A TREE 



By Burt W. Johnson 



IN front of a roaring fire an old 

 man sat watching the flames that 

 devoured the huge knotted back 

 log. Little flashes of light danced across 

 his stern features as the flames leaped 

 savagely over that piece of the fallen 

 monarch. And as he sat, the old man 

 mumbled to himself: "That sugar-tree 

 ought to keep me w^arm nigh on to 

 Thanksgivin'." Giving the log a vigor- 

 ous poke he leaned back contentedly in 

 his armed rocker. He had cut the 

 tree and piled its wood in the shed, and 

 maple surely does make a good fire. 



Suddenly the old man ceased rocking 

 and the firm lines of his face softened, 

 a slight flash of pain crossed his fea- 

 tures. His gray eyes were looking far 

 beyond the flames from the log. He saw 

 a tall, majestic tree standing near the 

 middle of the road, its thick branches 

 reaching beyond a rail fence on the 

 other side. 



Then he thought of the little yellow- 

 haired boy who had so often climbed 

 among its branches in search of a fork, 

 or only to see how many eggs the 

 robins or doves had. Of the kindly old 

 man who had said with pride: "Ain't 

 she a beauty, Jamey, I tell ye, my boy, 

 she ain't never agoin' to be cut while 

 I am here. No siree, for Lord, where 

 would the birds build their nests next 

 spring? Just think of lame Tom a 

 comin' up the dusty road all hot and 

 clean tuckered out a peddling of his 

 trinkets. Where would he rest? She 

 is a friend in need, my boy, and they 

 are mighty few these days, a shelterin' 

 bird, beast and man." 



The man before the fire began to 

 rock slowlv. Yes. that old gentleman 

 had been his father, and he the boy. 

 Now the boy had grown to be an old 

 man, and some said like his fathe 

 They looked alike, to be sure, the samej 

 thin nose, square chin, and eyes — no, 

 the eyes were not the same, for the 

 father's had been of softest blue that 

 were filled with tenderness and sym- 



594 



pathy, and the son's a cold, steel-grey j 

 without a trace of pity. I 



Yes, this is the same stern man sitting! 

 in his easy rocker, gathering memories • 

 from the glowing coals of a fire ; yet the i 

 eyes are no longer steel, but soft and 

 tender. Tears have stolen from a for- 

 gotten source down upon the grim old 

 cheeks, and glisten in the firelight. Tak- ' 

 ing the tongs from the hearth-stand he | 

 slowly turned the burning log over, ' 

 bringing a large knot into view, soi 

 shaped as to form a pocket with the 

 body of the tree. In this same pocket 

 he had once found a wren's nest andi 

 in it two speckled eggs. ' 



"Guess no wren will build in that! 

 hole next year. You were a fine bigi 

 tree." | 



The old man's voice trembled as he 

 addressed the now smouldering re- 

 mains of the tree. "That artist fellow i 

 that painted ye seemed almost to wor- j 

 ship ye. I recollect his sayin' suthin' ' 

 'bout ye bein' an inspiration to man- , 

 kind. He went on like that for quite ', 

 a spell. Guess he thought quite smart i 

 on sich things." . 



For a long time the only sound in the j 

 room was the sizzle of sap in burning | 

 wood, and the creak of rockers on the j 

 floor. Outside the wind blew cold I 

 around the corners of the house and j 

 through the naked trees. A long cold I 

 winter was expected and started. "It ' 

 keeps a body busy fightin' off the cold. ' 

 Haven't time to think how things look." j 

 The cold wind outside had caused these 

 thoughts. The memory of the summer 

 brought others, these he began to i 

 mumble alound, breaking the silence, j 



"No. it won't make much difference ' 

 now. But when the sap begins to run, \ 

 the birds come huntin' a place to build ! 

 in — it'll be burnt and the ashes layin' ' 

 out in the orchard. Wonder what that I 

 artist will say? He said he would be I 

 back next summer. Well," and the old 

 man put his feet down with a thud, i 

 "whatever he says I'll tell him that the ' 



