A TREE 



By BURT W. JOHNSON 



^-M-^N 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 warm 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 slowly. 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 same 

 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 

 without a trace of pity. 



Yes, this is the same stern man sitting 

 in his easy rocker, gathering memories 

 from the glowing coals of a fire ; yet the 

 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, so 

 shaped as to form a pocket with the 

 body of the tree. In this same pocket 

 he had once found a wren's nest and 

 in it two speckled eggs. 



"Guess no wren will build in that 

 hole next year. You were a fine big 

 tree." 



The old man's voice trembled as he 

 addressed the now smouldering re- 

 mains of the tree. "That artist fellow 

 that painted ye seemed almost to wor- 

 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 

 on sich things." 



For a long time the only sound in the 

 room was the sizzle of sap in burning 

 wood, and the creak of rockers on the 

 floor. Outside the wind blew cold 

 around the corners of the house and 

 through the naked trees. A long cold 

 winter was expected and started. "It 

 keeps a body busy fightin' off the cold. 

 Haven't time to think how things look." 

 The cold wind outside had caused these 

 thoughts. The memory of the summer 

 brought others, these he began to 

 mumble alound, breaking the silence. 



"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 

 artist will say? He said he would be 

 back next summer. Well," and the old 

 man put his feet down with a thud, 

 "whatever he says I'll tell him that the 



