THE OLD LIVE OAK TREE—THE UGLY BROWN STONE. 
By Stewart E. White. 
Alone in the midst of the flower-starred mesa 
‘stood an old live oak tree. All around the 
flowers whispered to each other of his gran- 
deur; the little birds carolled their tiny songs 
and built their fairy homes among his leaves ; 
his lullaby was softly sung by the hermit thrush 
and by the wind gently sighing through his 
branches; his reveille was sounded by the 
-ceaseless beating of the Pacific Ocean and by 
the clarion whistle of the quail. Soft-eyed 
cattle stood beneath his grateful shade, and 
men came from far around to gaze at his fair 
proportions and to add to his homage. The 
old live oak tree was very happy, but a little 
vain withal. 
Soen the poppies, nodding their gorgeous 
heads, whispered to each other, and the birds 
ceased their busy search for food long enough 
to wonder at the new ornaments their old 
friend was acquiring, for from each of the 
lower branches hung long trailing veils of 
Spanish moss. They twined themselves around 
his mighty limbs and sung him songs of the 
Alhambra, and of the vine, and of the far-off, 
twinkling stars. They told him stories of the 
_ dewy-eyed sefioritas of the South and the fair 
warriors of the North in their white-winged 
ships. The old tree was secretly delighted and 
encouraged the newcomers, for their graceful 
lines were becoming, and added greatly to his 
beauty, and their flattering tongues were sweet 
to his ears. 
Little by little the moss embraced more and 
more of the arms of the giant, until from every 
twig long pendants hung. Never had the old 
tree looked so well; the ligkt green moss 
swayed with every breeze, while his own dark 
green foliage rustled its approval. The sun 
shone as brightly as before, the flowers whis- 
pered still, men admired, but the old tree felt a 
growing discontent, for the birds had ceased 
building their homes with him, the herds had 
deserted him, and a strange stiffness spread 
throughout his frame. Often he wished to lave 
his fevered limbs in the brook so near, but 
when, as of old, he bowed down his great head, 
the waters sprang back. The wind, seeking to 
comfort him, sung a lullaby as of yore, rustling 
through his leaves, but only succeeded im 
shaking them to the ground. Little by little 
the old tree failed, until before long he stood a 
gnarled and twisted skeleton in the brown 
meadow, though blasted, not at rest, while the 
long Spanish mosses chuckled fiendishly with 
every breath as they sucked the last vitality 
from the trusting live oak tree. 
In the deep cafion, far in the recesses of an 
overhanging rock, dwelt the ugly stone. The 
little brook running swiftly below her laughed 
as it leaped over the rocks, for it was a hand- 
some little brook, and the sunbeams kissed its 
dancing wavelets and the nodding flowers 
drooped their heads upon its bosom. The 
flowers, too, were happy, for all who passed 
exclaimed at their beauty and gathered great 
handfuls of them. The glittering mica and 
pyrites-were happy, for their sparkling colors 
attracted attention and the leaves and birds 
loved to view them. All were happy and con- 
tented but the little ugly stone; none spoke of 
her, none admired her, none were kind to her, 
except the waving ferns and the gentle south 
wind, for her form was displeasing to the view 
and none could see the beauty of her soul. 
Only the wind whispered gently to her in the 
starry night, when all things were asleep— 
whispered of the waving palms and of the 
placid, flowing rivers, of the cities and forests. 
Only the ferns sang low songs of the stars and 
rains, of the brooks and hills. But still the 
little stone was discontented and longed with a 
mighty longing for beauty and adulation. 
Ages came and went, the years rolled on, 
and still the ugly stone remained as before, but 
her old-time companions had all disappeared. 
The brook had gone, the flowers had long since 
faded away ; nought remained but the gentle 
south wind. One day the little stone felt her- 
self seized and lifted out of her life-long home ; 
aman, bearded and brown, looked long and 
piercingly at her. A blow from his hammer 
and the poor little stone crumbled into atoms, 
leaving in his hand a single crystal drop flash- 
ing with many colors. Then the south wind 
laughed softly to himself as he sped away over 
mountain and field. ‘‘Generations of books 
may rise and sink, but the true worth in the 
ugly stone remained eternal.” 
