Peace smiles above the scene. The waters lie
As still and blue as the arched sky they love.
No sound salutes the ear, save that, far off,
A bird recites to his fond mate his joy;
And silence seems but deeper for the slender sound.
The butterflies, that frolic noiselessly,
Think Earth is Heaven and live by loving flowers.
The trees in social groups, link branch to branch
And root to root and smile beneath the sun.
In harmony with all about I rest.
Within my soul there dwells a thought that knows
No words, but silent, sweet, it sings to me.
Peace smiles above the scene, ’tis Sabbath day.
Carrie B. Sanborn.
“HAMMOCK STORIES.”
MRS. FIG TREE’S FAMILY HISTORY.
It was a nice, bright, sunshiny day, and the trees were freshly washed
from a warm rain the night before, but it seemed to me when I first lay
down in my hammock that they were not in as good humor as usual. Mrs.
Pepper Tree had lost her sprightly manner, and her voice was quite
peevish when, seeing some children pass on their way from school, she
exclaimed:
“It beats me what those children do day after day, and year after year!
They can’t be very smart or they would have learned all their lessons
long ago.”
Grandma Liveoak reminded her that according to what she had heard tell,
children had a lot more to learn than trees; that they were obliged to
study about people and everything they ever did, and about stones and
birds and the sky and the flowers, and bugs and flies and the rest, and
she expected it took them some time.
“I presume they spend a great deal of their time studying my family
history,” said Mrs. Fig Tree. “It is a very old and important one, and
even grown people go to big buildings when the bells ring, and read and
learn about my family.”
Her voice was as satisfied, oh, just as satisfied as could be, and she
seemed to be quite pleased over something while she was talking. Mrs.
Pepper gave her branches a toss, as she crossly exclaimed:
“I don’t see what there is in Fig Trees to study over much! All they
have anyhow is queer awkward looking leaves in the spring, then green
figs growing right out of the branches, no flowers or anything, then by
and by all the leaves dropping off again! I wouldn’t think that would
take much time or was worth much time either, and for my part I wouldn’t
have leaves I couldn’t keep all the year round.”
Mrs. Fig answered her in a very polite tone, just as if she was talking
to company: “Excuse me, Mrs. Pepper, but probably you never heard that
it was my family that gave the first man and woman who ever lived in the
world their clothes!”
Mrs. Pepper said she never heard it, and she guessed no one else ever
did either. But you could see she was getting curious, and so were the
other trees, and they finally asked Mrs. Fig to tell them, and so she
began.
“Long, long ago there was the most beautiful garden that ever was heard
or thought of and every lovely flower that grows, and every tree that
amounts to anything, was there. But the rose bushes had no thorns, and
there were no spiders or bugs or worms to bother the trees and shrubs,
but only great butterflies as bright as the rainbow. And there were no
brambles or thistles or burrs, but only violets and clover blossoms and
other flowers, and all the birds sang more sweetly than the nightingale,
and the fountains were clear and sparkling, and the fruit was always
ripe, and everything was just as beautiful as could be, and the first
man and woman were the most beautiful of all, only they didn’t have any
clothes.”
Mr. Pine rustled his needles in an embarrassed sort of way, and Grandma
Liveoak said that didn’t seem just the right thing, somehow; but Mrs.
Fig calmly remarked: “That was what they thought too and so they made
themselves lovely clothes out of fig leaves.”
Mrs. Pepper guessed that that wouldn’t help them much; that clothes made
out of fig leaves would amount to no clothes at all. But here Mr. Pine
spoke, saying:
“If I might with propriety venture a suggestion on so delicate a
subject, I think possibly it was bathing suits the first man and woman
made of the fig leaves. My friend, the East Wind, assures me that”—
“Rubbish,” cried Mrs. Pepper, “rubbish! I don’t believe that they ever
made any clothes of her old leaves at all, so there!”
And now Mrs. Fig’s voice was so polite it made me quite nervous, and she
spoke very slowly. “The first man and woman went to all of the other
trees and looked their leaves over very carefully, but none of them were
good or pretty enough, and finally they came to the Fig tree.” Here Mrs.
Fig made a long pause, repeating, “Finally they came to the Fig tree.
And the first woman said: ‘Oh, aren’t these leaves just too lovely for
anything! The Fig tree is the best and prettiest of all. We will make
our clothes out of her leaves. And so they did, and what’s more, they
got into a whole lot of trouble just because they had something to do
with another tree besides the Fig.”
Mrs. Pepper rubbed two branches together, and it made the most sneery
sound you ever heard, as she asked: “I suppose you want me to believe
that ‘other tree’ was the pepper?”
“No,” replied Mrs. Fig, “I don’t think there were any pepper trees in
the garden at all.”
Then you should have seen how angry Mrs. Pepper grew and I did wish that
Grandma Liveoak would hurry and say something so there would be peace;
but sure as you live, when she spoke her voice sounded strange and very
dignified, and she only said:
“The other trees may have family histories too, Mrs. Fig, if they chose
to boast of them!”
“A poet once said,” began Mr. Pine.
But Mrs. Orange Tree interrupted him to ask what they were saying about
her; that she heard “best and prettiest leaves” mentioned.
Mrs. Fig told the story all over again, and I wanted to explain to her
that I had never heard it just that way; but her stubby branches were
standing very firm and determined, and I knew it wouldn’t do a bit of
good.
“Poets,” said Mr. Pine, “are the wisest people in the world, and one of
them”—
“I don’t care a twig for the first man or the first woman,” said Mrs.
Pepper crossly. “I know all the painters choose me, and they put my
leaves and my clusters of white blossoms and red berries on paper and
boards, and painters are the people of all the earth who know what is
beautiful, so that proves the first place mine.”
“This poet once said of our family,” Mr. Pine began again.
“The brides all choose me,” cried Mrs. Orange, “and who in the world is
so important as a bride? And if they choose me, I must be first and
prettiest.”
“As I remarked,” said Mr. Pine, “this poet”—
But such a noise you never heard, and even Grandma Liveoak as bad as the
rest, and Mrs. Pepper and Mrs. Fig and Mrs. Orange, all claiming so many
things for their family. And they got to saying unkind things to each
other—they really did—and you have no idea how dreadfully sarcastic
trees can be. But just as I was wondering however it would all come out
Mrs. Pepper stopped still for a minute, then leaned her graceful boughs
fringed with fine narrow leaves way over until they kissed Mrs. Fig’s
bare branches, and said gently: “I am sure it was a great honor to have
your pretty leaves chosen by the first man and woman, and I am very
sorry I was cross.”
Grandma Liveoak gave a little laugh, exclaiming, “Well, what a silly old
tree I am! Do you know, I came very near being a little put out there,
just for a second, simply because another tree mentioned her family.”
Then she praised Mrs. Fig and told her it was a good thing to think well
of one’s own sap and wood. And Mrs. Fig said she might have been
mistaken about what the first woman said, and that probably she took the
fig leaves because they were the handiest or something. And Mrs. Orange
got the wind to blow over some of her prettiest blossoms to the other
trees, while high above Mockingbird was singing and over on the hedge a
meadow lark gave its call, and it was all very sweet and pretty.
“As I was saying,” calmly remarked Mr. Pine, “a poet once said of our
family:
Who is the king of all the wood?
Be it distinctly understood
It is the Pine!”
Karrie King.