In days of old, when all things in the Wood had speech, there lived within its depths a lone Flax-spinner. She was a bent old creature, and ill to look upon, but all the tongues of all the forest leaves were ever kept a-wagging with the story of her
kindly deeds. And even to this day they sometimes whisper low among themselves (because they fain would hold in mind so sweet a tale) the story of her kindness to the little orphan, Olga.
'Twas no slight task the old Flax-spinner took upon herself, the day she brought the helpless child to share the shelter of her thatch.
The Oak outside her door held up his arms in solemn protest.
"Thou dost but waste thyself," he said. "Thy benefits will be forgot, thy labours unrequited. For Youth is ever but another title for Ingratitude."
"Nay, friend," the old Flax-spinner said. "My little Olga will not be ungrateful and forgetful."
All hedged about with loving care, the orphan grew to gracious maidenhood, and felt no lack of father, mother, brother or sister. In every way the old Flax-spinner took their places. But many were the sacrifices that she made to keep her fed and warmly clad, and every time she went without herself that Olga might receive a greater
share, Wiseacre Oak looked down and frowned and shook his head.
Then would the old dame hasten to her inner room, and there she pricked herself with her spindle, until a great red drop of her heart's blood fell into her trembling hand. With witchery of words she blew upon it, and rolled it in her palm, and muttering, turned and