The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sort
Of dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short.
“The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear,
Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.”
No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep,
Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep.
For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free;
And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree.
“Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sight
It stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right!
“Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sun
Has happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one.
Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?”
And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size,
Another and another still met his astonished eyes.
Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with fright
In a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night.
When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you pass
A toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass,
Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that he
Still digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree.
