Chapter VI: Part 6

Then the sun sank and the birds sought their accustomed resting place among the reeds, safe from all harm, for no enemy could approach without a warning splash of the water or a quivering of the reeds.

When the morning broke, the thrushes thought at first that the events of the preceding day had been but a beautiful dream.

They found their guideposts and flew straight to their nest, but the nest had disappeared. They peered out over the moors and flew high up to gain a wider view. But there was no sign of nest or tree. Finally they sat down on a stone by the water and thought the matter over. They wagged their tails and turned their heads to right and left. Where were nest and tree?

But scarcely had the sun raised itself a hand's breadth over the belt of woods beyond the stream, when their tree suddenly came wandering up and stood itself upon the selfsame place it had occupied the day before. It was as black and as gnarled as before, and it carried their nest on the tip of something that was probably a thin, upright bough.

The birds began to build again without attempting to ponder further over the many miracles of nature.

Hatto, the hermit, who chased the little children from his cave and told them it were better for them if they had never seen the light of day; he who waded out deep into the mud of the river to hurl curses after the flagged boats filled with gay young people rowing past; he from whose evil glance the shepherds carefully guarded their flocks, he did not return to his place on the river bank because of thought for the little birds. But he knew that not only every letter in the Holy Book has its own mystical meaning, but that everything that God allows to happen in the natural world has its significance also. And he had discovered what it might mean, this sign of the birds building in his hand: God had willed that he should stand with outstretched arm until the birds had raised their young—could he do this, then would his prayer be heard.

But on this day his glance followed the motions of the birds with greater attention. He saw the rapid completion of the nest. The tiny builders flew around it and examined it carefully. They brought a few rags of moss from the real willow and plastered them on the outside as a finishing decoration. They brought the softest young grass, and the female bird pulled the down from her breast to furnish the inside.

The peasants of the neighbourhood, who feared the evil power which the prayers of the hermit might have with God, were used to bring him bread and milk to soften his anger. They came now, and found him standing motionless, the bird's nest in his hand.

"See how the holy man loves the little creatures," they said, and feared him no longer. They raised the milk can to his lips and fed him with the bread. When he had eaten and drunk he drove them away with curses, but they smiled at his anger.

His body had long since become the servant of his will. He had taught it obedience by hunger and scourge, by days of kneeling and sleepless nights. Now his muscles of steel held his arm outstretched days and weeks, and while the mother bird sat on her eggs and did not leave the nest, he would not go to his cave even to sleep at night. He learned how to sleep standing with outstretched arm.

He grew accustomed to the two uneasy little eyes that peered down at him over the edge of the nest. He watched for rain and hail, and protected the nest as well as he could.

One day the little mother left her place. Both thrushes sat on the edge of the nest, their tails moving rapidly, holding great consultation and looking very happy, although the whole nest seemed filled with a frightened squeaking. After a little they set out upon an energetic gnat hunt.

One gnat after another fell before them, and was brought home to that which squeaked and peeped up there in his hand. And the peeping grew more intense whenever the food was brought in. It disturbed the holy man at his prayers. Gently, very gently, his arm sank down on the joints that had almost lost the power of motion, until his deep-set, glowing eyes peered into the nest.

Never had he seen anything so ugly and so miserable—naked little bodies, with a few scattered down tufts, no eyes, no strength to fly, nothing but six great open beaks.

He could not understand it himself, but he liked them just as they were. He had not thought to make an exception of the old birds in his prayers for the great Doom, but when he now implored God to release the world through utter destruction, he made a silent exception in favour of these six little helpless creatures.

When the peasant women brought him food he no longer rewarded them with curses. As he was necessary for the little ones up there in his hand, he was glad that the people did not let him starve.

Soon six little round heads peered all day over the edge of the nest. Old Hatto's arm sank to the level of his eyes more and more frequently. He saw the feathers grow out of the red skin; he saw the eyes open and the little bodies round out. The fortunate inheritance of all the beauty with which nature endows the feathered denizens of the air came early into their heritage.

* * * * *

And, meanwhile, the prayers for the great destruction came more and more slowly from Hatto's lips.

He believed he had God's promise that it should come as soon as the little birds were able to fly. And now he stood there seeking an escape from God. For he could not sacrifice these six little ones, whom he had watched and cared for.

It had been different before, when he had had nothing of his own to care for. Love of the small and the helpless—that love which every little child must teach to the dangerous grown man—this love came over him and made him hesitate.

Sometimes he wished that he could throw the entire nest into the stream, for he still believed that those alone are to be envied who die without having known care or sin. Was it not his duty to save these little ones from beasts of prey, from cold and hunger and all of the many ills of life? But just as he was pondering on this, a hawk swooped down on the nest to kill the little ones. Hatto caught the robber in his left hand, whirled him around his head, and threw him far out into the stream.

Then came the day when the little ones were ready to fly. One of the old birds sat inside the nest, trying to push the young ones out on the edge, while the other flew about and showed them how easy it was if they would only try. But as the young ones would not overcome their fear, both old birds flew out before them, showing off all their prettiest arts and tricks. They turned and twisted in the air, they shot up straight as does the lark, or they hung motionless on rapidly fluttering wings.

But the little ones would not move, and then Hatto decided to interfere in the matter himself. He gave them a careful push with one finger, and thus ended the dispute. They tumble out, trembling and uncertain, hitting at the air as bats do; they sink down, but rise up again; they find the proper motion and use it at once to regain the nest. The old birds come back to them in happy pride, and Hatto chuckles.

It was he who had brought the matter to such a happy conclusion. And now he pondered most seriously the question as to whether a loophole of escape could be found for God.

Perhaps, when one comes to think of it, God holds this earth like a bird's nest in His right hand and perhaps He loves those within it—all the helpless children of earth. Perhaps He is merciful to them whom He had vowed to destroy, just as the hermit was merciful to the little birds. Of course the hermit's birds were much better than God's human beings, but he could still understand that God might have pity for them in His heart.

Next day the nest was empty, and the bitterness of loneliness came over the hermit. His arm sank slowly down at his side, and it seemed to him that all nature held its breath to hear the roar of the trumpets announcing the Last Judgment. But in the same moment all the birds returned and settled down on his head and shoulders, for they had no fear of him. And a light shot through the tortured brain of the old hermit. He had lowered his arm every day to look at the birds.

And then, as he stood there, the six young birds flying about him, he nodded, smiling, to some one whom he could not see.

"Thou art free," he said. "Thou art free. I did not keep my vow, therefore Thou needst not keep Thine."

And it seemed to him that the hills ceased from trembling and that the river sank quietly into its bed to rest.

UNDER GREENWOOD TREES

SONG

Under the greenwood tree
Who loves to lie with me
And tune his merry note
Unto the sweet bird's throat—
Come hither, come hither, come hither!
Here shall he see
No enemy
But winter and rough weather.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

THE PLUCKY PRINCE

Once upon a time there lived a king who was exceedingly rich. His palace was built of rare marble; in his majesty's dining room food was served on plates and in vessels of pure gold; the royal family wore robes fashioned from richest silk and costliest ermine. But, although the king's household lived in this royal way, his majesty gave strict orders to all in the palace that nothing should be wasted. The command was intended particularly for the crown prince who spent money lavishly. It seemed as if he had never learned the proper value of things, and his extravagance was the talk of all the people in the kingdom.

The king had had many stormy interviews with his reckless son. Again and again did this wasteful prince promise to mend his ways, but before long he forgot his pledge, and did something which was marked by astonishing extravagance.

At last the king's patience came to an end. He decided to disinherit the prince and banish him from the royal household. Filled with wrath his majesty sent for the youth and in sternest words gave the following decree:

"Henceforth you are banished from this palace! Flee from my presence!"

The carefree manner of the prince at these words exasperated his majesty who grew white with rage and said, "Prodigal, listen further to my stern decree. I forbid you to wear any clothing made from skins of beasts or the threads of the silk-worm; your exile cave shall not be lighted by oil or taper, nor by candles of tallow or wax. You shall taste no vegetables that grow under the earth or on vines in the sunlight. Your hunger shall not be fed by fish, flesh, or fowl. Begone, thou Prodigal! Go, starve upon the plain! Nevermore shalt thou waste my wealth. Thou art banished! This is my stern decree!"

The young prince was too much astonished at this outburst of rage to realize the measure of the punishment the king had put upon him. He turned and left his majesty's presence without a word. But although somewhat dazed by his royal father's decree, the youth snapped his finger gayly as he slammed the palace door and said in his usual carefree way, "The king has left me the mighty help of trees. So long as I may use the blessed trees of the earth I shall not perish nor lack enjoyment." And whistling a merry tune he passed out of the gate of the royal park.

"I shall not take shelter in a dark cave," mused the prince.

Immediately he planned to build a spacious house from carefully selected wood. For the stout rafters he choose heavy English oak and for the floors, smooth Norwegian pine. Beautiful pillars of palmetto were raised to hold the roof, made of cypress shingles and strengthened by oaken eaves and carved gargoyles. After the house was completed, the floors were covered with curious palm-matting, dyed crimson by the stain of tropical logwood. The rooms were furnished with rich chairs, tables, and couches made from rosewood, black walnut, and fragrant sandal-wood. Nothing was lacking in this home of beauty and comfort.

The merry prince examined his house with great pride. "Now," said he, "I mean to give a ball, and show his majesty, the king, what luxury is mine even though he left me nothing but the precious trees to furnish my house, clothing, and larder!"

Accordingly, invitations were sent to the royal family, and many knights and ladies of high degree.

The king was very much surprised to receive word from his banished son.

"'Tis a huge joke," said his majesty. "However, we'll accept the invitation, and see what sport the prodigal can offer us."

On the night of the ball the prince was dressed in a superb robe, made from the fiber of the cocoa-tree; his fine dancing shoes were made of caoutchouc, and on his brow he wore a coronet of laurel leaves. With princely grace he received the king, knights, and ladies in a large hall brilliantly lighted with candlenuts in sconces. The rooms were fragrant with pink apple-blossoms from Maine, and rich magnolia and orange blossoms from the Southland.

The king and his train could not hide their astonishment at the superb beauty of the rooms and decorations.

"I wonder what the scapegoat will offer us to eat?" whispered the king to the High Chancellor.

"Providing refreshment from trees will tax his wits more than building and furnishing a house," answered the chancellor, smiling.

It was not long before the guests were invited into the dining room, where a sumptuous feast awaited them. His majesty looked with astonishment at the variety of luscious fruit heaped on large wooden platters curiously carved. Some of them held the products of the North,—apples, pears, plums, cherries, grapes, and peaches. Others were filled with tempting fruit from the South,—bananas, oranges, pomegranates, figs, dates, ripe olives, juicy soursops, and creamy durions. Delicious breadfruit, from the tropics, and rich cassava cakes from Java were served with luscious guava jam. Beautiful wooden bowls held almonds, English walnuts, filberts, pecans, chestnuts, Chinese nuts, and Brazilian creams. Dainty wicker baskets held sweets made of maple sugar cream covered with chocolate or cocoanut. The king declared that the grape juice and sweet pear cider were daintier than any wine he had ever tasted.

After the feast was ended the prince, with merry, twinkling eyes, said to his father: "See what a man banishment has made of me!"

To the youth's astonishment, his majesty smiled graciously, and, in the presence of the High Chancellor and all the knights and ladies, the king embraced his son and said, "Banishment has made a man of you! And, furthermore, you have taught all of us the wonders of the woodland. Welcome back to my heart, O Prince!"

And the High Chancellor, knights, and ladies of high degree all said, "Long live our plucky Prince."

Adapted from a poem by May Bryon.

THE OAK

A song to the oak
The brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long:
Here's health and renown
To his broad green crown
And his fifty arms so strong.
There's fear in his frown
When the sun goes down,
And the fire in the west fades out;
And he showeth his might
On a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak
The brave old oak!
Who stands in his pride alone;
And still flourish he,
A hale, green tree
When a hundred years are gone.

H. F. CHORLEY.

SUMMER SNOW

MRS. HUMPHREY WARD

A king once lived in a very hot part of Spain, where they have little rain and where it hardly ever snows or freezes.

This king had a very beautiful wife whom he loved very much. But the queen had one great fault. She was always wishing for the most impossible things.

The king always tried to give her everything she wanted, but she was never satisfied.

At last, one day in winter, a very strange thing happened. A shower of snow fell in the town where the king and queen lived. It made the hills white, so that they looked as if some one had been dusting white sugar over them.

Now snow was hardly ever seen in the town, so the people talked about it, a great deal. After the queen had looked at it a little while, she began to cry bitterly.

None of the ladies could comfort her, nor would she tell any one what was the matter. There she sat at her window weeping, till the king came to her. He could not imagine why she was crying, and begged her to tell him.

"I am weeping," she said, sobbing all the time, "because the hills are not always covered with snow. See how pretty they look! And yet, I have never, till now, seen them look like that. If you really love me, you would find some way or other to make it snow once a year at any rate."

"But how can I make it snow?" cried the king, in great trouble, because she would go on weeping and weeping, and spoiling her pretty eyes.

"I am sure I don't know," said the queen crossly.

Well, the king thought and thought, and at last he hit upon a beautiful plan. He sent to all parts of Spain to buy almond trees to plant. The almond tree has a lovely pink-white blossom, you know.

When the next spring arrived, thousands of these almond trees came into bloom on all the hills around the town. At a distance, the hills looked as if they were covered with white snow.

For once the discontented queen was delighted. She could now keep saying a nice "Thank you" to the king for all the trouble he had taken to please her. And suddenly it seemed to the king as if a black speck in the queen's heart had been washed away and so they lived happy ever afterwards.

THE BOY WHO HATED TREES

ALICE L. BECKWITH

"Good night, Dick. Remember, now, to wake up with the robins so that you may be ready to help me set out our new trees."

"Good night," answered Dick in a sulky tone, for Dick was cross.

"Trees, trees, trees!" he mumbled to himself, as he began to undress. "I'm so sick of hearing about trees. And now father has bought some old twigs to set out to-morrow, and I want to go fishing.

"I wish I lived in a land where there were no trees. We could get along well enough without them." And with this thought he jumped into bed.

Dick had been asleep perhaps an hour or more when he heard a queer, rustling noise, and then a voice called out: "Here he is—the boy who hates trees!"

There was the strangest procession coming toward him. It was made up of trees of all kinds. The Pine and Elm came first; the Maple and Oak followed: the Maple's leaves were flushed scarlet, she was so excited. The Willow was weeping, and the Poplar was trembling all over.

Next came all the fruit trees, led by the Cherry, while the Walnut, the White Birch, and the Palm were behind.

What did it all mean? Dick was frightened for a moment. It seemed as if every tree of which he had ever heard was there, and he wondered how the room could hold them all.

When they had all grown quiet, the Pine said: "Dear brothers and sisters, here is a boy who hates trees; he cannot see that we are of any use. It is more than I can stand, and I have called this meeting to see what can be done about it. Has anyone anything to say?"

The Cherry looked very sour. "I cannot see that boys are of any use," she said. "Many years ago, when cherry trees were scarce in this country, a boy named George cut down my great-grandfather just to try his new hatchet."

"And boys know so little," said the White Birch; "they are always hacking me with knives, and taking off my coat, no matter how cold the weather is. I loved a boy once, but it was many years ago. He was a little Indian boy. He loved trees. I remember how he stood beside me one day and said:

"'Give me of your bark, O Birch Tree!
For the summer time is coming,
And the sun is warm in heaven,
And you need no white skin wrapper.'

"Then he took off my bark so carefully that he did not hurt me a bit. But he is not living now. This boy is not like him."

"I don't like boys, either," spoke up the Apple. "One day a boy climbed up into my branches and broke off one of my limbs. He was a very silly boy, for he wanted green apples. Had my fruit been ripe, I would have tossed one down to him. How happy we should be if it were not for boys!"

The Maple was very angry. "This boy said we were of no use, but it was only this morning that I heard him tease his grandfather for a cake of my sugar."

"He ate it as if he liked it, too," said the Palm. "I saw him; he was fanning himself with one of my leaves."

The Willow wiped her eyes. "Boys, boys, boys!" she said. "I'm so sick of boys! This same boy made a whistle out of one of my children this very night, when he went for the cows."

Then a queer tree in the corner spoke in a thick voice: "We are of no use, are we? If it were not for me, where would he get the tires for his bicycle? There are his rubber boots, too. Why, he uses me every day about something. But I've thought of a plan."

The trees crowded around him, talking together excitedly. "But how shall we do it?" Dick heard them say. "Oh," said the Elm, "the Wind will help us. He is our friend."

Before Dick could cry out, he found himself being carried away by the Wind.

"Where am I going?" he called.

"To the land of no trees," they answered; and they bowed and smiled. Even the Willow held up her head long enough to call, "Good-by!" and then home and trees were left far behind.

How fast the Wind traveled! On and on they rushed, until suddenly the Wind dropped him and went whistling away.

Dick felt really frightened when he found himself all alone.

"Oh, I'm so hot!" he exclaimed. "Where am I?"

Certainly he had never before been in such a place.

There were no trees nor green grass anywhere in sight. As far as he could see, there was only sand—white sand, hot and scorching.

"It seems to me I've seen pictures in my geography like this," he said to himself. "I can't stay here. What shall I do?"

All at once he noticed a tiny speck far away in the distance. Now it looked larger. He brushed away something that looked very much like a tear, though he told himself that it was only because he was so warm.

Yes, that speck surely moved, and was coming nearer. What if it were a bear!

"There is no tree to climb, and I cannot run—I am so tired, and it is very hot."

Nearer and nearer it came, moving slowly. Dick watched it with a beating heart. At last he saw that it was not a single animal, but a great many in line.

"Oh, they are camels!" he cried. "Yes, I know they are. Once at a circus I saw some that looked just like them—but what queer-looking men are on them!"

They were now very near him, and one of the men beckoned with his hand and said something.

"I can't understand him," said Dick to himself, "but I suppose he meant he'll give me a ride."

The man helped him up and they journeyed on. After a time Dick grew very tired even of riding.

"The camel joggles me so," he said, "and I am so thirsty I shall die. If they would only stop a minute!"

What was the matter? What were they saying? Each man was bowing himself toward the ground and waving his hands.

"I don't see what they are making all that fuss about. I can't see anything; the sun hurts my eyes so." And Dick covered his eyes with his hand.

Suddenly there was a shout, and the camels stood still. Dick lifted his head. Could he believe his eyes? Right before him was a little spot of green grass, a spring of cool water, and one of those things he hated—a tree.

Hate a tree? He thought that he had never seen anything so beautiful in his life.

He fairly tumbled off the camel in his haste to reach it. The tears ran down his face as he threw his arms around its trunk.

"Dear tree!" he cried.

"Dick, Dick, are you going to help me plant the new trees?" called his father.

Opening his eyes, Dick found himself in his own little room, both hands clasping his pillow.

Dick was soon dressed and downstairs, and so anxious was he to plant trees that he could hardly eat his breakfast.

* * * * *

In just one night he had learned to see
The wonderful beauty there is in a tree.

THE FRIENDLY SUMMER TREES

FRANK A. WAUGH

It is curious how friendly the forests are to the sick. The trees reach out their arms to shelter them. In the stillness of the morning and through the long nights they whisper to every one who listens; there lie the patients listening and looking up through the gently waving branches to the floating clouds by day, and to the twinkling stars by night, until presently they are overcome by the spirit of health, which is the spirit of the pine-trees.

Trees appear at their best in the forest company, I think, just as men and women appear at their best in society. The single maple tree or the elm may be very proud and beautiful, but alone it cannot cure the sick or even accommodate a picnic.

So we ought to become acquainted with the trees, in their own society and in their native surroundings. We shall then understand them much better than when we find them lonely on our city lawns.

There is a glorious wealth waiting for us when we come to choose our tree friends for our homes. There are the elm, several kinds of maples, two kinds of sycamores, the linden, many sorts of oaks, the pines and the spruces, and almost a hundred others. Besides these big, lusty, shade-yielding trees, there are many small, more curious or more ornamental ones. Such are the magnolias, the maidenhair-tree, the Kentucky coffee-tree, the sweet-gum, and the flowering dogwood. These smaller trees are, of course, particularly suited to small lawns and close quarters; though, wherever possible, the true American will give first place to the big, noble, native trees like the elm and the maple. Even if there is room for only one of these, it will seem to be the one best friend in the garden.

And while I am speaking of these trees, I would not forget the apple. There is no kind of tree more beautiful in spring, more comfortable and homelike summer and winter, and more to be chosen for a life-long friend. Recently I was consulted by a committee of a Massachusetts town who wanted to cut down a half-dozen sturdy old apple trees, because a new library had been built in their midst, and the committee thought some more rare trees were needed to keep the balance. Blue spruce or Camperdown elm would have been choice, strange, and outlandish, but the homely, common apple tree they would gladly sacrifice.

We admire the tree for its size; the mere bigness of it draws our attention; we look up to it. We admire it for its form, the form of the elm, or the maple, or the pine, or the palm is wonderful. We admire the tree in its leafage, for its texture and color. Why, even the shadow of a tree is beautiful. The clever gardener places his best tree where its shadow will be traced all the afternoon across the lawn. How cool and pleasant the shadow lies there!

Nowhere do trees seem so useful as in the street. Even the city yearns for trees, and the best residence and suburban sections make these their greatest pride. The citizens turn to the city trees as one of the most important forms of public property. Tree-planting is to be encouraged, and the trees now grown to maturity must be saved at any cost. Leaky gas mains are the deadly enemies of street trees. Electric wires kill thousands more.

For the protection of street trees and those on public parks and grounds, every city should have a tree-warden. These are provided for by law in some states, but the system should become general. Truly modern cities have officers with the title of "city forester," with the extremely useful occupation of caring for the public trees. Such officers should be appointed everywhere.

The annual festival called Arbor Day, established in this country for the promotion of tree-planting, has, unfortunately, been turned over exclusively to the public schools, whereas it ought to be observed also by the churches, lodges, political clubs, and women's clubs. At all events, tree-planting should go on constantly, and should everywhere accompany the campaign for the preservation of street trees. We may well remember that as a rough, general rule, only one tree out of every twenty planted ever comes to maturity. Let us, therefore, plant liberally.

In rural and semi-rural communities everywhere, it is a custom to secure from the woods and pastures those trees needed for street and house-lot planting. Where stock is collected from the wild in this way, it is best to take the trees from the open pasture—or from recently cultivated land, where possible. Effort should be made also to select those which have grown on rich, well-drained soil. The theory that trees taken from the forest will be more hardy, runs quite opposite to the fact. Indeed, the best plan is everywhere to buy young trees from nurseries. Nursery trees have clean, symmetrical tops, and are likely to have a hundred times more good rootage than trees taken from the field.

Everything is in favor of the nursery-grown tree, except the price; however, very often the expense of digging and bringing in a half-dozen good-sized maples from the woods is greater than the cost of better trees of like size from the most expensive nursery in the country.

Arbor Day is not necessarily the best day for tree-planting, especially in the matter of big trees for streets, school grounds, and public places. The experts prefer to handle such trees in mid-winter; they do this even in sections where the ground freezes to a depth of two or three feet; in fact, it is considered the height of good practice to take up the tree from its place, accompanied by a huge block of frozen earth. Evergreen trees, such as pines and spruces, may be handled very successfully in August, and this season is widely chosen for the purpose by knowing treemen.

Many tree-lovers make the mistake of crowding their small private grounds with their pets. If one has only a city lot thirty feet wide by a hundred feet deep, he cannot grow a large forest. One or two large trees will be all such a place can reasonably support; any more will make the premises too crowded. The trees themselves will suffer, and, besides that, there will be no opportunity to view them. There will be no room for a flower garden, and no lawn for any purpose.

The common mistake in planting trees on small home grounds is to place the individual in the middle of the lawn. As a matter of design, the center of the lawn should be kept open, and trees, at any rate, should file along the boundaries. In our northern climate sturdy, protecting evergreens will naturally choose a north boundary, and the shady summer trees with heavy foliage will cast their comfortable shadows from the south side of the garden.

The tree-lover who hopes to get the most satisfaction out of his hobby will not always wait to see his trees grow. It requires too many years. About the best way to do is to adopt a tract of well-grown woodland, and then to make the most of it. Improvement cuttings will come first; for the axe is as important as the spade, and trees have to be cut as well as planted. The best trees can be left and nursed and admired. If there is space enough, forest effects can be developed; roads and paths can be built; game-cover can be introduced, and wild life encouraged. Birds and boys and others friends will visit you in your woods, and the days will go by like a lusty ballad. Between you and me and the beech-tree, it will be a jolly, pleasant company.

FOREST DAY

SELMA LAGERLÖF

On the mountain's broad back there had been a forest fire ten years before. Since that time the charred trees had been felled and removed and the great fire-swept area had begun to deck itself with green along the edges, where it skirted the healthy forest. However, the larger part of the top was still barren and appallingly desolate. Charred stumps, standing sentinel-like between the rock ledges, bore witness that once there had been a forest fire here; but no fresh shoots sprang from the ground.

One day in the early summer all the children in the parish had assembled in front of the schoolhouse near the fire-swept mountain. Each child carried either a spade or a hoe on its shoulder and a basket of food in its hand. As soon as all were assembled they marched in a long procession toward the forest. The banner came first, with the teachers on either side of it. Then followed a couple of foresters and a wagon load of pine shrubs and spruce seeds; then the children.

The procession did not pause in any of the birch groves near the settlements, but marched on deep into the forest. As it moved along the foxes stuck their heads out of their lairs in astonishment and wondered what kind of backwoods people these were. As they marched past the old coal pits where charcoal kilns were fired every autumn, the cross-beaks twisted their hooked bills and asked one another what kind of coalers these might be, who were now thronging the forest.

Finally, the procession reached the big burnt mountain plain. The rocks had been stripped of the fine twin-flower creepers that once covered them; they had been robbed of the pretty silver moss and the attractive reindeer moss. Around the dark water gathered in clefts and hollows there was now no wood-sorrel. The little patches of soil in crevices and between stones were without ferns, without star-flowers, without all the green and red and light and soft and soothing things that usually clothe the forest ground.

It was as if a bright light flashed upon the mountain when all the parish children covered it. Here again was something sweet and delicate, something fresh and rosy, something young and growing. Perhaps these children would bring to the poor abandoned forest a little new life.

When the children had rested and eaten their luncheon, they seized hoes and spades and began to work. The foresters showed them what to do. They set out shrub after shrub on every clear spot of earth they could find.

As they worked, they talked quite knowingly among themselves of how the little shrubs they were planting would bind the soil so that it could not get away, and of how new soil would form under the trees. By and by seeds would drop, and, in a few years, they would be picking both strawberries and raspberries where now there were only bare rocks. The little shrubs which they were planting would gradually become tall trees. Perhaps big houses and great splendid ships would be built from them!

If the children had not come here and planted while there was still a little soil in the clefts, all the earth would have been carried away by winds and water, and the mountain could never more have been clothed in green.

"It was well that we came," said the children. "We were just in the nick of time." They felt very important.

While they were working on the mountain their parents were at home. By and by they began to wonder how the children were getting along.

Of course it was only a joke about their planting a forest, but it might be amusing to see what they were trying to do.

So presently both fathers and mothers were on their way to the forest. When they came to the outlying stock farms they met some of their neighbors.

"Are you going to the fire-swept mountain?" they asked.

"That's where we're bound for."

"To have a look at the children?"

"Yes, to see what they are up to."

"It's only play, of course."

"It isn't likely that there will be many forest trees planted by the youngsters. We have brought the coffee pot along so that we can have something warm to drink, since we must stay there all day with only lunch-basket provisions."

So the parents of the children went on up the mountain. At first they thought only of how pretty it looked to see all the rosy-cheeked little children scattered over the gray hills. Later they observed how the children were working,—how some were setting out shrubs, while others were digging furrows and sowing seeds. Others again were pulling up heather to prevent its choking the growing trees. They saw that the children took the work seriously and were so intent upon what they were doing that they scarcely had time to glance up.

The fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked on; then they, too, began to pull up heather,—just for the fun of it. The children were the instructors, for they were already trained and had to show their elders what to do.

Then it happened that all the grown-ups who had come to watch the children took part in the work. Then, of course, it became greater fun than before. By and by the children had even more help. Other implements were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent down to the village for spades and hoes. As they ran past the cabins, the stay-at-homes came out and asked, "What's wrong? Has there been an accident?"

"No, indeed! But the whole parish is up on the fire-swept mountain planting a forest."

"If the whole parish is there, we can't stay at home."

So party after party of peasants went crowding to the top of the burnt mountain. They stood a moment and looked on. The temptation to join the workers was irresistible.

"It's a pleasure to sow one's own acres in the spring and to think of the grain that will spring up from the earth, but this work is even more thrilling," they thought.

Not only slender blades would come from that sowing, but mighty trees with tall trunks and sturdy branches. It meant giving birth not merely to a summer's grain, but to many years' growths. It meant the awakening hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play of grouse, and all kinds of life, on the desolate mountain. Moreover, it was like raising a memorial for coming generations. They could have left a bare, treeless height as an heritage. Instead, they were to leave a glorious forest.

Coming generations would know their forefathers had been a good and wise folk and they would remember them with reverence and gratitude.

WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

Woodman, spare that tree!
Touch not a single bough!
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.
'Twas my forefather's hand
That placed it near his cot;
There, woodman, let it stand——
Thy axe shall harm it not!

That old familiar tree,
Whose glory and renown
Are spread o'er land and sea——
And wouldst thou hew it down?
Woodman, forbear thy stroke!
Cut not its earth-bound ties;
Oh, spare that aged oak,
Now towering to the skies!

My heartstrings round thee cling,
Close as thy bark, old friend!
Here shall the wild bird sing,
And still thy branches bend.
Old tree! the storm still brave!
And, woodman, leave the spot.
While I've a hand to save,
Thy axe shall harm it not!

GEORGE P. MORRIS.

IN AN OLD-FASHIONED GARDEN

The garden was pleasant with old-fashioned flowers,
The sunflowers and hollyhocks stood up like towers;
There were dark turncap-lilies and jasemine rare,
And sweet thyme and marjoram scented the air.

WILLIAM BRIGHTLY RANDS.

Buttercup, Poppy, Forget-me-not,
These three bloomed in a garden spot;
And once, all merry with song and play,
A little one heard three voices say:
"Shine and shadow, summer and spring,
O thou child with the tangled hair
And laughing eyes! We thee shall bring
Each an offering passing fair."
The little one did not understand
But they bent and kissed the dimpled hand.

EUGENE FIELD.

HOW THE ROSE BECAME QUEEN

ALBERT BIGELOW PAINE

Once upon a time there was a very great garden that lay between two ranges of blue, blue hills. And the sky above was blue, as blue as the hills, so that you could hardly tell where the sky ended and the hills began, and underneath was the great, beautiful garden which covered all the lands between.

And in this rare garden there were all the choicest flowers and fruit that the world knew, and when the flowers were all in bloom, under that blue, blue sky—in all the wonderful colors of gold and crimson, and royal purple, and with all the banks of white daisies, and all the sweet orchards of apple-bloom, there was nothing like it in the whole world, and the sweet perfume went out so far that sailors in the ships coming in from sea, a hundred miles away, could smell the sweet odors and would say, "The wind blows from the garden of the Princess Beautiful." For I must tell you that the garden was owned by a great Princess, and she was called Beautiful by all who knew of her, and every traveler to that distant country made his way to her white marble palace to seek permission to look upon the most beautiful garden in the world.

And many who came there were of high rank, like herself, and some of them tried to win her love, for the Princess was like her name and as beautiful as the rarest flower in all that marvelous garden. But to the princes and kings she would not listen, for her heart and pride were only in her flowers, and she wished to remain with them forever and be happy in their beauty. She was only sad when she saw that some of those who came went away with heavy hearts because she would not leave her palace for theirs.

Now once there came to the palace of the Princess Beautiful a great queen. She had traveled far to see the splendid garden, and when she came the Princess led her with all her court among the flowers. And all that sunlit day, under the blue, blue sky, the great queen and her court lingered in the garden—up and down the paths of white shells, where hyacinths and lilies and daffodils and azaleas grew on every side—and rested in the shade of blossoming orchard trees. And when it was evening, and they had gone, and the flowers were left alone they whispered and murmured together, for never before had they seen a queen and her court.

And by and by, as the days passed, the flowers decided that they, too, must have a queen—some rare flower, fine and stately, whom they would honor, even as they had seen their beautiful Princess honor her royal guest. And night after night they talked of these things, but never could decide which of their number should be chosen for the high place.

And then one day a great sadness came upon the fair garden between the hills. A young traveler from an unknown country had come to the white palace, and one sunny afternoon the Princess Beautiful had led him among the beds of primroses and lilies and daffodils. And when the sun was going down and she turned and looked into his face, and saw how fair he was, and how the sun made his hair like gold, how it shimmered on his beautiful garments of velvet and fine lace. She felt for the first time a great love arise within her heart. Then, all at once, she forgot her garden, her palace, and her pride, forgot everything in all the world except the fair youth who stood there with her in the sunset—and she told him her great new love.

And as she spoke, softly and tenderly, the words she had never spoken to any one before, the breeze died, and the sun slipped down behind the far-off hills. And then, as the light faded, it seemed to the Princess Beautiful that the fair youth before her was fading, too. His face grew dim and misty—his hair became a blur of gold—his rare garments melted back into the beds of bloom. And behold, instead of the fair youth there stood before her in the twilight only a wonderful golden lily with a crimson heart.

Then the Princess Beautiful knew that because she had cared only for her garden and had sent from her those who had offered a great love like her own, that this wonderful lily had come to her as a youth with a face of radiant beauty, and with hair of gold, to awaken a human love in her heart. And each day she mourned there by the splendid lily, and called it to return to her as the fair youth she had loved; and at last when its flowers had faded and the stem drooped, the white palace of the Princess Beautiful was empty and the Princess lay beside the withered lily in the rare garden between the hills.

And there they made her grave and above it they built a trellis where a white climbing rose might grow. But when the rose bloomed, instead of being white, it was a wonderful crimson, such as no one had ever seen before. And when the other flowers saw those beautiful crimson blossoms they no longer mourned, for they said, "This is our beautiful Princess Beautiful who has returned to be our queen."

And so it was the red rose became the queen of flowers, and a symbol of great human love. The poet Burns says:

"My love is like a red, red rose,
That's newly blown in June."

And it was always in June that the great crimson rose bloomed on the grave in the garden of the Princess Beautiful.

MORNING GLORIES

They swing from the garden-trellis
In Ariel-airy ease;
And their aromatic honey
Is sought by the earliest bees.

The rose, it knows their secret,
And the jessamine also knows:
And the rose told me the story
That the jessamine told the rose.

And the jessamine said: "At midnight,
E're the red cock woke and crew,
The fays of Queen Titania
Came here to bathe in dew.

And the yellow moonlight glistened
On braids of elfin hair;
And fairy feet on the flowers
Fell softer than any air.

And their petticoats, gay as bubbles,
They hung up, every one,
On the morning glory's tendrils,
Till their moonlight bath was done.

But the red cock crew too early,
And the fairies fled in fear,
Leaving their petticoats purple and pink,
Like blossoms hanging there.

MADISON CAWEIN.

WHY ROSES HAVE THORNS

(ALGONQUIN LEGEND)

In the far-off days of long ago roses had no thorns. The branches of the bushes and the flower stems were smooth and delicate and made delicious food for the animals. They greedily ate the leaves, stems, and lovely blossoms; sometimes, indeed, they devoured the entire plant.

With grief the roses saw that each year the number of bushes was growing fewer and they feared the time would come when there would be none of their blossoms left to gladden the summer days. At last they held a council to see if anything could be done to prevent the animals from destroying the bushes. But no one could think of a way out of the difficulty.

"We must go to Manabozho, the Great Chief," said one of them. "He will advise us what to do."

Accordingly, it was decided that several messengers, chosen from the council, should seek the Great Chief and tell him how the animals were fast destroying the roses.

It was no easy matter to find Manabozho, for while he lived on earth among the Red Men he took many disguises. They who sought him were carried by the swiftest wind through valleys and meadows and far over the hilltops. All along the path of their journey, whenever they asked the question, "Where shall we find Manabozho?" they received the same answer, "Travel on toward the sunrise. There you will find the Great Chief. He is tending a wonderful garden."

At last one morning they saw the sun shining on a marvellous garden where vegetables grew in abundance. There were beds of cucumbers and squash, rows of corn and beans, and many other plants, whose names the messengers did not know. And what surprised them most was the beautiful hedge of rose-bushes which surrounded the garden. They looked anxiously for the Great Gardener Chief but he was nowhere to be seen. Silently the messengers hid themselves in a forest which grew near, for they believed Manabozho would soon return. The thought of talking to him filled them with awe, but they were determined to be brave and tell him their mission.

"He values roses or he would not have chosen them for his garden hedge," they whispered, looking with pride at the beauty of the flowering bushes.

While they were waiting a surprising thing happened. In the forest they heard quiet, stealthy steps approaching. Soon they saw a procession of animals from the woods. There were field mice, squirrels, rabbits, foxes, coyotes, elks, and bears, all making their way to Manabozho's garden. They were sniffing the air as if they scented something delicious. On they came until they reached the rose-hedge where they stopped to taste the dainty, fragrant leaves. Various cries of satisfaction were uttered and immediately they began feasting on the delicate bushes. Leaves, flowers, and stems were all devoured and in a short time not one bit of the rose-hedge around the Great Chief's garden was left. It could not have disappeared more completely if Manabozho himself had cut it down. The dainty morsel of the rose-hedge, however, was not enough to satisfy the hunger of the animals from the woods. They turned their attention to the vegetables and were devouring the very choicest of them when suddenly the smaller animals pricked up their ears and listened. The next moment they scuttled away as fast as they could into the forest. The larger animals took this for a sign of danger and hurried after them.

In a little while the messengers of the Rose Council heard a loud voice singing. Manabozho was returning from his adventure. As he drew near his song ceased for he saw that destruction had come to his precious garden. His rage was terrible! In a voice which shook the neighboring hillsides he declared he would punish the intruders. He was particularly grieved at the destruction of his rose-hedge which he valued not only for its beauty but because he believed it was a means of protection to his garden.

When the messengers saw this they came forward and stated the object of their journey. Manabozho listened with eager interest while one of them told the story of the rapidly decreasing number of rose-bushes.