et
The kiss of June's awaking,
The season's hast'ning feet!

Oh, sure, a laugh is lisping
In each uncurling leaf;
The joy of June is thrilling
Some sense to transport brief!

Sister of mine, White Birch Tree!
That sense my own sets free,
For in thy dim soul-stirrings
My Father speaks to me."

It was Tanpa, with the sunburst upon her right breast, general symbol of
the Camp Fire, and the birch tree in grace of green and silver
embroidered above it upon emerald khaki, who read the verses which she
had scribbled in the skiff's stern under cover of the general interest
in water-snails, eggboats and "fresh-water sheep."

"Most beautiful of forest trees--the Lady of the Woods!" came the
responsive hail from eighteen green-clad maidens, tiptoeing around the
Silver Lady, the emerald tassels of their Tam-o'-shanters skipping in
the June breeze that peeped under her fluttering veil, still tucked with
buds, to kiss those white limbs lifted to the skies, with surely, some
bud of conscious joy.

It was June! Upon the cliff-brow, above the lake, wild roses were
budding, too; and the girls' cheeks painted themselves with their
reflection--even as did the blushing minnows in the lake.

But the lady of the woods had the best of it so far as decoration went.
Never new-crowned head wore in its coronet Life as hers did,--fledgling
life.

For amid the heart-shaped leaves, so brightly green, was the cap-sheaf
of summer wear:

"A nest of robins in her hair."

The poet who penned that line would have gloried in the sight of her,
that bungalow birch tree, a tall, straight specimen, radiant as a silver
taper from the black, frescoed ring about the foot to the topmost ivory
twig, and here and there amid the fluttering, pea-green tresses a little
tuft of conscious life--a nestling with open beak and craving, coralline
throat.

He would have joyed in the sight of the tree-loving Group, too, as the
earth was turned and the first silver sapling rooted deep to the music
of Tomoke's voice, softly proclaiming:

"He who plants a tree,
He plants love.
Tents of coolness spreading out above
Wayfarers he may not live to see.
Gifts that grow are best,
Hands that bless are blest,
Plant! Life does the rest."

And Life would do the rest--oh! surely--in the case of her father and
herself, was the dewy thought of Pemrose Lorry as she planted her baby
tree in h