Logs to burn; logs to burn;
Logs to save the coal a turn.
I do like that one.
My contribution isn't as good for information about trees, but there's a story to it.
Music has always been an important part of my life and even though I say so myself, at that age I had an outstanding soprano voice. From a very young age my parents sent me to church (they didn't go themselves) and at church they made me sing a lot. I didn't like the church and I didn't like all the attention, so I started to hide in the woods on Sundays instead. I've been doing that ever since.
When I was eleven I started grammar school. It was a lot harder to hide at my new school than it was on Sundays. I only managed it successfully a couple of times. Every year there was a music festival, attendance was not optional and the preparations seemed, at least to me, to dominate school life for half the year. The other half was dominated by the opera that we performed but that's another story.
The school had 'houses' and I was put in Troy House. The school's music teacher happened to be in Troy House too, and she was very competitive. The first time she heard me sing in her class she was was quick to spot her chance to score a few points off the competition, so she took me under her wing and made me practice every spare minute. It was hell. Anyway with her, er, help I won my first music festival, and the next two. Fame at last. I began to cope with all the attention and, when things were going well, sometimes even enjoy being the centre of it.
The following year my voice broke, and the teacher dropped me like a hot brick. So I dropped music at the school despite everything my friends, family and other teachers could do to try to persuade me and I still regret it now. That was one of the most important lessons that the school taught me.
Here's the first song I sang at the festivals. The words are a poem by Walter De la Mare. I can't remember who did the music but nearly fifty years later I can still sing all the songs that I sang then (if not quite so sweetly
).
Of all the trees in England,
Her sweet three corners in,
Only the Ash, the bonnie Ash
Burns fierce while it is green.
Of all the trees in England,
From sea to sea again,
The Willow loveliest stoops her boughs
Beneath the driving rain.
Of all the trees in England,
Past frankincense and myrrh,
There's none for smell, of bloom and smoke,
Like Lime and Juniper.
Of all the trees in England,
Oak, Elder, Elm and Thorn,
The Yew alone burns lamps of peace
For them that lie forlorn.