“Hold up your branches,” said Mercury.  “I must see that the pot of gold is not hidden among them.”

All of the trees held up their branches.  The poplar that stood by the path was the first to hold up his.  He was an honest tree and knew he had nothing to hide.

[Illustration:  Mercury among the trees]

Down fell the pot of gold.  How surprised the poplar tree was!  He dropped his branches in shame.  Then he held them high in the air.

“Forgive me,” he said.  “I do not know how it came to be there; but, hereafter, I shall always hold my branches up.  Then every one can see that I have nothing hidden.”

Since then the branches have always grown straight up; and every one knows that the poplar is an honest and upright tree.

—­FLORA J. COOKE.

WHO LOVES THE TREES BEST?

  Who loves the trees best? 
  “I,” said the Spring;
  “Their leaves so beautiful
  To them I bring.”

  Who loves the trees best? 
  “I,” Summer said;
  “I give them blossoms,
  White, yellow, red.”

  Who loves the trees best? 
  “I,” said the Fall;
  “I give luscious fruits,
  Bright tints to all.”

  Who loves the trees best? 
  “I love them best,”
  Harsh Winter answered;
  “I give them rest.”

—­ALICE MAY DOUGLAS.

LEAVES IN AUTUMN

  Red and gold, and gold and red,
  Autumn leaves burned overhead;
    Hues so splendid
    Softly blended,
  Oh, the glory that they shed! 
  Red and gold, and gold and red.

  Gold and brown, and brown and gold,
  Of such fun the west wind told
    That they listened,
    And they glistened,
  As they wrestled in the cold;
  Gold and brown, and brown and gold.

  Brown and gold, and red and brown,
  How they hurried, scurried down
    For a frolic,
    For a rolic,
  Through the country and the town,
  Brown and gold, and red and brown.

[Illustration:  A bird in a tree]

A STORY OF BIRD LIFE

I

Once there came to our fields a pair of birds.  They had never built a nest nor seen a winter.

Oh, how beautiful was everything!  The fields were full of flowers, the grass was growing tall, and the bees were humming everywhere.

One of the birds fell to singing, and the other bird said, “Who told you to sing?”

He answered, “The flowers and the bees told me.  The blue sky told me, and you told me.”

“When did I tell you to sing?” asked his mate.

“Every time you brought in tender grass for the nest,” he replied.  “Every time your soft wings fluttered off again for hair and feathers to line it.”