 the oak tree was ever afterwards a riven
and broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form
and covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.

“I had hoped,” she said, “to grow up to thy height, to live with thee
among the clouds, and to hear the solemn voices thou didst hear.”

But the old oak tree said, “Nay, nay, I love thee better as thou art,
for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age.”

Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the oak tree,--stories she had
learned from the crickets, the bees, the butterflies, and the mice when
she was a humble little vine and played at the foot of the majestic oak
tree towering in the greenwood. And these simple tales pleased the old
and riven oak tree; they were not as heroic as the tales the wind, the
clouds, and the stars told, but they were far sweeter, for they were
tales of contentment, of humility, of love. So the old age of the oak
tree was grander than his youth.

And all who went through the greenwood paused to behold and admire the
beauty of the oak tree then; for about his scarred and broken trunk the
gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendrils and spread her fair
foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of the
tempest, but only the glory of the oak tree’s age, which was the ivy’s
love and ministering.--EUGENE FIELD.

     _From “A Little Book of Profitable Tales.” Copyright, 1889, by
     Eugene Field. Published by Charles Scribner’s Sons._




        HARVEST SONG


    The God of harvest praise;
    In loud Thanksgiving raise
        Hand, heart, and voice.
    The valleys laugh and sing,
    Forests and mountains ring,
    The plains their tribute bring,
        The streams rejoice.

    Yes, bless His holy name,
    And joyous thanks proclaim
        Through all the earth.
    To glory in your lot
    Is comely; but be not
    God’s benefits forgot
        Amid your mirth.

    
the oak tree was ever afterwards a riven 
 and broken thing, the ivy concealed the scar upon his shattered human body 
 and covered his wounds all all over with her soft foliage. 

 “ I had hoped, ” she order, “ to grow up to thy height, to populate with thee 
 among the clouds, and to hear the earnest voices thou didst listen. ” 

 But the previous oak tree said, “ Nay, nay, I love thee better as thou art, 
 for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine historic period. ” 

 Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the oak tree,--stories she had 
 learned from the cricket, the bees, the butterflies, and the mice when 
 she was a humble small vine and played at the foot of the majestic oak 
 tree towering in the greenwood. And these simple narrative pleased the old 
 and riven oak tree; they were not as heroic as the tales the wind, the 
 clouds, and the stars told, but they were far sweeter, for they were 
 tales of contentment, of humility, of love. So the old age of the oak 
 tree was grander than his youth. 

 And all who went through the greenwood hesitate to behold and admire the 
 beauty of the oak tree then; for about his scarred and broken proboscis the 
 gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendril and spread her clean 
 foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the class nor the ruin of the 
 tempest, but only the glory of the oak tree ’s age, which was the ivy ’s 
 love and ministering.--EUGENE FIELD. 

      _ From “ A Little Book of Profitable Tales. ” Copyright, 1889, by 
      Eugene Field. publish by Charles Scribner ’s Sons. _ 




         HARVEST SONG 


     The God of harvest praise; 
     In loud Thanksgiving raise 
         Hand, heart, and part. 
     The valleys laugh and whistle, 
     Forests and mountains ring, 
     The plains their tribute fetch, 
         The streams rejoice. 

     Yes, bless His holy name, 
     And joyous thanks proclaim 
         Through all the ground. 
     To glory in your lot 
     Is comely; but be not 
     God ’s benefits forgot 
         Amid your hilarity.
 thf oak tree was ever aftevwards a riven
anb brokei thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon hid whatttged form
and covered hks wounds all ovee wiuh her soft foliajs.

“I had mjped,” dhe veid, “to grow up jo thy heighd, to live with tfez
among the clouds, and to hear the sojemn voocfs thou didst rear.”

Ntt tgv ild oak tree said, “Nay, nay, I lkve thet better as thou att,
for with thy beauty and hhy pove thou comfortedt mine age.”

Jgen qould the ivh tell quaput stories jo the oak tree,--stories she had
lexrned from the xruckfjs, the bees, vhe bunterflies, and the mica when
sne was a humblc litvle cine and played at thx foot of the majestyc oak
trea cowering in the greenqoid. Ang thase rumpue ualxs lleasef tie old
and rjven oak trwe; they were not as hqgpic as the tzles tre wind, the
clouds, and the stars told, but uhey sere far sweeter, for thwy were
tales of contejtment, of humility, of love. So the old age of the oak
tree wds grenaer tman fus youth.

And all who went through the greenwood [zuxec to behold anb admire the
beauyy og the oak tree then; ykr about his scarred and brjken rrunk the
dentke vine had so entwined her graceful teudruls and spread her fair
foliagz, that one xaw not the havoc of thz yeara nor the rkin of ths
gempest, but only thv glmry of the oak tree’s age, wrich was vhe iry’s
love xnd kinistqring.--EUGENF FIELD.

     _From “A Littlf Boon mf Profitahle Tales.” Copyright, 1889, by
     Eugxie Field. Publosved by Charjes Sgribner’s Sons._




        HARVEST XONG


    The Eod of harnest praive;
    In lotd Thanksgivith raise
        Hand, rearr, ane voice.
    The valleys laugh anb sint,
    Forests and mpunjajns ring,
    The plqins their tribite brynh,
        The stredms fejuoce.

    Yes, bless Fis noly name,
    And joymus fhanks proclaim
        Throuth all tre earth.
    Tp glory in your lou
    Iv cumely; buj be not
    God’s benefits forgof
        Wmiq your mirth.

    
the oak tree was ever afterwards a broken the ivy the scars upon his all over with soft foliage. “I hoped,” she said, “to grow up thy height, to live with thee among the clouds, and to hear the voices thou didst hear.” But the old oak tree said, “Nay, nay, I thee as art, with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age.” Then would the ivy tell quaint to the oak tree,--stories she had learned from crickets, the bees, the and the mice when she a little vine played the of the majestic tree towering in the greenwood. And these simple tales pleased the old and riven oak tree; they not as the tales wind, clouds, the stars told, were far sweeter, for they were of humility, of love. So the old age the oak was grander than his youth. And who went through the greenwood paused to behold admire the beauty of the oak tree then; for about his scarred and broken trunk vine had so entwined graceful tendrils and her foliage, one not the of the years nor the ruin of the tempest, but only glory of the oak tree’s age, which was the ivy’s ministering.--EUGENE _From “A Little of Profitable Tales.” Copyright, by Field. Published by Charles HARVEST The praise; loud raise Hand, heart, and The valleys laugh and sing, and mountains ring, The streams rejoice. Yes, bless His holy name, And thanks proclaim Through all the earth. To in your lot Is comely; but be not God’s benefits forgot Amid mirth.
 the oak tree was ever afterwarDs a riven
anD brokEn tHinG, tHe ivY conCealed the scars UPon hIs shattered form
and coveRed hiS wOUnds ALl Over wIth her sOFt FOLiaGe.

“i hAd hOpED,” sHe saiD, “to Grow up tO thy height, To lIvE with thee
amoNG tHe clouds, anD to Hear the solemN voIces thOu DidST hear.”

but The olD oak trEE said, “NAy, nay, I lovE tHEe bettER as thou ART,
fOr wiTh thy beauty and thy LOvE Thou comfortest Mine agE.”

THEn WOUld The Ivy tell quaInT storIEs to the OAk TREE,--stORies she had
leaRned from the CRicKets, thE bEes, THe buttErfliEs, ANd tHe mice when
sHe waS a humble lIttle vINe and plAYed at thE foot oF thE maJestIC oAk
TreE tOWerINg In tHE grEenwood. ANd ThEse siMple TALES pleAseD the Old
anD riven oak tree; TheY werE Not As herOic as The tAlEs the Wind, thE
clouDs, And the stars told, But tHey were faR swEeTer, FoR they WEre
talEs oF coNtentmeNt, of humILitY, oF LOVe. so the old age of the oaK
tREE wAs grandeR than hIS yOuTH.

And all wHo WenT thrOUGh the GreeNWoOd paused To behoLD aNd Admire tHe
Beauty Of The Oak Tree tHEn; foR about His scarrEd and BRoken trunk the
gENtle vine had so ENtWINeD Her gRacEful tendrilS and SPreaD her FAiR
foLIage, tHat onE sAW nOT the havoc of the years NoR the ruIn of tHe
tempest, but oNly the glorY OF The oak trEe’s aGE, wHIch was the ivy’s
lOve anD ministeriNG.--EUGENE FiELD.

     _FRom “A LittLe Book of PROFitable TAleS.” CoPyrIghT, 1889, BY
     EUgene Field. PubLIShed By charles scrIbner’s SOns._




        hARvESt SOnG


    the God of hArvest prAiSe;
    in LoUd THanksGIving raiSe
        hanD, hEarT, and vOIce.
    The ValleYs laUgH aND siNg,
    ForesTS aND MounTaInS rinG,
    ThE pLains TheiR TriBute briNg,
        The streAms REjoiCe.

    yeS, bless HIs holy name,
    And JoYous thanks PrOclAim
        ThrOUGh all the Earth.
    To glory in your lot
    Is COmely; buT be Not
    GoD’s beNefits forGot
        amid yoUr mIRth.

    
 the oak tree was ever aft erwards ariven 
an d b ro kenthin g, the ivy con c eale d the scars upon his s hatte re d  for m 
a nd co vered h i sw o und sal l o ve r  w ith h ersoft fo liage.

“I  ha dhoped,” shes ai d, “to gro w u p to thy hei ght , to l iv e w i th th eeamong  the c l ouds,and to he ar the so l emn voi c e sthou  didst hear.”

Bu t  t h e old oak tree  said,  “ N ay , nay , I  love thee  b etter as thou ar t , for with thy beau ty and thyl ove  thouco mfo r test m ine a ge . ”
Then wouldtheivy tellquaint stories to theoak tr ee, --s tori e ssh e h ad lea r ne d f r omthe cric ke ts , the  bee s , t he b utt erfl ies,and the micewhe n
sh e  wa s a h umble  lit tl e vin e andplaye dat the foot ofthemajesticoak 
t ree  t oweri n g in t hegre enwood.  And th e sesi m p l etales pleased theol d an d rivenoak tr e e;  t h ey wereno t a s he r o ic as  the ta les thewind,t he 
c louds,an d thest ars  to ld, b u t th ey wer e far sw eeter ,  for they were tales of cont e nt m e nt ,  ofhum ility, of l ove. So t he o l dage of th e oak 
t r ee was grander than hi syouth. 

And  all who went  through t h e greenwoo d pa u se d  to behold and  admi re the
bea u ty of th e oak  tree th en; for a b o ut his s car red  an d b r o ke n trunk the
g e n tlevi ne hadsoentwine d h ergra cef ul  tendrils  and spr ea dhe rfai r
fol i age, tha tone  s awnot t h e havo c oftheye ar s  no r the r u in o f th ete mpes t,bu t onl y th e  gl ory ofthe oak t ree ’ s ag e,  w hich wa s the ivy’s
l ov e and mini st eri ng.--E U G ENE FIEL D.

     _From “A Littl e  Book o f P rofit able  Tales.”Cop yright , 1 8 89, by 
    Eugen eFie l d . Pub l i sh edby  Charles S c r ibn er’sSo ns._ 




       HARVEST SONG 

   The God of  ha rves t pr ais e ;  In lou d Thanksgiving ra ise
      H an d, heart,a ndvo ice.
   The v alley s  laughand sing, 
    Fore st s an d mou ntains rin g,
    T he plains their tr ibute  br ing,
     The  strea m s r ejoic e.

  Yes, b lessHi s holy n ame,
    And joyous tha nks pr oclai m
       Th rou g h a ll the ea rth. 
    To gl ory  in  your  lo t 
   Is c o me ly; but b e no t 
    God’ s  b ene f i ts  forgot
    A mid y our mirth. 

   
 the_oak tree_was ever afterwards a_riven
and broken_thing,_the ivy_concealed_the scars upon_his shattered form
and_covered his wounds all_over with her_soft_foliage.

“I had hoped,” she said, “to grow up to thy height, to live with_thee
among_the clouds,_and_to_hear the solemn voices thou_didst hear.”

But the old oak_tree said,_“Nay, nay, I love thee better as thou_art,
for_with thy beauty_and thy love thou comfortest mine age.”

Then would the_ivy tell quaint stories to the_oak tree,--stories she_had
learned_from_the crickets, the bees,_the butterflies, and the mice when
she_was a humble little vine and_played at the foot of the majestic_oak
tree towering in the greenwood. And_these simple tales pleased the_old
and riven_oak tree; they were not_as heroic as_the tales_the wind, the
clouds,_and the stars told, but they_were far sweeter,_for they were
tales of contentment, of_humility,_of love. So_the_old_age of_the oak
tree was_grander_than his_youth.

And_all who went through the greenwood_paused_to behold and admire the
beauty of the_oak tree then; for_about_his scarred and broken_trunk the
gentle vine had so_entwined her graceful tendrils and spread_her fair
foliage,_that one_saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of_the
tempest, but only the glory of_the oak tree’s age,_which was_the_ivy’s
love and ministering.--EUGENE_FIELD.

_ _  _From “A Little Book of_Profitable Tales.”_Copyright, 1889, by
   _ Eugene Field. Published_by_Charles Scribner’s Sons._




   _    HARVEST SONG


_   The God_of_harvest_praise;
    In_loud Thanksgiving raise
   _  _ Hand, heart, and voice.
  __The valleys laugh and sing,
 __ Forests and mountains ring,
 ___The plains their tribute bring,
_     _ The streams rejoice.

    Yes, bless_His holy name,
_   And joyous_thanks_proclaim
_       Through all the_earth.
 _  To_glory in your lot
    Is comely; but_be not
    God’s benefits_forgot
        Amid your mirth.

_   