little seeds, hidden away like very precious letters in their dainty
envelopes.

Even on bright summer days this wood was cool and dark, and, as you
walked about on the soft brown carpet, you could hear the wonderful
song the pine needles made as they rubbed against each other; and
perhaps far away in the top of some tall tree you could hear the wood-
thrush sing out gladly.

All around the great Fir-tree, where her cones had dropped, a family
of young firs was growing up,--very tiny yet, so tiny you might have
crushed them as you walked, and not felt them under your foot.

The Fir-tree spread her thick branches over them, and kept off the
fierce wind and the bitter cold, and under her shelter they were
growing strong.

They were all fine little trees, but one of them, that stood quite
apart from the rest, was the finest of all, very straight and well
shaped and handsome. Every day he looked up at the mother-tree, and
saw how straight and strong she grew,--how the wind bent and waved her
branches, but did not stir her great trunk; and as he looked, he sent
his own rootlets farther down into the dark earth, and held his tiny
head up more proudly.

The other trees did not all try to grow strong and tall. Indeed, one
of them said, "Why should I try to grow? Who can see me here in this
dark wood? What good will it do for me to try? I can never be as fine
and strong as the mother-tree."