"What do you see up there, O pine-tree?" asked a little vine in the
forest. "You lift your head among the clouds to-night, and you tremble
strangely as if you saw wondrous sights."
"I see only the distant hill-tops and the dark clouds," answered the
pine-tree. "And the wind sings of the snow-king to-night; to all my
questionings he says, 'Snow, snow, snow,' till I am wearied with his
refrain."
"But the prince will surely come to-morrow?" inquired the tiny
snowdrop that nestled close to the vine.
"Oh, yes," said the vine. "I heard the country folks talking about it
as they went through the forest to-day, and they said that the prince
would surely come on the morrow."
"What are you little folks down there talking about?" asked the
pine-tree.
"We are talking about the prince," said the vine.
"Yes, he is to come on the morrow," said the pine-tree, "but not until
the day dawns, and it is still all dark in the east."
"Yes," said the fir-tree, "the east is black, and only the wind and
the snow issue from it."
"Keep your head out of my way!" cried the pine-tree to the fir; "with
your constant bobbing around I can hardly see at all."
"Take _that_ for your bad manners," retorted the fir, slapping the
pine-tree savagely with one of her longest branches.
The pine-tree would put up with no such treatment, so he hurled his
largest cone at the fir; and for a moment or two it looked as if there
were going to be a serious commotion in the forest.
"Hush!" cried the vine in a startled tone; "there is some one coming
through the forest."
The pine-tree and the fir stopped quarrelling, and the snowdrop
nestled closer to the vine, while the vine hugged the pine-tree very
tightly. All were greatly alarmed.
"Nonsense!" said the pine-tree, in a tone of assumed bravery. "No one
would venture into the forest at such an hour."
"Indeed! and why not?" cried a child's voice. "Will you not let me
watch with you for the coming of the prince?"
"Will you not chop me down?" inquired the pine-tree gruffly.
"Will you not tear me from my tree?" asked the vine.
"Will you not pluck my blossoms?" plaintively piped the snowdrop.
"No, of course not," said Barbara; "I have come only to watch with you
for the prince."
Then Barbara told them who she was, and how cruelly she had been
treated in the city, and how she longed to see the prince, who was to
come on the morrow. And as she talked, the forest and all therein felt
a great compassion for her.
"Lie at my feet," said the pine-tree, "and I will protect you."
"Nestle close to me, and I will chafe your temples and body and limbs
till they are warm," said the vine.
"Let me rest upon your cheek, and I will sing you my little songs,"
said the snowdrop.
And Barbara felt very grateful for all these homely kindnesses. She
rested in the velvety snow at the foot of the pine-tree, and the vine
chafed her body and limbs, and the little flower sang sweet songs to
her.
"Whirr-r-r, whirr-r-r!" There was that noisy wind again, but this time
it was gentler than it had been in the city.
"Here you are, my little Barbara," said the wind, in kindly tones. "I
have brought you the little snowflake. I am glad you came away from
the city, for the people are proud and haughty there; oh, but I will
have my fun with them!"
Then, having dropped the little snowflake on Barbara's cheek, the wind
whisked off to the city again. And we can imagine that it played rare
pranks with the proud, haughty folk on its return; for the wind, as
you know, is no respecter of persons.
"Dear Barbara," said the snowflake, "I will watch with thee for the
coming of the prince."
And Barbara was glad, for she loved the little snowflake, that was so
pure and innocent and gentle.
"Tell us, O pine-tree," cried the vine, "what do you see in the east?
Has the prince yet entered the forest?"
"The east is full of black clouds," said the pine-tree, "and the winds
that hurry to the hill-tops sing of the snow."
"But the city is full of brightness," said the fir. "I can see the
lights in the cathedral, and I can hear wondrous music about the
prince and his coming."
"Yes, they are singing of the prince in the cathedral," said Barbara
sadly.
"But we shall see him first," whispered the vine reassuringly.
"Yes, the prince will come through the forest," said the little
snowdrop gleefully.
"Fear not, dear Barbara, we shall behold the prince in all his glory,"
cried the snowflake.
Then all at once there was a strange hub-bub in the forest; for it
was midnight, and the spirits came from their hiding-places to prowl
about and to disport themselves. Barbara beheld them all in great
wonder and trepidation, for she had never before seen the spirits of
the forest, although she had often heard of them. It was a marvellous
sight.
[Illustration: So Barbara fell asleep.]
"Fear nothing," whispered the vine to Barbara,--"fear nothing, for
they dare not touch you."
The antics of the wood-spirits continued but an hour; for then a cock
crowed, and immediately thereat, with a wondrous scurrying, the elves
and the gnomes and the other grotesque spirits sought their
abiding-places in the caves and in the hollow trunks and under the
loose bark of the trees. And then it was very quiet once more in the
forest.
"It is very cold," said Barbara. "My hands and feet are like ice."
Then the pine-tree and the fir shook down the snow from their broad
boughs, and the snow fell upon Barbara and covered her like a white
mantle.
"You will be warm now," said the vine, kissing Barbara's forehead. And
Barbara smiled.
Then the snowdrop sang a lullaby about the moss that loved the violet.
And Barbara said, "I am going to sleep; will you wake me when the
prince comes through the forest?"
And they said they would. So Barbara fell asleep.