a storm was coming soon.
The Pine felt lonesome, as little children often do and thought he
would talk to the Willow. So he said, "Friend Willow, your branches
are trembling. I am sorry for you, for I know you are afraid of the
storm that is coming. I wish you were like me. I am so strong nothing
can hurt me. The frost cannot change the colour of my leaves nor the
wind blow them off; occasionally, some old ones may fall on the
ground, but there are always new ones to take their places--and I am
the only tree in this large garden that is always fresh and bright. As
for you, dear Willow, your branches all hang down, you have no leaves
now and, as you are neither strong nor pretty and shake in such a
little wind, of what good are you to yourself, or to any one else?"
"Dear Pine," the Willow answered, "I do not tremble with fear, for I
am not afraid, but God made me so that the wind would move my branches
very easily, and that I should not have leaves in the winter time. By
and by I shall have delicate green leaves and blossoms, and I thank
Him for giving me a beautiful summer dress, even though I go bare in
cold weather. It must be very beautiful to be strong and handsome, as
you are, and I am happy in having so good a friend."
While they were talking the wind had grown much stronger, and now the
rain came pouring down. The Pine stood up angrily against the wind,
scolding with a hin, hin, hin, while the Willow bent and swayed to
and fro and all the other trees bowed their heads.
Then the Pine said, "Willow, why do you not push this rude wind away
instead of yielding to him; you are cowardly to let him abuse you so,
when you might resist him, as I do."
Then the Willow answered, "There are many ways to keep oneself from
harm, and I do not like to resist any one with force."
The Pine was vexed at the Willow and would say no more, but battled
with the wind he could no longer hold back. Then his branches were
torn and his top broken off; they fell to the ground and the proud
tree was a sad sight.
But the Willow bent her branches and yielded to the wind, and so was
unhurt.
The next morning, when the rain had ceased and the sun shone brightly,
the owner of the garden came out to see how his trees had stood the
storm. When he saw the broken Pine he thought it was too bad to have a
broken tree in his fine garden, so he ordered the gardener to move the
Pine into the back yard.
After a time, spring came, and the Willow put forth her lovely green
leaves and every one who passed looked at the graceful tree and said,
"How beautiful she is, how gentle she seems!"
The little birds built their nests in her branches, and soon baby
birds came, which made the tree very happy. The butterflies danced
around in the sunshine and all summer little children loved to play in
the shade of the drooping Willow.
And when the Pine peeped in from the back yard, and saw how happy and
beautiful the Willow was, and how the children, the birds, and the
butterflies loved to play about her, he thought, "If only I had been
less proud of my own strength, then might I, too, be standing in that
beautiful garden with my crown of leaves, and with young life all
about me."
WHY THE WILD RABBITS ARE WHITE IN WINTER
(Algonquin Legend)
Adapted from "Algonquin Indian Tales," by Egerton R. Young. Copyright,
1903, by Egerton R. Young. Reprinted by permission of the Abington
Press, Publishers.
Long ago Wild Rabbit of the Northland wore a brown fur coat,
throughout the year. Today, when the long winter months come, Wild
Rabbit changes his coat of brown to one that is the colour of the
snow. And this is how the change happened.
Wild Rabbit could not defend himself from his many foes. Almost all
the animals,--foxes of all kinds, wildcats, wolves, wolverines,
weasels, and ermine hunted Wild Rabbit for food. Then there were the
fierce birds,--the eagles, hawks, and owls--that were always on the
lookout for rabbits, young or old. The result was that with this war
continually waged against them, the poor rabbits had a hard time of
it, especially in winter. They found it very difficult to hide
themselves when the leaves were off the trees and the ground was
covered with snow.
In those days of long ago the animals used to have a large council.
There was a great father at the head of each kind of animal and bird,
and these leaders used to meet and talk about the welfare of their
kind. There was always peace and friendship among them while at the
council. They appointed a king and he presided as chief. All the
animals that had troubles or grievances had a right to come and speak
about them at the council, and if it were possible, all wrongs were
remedied.
Sometimes queer things were said. At one council the bear found great
fault with the fox who had deceived him and had caused him to lose his
beautiful tail by telling him to go and catch fish with it in a big
crack in the ice. The bear sat fishing so long that the crack froze up
solidly and, to save his life, the bear had to break off his tail.
But all the things they talked about were not so funny as the bear's
complaint. They had their troubles and dangers and they discussed
various plans for improving their condition; also, they considered how
they could best defeat the skill and cleverness of the human hunters.
At one of the council meetings, when the rabbit's turn to be heard
came, he said that his people were nearly all destroyed, that the rest
of the world seemed to be combined against his race and they were
killing them by day and night, in summer and winter. Also, he declared
that the rabbits had little power to fight against enemies, and,
therefore, his people were almost discouraged, but they had sent him
to the council to see if the members could suggest any remedy or plan
to save the rabbit race from complete destruction.
While the rabbit was speaking the wolverine winked at the wildcat,
while the fox, although he tried to look solemn, could not keep his
mouth from watering as he thought of the many rabbits he intended to
eat.
Thus it can be seen that the rabbit did not get much sympathy from his
enemies in the council. But his friends,--the moose, the reindeer,
and the mountain goat--stood up in the meeting and spoke out bravely
for their little friend. Indeed, they told the animals that had
laughed at the little rabbit's sad story that if they continued to
kill all the rabbits they could find there would soon be none left.
Then these cruel animals would be the greatest sufferers, for what
else could they find to eat in sufficient numbers to keep them alive,
if the rabbits were all gone?
This thought sobered the thoughtless animals at first but they soon
resumed their mocking at the poor little rabbit and his story. As they
happened to be in the majority, the council refused to do anything in
the matter.
When the moose heard the decision of the council he was very sorry for
his poor little brother rabbit. He lowered his head and told the
rabbit to jump on one of his flat horns. The moose then carried him
some distance away from the council and said, "There is no hope for
you here. Most of the animals live on you and so they will not do
anything that will make it more difficult for you to be caught than
it now is. Your only hope is to go to Manabozho, and see what he can
do for you. His name was once Manabush, which means Great Rabbit, so I
am sure he will be your friend because I think he is a distant
relative of yours."
Away sped the rabbit along the route described by the moose, who had
lately found out where Manabozho was stopping.
The rabbit was such a timid creature that, when he came near to
Manabozho, he was much afraid that he would not be welcomed. However,
his case was desperate, and although his heart was thumping with fear
he hurried along to have the matter decided as soon as possible.
To his great joy he found Manabozho in the best humour and the little
creature was received most kindly. The great Master saw how weary the
little rabbit was after the long journey so he made the little fellow
rest on some fragrant grass in the sunshine. Then Manabozho went out
and brought in some of the choicest things in his garden for the
rabbit.
"Tell me all your troubles, little brother," said Manabozho. "Also,
tell me about the council meeting."
The rabbit repeated his story and told all about the treatment he had
received at the council.
When the Great Master heard how unjustly the little rabbit had been
treated he grew very angry and said, "And that is the way they treated
little brother rabbit at the council we have given them, is it? And
they know we expect them to give the smallest and weakest the same
kind of justice as they offer the biggest and strongest! It is high
time for some one to report the council news to me if such unfair
meetings take place. Look out, Mr. Fox, Mr. Wolverine, and Mr.
Wildcat, for if I take you in hand you'll be sorry little brother
rabbit was obliged to come to Manabozho for help."
The Great Master had worked himself up into such a furious temper that
the rabbit was frightened almost to death. But when Manabozho saw this
he laughed and said, "I'm sorry to have frightened you, little
brother. But I was so very angry with those animals for ill-treating
you that I forgot myself. And now tell me what you wish me to do for
you?"
After a long talk about the matter it was decided that there should be
two great changes made. First, the eyes of the rabbit should be so
increased in power that in the future they would be able to see by
night as well as by day. Second, in all the Northland where much snow
falls during many months of the year the rabbits of that region should
change their coats for the winter season into a beautiful white colour
like the snow.
And the rabbits of the Northland now have a much better time than they
had formerly. In their soft white coats they can glide away from their
enemies, or they can sometimes escape notice by remaining perfectly
still on the white earth. (_Adapted._)
THE YEW
Janet Harvey Kelman
Once upon a time a discontented Yew tree grew in a wood. Other trees,
it thought, had larger and more beautiful leaves which fluttered in
the breeze and became red and brown and yellow in the sunshine, and
the Yew tree pined because the fairies had given it such an
unattractive dress. One morning the sunshine disclosed that all its
green leaves had changed into leaves made of gold, and the heart of
the Yew tree danced with happiness. But some robbers, as they stole
through the forest, were attracted by the glitter, and stripped off
every golden leaf. Again the tree bemoaned its fate, and next day the
sun shone on leaves of purest crystal. "How beautiful!" thought the
tree; "see how I sparkle!" But a hailstorm burst from the clouds, and
the sparkling leaves lay shivered on the grass. Once more the good
fairies tried to comfort the unhappy tree. Smooth broad leaves covered
its branches, and the Yew tree flaunted these gay banners in the wind.
But, alas, a flock of goats came by and ate of the fresh young leaves
"a million and ten." "Give me back again my old dress," sobbed the
Yew, "for I see that it was best." And ever since its leaves remain
unchanging, and it wears the sombre dress which covered its boughs in
the days when King William landed from Normandy on our shores, and the
swineherd tended his pigs in the great forests which covered so much
of Merry England.
HOW THE PINE TREE DID SOME GOOD
Samuel W. Duffield
It was a long narrow valley where the Pine Tree stood, and perhaps if
you want to look for it you might find it there today. For pine trees
live a long time, and this one was not very old.
The valley was quite barren. Nothing grew there but a few scrubby
bushes; and, to tell the truth, it was about as desolate a place as
you can well imagine. Far up over it hung the great, snowy caps of the
Rocky Mountains, where the clouds played hide and seek all day, and
chased each other merrily across the snow. There was a little stream,
too, that gathered itself up among the snows and came running down the
side of the mountain; but for all that the valley was very dreary.
Once in a while there went a large grey rabbit, hopping among the
sagebushes; but look as far as you could you would find no more
inhabitants. Poor, solitary little valley, with not even a cottonwood
down by the stream, and hardly enough grass to furnish three oxen with
a meal! Poor, barren little valley lying always for half the day in
the shadow of those tall cliffs--burning under the summer sun, heaped
high with the winter snows--lying there year after year without a
friend! Yes, it had two friends, though they could do it but little
good, for they were two pine trees. The one nearest the mountain,
hanging quite out of reach in a cleft of the rock, was an old, gnarled
tree, which had stood there for a hundred years. The other was
younger, with bright green foliage, summer and winter. It curled up
the ends of its branches, as if it would like to have you understand
that it was a very fine, hardy fellow, even if it wasn't as old as its
father up there in the cleft of the rock.
Now the young Pine Tree grew very lonesome at times, and was glad to
talk with any persons who came along, and they were few, I can tell
you. Occasionally, it would look lovingly up to the father pine, and
wonder if it could make him hear what it said. It would rustle its
branches and shout by the hour, but the father pine heard him only
once, and then the words were so mixed with falling snow that it was
really impossible to say what they meant.
So the Pine Tree was very lonesome and no wonder. "I wish I knew of
what good I am," he said to the grey rabbit one day. "I wish I
knew,--I wish I knew," and he rustled his branches until they all
seemed to say, "Wish I knew--wish I knew."
"O pshaw!" said the rabbit, "I wouldn't concern myself much about
that. Some day you'll find out."
"But do tell me," persisted the Pine Tree, "of what good you think I
am."
"Well," answered the rabbit, sitting up on her hind paws and washing
her face with her front ones, in order that company shouldn't see her
unless she looked trim and tidy--"well," said the rabbit, "I can't
exactly say myself what it is. If you don't help one, you help
another--and that's right enough, isn't it? As for me, I take care of
my family. I hop around among the sagebushes and get their breakfast
and dinner and supper. I have plenty to do, I assure you, and you must
really excuse me now, for I have to be off."
"I wish I was a hare," muttered the Pine Tree to himself, "I think I
could do some good then, for I should have a family to support, but I
know I can't now."
Then he called across to the little stream and asked the same question
of him. And the stream rippled along, and danced in the sunshine, and
answered him. "I go on errands for the big mountain all day. I carried
one of your cones not long ago to a point of land twenty miles off,
and there now is a pine tree that looks just like you. But I must run
along, I am so busy. I can't tell you of what good you are. You must
wait and see." And the little stream danced on.
"I wish I were a stream," thought the Pine Tree. "Anything but being
tied down to this spot for years. That is unfair. The rabbit can run
around, and so can the stream; but I must stand still forever. I wish
I were dead."
By and by the summer passed into autumn, and the autumn into winter,
and the snowflakes began to fall.
"Halloo!" said the first one, all in a flutter, as she dropped on the
Pine Tree. But he shook her off, and she fell still farther down on
the ground. The Pine Tree was getting very churlish and cross lately.
However, the snow didn't stop for all that and very soon there was a
white robe over all the narrow valley. The Pine Tree had no one to
talk with now. The stream had covered himself in with ice and snow,
and wasn't to be seen.
The hare had to hop around very industriously to get enough for her
children to eat; and the sagebushes were always low-minded fellows and
couldn't begin to keep up a ten-minutes' conversation.
At last there came a solitary figure across the valley, making its way
straight for the Pine Tree. It was a lame mule, which had been left
behind from some wagon-train. He dragged himself slowly on till he
reached the tree. Now the Pine, in shaking off the snow, had shaken
down some cones as well, and they lay on the snow. These the mule
picked up and began to eat.
"Heigh ho!" said the tree, "I never knew those things were fit to eat
before."
"Didn't you?" replied the mule. "Why I have lived on these things, as
you call them, ever since I left the wagons. I am going back on the
Oregon Trail, and I sha'n't see you again. Accept my thanks for
breakfast. Good-bye."
And he moved off to the other end of the valley and disappeared among
the rocks.
"Well!" exclaimed the Pine Tree. "That's something, at all events."
And he shook down a number of cones on the snow. He was really happier
than he had ever been before,--and with good reason, too.
After a while there appeared three people. They were a family of
Indians,--a father, a mother, and a little child. They, too, went
straight to the tree.
"We'll stay here," said the father, looking across at the snow-covered
bed of the stream and up at the Pine Tree. He was very poorly
clothed, this Indian. He and his wife and the child had on dresses of
hare-skins, and they possessed nothing more of any account, except bow
and arrows, and a stick with a net on the end. They had no lodge
poles, and not even a dog. They were very miserable and hungry. The
man threw down his bow and arrows not far from the tree. Then he began
to clear away the snow in a circle and to pull up the sagebushes.
These he and the woman built into a round, low hut, and then they
lighted a fire within it. While it was beginning to burn the man went
to the stream and broke a hole in the ice. Tying a string to his
arrow, he shot a fish which came up to breathe, and, after putting it
on the coals, they all ate it half-raw. They never noticed the Pine
Tree, though he scattered down at least a dozen more cones.
At last night came on, cold and cheerless. The wind blew savagely
through the valleys, and howled at the Pine Tree, for they were old
enemies. Oh, it was a bitter night, but finally the morning broke!
More snow had fallen and heaped up against the hut so that you could
hardly tell that it was there. The stream had frozen tighter than
before and the man could not break a hole in the ice again. The
sagebushes were all hid by the drifts, and the Indians could find none
to burn.
Then they turned to the Pine Tree. How glad he was to help them! They
gathered up the cones and roasted the seeds on the fire. They cut
branches from the tree and burned them, and so kept up the warmth in
their hut.
The Pine Tree began to find himself useful, and he told the hare so
one morning when she came along. But she saw the Indian's hut, and did
not stop to reply. She had put on her winter coat of white, yet the
Indian had seen her in spite of all her care. He followed her over the
snow with his net, and caught her among the drifts. Poor Pine Tree!
She was almost his only friend, and when he saw her eaten and her skin
taken for the child's mantle, he was very sorrowful, you may be sure.
He saw that if the Indians stayed there, he, too, would have to die,
for they would in time burn off all his branches, and use all his
cones; but he was doing good at last, and he was content.
Day after day passed by,--some bleak, some warm,--and the winter moved
slowly along. The Indians only went from their hut to the Pine Tree
now. He gave them fire and food, and the snow was their drink. He was
smaller than before, for many branches were gone, but he was happier
than ever.
One day the sun came out more warmly, and it seemed as if spring was
near. The Indian man broke a hole in the ice, and got more fish. The
Indian woman caught a rabbit. The Indian child gathered sagebushes
from under the fast-melting snow and made a hotter fire to cook the
feast. And they did feast, and then they went away.
The Pine Tree had found out his mission. He had helped to save three
lives.
In the summer there came along a band of explorers, and one, the
botanist of the party, stopped beside our Pine Tree:
"This," said he in his big words, "is the Pinus Monophyllus, otherwise
known as the Bread Pine." He looked at the deserted hut and passed his
hand over his forehead.
"How strange it is," said he. "This Pine Tree must have kept a whole
family from cold and starvation last winter. There are very few of us
who have done as much good as that." And when he went away, he waved
his hand to the tree and thanked God in his heart that it grew there.
And the Bread Pine waved his branches in return, and said to himself
as he gazed after the departing band: "I will never complain again,
for I have found out what a pleasant thing it is to do good, and I
know now that every one in his lifetime can do a little of it."
A WONDERFUL WEAVER
There's a wonderful weaver
High up in the air,
And he weaves a white mantle
For cold earth to wear.
With the wind for his shuttle,
The cloud for his loom,
How he weaves, how he weaves,
In the light, in the gloom.
Oh, with finest of laces,
He decks bush and tree;
On the bare, flinty meadows
A cover lays he.
Then a quaint cap he places
On pillar and post,
And he changes the pump
To a grim, silent ghost.
But this wonderful weaver
Grows weary at last;
And the shuttle lies idle
That once flew so fast.
Then the sun peeps abroad
On the work that is done;
And he smiles: "I'll unravel
It all, just for fun."
George Cooper.
THE PINE AND THE FLAX
Albrekt Segerstedt
Just where a forest ended grew a pine tree taller and more beautiful
than all the others in the forest. Far away could be seen its feathery
round crown, whose soft branches waved so gracefully when the wind
blew across the plain.
At the foot of the pine tree the fields of grain began.
Here the farmer sowed seeds of many kinds, but the flax was sowed
nearest the pine. It came up beautiful and even, and the pine thought
a great deal of the slender green thing.
The flax stalk raised itself higher and higher, and near the close of
summer it bore a little blue helmet on his head.
"Thou art so beautiful!" said the tall pine.
The flax bowed itself low, but raised again so gracefully that it
looked like a billowy sea.
The pine and the flax often talked to each other and became great
friends.
"What folly!" said the other forest trees to the pine. "Do not have
anything to do with the flax; it is so weak. Choose the tall spruce or
the birch tree. They are strong."
But the pine would not desert the flax.
The thistle and other small plants talked to the flax.
"You are crazy to think of the lofty pine. It does not trouble itself
about you. It is tall and proud. Children of a size play best
together. Think of the bush and vine and content yourself."
"I shall trust the pine," replied the flax. "It is honourable and
faithful and I am fond of it."
So the pine and the flax remained friends.
Time passed and the flax was pulled up and made into ropes and cloth.
The pine was felled and its trunk carried to the city. But the pine
and flax did not forget each other, though neither knew where the
other was.
A large, beautiful ship was launched upon the water. On this the pine
tree was erected as a mast, and on the highest part waved a flag.
Then came a great white sail to help the mast carry the proud ship
forward. It wrapped itself around the mast, spread itself out like a
great wing, and caught the wind on its wide curve.
The sail had been woven of linen that grew as flax out in the field on
the edge of the wood. And the two friends had met again.
Clasping each other faithfully, out over the foaming billows they went
to new lands. It was life, it was pleasure to go on united as friends.
The winds took a message back to the forest.
"Who would have believed it?" said the spruce and the birch.
THE FIR TREE
O singing Wind
Searching field and wood,
Cans't thou find
Aught that's sweet or good--
Flowers, to kiss awake,
Or dewy grass, to shake,
Or feathered seed
Aloft to speed?
Replies the wind:
"I cannot find
Flowers, to kiss awake,
Or dewy grass to shake,
Or feathered seed
Aloft to speed;
Yet I meet
Something sweet,
When the scented fir,--
Balsam-breathing fir--
In my flight I stir."
Edith M. Thomas.
WHY BRUIN HAS A STUMPY TAIL
(Norwegian Legend)