Once upon a time the Forest was in a great commotion. Early in the
evening the wise old Cedars had shaken their heads and told of strange
things that were to happen. They had lived in the Forest many, many
years; but never had they seen such marvelous sights as were to be seen
now in the sky, and upon the hills, and in the distant village.
"Pray tell us what you see," pleaded a little Vine; "we who are not so
tall as you can behold none of these wonderful things."
"The whole sky seems to be aflame," said one of the Cedars, "and the
Stars appear to be dancing among the clouds; angels walk down from
heaven to the earth and talk with the shepherds upon the hills."
The Vine trembled with excitement. Its nearest neighbor was a tiny tree,
so small it was scarcely ever noticed; yet it was a very beautiful
little tree, and the Vines and Ferns and Mosses loved it very dearly.
"How I should like to see the Angels!" sighed the little Tree; "and how
I should like to see the Stars dancing among the clouds! It must be very
beautiful. Oh, listen to the music! I wonder whence it comes."
"The Angels are singing," said a Cedar; "for none but angels could make
such sweet music."
"And the Stars are singing, too," said another Cedar; "yes, and the
shepherds on the hills join in the song."
The trees listened to the singing. It was a strange song about a Child
that had been born. But further than this they did not understand. The
strange and glorious song continued all the night.
In the early morning the Angels came to the Forest singing the same song
about the Child, and the Stars sang in chorus with them, until every
part of the woods rang with echoes of that wondrous song. They were clad
all in white, and there were crowns upon their fair heads, and golden
harps in their hands. Love, hope, joy and compassion beamed from their
beautiful faces. The Angels came through the Forest to where the little
Tree stood, and gathering around it, they touched it with their hands,
kissed its little branches, and sang even more sweetly than before. And
their song was about the Child, the Child, the Child, that had been
born. Then the Stars came down from the skies and danced and hung upon
the branches of the little Tree, and they, too, sang the song of the
Child.
When they left the Forest, one Angel remained to guard the little Tree.
Night and day he watched so that no harm should come to it. Day by day
it grew in strength and beauty. The sun sent it his choicest rays,
heaven dropped its sweetest dew upon it, and the winds sang to it their
prettiest songs.
So the years passed, and the little Tree grew until it became the pride
and glory of the Forest.
One day the Tree heard some one coming through the Forest. "Have no
fear," said the Angel, "for He who comes is the Master."
And the Master came to the Tree and placed His Hands upon its smooth
trunk and branches. He stooped and kissed the Tree, and then turned and
went away.
[Illustration: _A. Bida._]
Many times after that the Master came to the Forest, rested beneath the
Tree and enjoyed the shade of its foliage. Many times He slept there and
the Tree watched over Him. Many times men came with the Master to the
Forest, sat with Him in the shade of the Tree, and talked with Him of
things which the Tree never could understand. It heard them tell how the
Master healed the sick and raised the dead and bestowed blessings
wherever He walked.
But one night the Master came alone into the Forest. His Face was pale
and wet with tears. He fell upon His knees and prayed. The Tree heard
Him, and all the Forest was still. In the morning there was a sound of
rude voices and a clashing of swords.
[Illustration: _Hofmann._]
Strange men plied their axes with cruel vigor, and the Tree was hewn to
the ground. Its beautiful branches were cut away, and its soft, thick
foliage was strewn to the winds. The Trees of the Forest wept.
The cruel men dragged the hewn Tree away, and the Forest saw it no more.
But the Night Wind that swept down from the City of the Great King
stayed that night in the Forest awhile to say that it had seen that day
a Cross raised on Calvary,--the Tree on which was nailed the Body of the
dying Master.
_Eugene Field._
From "A Little Book of Profitable Tales." Published by Charles
Scribner's Sons.
[Footnote 004: Copyright, 1889, by Eugene Field.]
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