CHAPTER XIV.

ARBOR DAY.

In nearly every household of the big city the children were astir early, all wearing an air of excitement, from the six-year-old in the primary school to the "big brother" or sister in the intermediate, for there was at last something new under the sun--the celebration of "Arbor Day" for the first time in their city and State.

It was a day to be devoted to the trees and their planting. Every school in the city had had a plot of ground set aside for its use, and every school had had at least one tree planted, beside those in memory of the teachers who had passed away to the unknown land.

There was no set time for departure and no special gathering place, so that at almost any hour after nine o'clock on that lovely May morning groups of children might have been seen wending their way toward the eastern hills. Those in the vicinity of Eden Park walked, a few drove over with their parents or friends, but the great majority filled the street cars to overflowing, laughing and chattering and enjoying a holiday as only school children can.

Forming a portion of the last class were the pupils of the "First Intermediate," that old landmark which has guided so many embryo citizens of our great Republic through the intricate paths of fractions, decimals, and so on, to the crowning difficulty of cube root; through grammar and history and geography, before bidding them "Godspeed" as they entered the high-school or took up the story of their lives in some other direction.

Among these last, lunch baskets in hand, were the five young warriors, but with their armor off and as great an air of being on pleasure bent as though they had never thought of anything more serious. Miriam as usual had the floor, and the entire car-load of girls and boys, nearly all of them her classmates, were laughing at her remarks.

There was a change of cars at Fountain Square and again at the foot of the Mt. Adams incline, but the five girls managed to keep from being separated. Arrived at the top of the hill, they stopped to breathe in the fresh air and admire the beautiful landscape--the Kentucky hills far away in the distance, with the beautiful Ohio flowing placidly at their feet; Cincinnati, in its hill-encircled cup, making, with Covington and Newport and the various smaller villages, part of one great whole, linked by the bridges across the Ohio and the Licking.

"This reminds me," said Ernestine, who was the historian of the little company, "of the name first chosen for our city--Losantiville, the town opposite the mouth of the Licking; 'ville,' town; 'anti,' opposite; 'os,' mouth; 'L,' initial of Licking."

"Dreadful!" said Miriam. "Imagine this great city designated as a town across the way from that little stream! It would be like the immense woman I saw the other day. I know she weighed over two hundred. There was a little man walking beside her, and he called her 'Birdie!' Indeed he did, and she called him 'Horatio!'"

"Our city started about here," said Ernestine, after the girls had stopped laughing, "or just at the foot of the hill, and grew first along the river. Later on it spread northward, and Fourth Street was one of its aristocratic streets."

"There comes Josie Thompson," said Fannie. "She's evidently bent on having a good time, and she's gotten up regardless. See that chain around her neck; plated, I'm sure."

"Don't look so sober, Ernestine," said Miriam. "There wouldn't be any use in living if you could not make fun of people once in a while."

"But perhaps Josie has never been taught any better at home," said Winnifred, suddenly thinking of the giants.

"She has eyes, hasn't she?" said Gretta. "But it seems to me she can't have ears, or else she couldn't help hearing that dress she has on. I know that's what my father would say."

Just then Josie came up to them. "Hello, girls! Going to have a good time? I tell you I am! Glad to have one day with no lessons to learn!" And she passed on with her friends, leaving the girls, even Ernestine, convulsed.

"Let's go on to the park," said Ernestine.

Accordingly they gathered up their baskets and other belongings. It was but a short walk, and they soon reached the spot where many of their schoolmates had already assembled.

At twelve o'clock the schools had a few simple exercises. The children sang, "My Country, 'Tis of Thee," one of the girls of their grade recited "Woodman, Spare that Tree," and Fannie's father made a brief address. He talked to them of the part the forests play in helping to prevent drouths and disastrous floods. He told of the old Italian poet who called the trees "my brothers," and said that everyone, whether poet or not, should have especial tenderness and affection for these beautiful and useful bits of nature which grow up around us, relieving our eyes from the glare of day, shading us from the noonday sun, and giving us pleasure in many ways, so that their useless and wanton destruction becomes a sin against mankind.

After the conclusion of this little talk (for it was that rather than a set speech), the children gathered up their lunch baskets and boxes, each party sought the spot that pleased it best, and soon the hillside was dotted with groups of boys and girls engaged in disposing of sandwiches, pickles, pies, cakes, fruit, and so on, with great enjoyment and good appetites.

The afternoon was passed most pleasantly by Winnifred and her own special friends, reinforced by many of the girls and boys of her class. Games of all sorts were indulged in with unflagging energy and good spirits for two or three hours.

About four o'clock Fannie's parents came for her in a carriage. Soon after Winnifred's mother arrived on the scene with little Ralph, and they were shown the trees which had just been planted and told about all the events of the day. By this time nearly every one was making preparations to leave, and by five o'clock the park was almost deserted and the happy day had become only a memory. But the seeds of thought planted there fell not altogether on stony ground, and were destined to bear fruit at some future day.

Indeed, the very next morning Ralph insisted on having an Arbor Day of his own, and he put in the ground a branch of willow, which took root and thrived, growing so rapidly that in a few years it was taller than himself; and each spring, when it put forth its delicate gray-green foliage, it recalled to Winnifred that most delightful Arbor Day.