THE LITTLE TREE.

I was the youngest of ten children. My oldest brother was twenty one
when my twin sister and I were born.
So this poem.

The Little Tree.

I was the smallest sapling upon the little hill,
Nine trees grew around me, only three are growing still.
Age and illness slowly claimed them and my shelter then was lost
Cold winds can reach my branches and I have to count the cost.

Our lineage is a family tree, each person is a branch,
So make the most of all of them don't leave anything to chance.
Don't loose touch with loved ones they help to ease your way,
Write to them or ring them, make this a happy day.

The seeds I've shed have taken root, they're growing up around.
They're giving me good shelter as they sprout out of the ground.
The wind is now not quite so cold upon my little hill
But I won't forget my family, some of whom are growing still.

Jill West.