Ohio Arbor Day 1913: Arbor and Bird Day Manual | Page 4

the Apple's are better, thinks the bee;
Fifth boy:
The Fir tree softly seems to sigh;
Sixth boy:
The Spruce lifts up its head so high;
Seventh boy:
The Elm tree's beauty you'll remark;
Eighth boy:
The Birch is proud of its silver bark;
Ninth boy:
The Cedar tree is stately and tall,
Tenth boy:
But the hale old Oak is king of all.
Trees in unison:
Arbor Day, your subjects loyal, Give you greetings; hearty, royal.
(March to music to back of stage behind Flowers.)
Arbor Day.
Thank you, trees, from lowland and hill, I appreciate your hearty good will, Are others still coming to our fete? We welcome them, though they be late.
Enter ten small girls (run in on tiptoe lightly, waving arms while the others sing.)
The birds are flying, tra-la, tra-la, Their strong wings a-trying, tra-la, tra-la, From east and west, they come with the rest, For Springtime is here, tra-la, tra-la.
First girl (courtesies):
The Robin has a pretty vest,
Second girl:
The Bluebird sweetly sings his best;
Third girl:
The Bob-o-Link trills in its meadow home,
Fourth girl:
The Bluejay calls in a shrill loud tone,
Fifth girl:
The Blackbird sings in the tall marsh rushes,
Sixth girl:
But sweeter, softer, call the Thrushes,
Seventh girl:
The Oriole whistles from its swinging nest,
Eighth girl:
But the Song Sparrow sings the sweetest and best.
Ninth girl:
The Meadow Lark chants his mad, merry glee,
Tenth girl:
Woodpecker just taps, so busy is he.
In Unison:
Dear Arbor Day, your subjects loyal, Give you greeting, hearty, royal.
Arbor Day:
A queen whose welcomed by the birds, Feels joy too deep for idle words. Dear friends, my subjects, it is May; Let us sing Spring's roundelay.
(Here may be introduced groups of the charming flower songs by Mrs. Gaynor, bird songs by Nevin, simple folk dances, and appropriate Spring poems, etc., as part of the May Day fete.)
Arbor Day.
This day has been so full of pleasure, I cannot yet my sadness measure. And scatter our joyousness far and wide.
(Exit, first the Birds, then the Trees, the flowers, the School children, the Holidays, then Arbor Day and Chorus, singing.)
The birds are trilling, tra-la, tra-la, Their glad songs are filling, tra-la, tra-la, The wood and dale, the meadow and vale, The Springtime is come, tra-la, tra-la.
The gentle May breeze, tra-la, tra-la, Plays o'er the green leas, tra-la, tra-la, Dandelions twinkle, violets sprinkle, The sward 'neath the trees, tra-la, tra-la.
The garden flowers gay, tra-la, tra-la, Are here to stay, tra-la, tra-la, The rich red rosies and all the posies, Say Springtime is here, tra-la, tra-la.
Springtime is here, tra-la, tra-la, Brooklets run clear, tra-la, tra-la, Birds are winging, flowers springing, For Springtime is here, tra-la, tra-la.
(Simple costumes make this more effective. All the girls wear white gowns--Chorus has a simple Greek dress. Arbor Day a crown of flowers and scepter, her maids baskets of flowers; the flower girls wear chaplets of blossoms, artificial ones are best; The Holidays can wear appropriate dress; the School-Children enter as if from play with their baskets, dolls, flowers, fishing rods, etc.)

A BROKEN WING.
In front of my pew sits a maiden-- A little brown wing in her hat, With its touches of tropical azure, And the sheen of the sun upon that.
Through the colored pane shines a glory, By which the vast shadows are stirred, But I pine for the spirit and splendor, That painted the wing of that bird.
The organ rolls down its great anthem, With the soul of a song it is blent; But for me, I am sick for the singing, Of one little song that is spent.
The voice of the preacher is gentle; "No sparrow shall fall to the ground;" But the poor broken wing on the bonnet, Is mocking the merciful sound.
--Selected.

HUNTING THE WILD.
One Christmas, over forty years ago, my grandfather sent to me from Colorado a real Indian bow and arrows. It was a beautiful bow with a sinew string and wrapped in the middle and at the ends with sinews. The arrow-heads were iron spikes, bound in place with wrapping of fine sinews. The eagle feathers' tips were also bound with sinews.
It was a beautiful, snow-clad Christmas morning, and I remember how I yearned to go with this bow and arrows into the cedar grove to shoot the birds feeding there. This yearning must have expressed itself in some way, for I distinctly remember how a man with my bow and arrows led the way, and I in restrained delight followed him to the cedar grove. I remember how he maneuvered among the trees, and with keen eyes watched for an opportunity to make a shot.
He stopped, whispered to me, pointed to a bird in the trunk of a cedar. Raising the bow, it bent taut under his firm, cautious pull. "Whiz," went the arrow, and there, pinned to the tree with the iron spike, fluttered a hairy woodpecker. To my wondering child-mind it was a great feat--my inherent instinct for hunting the wild approved and applauded.
That very phase of human