not furnish half the ivory used in the great markets of the world
during that time. Vienna, Paris, London and St. Petersburg keep the
elephant-hunters busy, yet it is impossible for them to satisfy all the
demands made upon them, and the ivory-diggers must be called upon to
add to the supply.

Every spring, when the ice begins to thaw, new mines or deposits of
fossil ivory--a perfect treasure of mammoths' tusks--are discovered in
the marsh-lands of Eastern Siberia. There are no mammoths now--unless
we call elephants by that name; yet their remains have been found upon
both continents. In the year 1799, the perfect skeleton of one of
these animals was found in an ice-bank near the mouth of a Siberian
river. As the vast ice-field thawed, the remains of the huge animal
came to light.

The traders who search for mammoths' tusks around the Arctic coasts of
Asia make every effort to send off, each year, at least fifty thousand
pounds of fossil ivory to the west along the great caravan road. So
great is the demand, however, that this quantity, added to that sent by
the elephant-hunters, is not large enough to make ivory cheap in trade
or in manufacture.

SELECTION XII

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot:
There, woodman, let it stand;
Thy ax shall harm it not.

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea,--
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earthbound ties!
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

When but an idle boy
I sought its grateful shade;
In all their gushing joy,
Here, too, my sisters played.
My mother kissed me here,
My father pressed my hand:
Forgive this foolish tear,
But let that old oak stand.

My heart-strings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend;
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree, the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot!
While I've a hand to save,
Thy ax shall harm it not.

_George P. Morris_.

LESSON XXXI

FLOWERS

He who cannot appreciate floral beauty is to be pitied, like any other
man who is born imperfect. It is a misfortune not unlike blindness.
But men who reject flowers