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262 ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

They came to tell what its fate should be, 
Though life was unreveal'd; 
For life is holy mystery, 
Where'er it is conceal'd. 

They came with gifts that should life bestow; 
The dew and the living air - 
The bane that should work its deadly wo - 
Was found with the Fairies there. 
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought,
And the worm in the rose-leaf roll'd, 
And many thing with destruction fraught, 
That its fate were quickly told. 

But it heeded not; for a blessed fat
Was the acorn's doom'd be - 
The spirtisi of earth should its birth-time wait, 
And watch o'er its destiny. 
To a little sprite was the task assigned 
To bury the acorn deep, 
Away form the frost and searching wind, 
When they through the forest sweep. 

I laughed outright at the small thing's toil, 
As he bow'd beneath the spade, 
And he balance the gossamer wings the while 
To look in the pit he made. 
A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, 
When the spade aside he threw, 
And roll'd the acorn away to sleep 
In the hush of dropping dew. 

The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 
And its gush of woodland song; 
The dew came down, and the rain was there, 
And the sunshine rested long; 

ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 263 

Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, 
The old leaf arching o'er, 
And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, 
Came the acorn-shell once more. 

With coil'd stem, and a pale green hue 
It look'd but a feeble thing;
Then deeply its roots abroad it threw, 
Its strength from the earth to bring. 
The woodland sprites are gathering round, 
Rejoice that the task is done - 
That another life from the noisome ground
Is up to the pleasant sun. 

The young child pass'd with a careless tread. 
And the germ had well nigh crush'd, 
But a spider, launch'd on her airy thread, 
The check of the stripling brush'd. 
He little knew, as he started back,
How the acorn's fate wash hung 
On the very point of the spider's track 
Where the web on his check was flung.

The autumn came, and it stood alone, 
And bow'd as the wind pass'd by - 
The wind that utter'd its dirge-like moan 
In the hold oak sere and dry; 
And the hollow branches creak'd and sway'd 
But they bent not to the blast, 
For the stout oak tree, where centuries play'd 
Was sturdy to the last. 

A schoolboy beheld the lithe young shoot, 
And his knife was instant out, 
To sever the stalk from the spreading root, 
And scatter the buds about;