and he wished he had been there 1 Nancy just squeezed Jack’s hand, but how her eyes shone! “ Being a hero is better than a sport, Jack,” she whispered. “ And you’re a hero. Everyone says so.” OFF FOR THE HOLIDAYS Packing up dear Nan bewilders— Packing always pleases us— Nannie never knew such childers In her life, for fuss. First you wish you’d packed up Emma, Then you wish you had her back. Ob, there’s always some dilemma When we help to pack! “ Master Tommy, bring your motor, There’ll be no more corners soon. Will you take your sailing boat, or Your collapsible balloon? “ Have you packed the stove and kettle? ” (Mother comes along to see) — “ Mother’d be in fearsome fettle,” Nannie says, “without her tea.” Packing up, though somewhat trying, Only happens once a year— Mother says, “ There’s no denying, Once too often, Nannie dear.”THE BOD IE OF BOG FARM Two children, named Betty and Robin, lived in Black Bog Farm. On one side of tho farm stretched the great Black Bog, shaking and quaking, and very, very dangerous. Robin bad heard sad tales about the old hog. “ Years ago,” an old farmhand told him, “ before your dad was born, there was a treasure trove lost in the bog. Thrown in, it was, by an old cranky miser who lived on the farm before your grandfather bad it. The treasure doesn’t belong to anybody; and whoever finds it may keep it, for that’s the law. (But it never will bo found. There it lies hidden under the bog.” Robin thought hard all the way home, “ If only I could find it! ” he said to himself. “ Dad is needing money to keep up the farm.” He was roused from his thoughts by a little sound of sobbing as he reached the big farm gates. There sat Betty staring, as she often did, across the bog. “ Robin, Robin,” she sobbed, I know my Bogie is dead! ” Robin knew at once whom Betty meant. She was such a little girl that she had always believed that the will o’ the wisp that was to be seen over tho bog was a real fairy friend of hers. “Listen,” said Robin. “ 'i ou know that Dad has told you what your Bogie really is. It’s just a will o’ tho wisp that flies over the bog because it’s such a damp place. It's pretty to watch, but that's all it is.” “ li !s my I’airv Bogie! ’ said Bettv unhappily. “ And it is gone. And she went into the bouse very sad. ,

Betty was very restless that night. Over and over she turned on her pillow. “ Robin doesn’t know,” she thought, “ how I’ve watched and watched for my darling Bogie. But I have. And he never comes now. I used to see him every day dancing about over the bog with his little light. I would have followed him only Daddy said I musn’t. But now suppose he’s ill? ” Betty couldn’t go to sleep. It was bright moonlight, too. She could see the big Black Bog from her widow—the bog where nobody went. “I'm going!” said Betty, suddenly making up her mind. “ I’m going. Tin sure my Bogie is ill.” Out of bed she got and started off to the bog. Nobody heard her tip toe downstairs. But at the sound of the closing of the hall door Robin woke up. Who could bo going out at that time of night? He jumped up and peered out of the ivindow. There in the bright moonlight was Betty walking right down to the edge of the big Black Bog! Robin was downstairs in a moment. “Betty!” he shouted as be ran. And, as he shouted, right into the middle of the bog stepped Betty! She meant to go. She must go quickly now, she thought, for Robin was coming to take her home. “Bobby, let me go!” she called. “ My darling Bogie is ill.’’

Fathers and mothers have quick ears. In a very short time—though it seemed a long time to Robin, who dared not leave Betty alone—there was the sound of Dad’s cheery call. “ What’s all this? Betty sleep-walk--ing, Robin? ” Dad, stepping carefully, reached the spot where the little girl stood. “.Whyl” he_ said, staring, “but what is hatpipening to the bogr, Last time I tried it it was a regular quagmire. And now — ” “Betty’s been bothering about her Borne, Dad—you know, what she calls the will o’ the wisp! ” exclaimed Robin. “She hasn’t seen him lately, and she thought he was ill.” _ “No will o’ the wisp!”—Dad was thinking hard—“ A will o’ the wisp means dampness,” said he; “and if, after the very hot summer that we’yp had, the bog is drying up . Yes, I’ve heard of such things in other parts of the country. But our bog ” “Oh, Dad!” cried Robin, “if our bog has dried up, why, you can dig for the lost treasure, and it will bo yours! ” ■ To cut a long story short, that is what they did, Dad and the farmhands.. And the treasure was found, A splendid hoard, too. But, as Dad says, it would he lying there still, probably, if Betty hadn’t gone to pay a midnight visit to the Bogie who was iU,