California District News Letter, Volume 5

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Page 7 - HE who plants a tree Plants a hope. Rootlets up through fibres blindly grope; Leaves unfold into horizons free. So man's life must climb From the clods of time Unto heavens sublime. Canst thou prophesy, thou little tree, What the glory of thy boughs shall be? He who plants a tree Plants a joy: Plants a comfort that will never cloy; Every day a fresh reality, Beautiful and strong, To whose shelter throng Creatures blithe with song. If thou couldst but know, thou happy tree, Of the bliss that shall...
Page 6 - Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves.
Page 7 - ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw within the moonlight in his room, Making it rich and like a lily in bloom, An angel writing in a book of gold: Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the presence in the room he said, "What writest thou?
Page 7 - A people without children would face a hopeless future ; a country without trees is almost as hopeless ; forests which are so used that they cannot renew themselves will soon vanish, and with them all their benefits.
Page 7 - Pernicious weed ! whose scent the fair annoys, Unfriendly to society's chief joys, Thy worst effect is banishing for hours The sex whose presence civilizes ours...
Page 7 - Agriculture to examine, locate and recommend for purchase such forested, cut-over or denuded lands within the watersheds of navigable streams as in his judgment may be necessary to the regulation of the flow of navigable streams or for the production of timber...
Page 7 - Gossip is a sort of smoke that comes from the dirty tobacco-pipes of those who diffuse it : it proves nothing but the bad taste of the smoker.
Page 7 - IT'S forth across the roaring foam, and on towards the west, It's many a lonely league from home, o'er many a mountain crest, From where the dogs of Scotland call the sheep around the fold, To where the flags are flying beside the Gates of Gold. Where all the deep-sea galleons ride that come to bring the corn, Where falls the fog at eventide and blows the breeze at morn; It's there that I was sick and sad, alone and poor and cold, In yon distressful city beside the Gates of Gold.

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