 | ARBOR DAY Good stories for great holidays : arranged for story-telling and
reading aloud and for the children's own reading |  |
ARBOR DAY
THE LITTLE TREE THAT LONGED
FOR OTHER LEAVES
BY FRIEDRICH RÜCHERT [TRANSLATED]
THERE was a little tree that stood in the woods through both good and stormy weather, and it was covered from top to bottom with needles instead of leaves. The needles were sharp and prickly, so the little tree said to itself:—
“All my tree comrades have beautiful green leaves, and I have only sharp needles. No one will touch me. If I could have a wish I would ask for leaves of pure gold.”
When night came the little tree fell asleep, and, lo! in the morning it woke early and found itself covered with glistening, golden leaves.
“Ah, ah!” said the little tree, “how grand I am! No other tree in the woods is dressed in gold.”
But at evening time there came a peddler with a great sack and a long beard. He saw the glitter of the golden leaves. He picked them all and hurried away leaving the little tree cold and bare.
“Alas! alas!” cried the little tree in sorrow; “all my golden leaves are gone! I am ashamed
Then the little tree fell asleep, and when it woke early, it found itself covered with bright and shining leaves of glass.
“Now,” said the little tree, “I am happy. No tree in the woods glistens like me.”
But there came a fierce storm-wind driving through the woods. It struck the glass, and in a moment all the shining leaves lay shattered on the ground.
“My leaves, my glass leaves!” moaned the little tree; “they lie broken in the dust, while all the other trees are still dressed in their beautiful foliage. Oh! if I had another wish I would ask for green leaves.”
Then the little tree slept again, and in the morning it was covered with fresh, green foliage. And it laughed merrily, and said: “Now, I need not be ashamed any more. I am like my comrades of the woods.”
But along came a mother-goat, looking for grass and herbs for herself and her young ones. She saw the crisp, new leaves; and she nibbled, and nibbled, and nibbled them all away, and she ate up both stems and tender shoots, till the little tree stood bare.
“Alas!” cried the little tree in anguish, “I
And sorrowfully the little tree fell asleep, but when it saw itself in the morning sunshine, it laughed and laughed and laughed. And all the other trees laughed, too, but the little tree did not care. Why did they laugh? Because in the night all its needles had come again! You may see this for yourself. Just go into the woods and look, but do not touch the little tree. Why not? Because if pricks.
WHY THE EVERGREEN TREES
NEVER LOSE THEIR LEAVES
BY FLORENCE HOLBROOK
WINTER was coming, and the birds had flown far to the south, where the air was warm and they could find berries to eat. One little bird had broken its wing and could not fly with the others. It was alone in the cold world of frost and snow. The forest looked warm, and it made its way to the trees as well as it could, to ask for help.
First it came to a birch tree. “Beautiful birch tree,” it said, “my wing is broken, and my friends have flown away. May I live among your branches till they come back to me?”
“No, indeed,” answered the birch tree, drawing her fair green leaves away. “We of the great forest have our own birds to help. I can do nothing for you.”
“The birch is not very strong,” said the little bird to itself, “and it might be that she could not hold me easily. I will ask the oak.” So the bird said: “Great oak tree, you are so strong, will you not let me live on your boughs till my friends come back in the springtime?”
“In the springtime!” cried the oak. “That is a long way off. How do I know what you might do in all that time? Birds are always looking for something to eat, and you might even eat up some of my acorns.”
“It may be that the willow will be kind to me,” thought the bird, and it said: “Gentle willow, my wing is broken, and I could not fly to the south with the other birds. May I live on your branches till the springtime?”
The willow did not look gentle then, for she drew herself up proudly and said: “Indeed, I do not know you, and we willows never talk to people whom we do not know. Very likely there are trees somewhere that will take in strange birds. Leave me at once.”
The poor little bird did not know what to do. Its wing was not yet strong, but it began to fly away as well as it could. Before it had gone far a
“Indeed, I do not know,” answered the bird sadly. “I am very cold.”
“Come right here, then,” said the friendly spruce tree, for it was her voice that had called.
“You shall live on my warmest branch all winter if you choose.”
“Will you really let me?” asked the little bird eagerly.
“Indeed, I will,” answered the kind-hearted spruce tree. “If your friends have flown away, it is time for the trees to help you. Here is the branch where my leaves are thickest and softest.”
“My branches are not very thick,” said the friendly pine tree, “but I am big and strong, and I can keep the North Wind from you and the spruce.”
“I can help, too,” said a little juniper tree. “I can give you berries all winter long, and every bird knows that juniper berries are good.”
So the spruce gave the lonely little bird a home; the pine kept the cold North Wind away from it; and the juniper gave it berries to eat. The other trees looked on and talked together wisely.
“I would not have strange birds on my boughs,” said the birch.
“I shall not give my acorns away for any one,” said the oak.
“I never have anything to do with strangers,” said the willow, and the three trees drew their leaves closely about them.
In the morning all those shining, green leaves lay on the ground, for a cold North Wind had come in the night, and every leaf that it touched fell from the tree.
“May I touch every leaf in the forest?” asked the wind in its frolic.
“No,” said the Frost King. “The trees that have been kind to the little bird with the broken wing may keep their leaves.”
This is why the leaves of the spruce, the pine, and the juniper are always green.
WHY THE ASPEN QUIVERS OLD LEGEND
LONG, long ago, so the legend says, when Joseph and Mary and the Holy Babe fled out of Bethlehem into Egypt, they passed through the green wildwood. And flowers and trees and plants bent their heads in reverence.
But the proud aspen held its head high and refused even to look at the Holy Babe. In vain the birds sang in the aspen's branches, entreating it to gaze for one moment at the wonderful One; the proud tree still held its head erect in scorn.
Then outspake Mary, his mother. “O aspen
But the aspen could not answer. A strange shivering passed through its stem and along its boughs, which set its leaves a-quivering. It trembled before the Holy Babe.
And so from age to age, even unto this day, the proud aspen shakes and shivers.
THE WONDER TREE
BY FRIEDRICH ADOLPH KRUMMACHER [ADAPTED]
ONE day in the springtime, Prince Solomon was sitting under the palm trees in the royal gardens, when he saw the Prophet Nathan walking near.
“Nathan,” said the Prince, “I would see a wonder.”
The Prophet smiled. “I had the same desire in the days of my youth,” he replied.
“And was it fulfilled?” asked Solomon.
“A Man of God came to me,” said Nathan, “having a pomegranate seed in his hand. `Behold,' he said, `what will become of this.' Then he made a hole in the ground, and planted the seed, and covered it over. When he withdrew his
“I marveled, but the Man of God motioned me to be silent. `Behold,' said he, `new creations begin.'
“Then he took water in the palm of his hand, and sprinkled the branches three times, and, lo! the branches were covered with green leaves, so that a cool shade spread above us, and the air was fined with perfume.
“ `From whence come this perfume and this shade?' cried I.
“ `Dost thou not see,' he answered, `these crimson flowers bursting from among the leaves, and hanging in clusters?'
“I was about to speak, but a gentle breeze moved the leaves, scattering the petals of the flowers around us. Scarcely had the falling flowers reached the ground when I saw ruddy pomegranates hanging beneath the leaves of the tree, like almonds on Aaron's rod. Then the Man of God left me, and I was lost in amazement.”
“Where is he, this Man of God?” asked Prince Solomon eagerly. “What is his name? Is he still alive?”
“Son of David,” answered Nathan, “I have spoken to thee of a vision.”
When the Prince heard this he was grieved to the heart. “How couldst thou deceive me thus?” he asked.
But the Prophet replied: “Behold in thy father's gardens thou mayest daily see the unfolding of wonder trees. Doth not this same miracle happen to the fig, the date, and the pomegranate? They spring from the earth, they put out branches and leaves, they flower, they fruit,—not in a moment, perhaps, but in months and years,— but canst thou tell the difference betwixt a minute, a month, or a year in the eyes of Him with whom one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years as one day?”
THE PROUD OAK TREE OLD FABLE
[TRANSLATED]
THE oak said to the reed that grew by the river: “It is no wonder that you make such a sorrowful moaning, for you are so weak that the little wren is a burden for you, and the lightest breeze must seem like a storm-wind. Now look at me! No
“Do not worry about me,” said the reed; “I have less reason to fear the wind than you have. I bow myself, but I never break. He who laughs last, laughs best!”
That night there came a fearful hurricane. The oak stood erect. The reed bowed itself before the blast. The wind grew more furious, and, uprooting the proud oak, flung it on the ground.
When the morning came there stood the slender reed, glittering with dewdrops, and softly swaying in the breeze.
BAUCIS AND PHILEMON
ON the slopes of the Phrygian hills, there once dwelt a pious old couple named Baucis and Philemon. They had lived all their lives in a tiny cottage of wattles, thatched with straw, cheerful and content in spite of their poverty.
As this worthy couple sat dozing by the fireside one evening in the late autumn, two strangers came and begged a shelter for the night. They had to stoop to enter the humble doorway, where
Meanwhile Baucis stirred the embers, blowing them into a flame with dry leaves, and heaped on the fagots to boil the stew-pot. Hanging from the blackened beams was a rusty side of bacon. Philemon cut off a rasher to roast, and, while his guests refreshed themselves with a wash at the rustic trough, he gathered pot-herbs from his patch of garden. Then the old woman, her hands trembling with age, laid the cloth and spread the table.
It was a frugal meal, but one that hungry wayfarers could well relish. The first course was an omelette of curdled milk and eggs, garnished with radishes and served on rude oaken platters. The cups of turned beechwood were filled with homemade wine from an earthen jug. The second course consisted of dried figs and dates, plums, sweet-smelling apples, and grapes, with a piece of clear, white honeycomb. What made the meal more grateful to the guests was the hearty spirit in which it was offered. Their hosts gave all they had without stint or grudging.
But all at once something happened which startled and amazed Baucis and Philemon. They poured out wine for their guests, and, lo! each time the pitcher filled itself again to the brim.
The old couple then knew that their guests were not mere mortals; indeed, they were no other than Jupiter and Mercury come down to earth in the disguise of poor travelers. Being ashamed of their humble entertainment, Philemon hurried out and gave chase to his only goose, intending to kill and roast it. But his guests forbade him, saying:—
“In mortal shape we have come down, and at a hundred houses asked for lodging and rest. For answer a hundred doors were shut and locked against us. You alone, the poorest of all, have received us gladly and given us of your best. Now it is for us to punish these impious people who treat strangers so churlishly, but you two shall be spared. Only leave your cottage and follow us to yonder mountain-top.”
So saying, Jupiter and Mercury led the way, and the two old folks hobbled after them. Presently they reached the top of the mountain, and Baucis and Philemon saw all the country round, with villages and people, sinking into a marsh; while their own cottage alone was left standing.
And while they gazed, their cottage was changed into a white temple. The doorway became a porch with marble columns. The thatch grew into a roof of golden tiles. The little garden about their home became a park.
Then Jupiter, regarding Baucis and Philemon
Philemon whispered for a moment with Baucis, and she nodded her approval. “We desire,” he replied, “to be your servants, and to have the care of this temple. One other favor we would ask. From boyhood I have loved only Baucis, and she has lived only for me. Let the selfsame hour take us both away together. Let me never see the tomb of my wife, nor let her suffer the misery of mourning my death.”
Jupiter and Mercury, pleased with these requests, willingly granted both, and endowed Baucis and Philemon with youth and strength as well. The gods then vanished from their sight, but as long as their lives lasted Baucis and Philemon were the guardians of the white temple that once had been their home.
And when again old age overtook them, they were standing one day in front of the sacred porch, and Baucis, turning her gaze upon her husband, saw him slowly changing into a gnarled oak tree. And Philemon, as he felt himself rooted to the ground, saw Baucis at the same time turning into a leafy linden.
And as their faces disappeared behind the green foliage, each cried unto the other, “Farewell, dearest love!” and again, “Dearest love, fare
And still, if you visit the spot, you may see an oak and a linden tree with branches intertwined.
THE UNFRUITFUL TREE
BY FRIEDRICH ADOLPH KRUMMACHER
A FARMER had a brother in town who was a gardener, and who possessed a magnificent orchard full of the finest fruit trees, so that his skill and his beautiful trees were famous everywhere.
One day the farmer went into town to visit his brother, and was astonished at the rows of trees that grew slender and smooth as wax tapers.
“Look, my brother,” said the gardener; “I will give you an apple tree, the best from my garden, and you, and your children, and your children's children shall enjoy it.”
Then the gardener called his workmen and ordered them to take up the tree and carry it to his brother's farm. They did so, and the next morning the farmer began to wonder where he should plant it.
“If I plant it on the hill,” said he to himself, “the wind might catch it and shake down the delicious fruit before it is ripe; if I plant it close to the road, passers-by will see it and rob me of its luscious apples; but if I plant it too near the door of
So, after he had thought the matter over, he planted the tree behind his barn, saying to himself: “Prying thieves will not think to look for it here.”
But behold, the tree bore neither fruit nor blossoms the first year nor the second; then the farmer sent for his brother the gardener, and reproached him angrily, saying:—
“You have deceived me, and given me a barren tree instead of a fruitful one. For, behold, this is the third year and still it brings forth nothing but leaves!”
The gardener, when he saw where the tree was planted, laughed and said:—
“You have planted the tree where it is exposed to cold winds, and has neither sun nor warmth. How, then, could you expect flowers and fruit? You have planted the tree with a greedy and suspicious heart; how, then, could you expect to reap a rich and generous harvest?”
THE DRYAD OF THE OLD OAK
BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL [ADAPTED]
IN olden times there was a youth named Rhœcus. One day as he wandered through the wood he saw an ancient oak tree, trembling and about to fall.
“Rhœcus!”
It sounded like the gentle sighing of the wind through the leaves; and while Rhœcus paused bewildered to listen, again he heard the murmur like a soft breeze:—
“Rhœcus!”
And there stood before him, in the green glooms of the shadowy oak, a wonderful maiden.
“Rhœcus,” said she, in low-toned words, serene and full, and as clear as drops of dew, “I am the Dryad of this tree, and with it I am doomed to live and die. Thou hadst compassion on my oak, and in saving it thou hast saved my life. Now, ask me what thou wilt that I can give, and it shall be thine.”
“Beauteous nymph,” answered Rhœcus, with a flutter at the heart, “surely nothing will satisfy the craving of my soul save to be with thee forever. Give to me thy love!”
“I give it, Rhœcus,” answered she with sadness in her voice, “though it be a perilous gift. An hour before sunset meet me here.”
And straightway she vanished, and Rhœcus could see nothing but the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak. Not a sound came to his straining ears but the low, trickling rustle of the leaves,
Filled with wonder and joy Rhœcus turned his steps homeward. The earth seemed to spring beneath him as he walked. The clear, broad sky looked bluer than its wont, and so full of joy was he that he could scarce believe that he had not wings.
Impatient for the trysting-time, he sought some companions, and to while away the tedious hours, he played at dice, and soon forgot all else.
The dice were rattling their merriest, and Rhœcus had just laughed in triumph at a happy throw, when through the open window of the room there hummed a yellow bee. It buzzed about his ears, and seemed ready to alight upon his head. At this Rhœcus laughed, and with a rough, impatient hand he brushed it off and cried:—
“The silly insect! does it take me for a rose?”
But still the bee came back. Three times it buzzed about his head, and three times he rudely beat it back. Then straight through the window flew the wounded bee, while Rhœcus watched its fight with angry eyes.
And as he looked—O sorrow!—the red disk of the setting sun descended behind the sharp mountain peak of Thessaly.
Then instantly the blood sank from his heart, as if its very walls had caved in, for he remembered
Spent of breath he reached the tree, and, listening fearfully, he heard once more the low voice murmur:—
“Rhœcus!”
But as he looked he could see nothing but the deepening glooms beneath the oak.
Then the voice sighed: “O Rhœcus, nevermore shalt thou behold me by day or night! Why didst thou fail to come ere sunset? Why didst thou scorn my humble messenger, and send it back to me with bruised wings? We spirits only show ourselves to gentle eyes! And he who scorns the smallest thing alive is forever shut away from all that is beautiful in woods and fields. Farewell! for thou canst see me no more!”
Then Rhœcus beat his breast and groaned aloud. “Be pitiful,” he cried. “Forgive me yet this once!”
“Alas,” the voice replied, “I am not unmerciful! I can forgive! But I have no skill to heal thy spirit's eyes, nor can I change the temper of thy heart.” And then again she murmured, “Nevermore!”
And after that Rhœcus heard no other sound, save the rustling of the oak's crisp leaves, like surf upon a distant shore.
DAPHNE
BY OVID [ADAPTED]
IN ancient times, when Apollo, the god of the shining sun, roamed the earth, he met Cupid, who with bended bow and drawn string was seeking human beings to wound with the arrows of love.
“Silly boy,” said Apollo, “what dost thou with the warlike bow? Such burden best befits my shoulders, for did I not slay the fierce serpent, the Python, whose baleful breath destroyed all that came nigh him? Warlike arms are for the mighty, not for boys like thee! Do thou carry a torch with which to kindle love in human hearts, but no longer lay claim to my weapon, the bow!”
But Cupid replied in anger: “Let thy bow shoot what it will, Apollo, but my bow shall shoot thee!” And the god of love rose up, and beating the air with his wings, he drew two magic arrows from his quiver. One was of shining gold and with its barbed point could Cupid inflict wounds of love; the other arrow was of dull silver and its wound had the power to engender hate.
The silver arrow Cupid fixed in the breast of Daphne, the daughter of the river-god Peneus; and forthwith she fled away from the homes of men, and hunted beasts in the forest.
With the golden arrow Cupid grievously
“O Nymph! daughter of Peneus,” he cried, “stay, I entreat thee! Why dost thou fly as a lamb from the wolf, as a deer from the lion, or as a dove with trembling wings Bees from the eagle! I am no common man! I am no shepherd! Thou knowest not, rash maid, from whom thou art flying! The priests of Delphi and Tenedos pay their service to me. Jupiter is my sire. Mine own arrow is unerring, but Cupid's aim is truer, for he has made this wound in my heart! Alas! wretched me! though I am that great one who discovered the art of healing, yet this love may not be healed by my herbs nor my skill!”
But Daphne stopped not at these words, she flew from him with timid step. The winds fluttered her garments, the light breezes spread her flowing locks behind her. Swiftly Apollo drew near even as the keen greyhound draws near to the frightened hare he is pursuing. With trembling limbs Daphne sought the river, the home of her father, Peneus. Close behind her was Apollo,
“O save me, my father, save me from Apollo, the sun-god!”
Scarcely had she thus spoken before a heaviness seized her limbs. Her breast was covered with bark, her hair grew into green leaves, and her arms into branches. Her feet, a moment before so swift, became rooted to the ground. And Daphne was no longer a Nymph, but a green laurel tree.
When Apollo beheld this change he cried out and embraced the tree, and kissed its leaves.
“Beautiful Daphne,” he said, “since thou cannot be my bride, yet shalt thou be my tree. Henceforth my hair, my lyre, and my quiver shall be adorned with laurel. Thy wreaths shall be given to conquering chiefs, to winners of fame and joy; and as my head has never been shorn of its locks, so shalt thou wear thy green leaves, winter and summer—forever!”
Apollo ceased speaking and the laurel bent its new-made boughs in assent, and its stem seemed to shake and its leaves gently to murmur.
| ARBOR DAY Good stories for great holidays : arranged for story-telling and
reading aloud and for the children's own reading | |