THE MAPLE SEED
On the topmost twig of a maple tree there grew a seed. In the springtime the gentle movement of the sap and the soft rustle of the leaves whispering among themselves had awakened him; then, day by day, half sleeping and half conscious, he had fed upon what the roots provided, stretching himself lazily in the sunshine. Presently his wing began to unfold.
“That is very curious,” said he, stirring a little. “It must be a mistake. I don’t flutter about like the bees.” That bit of wing, which seemed his and not his, puzzled him. “It must belong to something else,” he thought. And afterward he was always on the lookout for a bee or a dragon fly with only one wing. But none came.
The hot summer noons and the long moonlit nights became sultrier and the leaves dropped. “How withered I am!” said the seed to his most intimate friend, a leaf that hung from a near bough. “It makes me feel quite brittle.” But the leaf did not answer, for just then it fell from the twig with a queer, reluctant shiver to the ground.
“Ah!” murmured the maple seed, “I understand.” So he was not surprised when a rude breeze twisted him off one day, and sent him spinning into space.
“Here I go,” thought he, “and this is the end of it.”
“Puff!” said the breeze, who had seen much of the world, and looked with contempt upon the untravelled. “Puff! how ignorant!” and he blew the seed right into a crack in the earth.
“It must be the end, for all that,” insisted the seed. No wonder he thought so, for it was cold and dark where he lay. A troubled cloud leaned down and wept over him. Then he began to grow amazingly in the warmth and moisture.
“If this goes on,” he thought, “I shall certainly burst, and then I must die. How is one to live, with a crack in his sides?”
But the maple seed was wrong. He did not die. An unsuspected, mysterious strength sustained him. His roots found food in the brown earth, and he lifted up a slender stem into the pure sunlight and warm air. Through spring, summer, autumn and winter, year after year, this lived and grew, until the tiny sapling had become a beautiful tree, with spreading branches.
“Ah!” said the tree, “how stupid I was.”
It was very pleasant on the lawn. An old couple from the house near by came out in good weather to sit under the tree. They reminded him of some fragile leaves he had seen fluttering somewhere in the past. He was glad to have them come, and he kept his coolest shade for them. Partly for their sakes, he liked to have the robins sing in his branches.
The years went by. The old man tottered out alone to sit in the cool shadow. He was bent and sorrowful.
“Ah!” sighed the tree, “I know! I know! He has lost his leaf, and feels brittle. If I could only tell him this is not the end!”
After this, many sunny days came, but not the old man, and the tree concluded that he had been blown away. “If he only knew that he would grow again!” he said to himself. “Unless one knows that, it is so uncomfortable to lie in the dark.”
A great storm came. The sky blackened, the winds blew with might, and the heavy rain fell. The maple was uprooted and broken. The next day there came men with axes who cut the tree in pieces, and drew it to the house.
“Is this the end?” he questioned. But no,—the logs were piled one day in the fireplace in a large, sunny room. The old man leaned from his chair to warm his hands by the cheerful heat the crimson flame gave out. “Is it the maple?” he said. “Ah! this goes with the rest.”
The fire grew brighter, burned duller, turned to embers, smouldered to ashes. The hearth was cold. The figure was sitting still in the armchair, but the old man himself had gone away.
The spirit of the maple whispered, “Does he know? There is no end.”
WHY THE IVY IS ALWAYS GREEN[17]
Madge Bingham
There were once two small plants that grew on the edge of a rough, red ditch. One of them was an ivy plant and the other a tiny fig tree.
It was early in the morning when they first awoke and looked around to see how they liked the world.
“I think it is an ugly old world,” said the young fig tree. “I see only a rough, red ditch with dirty water flowing below.”
“Oh, it is a beautiful world,” replied the ivy vine. “I see clouds floating on high, and sunshine, and such lovely trees and flowers growing over on the other side of the ditch! Let us try to make this side beautiful, too.
“I will cover the rough, red places with pretty, green leaves, and you can decorate with your wonderful pink blossoms. Come, let us try.”
“No,” said the small fig tree, “I would not waste my time trying to make this ugly old place beautiful.
“Now if, like my mother, I could have grown in the soft, rich earth of the garden, I would have tried to do something, but here there is no use.”
So, from day to day, the little fig tree grumbled. Nothing pleased her. If the sun shone she said it was too hot; if the rain fell she said it was too wet; and if the wind blew she said it was too cold.
But with the little ivy vine it was very different, and she was as happy as a lark from early morning until night.
“Whether the sun shines or whether the rains fall, it is God’s will,” said the little vine, “and I am well pleased. I shall do all I can to make my side of this ditch beautiful, and I shall begin to-day.”
And so she did. Though she lived only on the edge of the red ditch, she spread out her leaves day by day, running here and there and yonder, hiding this red spot and that red spot, until by and by nothing could be seen but the beautiful green leaves of the ivy, and she did not stop until every ugly spot was hidden by her graceful garlands.
“Oh, it is beautiful, beautiful, now,” cried the ivy; “only look!”
“Yes,” said the fig tree, crossly, “but no one sees it. What are you going to do now? Dry up, I suppose, since you can never cross the ditch.”
“Oh, but I shall cross the ditch,” said the ivy vine. “I shall keep on trying until I do. There is so much on the other side I can do to help make the earth-world beautiful. Surely there is a way to cross.”
So she ran out little tendrils, reaching here and there, searching everywhere for a way to cross the ditch. And at last, by climbing down to the edge of the muddy water, she reached a rock half way across, where she stopped for a moment to rest and wonder what next to do.
“You’ll never get across,” laughed the fig tree. “I told you so! You might as well make up your mind to dry up and stop trying.”
“I shall never stop trying,” called back the ivy vine. “There is a way to cross all ditches, and I shall cross this one. Wait and see.”
“Bravo, my pretty one!” said the voice of the old oak tree close by. “Cling to my roots there. I am old and worn, but it is a joy to help one like you; reach out and I will pull you up.”
So with one huge stretch the ivy vine clung tightly to the twisted roots of the old oak, and was soon laughing merrily on the other side.
“Dear me, but you are a brave little vine,” said the old oak. “I have been watching you across the ditch all these months, and you have changed its ugly, red banks into a real thing of beauty.
“Now there was a time, once, when flowers and grasses grew there, and ferns fringed the edge of the brook, and it was beautiful, indeed. Every fall I shook armfuls of crimson and yellow leaves upon the bank, but that was long ago, before the great forest fire which robbed me of my limbs and leaves and left me old and worn.
“What a joy it would be to me if only I might have my branches decked in leaves one more time,—especially do I long for this in the glad springtime, when trees and flowers are robing themselves for the joyous Easter Day.
“Sad, indeed, it is to me, to know that I shall be clothed no more in a fresh dress of delicate green, like your own pretty leaves, dear Ivy.”
“But you shall,” said the ivy vine, clapping her hands; “you have helped me cross the ditch to-day, and I mean to give you an Easter dress. Watch me.”
Now vines had never climbed high before this. They had only run along the ground and down the hill, and over walls, but this little ivy vine wrapped her delicate arms around the rough bark of the old oak, and began to climb her first tree.
She pulled and stretched, and stretched and pulled, until little by little, up, up, higher and higher she went, leaving a trail of rich, green leaves behind her. It was a lovely sight.
“See!” she called to the old oak; “I am bringing you a most beautiful Easter dress,—how do you like it?”
“Beautiful, beautiful!” laughed the old oak. “You make me feel young again. But what will you do when you reach my branches?”
“Why, I shall keep on climbing,” replied the ivy vine. “When I give a dress at all, it must be a whole dress, don’t you know? I shall not stop until I have covered every branch, as I did the bare spots on the ditch.”
And so she did. Every day she climbed a little higher, until by and by every limb on the great, old oak was completely hidden by the beautiful leaves of the ivy. The old oak laughed in delight, as she looked on her beautiful Easter dress of fresh, rich green.
Now the queen of the fairies who, I told you, was always on the watch for beautiful deeds, stood under the old oak on Easter Day and wondered at the beautiful sight. It made her glad to see the joy of the old oak in her new dress, and of course she knew who had given it.
So, turning with a smile to the ivy vine, she said, “Because you have tried to make others happy and to make the earth beautiful your leaves shall never fade. Forever and forever they shall stay beautiful and green. Cold shall not hurt them nor summer’s heat destroy them, and wherever you go you shall gladden the hearts of men with your freshness and beauty.”
Very happy, indeed, did these words make the pretty ivy vine, and ever since she has been climbing over the earth-world, hunting bare places to make more beautiful.
Stone walls and churches and houses,—no place seems too high for her to climb, and never does she weary in making fresh Easter dresses for the trees that are old and worn and cannot make them for themselves.