about him and nestled unto his bosom.

The storm came over the hills and swept down upon the greenwood with
deafening thunder and vivid lightning. The storm-king himself rode upon
the blast; his horses breathed flames, and his chariot trailed through the
air like a serpent of fire. The ash fell before the violence of the
storm-king's fury, and the cedars groaning fell, and the hemlocks and the
pines; but the oak-tree alone quailed not.

"Oho!" cried the storm-king, angrily, "the oak-tree does not bow to me, he
does not tremble in my presence. Well, we shall see."

With that the storm-king hurled a mighty thunderbolt at the oak-tree, and
the brave, strong monarch of the greenwood was riven. Then, with a shout
of triumph, the storm-king rode away.

"Dear oak-tree, you are riven by the storm-king's thunderbolt!" cried the
ivy, in anguish.

"Ay," said the oak-tree, feebly, "my end has come; see, I am shattered and
helpless."

"But _I_ am unhurt," remonstrated the ivy, "and I will bind up your
wounds and nurse you back to health and vigor."

And so it was that, although the oak-tree was ever afterward a riven and
broken thing, the ivy concealed the scars upon his shattered form and
covered his wounds all over with her soft foliage.

"I had hoped, dear one," she said, "to grow up to thy height, to live with