river. One fine winter day he was lying in the sun near a brush heap
with his eyes closed, and he was thinking: "It has been several days
since I had a dainty supper. How I should enjoy a fine large fish this
evening. I'll slip over to the edge of the forest and watch the
fishermen as they go home with their day's catch. Perhaps good luck
will do something for me."
Now one old man had caught a very fine lot of fish of all sizes.
Indeed, he had so many that he was obliged to hire a cart in which to
carry them home. He was driving along slowly when suddenly he noticed
a red fox crouched under the bush near the road. He stopped his horse,
jumped down from the cart, and carefully crept near the spot where he
had seen Master Reynard. The fox did not open his eyes nor move a
muscle.
"Well," said the old fisherman, "I do believe he is dead! What a fine
coat he has. I will take him home and give him to my wife for a
present." He lifted the fox and put him into the cart among the fish.
The old man then mounted to his seat and drove merrily on, thinking
how pleased his wife would be with the fine fish and the fox. When
they were well on their way, the sly fox threw one fish after another
out of the cart until all lay scattered along on the road; then he
slipped out of the cart.
When the old man reached his cottage, he called out to his wife, "Come
and see the fine fish I caught to-day. And I have brought you a
beautiful gift, also."
His wife hurried to the cart and said, "Where are the fish, my
husband, and where is my present?"
"Why, there in the cart," he replied.
"In the cart!" exclaimed his wife. "Why, there is nothing here;
neither fish nor present, so far as I can see."
The old man looked and to his great surprise and disappointment he
discovered that what his wife said was true.
Meanwhile, the sly fox had gathered up the fish and had taken them to
the forest in order to enjoy a fine supper. Presently he heard a
pleasant voice saying, "Good evening, Brother Reynard."
He looked up and saw his friend Bruin. "Oh, good evening to you,"
answered the fox. "I have been fishing to-day, and, as you see, luck
certainly attended me."
"It did, indeed," answered the bear. "Could you not spare me one fish?
I should consider the gift a great favor."
"Oh," answered the fox, "why don't you go fishing yourself? I assure
you when one becomes a fisherman, he thoroughly enjoys the fruits of
patience."
"Go fishing, my friend," said Bruin, in astonishment. "That is
impossible. I know nothing about catching fish, I assure you."
"Pooh, it is very easy, especially in the winter time when ice nearly
covers the river. Let me tell you what to do. Make a hole in the ice
and stick your tail down into it. Hold it there just as long as you
can and keep saying, 'Come, little fish; come, big fish.' Don't mind
if the tail smarts a little; that only means that you have a bite, and
I assure you the longer you hold it there the more fish you will
catch. Then all at once, out with your tail. Give a strong pull
sideways, then upward, and you'll have enough fish to last you several
days. But mind you, follow my directions closely."
"Oh, my friend, I am very grateful for your kind information," said
Bruin, and off he went to the river where he proceeded to follow
Master Fox's directions.
In a short time sly Reynard passed by, and when he saw Bruin patiently
sitting on the ice with his tail in a hole, he laughed until his sides
ached. He said, wickedly, under his breath: "A clear sky, a clear sky!
Bruin's tail will freeze, Bruin's tail will freeze."
"What did you say, my friend?" asked the bear.
"Oh, I was making a wish," replied the fox.
All night long Bruin sat there, fishing patiently. Then he decided to
go home. How very heavy his tail felt. He thought to himself that all
the fish in the river must be fastened there. In a little while the
women of the village came to get water from the river, and when they
saw the bear, they called out at the top of their voices: "Come, come!
A bear, a bear! Kill him! Kill him!"
The men came quickly with great sticks in their hands. Poor Bruin gave
a short pull sideways and his tail snapped off short. He made off to
the woods as fast as he could go, but to this day he goes about with a
stumpy tail.
PINES AND FIRS
Mrs. Dyson
Pines and firs! Who knows the difference between a pine and a fir!
These trees are first cousins; they often dwell together in our woods;
they are evergreen; they have narrow, pointed leaves; and they bear
cones, and so we often call them all firs, as if they were brothers.
This may satisfy strangers and passers-by who only turn their heads
and say: "Ah! a fir wood," but it will not be sufficient for the
friends of the trees. Pines and firs are as different as oaks and
beeches; and who would not be ashamed to take a beech for an oak!
A fir is the shape of a church steeple or a spear-head about to cleave
the sky. The lowermost branches come out in a ring and spread out
straight and stiff like the spokes of a wheel. Above this whorl is
another of shorter branches still, and so on, till the top ring is
quite a little one round a pointed shoot. The little shoots fork out
on each side of the big branches, and like them are set closely with
leaves. These shoots do not point up to the sky nor down to the earth;
they spread out flat, so that the branch looks like a huge fern.
Pines begin to grow like firs; but as they shoot up side by side in
the woods, their lower branches drop off for want of air and sunshine,
and their upper branches spread out wider. A fir is a pyramid with a
pointed top; but a full-grown pine has a flat top, and often a tall,
bare trunk, so that it looks like a great umbrella. A famous Roman
writer, Pliny, said that the smoke of a volcano was like a pine tree.
The smoke shoots up in a great pillar from the mouth of the fiery
mountain, and then spreads itself out in a black cap.
You have often amused yourselves with finding pictures in the clouds.
Have you seen a pillar of mist rise up from the horizon, the meeting
line of the earth and sky, and then lose itself in a soft cloud? The
country people in some parts of Europe call this cloud-form
_Abraham's tree_ or _Adam's tree_, because it is so like a pine tree.
When the clouds break up into the soft, white, fleecy ripples that we
call a mackerel sky, they say, "We shall have wind, for Adam's tree is
putting forth leaves."
The pine trees dress themselves in long, blue-green, rounded needles
set in bundles of two, three, or more, bristling out all round their
branches; but the fir trees wear short, narrow, flat leaves of a
yellow-green colour, set singly each one by itself. These fir leaves
come out all round the stem just as pine leaves do, but they are
parted down the middle as we sometimes part our hair, so that they
spread out flat in two thick rows.
Mr. Ruskin calls the pines and firs and their relations the builders
with the sword, because of their narrow, pointed leaves, and the
broad-leaved trees he calls the builders with the shield. The trees of
the sword stand erect on the hills like armed soldiers prepared for
war; while the trees of the shield spread themselves in the valleys to
shelter the fields and pastures.
Why do these mountain trees have such narrow leaves? Can you find out
a reason? Perhaps this is one: when the great, strong wind is raging
with all his force, he will not suffer any resistance but breaks down
everything that tries to stay him in his course; if he meets broad
leaves and heavy branches, he hurls them out of his way, but he just
whistles through the slender leaves and branches of the pines and
firs, and scarcely knows they are there.
When you gather the cones in the wood, you may know at once whether
they have fallen from pine trees or from fir trees. A pine cone looks
like a single piece of carved solid wood until it opens, and then each
hard scale shows a thick, square head; but the fir cones are made of
broad, papery scales, with thin edges laid neatly one over the other.
Now you will never have any difficulty in knowing the pines from the
firs, even in the far distance--colour, form, dress, fruit, all are
different.
How is it we make a mistake, and call the Scotch pine by the name of
Scotch fir? Perhaps it is because this tree is the only one of the
great pine and fir family that is a real native of Britain. Our
stay-at-home ancestors who lived above three hundred years ago never
saw a real fir, and so their one pine had to represent all its
relations. They knew it perhaps better than we do, for in their days
there were many forests that have since been cut down to make room for
houses and gardens and fields.
Sometimes when you have been walking over the moorland you have run to
gather some bright yellow moss, and have suddenly found your foot
sinking into wet, black mud, and you have heard stories of men and
horses sucked down by just such dreadful slime. Hundreds of years ago
forests stood where now lie these dangerous bogs, and the trees and
shrubs rotting and decaying in the wet have changed into black, brown
swamps. Many bogs have been drained, and the trunks of pine trees have
been found in them standing as they grew. In one bog in Yorkshire pine
trees were found sawn across and left to lie and rot. Who felled these
trees which have been lying there hundreds of years? Can we tell? Yes;
for among the trees are scattered axe-heads and Roman coins, and we
are able to picture the old story of the place. There was once a
forest there, and the ancient Britons hid themselves in its shelter,
and the Romans cut down the trees to drive them from their
hiding-place.
There are two common kinds of firs which you will find in the woods.
One is the spruce fir, a very prim and proper tree, with slightly
curving branches turned up at the tips. It looks as if the branches
had been all cut to a pattern, and their length and the distances
between them carefully measured. When you have been washed and brushed
and pulled and straightened, and had every hair and bow set in its
proper place, so that you look particularly trim and neat, you
sometimes laugh and call one another _spruce_, like the spruce fir.
Some people think the name "spruce" means the _pruce_, or Prussian
tree; others say it means the sprouting tree, the tree that sprouts at
the ends of its branches. In some countries these bright-green sprouts
are cut off and made into a kind of beer called spruce beer.
The spruce fir is at home on the high mountains of Europe where it
often grows one hundred and fifty feet high. You long for the time
when you will be taken to Switzerland to see the snow-capped Alps.
Then standing out against the white snow and the glittering ice rivers
you will see the dark spruce forests. This fir is also at home in
Norway and the cold lands of the North, and so we call it the Norway
Spruce to distinguish it from other kinds of spruce fir that grow in
America. In Norway many old men and women earn a living by gathering
and selling in the markets pieces of fir for the people to strew on
the graves as we do flowers.
What sort of cones has the spruce? Can you find some in the fir wood?
They are five or six inches long and perhaps two inches thick. You
will see them hanging from the ends of the upper branches, and perhaps
you may find some empty ones on the ground. Look at them. Those thin
scales are very different from the tough walls of the pine cone: each
one is shaped off to a point, and this point is divided into two sharp
teeth.
Perhaps when you are looking for the cones, you will find growing fast
to the branches among the leaves some fanciful things that look like
little cones. These are very gay; every scale has a border of crimson
velvet and a green spine in the middle of its back, like a little
tusk. If you open them you will find some brown, soft things inside.
Do you know what they are? Perhaps, if you have not already made
friends with the real cone, you will think these are seeds; but some
of you are growing wise, and know that you have intruded into a little
nest of insects. If you tie a net round the branch and keep watch, you
may see them come out. Their mother pierced a hole in a brown bud last
autumn and laid her eggs there; then when the buds burst in spring the
lower leaves grew fast together and made this comfortable house, and
those green tusks you see are the leaf points.
But what is the other kind of fir that grows in our wood? It is rather
like the spruce in shape, but it is not quite so stiff and prim and
proper, and underneath each little leaf there are two silver lines,
and so we call this the silver fir. You may always know it from the
spruce by these silver lines. Each stiff little leaf has its edges
rolled under as if ready for hemming, and there is a thick green rib
down the middle of the under side, so the silver lining just peeps out
in single streaks between the rib and the hems.
The spring tufts of the Norway spruce are of a bright yellow-green;
those of the silver fir are paler and softer in tint, more like the
primrose. When the sulphur butterfly lights on them we lose sight of
him, so he flits from one to another, feeling quite safe, and keeping
carefully away from those dark old leaves where he would be pounced
upon at once.
The silver fir does not let its cones hang down; it holds them proudly
erect on its branches; like little towers often eight inches high. We
wonder how such slender twigs can hold up such large cones. They look
like hairy giants, for their scales do not end in two little teeth,
but in a long point which turns back and bends downwards.
The silver fir does not like quite such cold places as the spruce and
the Scotch pine; it dwells lower down the mountain sides, and is at
home in Central Europe.
All the pines and firs, like the Scotch pine, have those wonderful
pipes and reservoirs of sticky turpentine juice inside their bark, but
each kind of fir has its own way of making its stores, and so we get
different kinds of resin and turpentine and balsams from different
trees.
It is these stores of resin that make the pine wood burn so brightly.
The Highland chief needed no gas for his great illuminations; he had
only to call his followers to hold up branches of blazing pine. It is
not very wise to light a picnic fire in a pine or fir wood, for
sometimes a few sparks will set a whole forest in flames.
_Fir_--_fire_: how much alike these two words are! Do you think they
must have some connection with one another? Were the first fires made
of fir wood? or was this tree called fir because it made such good
fires? These words are so old that we can only guess their history.
Those of you who like pretty things have often fingered admiringly
some bright, shining necklace of amber beads. The pieces of amber
from which those beads were cut were picked up on the shores of the
Baltic Sea, and it is supposed that once upon a time some great pines
or firs dropped their gummy juice and this hardened into these
beautiful transparent stones.
Pines and firs are some of our greatest tree givers. They seem never
tired of giving. Can you think of anything that is made of pine or fir
wood? Perhaps you remember hearing that the seats or panels or
ceilings in your school or church were of the wood of an American pine
called the pitch pine. But common fir wood has a name of its own. Who
has not heard of _deal_? A _deal_ is a part or portion, and so we talk
of a great deal of something meaning a large portion. Our fir wood
comes in great quantities from Norway and Germany, where it is first
cut and sawn into planks. Each plank is a _deal_--that is, a portion
of the wood. It has been easy to leave out the article and call the
wood _deal_.
Our white deal comes from the firs, chiefly from the Norway spruce.
The darker-coloured deal is the gift of the Scotch pine.
How can the great trees be carried from the mountain-tops, do you
suppose? The streams are the carriers; they float the great trunks
down to the rivers, where they are tied together in great rafts and
floated on again to their new home, or to the seaport from which they
can be shipped to foreign lands. Sometimes when the nearest stream is
at a long distance from the trees, a wooden slide is made to it. In
the winter, water is poured down the slide, and when it freezes the
trees easily shoot down the slippery way to the stream. Oh, what fun
it must be! You would like to be there to see. In the year 1810, when
all Europe was at war with the great Emperor Napoleon, the deal
traffic on the Baltic Sea was stopped. What was to be done? Near the
Lake of Lucerne there is a high mountain, called Mont Pilate, covered
with great forests of pine and fir. If these could only be cut down
and brought to the lake, they could easily be floated down the Rhine
to the sea. So a tremendous slide was made from Mont Pilate to the
lake. It was six feet broad, and from three to six feet deep, and
eight miles long, and twenty-five thousand pine trees were used in
making it. When water had been poured down and had frozen, the great
trunks were started one at a time. Away they shot, and reached the
lake, eight miles off, in six minutes, and in wet weather, when the
slide was very slippery, they were only three minutes on the way.
Look at the deal planks on the floor of your room. Do you see those
dark knots? They show you where once branches sprang out of the trunk.
Many of these decayed and dropped off while quite young, and a little
store of juice prepared for the branch gathered into the knot and
turned it brown and dark. You will often find the knots in pairs,
showing you how the branches grew opposite one another.
These long straight lines in the plank that we call the _grain_ show
the rings of wood made by the pine tree year by year.
How astonished you would be if suddenly out of that plank a great
insect were to creep and spread out its wings. This sometimes
happens, to the alarm of the people in the room, but only when the
wood is new and has been used too soon, before it was properly dried
and seasoned. The insect looks very formidable, for it has a long,
pointed weapon at the end of its body, but it is quite harmless. It is
called the _giant sirex_, and it looks something like a wasp or
hornet. With its weapon it pierces holes in the pine tree bark and
lays its eggs there. The grubs eat great tunnels in the trunk, and
when they are full grown they creep nearly to the outside, and there
wait till they are changed and their wings are ready before they creep
out. Sometimes while they wait the tree is cut down and then they are
either sawn in two or left inside the plank.
We often see young fir trees in a very strange place, bearing
wonderful fruit of gold and silver shining lights, and glittering
toys.
"The fir tree stood
In a beautiful room;
A hundred tapers
Dispelled the gloom.
All decked with gold and silver was he,
And lilies and roses so fair to see.
Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;
A prince in all the forests is he!
The little children
With merry shout
Came crowding, clustering
Round about.
Brighter and rounder grew their eyes,
And they gazed at the fir in glad surprise.
Hurrah for the fir tree, the Christmas tree;
A prince in all the forests is he!"
WHO LOVES THE TREES BEST?
Who loves trees best?
"I," said the spring,
"Their leaves so beautiful
To them I bring."
Who loves the trees best?
"I," summer said,
"I give them blossoms,
White, yellow, red."
Who loves the trees best?
"I," said the fall,
"I give luscious fruits,
Bright tints to all!"
Who loves the trees best?
"I love them best,"
Harsh winter answered,
"I give them rest."
CHRISTMAS EVERYWHERE
A CHRISTMAS SONG
Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!
Christmas in lands of fir tree and pine;
Christmas in lands of palm tree and vine,
Christmas where snow peaks stand solemn and white;
Christmas where cornfields lie sunny and bright;
Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night!
Christmas where children are hopeful and gay;
Christmas where old men are patient and grey;
Christmas where peace like a dove in its flight,
Broods over brave men in the thick of the fight;
Everywhere, everywhere, Christmas to-night.
Phillips Brooks.
THE SHEPHERD MAIDEN'S GIFT
(Eastern Legend)
In the quiet midnight, peace brooded over the fields where the
shepherds were watching their flocks. The tinkling of sheepbells, the
bleating of lambs, and the barking of watchdogs had gradually ceased.
Around a large campfire several shepherds lay resting, for they had
had a long, hard day. Each had beside him a strong shepherd's crook
and a stout club ready for use in case any lurking danger threatened
the beloved flocks.
Not far away from the campfire a shepherd maiden lay sleeping in the
rude shelter of a rocky cave. All day long she had helped her father
guard the sheep, and when darkness fell over the fields and hills, she
was glad to lie down in her snug bed made of the fleecy skins of kids
and lambs.
Suddenly a light filled the cave and wakened the maiden. Thinking it
was daybreak, she sprang up, stepped to the rude doorway, and pushed
aside the curtain of goatskin.
"What has happened?" she whispered.
The fields and hills were flooded with light. The group of shepherds
were standing close together, gazing intently at the luminous eastern
sky. A moment later she saw them fall on their knees in worship. There
in the entrance of her rude shelter, she, too, knelt and prayed.
Clearly she saw the shining angel appear and in the peaceful stillness
of the night she heard these words:
"Be not afraid; for, behold, I bring good tidings of great joy which
shall be to all the people: for there is born to you this day, in the
city of David, a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be
the sign unto you: ye shall find a babe wrapped in swaddling clothes
and lying in a manger."
And suddenly there was with the angel many, many others. Together they
lifted up their voices in praise and sang,
"Glory to God in the highest,
Peace on earth
Good will toward men."
When the sweet music died away, the maiden rose to her feet and joined
the shepherds.
"I saw the angel, Father, and heard the singing," she whispered.
"Christ, the Lord, is born," answered her father.
"Let us hasten to Bethlehem and see the Heavenly Child who fulfills
the promise of God," said one of the shepherds.
"Shall we leave our flocks?" asked another. But the question was not
answered.
"Come, let us see what gifts we have to carry to the Christ-child,"
said the shepherd who first saw the light in the sky.
In a few moments these simple-hearted men were ready to start across
the fields and over the low hills to Bethlehem. Very humble gifts they
had to offer, but their hearts were filled with joy and wonder.
Standing near the entrance to the cave the shepherd maiden could see
the outline of the group of men making their way to the city of David.
"They are going to see the Christ-child," she said to herself, "a babe
wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger."
How she would love to see the Heavenly Child! A deep longing to behold
the little new-born King seized her. She would follow the shepherds to
Bethlehem. One glimpse at the Christ-child would fill her heart with
joy.
Away over the star-lit fields and hills she started. Not once did she
falter, although the way was long and some of the hillsides were hard
to climb.
Finally, she saw the shepherds pass in the gate of the city of
Bethlehem.
"I came to see the Christ-child," she said to a group of people who
stood whispering together. They looked at her in astonishment.
"I am following the shepherds," she added.
"They have gone to the inn," was the answer.
When she reached the inn she was directed to a cave near, which served
as a stable.
There through the entrance she saw the shepherds lay their humble
presents at Mary's feet and then kneel in solemn adoration.
"I have brought nothing to offer," whispered the maiden, looking
wistfully into the rude shelter. "I cannot go in without a gift--a
little gift for the Christ-child."
Tears of disappointment filled her eyes. Slowly she turned to leave
the place. But after she had taken a few steps she stopped and burst
into sobs. How could she go away without a glimpse of the Heavenly
Child? Then, as she stood weeping, a marvelous thing happened. An
angel appeared beside her and said:
"Lo, here at thy feet is a gift for the Christ-child."
Then she saw growing near her, slender stems covered with delicate
green leaves and bearing lovely flowers.