The sun shone on them, and the rain fell on them, so it was not long
before they grew tall.
"Oh, how pretty they are!" said the great oak, and stooped his crooked
boughs still more, so that they could get a good view of them.
"You are welcome among us," said the old oak, and graciously inclined
his head to them. "You shall be my foster-children, and be treated
just as well as my own."
"Thanks," said the little beeches, and they said no more.
But the little oak could not bear the strange trees. "It is dreadful
the way you shoot up into the air," he said in vexation. "You are
already half as tall as I am. But I beg you to take notice that I am
much older, and of good family besides."
The beeches laughed with their little, tiny green leaves, but said
nothing.
"Shall I bend my branches a little aside so that the sun can shine
better on you?" the old tree asked politely.
"Many thanks," answered the beeches. "We can grow very nicely in the
shade."
And the whole summer passed by, and another summer after that, and
still more summers. The beeches went on growing, and at last quite
overtopped the little oak.
"Keep your leaves to yourself," cried the oak; "you overshadow me, and
that is what I can't endure. I must have plenty of sunshine. Take
your leaves away or I perish."
The beeches only laughed and went on growing. At last they closed
together over the little oak's head, and then he died.
"That was a horrid thing to do," a great oak called out, and shook his
boughs in terror.
But the old oak took his foster-children under his protection.
"It serves him right," he said. "He is paid out for his boasting. I
say it, though he is my own flesh and blood. But now you must behave
yourselves, little beeches, or I will give you a clout on the head."
Years went by, and the beeches went on growing, and they grew till
they were tall young trees, which reached up among the branches of the
old oak.
"You begin to be rather pushing," the old tree said. "You should try
to grow a little broader, and stop this shooting up into the air. Just
see where your branches are soaring. Bend them properly, as you see us
do. How will you be able to hold out when a regular storm comes? I
assure you the wind gives one's head a good shaking. My old boughs
have creaked many a time; and what do you think will become of the
flimsy finery that you stick up in the air?"
[Illustration: IN THE EARLY DAYS]
"Every one has his own manner of growth, and we have ours," answered
the young beeches. "This is the way it's done where we come from, and
we are perhaps as good as you are."
"That is not a polite way of speaking to an old tree with moss on his
boughs," said the oak. "I begin to repent that I was so kind to you.
If you have a spark of honourable feeling alive in you, be good enough
to move your leaves a little to one side. There have been scarcely any
buds on my lowest branches this year, you overshadow me so."
"I don't quite understand how that concerns us," answered the beeches.
"Every one has quite enough to do to look after himself. If he is
equal to his work, and has luck, it turns out well for him; if not,
he must be prepared to go to the wall. That is the way of the world."
Then the oak's lowest branch died, and he began to be seriously
alarmed.
"You are pretty things," he said, "if this is the way you reward me
for my hospitality. When you were little I let you grow at my feet,
and sheltered you against the storm. I let the sun shine on you as
much as ever he would, and I treated you as if you were my own
children. And in return for all this you stifle me."
"Stuff and nonsense!" said the beeches. So they put forth flowers and
fruit, and when the fruit was ripe the wind shook the boughs and
scattered it round far and wide.
"You are quick people like me," said the wind. "I like you for it, and
am glad to do you a good turn."
And the fox rolled on the ground at the foot of the beech trees and
got his fur full of the prickly fruits, and ran with them far out into
the country. The bear did the same, and grinned into the bargain at
the old oak while he lay and rested in the shadow of the beeches. The
field-mouse was beside himself with joy over his new food, and thought
that beech nuts tasted much nicer than acorns. All around new little
beech trees shot up, which grew just as fast as their parents, and
looked as green and as happy as if they did not know what an uneasy
conscience was.
But the old oak gazed sadly out over the wood. The light-green beech
leaves were peeping out everywhere, and the oaks were sighing and
bewailing their distress to one another.
"They are taking our strength out of us," they said, and shook as much
as the beeches around would let them. "The land is ours no longer."
One bough died after another, and the storm broke them off and cast
them on the ground. The old oak had now only a few leaves left at the
very top.
"The end is near," he said gravely.
By this time there were many more human beings in the land than there
were before, and they made haste to hew down the oaks while there were
still some remaining.
"Oak timber is better than beech timber," they said.
"At last we get a little appreciation," said the old oak, "but we have
to pay for it with our lives."
Then he said to the beech trees,--
"What was I thinking of when I helped you on in your young days? What
an old stupid I was! Before that, we oak trees were lords in the land;
and now every year I see my brothers around me perishing in the fight
against you. It will soon be all over with me, and not one of my
acorns has sprouted under your shade. But before I die I should like
to know the name you give to such conduct."
"That will not take long to say, old friend," answered the beeches.
"We call it _competition_, and that is not any discovery of our own.
It is competition which rules the world."
"I do not know these foreign words of yours," said the oak. "I call it
mean ingratitude." And then he died.
The Dragon-Fly and the Water-lily
[Illustration: The Dragon-Fly: and the Water-lily:]
In among the green bushes and trees ran the brook. Tall,
straight-growing rushes stood along its banks, and whispered to the
wind. Out in the middle of the water floated the water-lily, with its
white flower and its broad green leaves.
Generally it was quite calm on the brook. But when, now and again, it
chanced that the wind took a little turn over it, there was a rustle
in the rushes, and the water-lily sometimes ducked completely under
the waves. Then its leaves were lifted up in the air and stood on
their edges, so that the thick green stalks that came up from the very
bottom of the stream found that it was all they could do to hold
fast.
All day long the larva of the dragon-fly was crawling up and down the
water-lily's stalk.
"Dear me, how stupid it must be to be a water-lily!" it said, and
peeped up at the flower.
"You chatter as a person of your small mind might be expected to do,"
answered the water-lily. "It is just the very nicest thing there is."
"I don't understand that," said the larva. "I should like at this
moment to tear myself away, and fly about in the air like the big,
beautiful dragon-flies."
"Pooh!" said the water-lily. "That would be a funny kind of pleasure.
No; to lie still on the water and dream, to bask in the sun, and now
and then to be rocked up and down by the waves--there's some sense in
_that_!"
The larva sat thinking for a minute or two.
"I have a longing for something greater," it said at last. "If I had
my will, I would be a dragon-fly. I would fly on strong, stiff wings
along the stream, kiss your white flower, rest a moment on your
leaves, and then fly on."
"You are ambitious," answered the water-lily, "and that is stupid of
you. One knows what one has, but one does not know what one may get.
May I, by the way, make so bold as to ask you how you would set about
becoming a dragon-fly? You don't look as if that was what you were
born for. In any case you will have to grow a little prettier, you
gray, ugly thing."
"Yes, that is the worst part of it," the larva answered sadly. "I
don't know myself how it will come about, but I hope it _will_ come
about some time or other. That is why I crawl about down here and eat
all the little creatures I can get hold of."
"Then you think you can attain to something great _by feeding_!" the
water-lily said, with a laugh. "That would be a funny way of getting
up in the world."
"Yes; but I believe it is the right way for me!" cried the dragon-fly
grub earnestly.
"All day long I go on eating till I get fat and big; and one fine day,
as I think, all my fat will turn into wings with gold on them, and
everything else that belongs to a proper dragon-fly!"
The water-lily shook its clever white head.
"Put away your silly thoughts," it said, "and be content with your
lot. You can knock about undisturbed down here among my leaves, and
crawl up and down the stalk to your heart's desire. You have
everything that you need, and no cares or worries--what more do you
want?"
"You are of a low nature," answered the larva, "and therefore you have
no sense of higher things. In spite of what you say, I wish to become
a dragon-fly." And then it crawled right down to the bottom of the
water to catch more creatures and stuff itself still bigger.
But the water-lily lay quietly on the water and thought things over.
"I can't understand these animals," it said to itself. "They knock
about from morning till night, chase one another and eat one another,
and are never at peace. We flowers have more sense. Peacefully and
quietly we grow up side by side, bask in the sunshine, and drink the
rain, and take everything as it comes. And I am the luckiest of them
all. Many a time have I been floating happily out here on the water,
while the other flowers there on dry land were tormented with drought.
The flowers' lot is the best; but naturally the stupid animals can't
see it."
When the sun went down the dragon-fly larva was sitting on the stalk,
saying nothing, with its legs drawn up under it. It had eaten ever so
many little creatures, and was so big that it had a feeling as if it
would burst. But all the same it was not altogether happy. It was
speculating on what the water-lily had said, and it could hardly get
to sleep the whole night long on account of its unquiet thoughts. All
this speculating gave it a headache, for it was work which it was not
used to. It had a back-ache too, and a stomach-ache. It felt just as
though it was going to break in pieces, and die on the spot.
When the sky began to grow gray in the early morning it could hold out
no longer.
"I can't make it out," it said in despair. "I am tormented and
worried, and I don't know what will be the end of it. Perhaps the
water-lily is right, and I shall never be anything else but a poor,
miserable larva. But that is a fearful thing to think of. I did so
long to become a dragon-fly and fly about in the sun. Oh, my back! my
back! I do believe I am dying!"
It had a feeling as if its back was splitting, and it shrieked with
pain. At that moment there was a rustle among the rushes on the bank
of the stream.
"That's the morning breeze," thought the larva; "I shall at least see
the sun when I die." And with great trouble it crawled up one of the
leaves of the water-lily, stretched out its legs, and made ready to
die.
But when the sun rose, like a red ball, in the east, suddenly it felt
a hole in the middle of its back. It had a creepy, tickling feeling,
and then a feeling of tightness and oppression. Oh, it was torture
without end!
Being bewildered, it closed its eyes; but it still felt as though it
were being squeezed and crushed. At last it suddenly noticed that it
was free; and when it opened its eyes it was floating through the air
on stiff, shining wings, a beautiful dragon-fly. Down on the leaf of
the water-lily lay its ugly gray larva case.
"Hurrah!" cried the new dragon-fly. "So I have got my darling wish
fulfilled!" and it started off at once through the air at such a rate
that you would think it had to fly to the ends of the earth.
"The creature has got its desire at any rate," thought the water-lily.
"Let us see if it will be any the happier for it."
* * * * *
Two days later the dragon-fly came flying back, and seated itself on
the flower of the water-lily.
"Oh, good-morning," said the water-lily. "Do I see you once more? I
thought you had grown too fine to greet your old friends."
"Good-day," said the dragon-fly. "Where shall I lay my eggs?"
"Oh, you are sure to find some place," answered the flower. "Sit down
for a bit, and tell me if you are any happier now than when you were
crawling up and down my stalk, a little ugly larva."
"Where shall I lay my eggs? Where shall I lay my eggs?" screamed the
dragon-fly, and flew humming around from place to place, laid one here
and one there, and finally seated itself, tired and weary, on one of
the leaves.
"Well?" said the water-lily.
"Oh, it was better in the old days--much better," sighed the
dragon-fly. "The sunshine is really delightful, and it is a real
pleasure to fly over the water; but I have no time to enjoy it. I have
been so terribly busy, I tell you. In the old days I had nothing to
think about; now I have to fly about all day long to get my silly eggs
disposed of. I haven't a moment free. I have scarcely time to eat."
"Didn't I tell you so?" cried the water-lily in triumph. "Didn't I
prophesy that your happiness would be hollow?"
"Good-bye," sighed the dragon-fly. "I have not time to listen to your
disagreeable remarks. I must lay some more eggs."
But just as it was about to fly off the starling came.
"What a pretty little dragon-fly!" it said; "it will be a delightful
tit-bit for my little ones."
Snap! it killed the dragon-fly with its bill, and flew off with it.
"What a shocking thing!" cried the water-lily, as its leaves shook
with terror. "Those animals! those animals! They are funny creatures.
I do indeed value my quiet, peaceful life. I harm nobody, and nobody
wants to pick a quarrel with me. I am very luck--"
It did not finish what it was saying, for at that instant a boat came
gliding close by.
"What a pretty little water-lily!" cried Ellen, who sat in the boat.
"I will have it!"
She leant over the gunwale and wrenched off the flower. When she had
got home she put it in a glass of water, and there it stood for three
days among a whole company of other flowers.
"I can't make it out," it said on the morning of the fourth day. "I
have not come off a bit better than that miserable dragon-fly."
"The flowers are now withered," said Ellen, and she threw them out of
the window.
So there lay the water-lily with its fine white petals on the dirty
ground.
[Illustration: THE DRAGONFLY AND THE WATERLILY]
The Weeds
[Illustration: The Weeds]
It was a beautiful, fruitful season. Rain and sunshine came by turns
just as it was best for the corn. As soon as ever the farmer began to
think that things were rather dry, you might depend upon it that next
day it would rain. And when he thought that he had had rain enough,
the clouds broke at once, just as if they were under his command.
So the farmer was in a good humour, and he did not grumble as he
usually does. He looked pleased and cheerful as he walked over the
field with his two boys.
"It will be a splendid harvest this year," he said. "I shall have my
barns full, and shall make a pretty penny. And then Jack and Will
shall have some new trousers, and I'll let them come with me to
market."
"If you don't cut me soon, farmer, I shall sprawl on the ground," said
the rye, and she bowed her heavy ear quite down towards the earth.
The farmer could not hear her talking, but he could see what was in
her mind, and so he went home to fetch his scythe.
"It is a good thing to be in the service of man," said the rye. "I can
be quite sure that all my grain will be well cared for. Most of it
will go to the mill: not that that proceeding is so very enjoyable,
but in that way it will be made into beautiful new bread, and one must
put up with something for the sake of honour. The rest the farmer will
save, and sow next year in his field."
At the side of the field, along the hedge, and the bank above the
ditch, stood the weeds. There were dense clumps of them--thistle and
burdock, poppy and harebell, and dandelion; and all their heads were
full of seed. It had been a fruitful year for them also, for the sun
shines and the rain falls just as much on the poor weed as on the rich
corn.
"No one comes and mows _us_ down and carries us to a barn," said the
dandelion, and he shook his head, but very cautiously, so that the
seeds should not fall before their time. "But what will become of all
our children?"
"It gives me a headache to think about it," said the poppy. "Here I
stand with hundreds and hundreds of seeds in my head, and I haven't
the faintest idea where I shall drop them."
"Let us ask the rye to advise us," answered the burdock.
And so they asked the rye what they should do.
"When one is well off, one had better not meddle with other people's
business," answered the rye. "I will only give you one piece of
advice: take care you don't throw your stupid seed on to the field,
for then you will have to settle accounts with _me_."
This advice did not help the wild flowers at all, and the whole day
they stood pondering what they should do. When the sun set they shut
up their petals and went to sleep; but the whole night through they
were dreaming about their seed, and next morning they had found a
plan.
The poppy was the first to wake. She cautiously opened some little
trap-doors at the top of her head, so that the sun could shine right
in on the seeds. Then she called to the morning breeze, who was
running and playing along the hedge.
"Little breeze," she said, in friendly tones, "will you do me a
service?"
"Yes, indeed," said the breeze. "I shall be glad to have something to
do."
"It is the merest trifle," said the poppy. "All I want of you is to
give a good shake to my stalk, so that my seeds may fly out of the
trap-doors."
"All right," said the breeze.
And the seeds flew out in all directions. The stalk snapped, it is
true; but the poppy did not mind about that, for when one has
provided for one's children, one has really nothing more to do in the
world.
[Illustration: THE FARMER AND HIS BOYS]
"Good-bye," said the breeze, and would have run on farther.
"Wait a moment," said the poppy. "Promise me first that you will not
tell the others, else they might get hold of the same idea, and then
there would be less room for my seeds."
"I am mute as the grave," answered the breeze, running off.
"Ho! ho!" said the harebell. "Haven't you time to do me a little, tiny
service?"
"Well," said the breeze, "what is it?"
"I merely wanted to ask you to give me a little shake," said the
harebell. "I have opened some trap-doors in my head, and I should like
to have my seed sent a good way off into the world. But you mustn't
tell the others, or else they might think of doing the same thing."
"Oh! of course not," said the breeze, laughing. "I shall be as dumb as
a stone wall." And then she gave the flower a good shake and went on
her way.
"Little breeze, little breeze," called the dandelion, "whither away so
fast?"
"Is there anything the matter with you too?" asked the breeze.
"Nothing at all," answered the dandelion. "Only I should like a few
words with you."
"Be quick then," said the breeze, "for I am thinking seriously of
lying down and having a rest."
"You cannot help seeing," said the dandelion, "what a fix we are in
this year to get all our seeds put out in the world; for, of course,
one wishes to do what one can for one's children. What is to happen to
the harebell and the poppy and the poor burdock I really don't know.
But the thistle and I have put our heads together, and we have hit on
a plan. Only we must have you to help us."
"That makes _four_ of them," thought the breeze, and could not help
laughing out loud.
"What are you laughing at?" asked the dandelion. "I saw you whispering
just now to the harebell and poppy; but if you breathe a word to them,
I won't tell you anything."
"Why, of course not," said the breeze. "I am mute as a fish. What is
it you want?"
"We have set up a pretty little umbrella on the top of our seeds. It
is the sweetest little plaything imaginable. If you will only blow a
little on me, the seeds will fly into the air and fall down wherever
you please. Will you do so?"
"Certainly," said the breeze.
And ush! it went over the thistle and the dandelion and carried all
the seeds with it into the cornfield.
The burdock still stood and pondered. Its head was rather thick, and
that was why it waited so long. But in the evening a hare leapt over
the hedge.
"Hide me! Save me!" he cried. "The farmer's dog Trusty is after me."
"You can creep behind the hedge," said the burdock, "then I will hide
you."
"You don't look to me much good for that job," said the hare, "but in
time of need one must help oneself as one can." And so he got in
safety behind the hedge.
"Now you may repay me by taking some of my seeds with you over into
the cornfield," said the burdock; and it broke off some of its many
heads and fixed them on the hare.
A little later Trusty came trotting up to the hedge.
"Here's the dog," whispered the burdock, and with one spring the hare
leapt over the hedge and into the rye.
"Haven't you seen the hare, burdock?" asked Trusty. "I see I have got
too old to go hunting. I am quite blind in one eye, and I have
completely lost my scent."
"Yes, I have seen him," answered the burdock; "and if you will do me a
service, I will show you where he is."
Trusty agreed, and the burdock fastened some heads on his back, and
said to him,--
"If you will only rub yourself against the stile there in the
cornfield, my seeds will fall off. But you must not look for the hare
there, for a little while ago I saw him run into the wood."
Trusty dropped the burs on the field and trotted to the wood.
"Well, I've got _my_ seeds put out in the world all right," said the
burdock, and laughed as if much pleased with itself; "but it is
impossible to say what will become of the thistle and the dandelion,
and the harebell and the poppy."
* * * * *
Spring had come round once more, and the rye stood high already.
"We are pretty well off on the whole," said the rye plants. "Here we
stand in a great company, and not one of us but belongs to our own
noble family. And we don't get in each other's way in the very least.
It is a grand thing to be in the service of man."
But one fine day a crowd of little poppies, and thistles and
dandelions, and burdocks and harebells poked up their heads above
ground, all amongst the flourishing rye.
"What does _this_ mean?" asked the rye. "Where in the world are _you_
sprung from?"
And the poppy looked at the harebell and asked, "Where do _you_ come
from?"
And the thistle looked at the burdock and asked, "Where in the world
have _you_ come from?"
They were all equally astonished, and it was an hour before they had
explained. But the rye was the angriest, and when she had heard all
about Trusty and the hare and the breeze she grew quite wild.
"Thank heaven, the farmer shot the hare last autumn," she said; "and
Trusty, fortunately, is also dead, the old scamp. So I am at peace, as
far as _they_ are concerned. But how dare the breeze promise to drop
the seeds of the weeds in the farmer's cornfield?"
"Don't be in such a passion, you green rye," said the breeze, who had
been lying behind the hedge and hearing everything. "I ask no one's
permission, but do as I like; and now I'm going to make you bow to
me."
Then she passed over the young rye, and the thin blades swayed
backwards and forwards.
"You see," she said, "the farmer attends to his rye, because that is
_his_ business. But the rain and the sun and I--we attend to all of
you without respect of persons. To our eyes the poor weed is just as
pretty as the rich corn."
The farmer now came out to look at his rye, and when he saw the weeds
in the cornfield he scratched his head with vexation and began to
growl.
"It's that scurvy wind that's done this," he said to Jack and Will, as
they stood by his side with their hands in the pockets of their new
trousers.
But the breeze flew towards them and knocked all their caps off their
heads, and rolled them far away to the road. The farmer and the two
boys ran after them, but the wind ran faster than they did.
It finished up by rolling the caps into the village pond, and the
farmer and the boys had to stand a long time fishing for them before
they got them out.
[Illustration: PREPARING for FLIGHT]
The Sparrow
[Illustration: THE SPARROW]