MR. MAPLE AND MR. PINE
Warren Judson Brier
Once upon a time, many years ago, a little maple seed, with its two gauzy wings, became lodged among the feathers of a wood pigeon, and was by that swift flying bird carried far away into the pine forest. It fell to the ground, and the rains soon beat it into the earth. It was not sorry to get out of sight, for the Pine Family, into whose domain it had been carried, seemed displeased to see it among them. Anyway, they all looked black and threatening to the little seed.
Years afterward there stood upon the spot where the seed had fallen, a hardy tree which we can make no mistake in calling Mr. Rock Maple. In all that part of the forest Mr. Maple had no relatives. As he grew stronger and stronger, the dislike of the Pines, particularly of the Pine boys, grew likewise stronger. As he pushed his limbs farther in every direction, the Pine boys seemed to look more darkly upon him. They begrudged him the very ground he stood on. The younger Pine boys spread out their arms to try to prevent Rock Maple from getting the light and moisture which he so much needed in that sandy soil. At times they showered great quantities of needles upon him, and at certain seasons of the year they pelted him unmercifully with their cones, sharp rough weapons that played havoc with Mr. Maple’s garments of green, yellow and red.
Old Mr. Pine, who waved his green head in the air nearly a hundred and fifty feet above the earth, did not seem to have very good control over his boys, for though he himself did not often deign to pelt Mr. Maple with the few cones he possessed, he never rebuked the boys for their impoliteness.
One day the Pine boys were unusually rough, made so by the strong wind. They knew Mr. Maple was not to blame, but there was no one else to lay the blame on, so they pelted him with cones until he lost his temper. He was just wondering what he would do to prevent the annoyance, when, looking down, he saw that some little creatures had appeared upon the scene, and were striking right and left at the Pines with a sharp tool, against which needles and cones were of no use whatever.
“How good of those little things to take my part,” said Mr. Maple to himself.
In a very short time hundreds of the Pines were lying prone upon the earth. Some were formed into a house, while others were drawn away to a small stream, rolled into its sluggish waters, and soon disappeared forever from the gaze of Mr. Pine, who grieved for them, and of Mr. Maple, who did not.
“Nobody here now of any consequence,” exclaimed Mr. Pine with a contemptuous look at Mr. Maple. Mr. Maple paid no attention. “If you were not such a dwarf, I’d talk to you sometimes, even if you don’t amount to much,” he finally said with an air of great condescension. “It makes me hoarse to talk down so far.”
For a long time after that Mr. Maple kept silent, wondering why Mr. Pine and himself had been spared.
But great surprises were in store for these two enemies. A family came to live in the log house, and among them was the smallest human being that the trees had ever seen,—a little girl named Camilla. She soon got into the habit of coming out and playing under the two large trees.
One day her father brought home a small box, at sight of which she went into a transport of joy, screaming, “My kit, my darling kit! I never thought to see you again!” The box was soon opened, and she lifted a queer-shaped little instrument from it; then, taking it by its long neck, she drew a small wand across it, and it gave forth a sound that thrilled every fibre of both Pine and Maple through and through.
It is too long a story to tell how both trees came to love Camilla very dearly; how delighted Mr. Pine was when she took some resin which he held out to her; how pleased Camilla looked, how white were her teeth, and how she loved him for the gift; how Mr. Maple had his reward when the passing frost touched him and gave him a beautiful garment, much to the delight of Little Camilla, or how when the long winter was nearly done the little violinist fairly hugged him for the sugar he had yielded her.
A fatal day came at last. Men appeared with sharp axes and heavy wagons and attacked Mr. Maple. They had not cut into him very deeply before one of them exclaimed to the others, “Curly Maple, as I live!”
Mr. Pine laughed, but before night he had met the same fate. The man who felled him remarked to the others, “Well on to ten thousand feet in that old fellow!”
Camilla looked on while the trees were loaded and drawn away, tears filling her blue eyes. “Good-bye, old friends,” she exclaimed.
Away to a noisy place they went. Soon they were cut up into small strips by a monster with very sharp teeth. These strips were carried in different directions, some of the best pieces being loaded upon cars and hurried away to a distant city. From this place they took a long journey in the deep, dark hold of a great ship; again upon the cars, until at last they rested in a dry house.
One day one of the Maple boards and one of the Pine boards were taken out, carefully inspected and then made smooth and even on the outside. Then a skilful workman cut them up into small pieces, and made them into curious shapes. He took great pains not to leave the scratch of knife or chisel upon any of the pieces. He finally glued them all together, and behold, they were of the same shape as Camilla’s kit, but somewhat larger.
The workman explained to an observer, “I use pine for the front, or sounding-board, as it is light and vibrant. The more porous it is the better. Maple is the best wood I can get for the other parts, because it is so dense, vibrates slowly, and holds the vibrations made by the pine for a long time, thus prolonging the sound.”
After the slow process of finishing and varnishing was completed the violin was placed in a dark box, and there it lay for a long time.
Pine and Maple said little to each other. They were not very comfortable nor very happy. The strings that had been stretched over them were very cruel and pressed upon the Pine, which pressed upon the soundpost, and that pressed upon the Maple. Sometimes a string broke, and gave them temporary relief, but soon some one would come and put on another.
After passing through two or three small stores the violin finally came to rest in a large one, in a city distant from the one in which it had been made, and all was quiet for a long time. Still Pine and Maple said but little to each other. Shut up in their dark box they didn’t feel very cheerful.
“A living death, this!” grumbled Pine.
“We must make the best of it,” replied Maple.
One evening a stranger came into the store and asked, “Have you a first-class violin in stock?”
“Yes, just one. I got it several months ago by the merest chance. We don’t keep such instruments usually,” said the dealer, taking out the violin. “It is wonderful for an instrument not ten years old.”
“I want one for the evening, only,” said the stranger. “Madame Camilla is here in the city, and to-night plays for the Orphans’ Home. One of her violins is under treatment, and her Cremona has been broken.”
“Madame Camilla!” exclaimed Pine, with a quiver of delight.
“Can it be our little Camilla?” asked Maple in a trembling voice.
In a few minutes the violin was taken from its case by Camilla’s own hand. She ran her fingers gently over the strings, looked at the varnish, tightened the bow and rosined it carefully and finally placed the violin against her shoulder, and drew the bow smoothly across the strings.
She played an air in which the coming of a storm was represented, and Pine and Maple heard once more the sighing of the wind as it once had swept through their branches.
“That’s the sound of the wind in the pine and maple that stood near my log cabin home when I was a little girl,” said the musician to the people standing near.
Then for the first time both Pine and Maple felt certain that this was really their Camilla.
The curtain rose, the manager stepped to the front and in a few words explained the accident, and stated that a new and untried violin must be used.
“Let us lay aside all discord, and act in perfect harmony to-night,” said the forgiving Maple.
“I’ll do it,” answered Pine, more cheerfully than he had ever spoken before.
Pine and Maple beat and throbbed under the wonderful strokes and long-drawn sweeps of the bow. When the piece was finished a storm of applause burst upon them like a tempest. Again the curtain went up and the violin found itself in the glare of the footlights once more. This time the performer touched the strings gently, and played a tune that many people who had come to the store had tried to play, the words to the first line being, “Way down upon de Suwanee Ribber.”
When it was finished the people were silent, and tears glistened in many eyes.
“Maple, forgive me,” said the now humble Pine. “I’ve learned a great lesson, though a very simple one. The best results in life are accomplished through harmony and not through discord.”
“We’ll live in harmony hereafter,” said Maple.
The great soul of the artist had breathed into the instrument and made it glorious.