"Hurrah for the oak! for the brave old oak,
That hath ruled in the greenwood long!"

and the louder the wind roared, the louder she sang. Presently, a
light-winged seed swept by her; she reached out her pretty hand and caught
it. It was an ugly brown seed; but she said, as she looked at it--

"Mother says, if I plant a seed, may be it will grow to be a tree. So I
will see."

Then she scraped away a little of the mellow earth, and put the seed safely
down, and covered it again. She made a little paling around the spot With
dry sticks and twigs, and then a thoughtful mood came over her.

That brown seed is dead now, thought she; but it will lie there in the dark
a great while, and then green leaves will come up, and a stem will grow;
and some day it will be a great tree. Then it will live. But, if it is dead
now, how can it ever live? What a strange thing life is! What makes life?
It can't be the sunshine; for that has fallen on these stones ever so many
years, and they are dead yet: and it can't be the rain; for these broken
sticks are wet very often, and they don't grow. What is life?

The child grew very solemn at her own thoughts, and a feeling as if some
one were near troubled her. She thought the wind must be alive; for it
moved, and very swiftly, too, and it had a great many voices. If she only
could know now what they said, perhaps they would tell what life was. And
then she looked up at the aged oaks, as they reared their arms to the sky,
and she longed to ask them the question, but dared not. A small spring
leaped down from a a rock above her, and fled past with ceaseless murmurs,