Parables from Flowers

by Gertrude P. Dyer

All through the day it rippled merrily, catching every ray of sunlight that flickered through the trees or the blue sky above; but if an angry black cloud ever chanced to see itself reflected in its clear mirror, it scudded away as if ashamed of looking so dark.

But at night, when the holy stars were shining, ah, how softly the little brook murmured to them! you could almost fancy it did not babble so loudly as in the day-time, for fear lest it should wake the sleeping flowers on its mossy banks.

It was a happy little stream, so calm, so placid, no angry ripples ever disturbed its pure surface, over which the Swallows lightly skimmed. And it meandered along for many miles; sometimes you would lose sight of it altogether, then out it would come from some quiet, grassy nook, gaily sparkling, and glide with a merry sound, as if laughing, towards the steady rushes, and they would sway to and fro at its approach, dancing to its rippling music.

But, as I was saying, a sturdy Oak grew by the side of the brook; it had sprung from an acorn many hundred years ago, now it was very old. Wintry storms had vainly tried to subdue it; many a time they had bent its branches, plucked at its roots, but fruitless was their fury, for the noble tree firmly held its place, rearing its proud head more loftily than ever; and so the storms, finding their power availed them nought, passed away over the land, howling with rage at their failure.

Then, oh, how the birds loved the clear old tree! Summer after summer did they return to build nests among its moss-grown branches; and the branches, glad that the songsters had come back again, would put forth green leaves to hide them from prying eyes, so that they could rest there securely. Can you wonder, then, that they sang sweet songs of gratitude to it, and that the little brook should murmur her sweet melody as she glided along at its feet?

On the opposite bank grew an Aspen.

It was not so old as the Oak, who had seen it grow up from a mere sapling; still they had been neighbours for many years, and the graceful Aspen looked with love and reverence upon her aged friend's sturdy face and form. Often, in the calm summer nights, the Oak would talk to her of the days of the long-ago; you would have thought it was merely the breeze sighing amidst the branches, but it was the voice of the Oak telling of the past.

Many of the birds imagined the Aspen to be a weak, trembling tree, quivering always with fear at the slightest wind that ruffled its branches.

'Scarcely safe to build a nest in!' so said an old motherly Rook, who had reared many a brood.

But the fairies who danced beneath its shade on bright moonlight nights knew better; they knew that the fragile-looking tree never trembled with fear; they had often seen it meekly bend beneath the sway of the fierce wintry blasts, knowing full well whose hand guided the storm; and when the summer came they knew that then it quivered with happiness at being created on so fair an earth, and that its leaves only shook with quiet laughter as it listened to the merry chatter of the brook.