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WOODMAN! SPARE THAT TREE!

GEORGE P. MORRIS

MR. MORRIS, in a letter to a friend, dated New

York, February 1, 1837, gave in substance this account: Riding out of town a few days since in company with a friend, an old gentleman, he invited me to turn down a little romantic pass, not far from Bloomingdale. "Your object?" inquired I. "Merely to look once more at an old tree planted by my grandfather long before I was born, under which I used to play when I was a boy, and where my sisters played with me. There I often listened to the good advice of my parents. Father, mother, sisters-all are gone; nothing but the old tree remains." And a paleness overspread his fine countenance, and tears came to his eyes. After a moment's pause, he added: "Don't think me foolish. I don't know how it is; I never go out but I turn down this lane to look at that old tree. I have a thousand recollections about it, and I always greet it as a familiar and well-remembered friend." These words were scarcely uttered when the old gentleman cried out, "There it is!" Near the tree stood a man with his coat off, sharpening an ax. "You're not going to cut that tree down, surely?" "Yes, but I am, though," said the woodman. "What for?" inquired the old gentleman, with choked emotion. "What for? I like that! Well, I will tell you. I want the tree for firewood." "What is the tree worth to you for firewood?" "Why, when

down, about ten dollars." "Suppose I should give you that sum," said the old gentleman, "would you let it stand?" "Yes." "You are sure of that?" "Positive." "Then give me a bond to that effect." We went into the little cottage in which my companion was born,

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but which is now occupied by the woodman. I drew up the bond. It was signed, and the money paid over. As we left, the young girl, the daughter of the woodman, assured us that while she lived the tree should not be cut. These circumstances made a strong impression on my mind, and furnished me with the materials for the song I send you.

The very title to this poem is a significant warning in this day of national effort to preserve our forests.

WOODMAN! SPARE THAT TREE!

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The bleak, barren hills of New England, worn to the rock by floods since the dense forests were cleared away, stand as mute witnesses to man's short-sighted devastations. Throughout practically all the states, Nebraska's "Arbor Day," or tree-planting day, is observed, and the National Department of Forestry is planting millions of trees annually to repair the damage done by the wholesale destruction of our forests. This spirit of tree preservation is made personal in this poem. Each of us feels that he is the speaker in the poem, ready to defend some loved tree against the woodman's blow. Every one who has learned to love the trees, the growing grain, or the flowers feels that these living things must not be destroyed.

Miss Mary E. Burt, lover of children and of nature, says of the poem, "I have loved it all my life, and I never knew any one who could or would offer a criticism upon it." Childhood's sweetest pleasures and dearest associations cluster around some loved spot where trees, ferns, mosses, flowers, or other living things have taught innocent childhood the open secrets of life. What wonder, then, that the child grown old raises his voice in protest against the destruction of any of these dear living things!

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 would'st thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that agèd 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.

SUGGESTIVE EXERCISES

1. Tell something of the speaker in this poem.

2. In what spirit does he utter his protest in the first stanza? 3. How does his spirit of protest change in the second stanza? 4. What childhood associations are called to mind?

5. Why say "foolish tear"?

WOODMAN! SPARE THAT TREE!

6. Explain the first two lines of the last stanza.

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7. What shows mingled determination and triumph in this stanza?

8. What in this poem makes each of us ready to second the protest?

9. What message does the poem bring?

REFERENCES

BJÖRNSON: The Tree.

RILEY: When the Green gits Back in the Trees.

CRAIK: Green Things Growing.

THACKERAY: The Rose Upon My Balcony.

BRYANT: The Planting of the Apple Tree. Forest Hymn.

CHORLEY: The Brave Old Oak.

LOWELL: The Birch Tree.

LARCOM: Plant a Tree.

GOETHE: The Oak.

STEVENSON: The Woodman.

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