On the mountain's broad back, where Gorgo left Thumbietot, there had
been a forest fire ten years before. Since that time the charred trees
had been felled and removed, and the great fire-swept area had begun to
deck itself with green along the edges, where it skirted the healthy
forest. However, the larger part of the top was still barren and
appallingly desolate. Charred stumps, standing sentinel-like between the
rock ledges, bore witness that once there had been a fine forest here;
but no fresh roots sprang from the ground.
One day in the early summer all the children in the parish had assembled
in front of the schoolhouse near the fire-swept mountain. Each child
carried either a spade or a hoe on its shoulder, and a basket of food in
its hand. As soon as all were assembled, they marched in a long
procession toward the forest. The banner came first, with the teachers
on either side of it; then followed a couple of foresters and a wagon
load of pine shrubs and spruce seeds; then the children.
The procession did not pause in any of the birch groves near the
settlements, but marched on deep into the forest. As it moved along, the
foxes stuck their heads out of the lairs in astonishment, and wondered
what kind of backwoods people these were. As they marched past old coal
pits where charcoal kilns were fired every autumn, the cross-beaks
twisted their hooked bills, and asked one another what kind of coalers
these might be who were now thronging the forest.
Finally, the procession reached the big, burnt mountain plain. The rocks
had been stripped of the fine twin-flower creepers that once covered
them; they had been robbed of the pretty silver moss and the attractive
reindeer moss. Around the dark water gathered in clefts and hollows
there was now no wood-sorrel. The little patches of soil in crevices and
between stones were without ferns, without star-flowers, without all the
green and red and light and soft and soothing things which usually
clothe the forest ground.
It was as if a bright light flashed upon the mountain when all the
parish children covered it. Here again was something sweet and delicate;
something fresh and rosy; something young and growing. Perhaps these
children would bring to the poor abandoned forest a little new life.
When the children had rested and eaten their luncheon, they seized hoes
and spades and began to work. The foresters showed them what to do. They
set out shrub after shrub on every clear spot of earth they could find.
As they worked, they talked quite knowingly among themselves of how the
little shrubs they were planting would bind the soil so that it could
not get away, and of how new soil would form under the trees. By and by
seeds would drop, and in a few years they would be picking both
strawberries and raspberries where now there were only bare rocks. The
little shrubs which they were planting would gradually become tall
trees. Perhaps big houses and great splendid ships would be built from
them!
If the children had not come here and planted while there was still a
little soil in the clefts, all the earth would have been carried away by
wind and water, and the mountain could never more have been clothed in
green.
"It was well that we came," said the children. "We were just in the nick
of time!" They felt very important.
While they were working on the mountain, their parents were at home. By
and by they began to wonder how the children were getting along. Of
course it was only a joke about their planting a forest, but it might be
amusing to see what they were trying to do.
So presently both fathers and mothers were on their way to the forest.
When they came to the outlying stock farms they met some of their
neighbours.
"Are you going to the fire-swept mountain?" they asked.
"That's where we're bound for."
"To have a look at the children?"
"Yes, to see what they're up to."
"It's only play, of course."
"It isn't likely that there will be many forest trees planted by the
youngsters. We have brought the coffee pot along so that we can have
something warm to drink, since we must stay there all day with only
lunch-basket provisions."
So the parents of the children went on up the mountain. At first they
thought only of how pretty it looked to see all the rosy-cheeked little
children scattered over the gray hills. Later, they observed how the
children were working--how some were setting out shrubs, while others
were digging furrows and sowing seeds. Others again were pulling up
heather to prevent its choking the young trees. They saw that the
children took the work seriously and were so intent upon what they were
doing that they scarcely had time to glance up.
The fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked on; then they too
began to pull up heather--just for the fun of it. The children were the
instructors, for they were already trained, and had to show their elders
what to do.
Thus it happened that all the grown-ups who had come to watch the
children took part in the work. Then, of course, it became greater fun
than before. By and by the children had even more help. Other implements
were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent down to the
village for spades and hoes. As they ran past the cabins, the
stay-at-homes came out and asked: "What's wrong? Has there been an
accident?"
"No, indeed! But the whole parish is up on the fire-swept mountain
planting a forest."
"If the whole parish is there, we can't stay at home!"
So party after party of peasants went crowding to the top of the burnt
mountain. They stood a moment and looked on. The temptation to join the
workers was irresistible.
"It's a pleasure to sow one's own acres in the spring, and to think of
the grain that will spring up from the earth, but this work is even more
alluring," they thought.
Not only slender blades would come from that sowing, but mighty trees
with tall trunks and sturdy branches. It meant giving birth not merely
to a summer's grain, but to many years' growths. It meant the awakening
hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play of grouse and all kinds
of life on the desolate mountain. Moreover, it was like raising a
memorial for coming generations. They could have left a bare, treeless
height as a heritage. Instead they were to leave a glorious forest.
Coming generations would know their forefathers had been a good and wise
folk and they would remember them with reverence and gratitude.