Mr. Literal was flushing uncomfortably. "That is a large boast," he
said. "The world has produced Karnac; it has produced the Petit
Trianon, and St. Peter's and St. Paul's."

"But my dear sir," cried the giant warmly, "cannot you see that the
most labored structure of man is crude and clumsy and artificial, when
compared with any tree in all the world? Houses are dead, pathetic
things. They begin to decay the moment they are built. Rightly seen
they are hideous, save when they are considered in relation to some
simple human need. They keep the wind and rain away--for which, God
knows, we should be the better sometimes. They have no beauty save the
spirit of human striving that is within them--and that too often is a
tarnished thing. But a tree! There are fairies under the trees,
truly! True aspirations hover about them, and beautiful dreams." He
lowered his voice and said reverently, "The Holy Spirit is all about
them."

"They are simply trees," said Mr. Literal harshly.

"Yes," agreed the giant, nodding and smiling, "they are simply trees."

But Mr. Literal hitched his chair forward angrily. "We are talking
nonsense," he declared. "It is your plan to divert me from my purpose.
But you shall not do so. Listen: I forbid you to associate with those
innocent children. You would corrupt them. It shall be my duty to
expose you if you do not cease from following after them. Do you hear?"

The giant bowed his head thoughtfully. "You ask too much," he said.
"I know I have done evil in my time. But I am repentant. Come,
believe me when I say that I would be only a friendly companion to