And some one—was it the little blue-eyed sister?—had placed a bunch of Mayflowers—
The man rose, and placing a small green spray of pine with the blossoms, carried them away in his big rough hand.
And the wicked deed was never done.
The Palm sheltered many weary travelers; but the greatest good it did was after it died.
One day a stranger arrived and cut the tall tree down. From its broad leaves a hundred fans were made, and many were the fevered, throbbing brows that were cooled by the Palm as its leaves, now hundreds of leagues apart, waved to and fro above the sufferers. So the Palm, although it never knew it, was permitted to do the work of the Master, refreshing and healing those who were sick with all manner of diseases.
As to the Fir, it tried to keep a brave heart, but it became more and more discouraged as not only months but years rolled by, and it grew no bigger, and could not see that it was of any use in the world.
“So homely am I, too!” it whispered to itself, glancing down at its little thick, gnarled trunk and crooked boughs.
Its only comfort was in giving a shelter to such small birds, and even insects, as were blown about on these heights by the fierce mountain tempests. Once it had a whole night of real joy, when a white rabbit, caught by the storm miles away from home, crouched under its boughs and lay there snugly, a warm, sleepy ball of white fur, till the sun called it home in the morning.
“O, Schwesterchen, seh ’auf! ’S ist ein Tannenbaum!”