Canadian Forestry Journal, Volume 11

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Canadian Forestry Association, 1915 - Forests and forestry
 

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Page 190 - In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth. This is a moral that runs at large; (Take it.
Page 190 - So the Deacon inquired of the village folk Where he could find the strongest oak, That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, — That was for spokes and floor and sills; He sent for lancewood to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees, The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from...
Page 34 - Boughs on which the wild bees settle, Tints that spot the violet's petal, Why Nature loves the number five, And why the star-form she repeats: Lover of all things alive, Wonderer at all he meets, Wonderer chiefly at himself, Who can tell him what he is? Or how meet in human elf Coming and past eternities?
Page 8 - Stupidity Street I SAW with open eyes Singing birds sweet Sold in the shops For the people to eat, Sold in the shops of Stupidity Street. I saw in vision The worm in the wheat, And in the shops nothing For people to eat ; Nothing for sale in Stupidity Street.
Page 190 - ... to make the thills; The crossbars were ash, from the straightest trees; The panels of white-wood, that cuts like cheese, But lasts like iron for things like these; The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum...
Page 42 - ENTER these enchanted woods, You who dare. Nothing harms beneath the leaves More than waves a swimmer cleaves. Toss your heart up with the lark, Foot at peace with mouse and worm, Fair you fare. Only at a dread of dark Quaver, and they quit their form: Thousand eyeballs under hoods Have you by the hair. Enter these enchanted woods, You who dare.
Page 214 - We plant the ship when we plant the tree. What do we plant when we plant the tree ? We plant the houses for you and me.
Page 190 - Of your strong and pliant branches, My canoe to make more steady, Make more strong and firm beneath me!" Through the summit of the cedar Went a sound, a cry of horror, Went a murmur of resistance; But it whispered, bending downward, "Take my boughs, O Hiawatha!
Page 34 - When the pine tosses its cones To the song of its waterfall tones, Who speeds to the woodland walks? To birds and trees who talks? Caesar of his leafy Rome, There the poet is at home. He goes to the river-side, Not hook nor line hath he; He stands in the meadows wide, Nor gun nor scythe to see.
Page 43 - Little of all we value here Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year Without both feeling and looking queer. In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth, So far as I know, but a tree and truth.

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