Chapter 15
THE LAND OF THE POOR PEOPLE
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1y squandered forests, hacked and hewed, Are gone; my rivers fail; My stricken hillsides, stark and nude, Stand shivering in the gale. Down to the sea my teeming soil In yellow torrents goes; The guerdon of the farmer's toil With each year lesser grows.
2ROBERT M. REESE, _The Spendthrift_; quoted in _American Forestry_,
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