* A Project Gutenberg Canada Ebook *

This ebook is made available at no cost and with very few
restrictions. These restrictions apply only if (1) you make
a change in the ebook (other than alteration for different
display devices), or (2) you are making commercial use of
the ebook. If either of these conditions applies, please
check gutenberg.ca/links/licence.html before proceeding.

This work is in the Canadian public domain, but may be
under copyright in some countries. If you live outside
Canada, check your country's copyright laws.
IF THE BOOK IS UNDER COPYRIGHT IN YOUR COUNTRY,
DO NOT DOWNLOAD OR REDISTRIBUTE THIS FILE.

Title: The Oak-tree and the Ivy
   [the eighth story in "A Little Book of Profitable Tales"]
Author: Field, Eugene (1850-1895)
Date of first publication: 1889
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1894
Date first posted: 17 July 2010
Date last updated: 17 July 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #575

This ebook was produced by:
David Edwards, woodie4
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net

This file was produced from images generously made available
by the Internet Archive/American Libraries




THE OAK-TREE AND THE IVY.


In the greenwood stood a mighty oak. So majestic was he that all who
came that way paused to admire his strength and beauty, and all the
other trees of the greenwood acknowledged him to be their monarch.

Now it came to pass that the ivy loved the oak-tree, and inclining her
graceful tendrils where he stood, she crept about his feet and twined
herself around his sturdy and knotted trunk. And the oak-tree pitied the
ivy.

"Oho!" he cried, laughing boisterously, but good-naturedly,--"oho! so
you love me, do you, little vine? Very well, then; play about my feet,
and I will keep the storms from you and will tell you pretty stories
about the clouds, the birds, and the stars."

The ivy marvelled greatly at the strange stories the oak-tree told; they
were stories the oak-tree heard from the wind that loitered about his
lofty head and whispered to the leaves of his topmost branches.
Sometimes the story was about the great ocean in the East, sometimes of
the broad prairies in the West, sometimes of the ice-king who lived in
the North, and sometimes of the flower-queen who dwelt in the South.
Then, too, the moon told a story to the oak-tree every night,--or at
least every night that she came to the greenwood, which was very often,
for the greenwood is a very charming spot, as we all know. And the
oak-tree repeated to the ivy every story the moon told and every song
the stars sang.

"Pray, what are the winds saying now?" or "What song is that I hear?"
the ivy would ask; and then the oak-tree would repeat the story or the
song, and the ivy would listen in great wonderment.

Whenever the storms came, the oak-tree cried to the little ivy: "Cling
close to me, and no harm shall befall you! See how strong I am; the
tempest does not so much as stir me--I mock its fury!"

Then, seeing how strong and brave he was, the ivy hugged him closely;
his brown, rugged breast protected her from every harm, and she was
secure.

The years went by; how quickly they flew,--spring, summer, winter, and
then again spring, summer, winter,--ah, life is short in the greenwood
as elsewhere! And now the ivy was no longer a weakly little vine to
excite the pity of the passer-by. Her thousand beautiful arms had twined
hither and thither about the oak-tree, covering his brown and knotted
trunk, shooting forth a bright, delicious foliage and stretching far up
among his lower branches. Then the oak-tree's pity grew into a love for
the ivy, and the ivy was filled with a great joy. And the oak-tree and
the ivy were wed one June night, and there was a wonderful celebration
in the greenwood; and there was the most beautiful music, in which the
pine-trees, the crickets, the katydids, the frogs, and the nightingales
joined with pleasing harmony.

The oak-tree was always good and gentle to the ivy. "There is a storm
coming over the hills," he would say. "The east wind tells me so; the
swallows fly low in the air, and the sky is dark. Cling close to me, my
beloved, and no harm shall befall you."

Then, confidently and with an always-growing love, the ivy would cling
more closely to the oak-tree, and no harm came to her.

"How good the oak-tree is to the ivy!" said the other trees of the
greenwood. The ivy heard them, and she loved the oak-tree more and more.
And, although the ivy was now the most umbrageous and luxuriant vine in
all the greenwood, the oak-tree regarded her still as the tender little
thing he had laughingly called to his feet that spring day, many years
before,--the same little ivy he had told about the stars, the clouds,
and the birds. And, just as patiently as in those days he had told her
of these things, he now repeated other tales the winds whispered to his
topmost boughs,--tales of the ocean in the East, the prairies in the
West, the ice-king in the North, and the flower-queen in the South.
Nestling upon his brave breast and in his stout arms, the ivy heard him
tell these wondrous things, and she never wearied with the listening.

"How the oak-tree loves her!" said the ash. "The lazy vine has naught
to do but to twine herself about the arrogant oak-tree and hear him tell
his wondrous stories!"

The ivy heard these envious words, and they made her very sad; but she
said nothing of them to the oak-tree, and that night the oak-tree rocked
her to sleep as he repeated the lullaby a zephyr was singing to him.

"There is a storm coming over the hills," said the oak-tree one day.
"The east wind tells me so; the swallows fly low in the air, and the sky
is dark. Clasp me round about with thy dear arms, my beloved, and nestle
close unto my bosom, and no harm shall befall thee."

"I have no fear," murmured the ivy; and she clasped her arms most
closely 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 thee among the clouds, and to hear the solemn voices thou didst
hear. Thou wouldst have loved me better then?"

But the old oak-tree said: "Nay, nay, my beloved; I love thee better as
thou art, for with thy beauty and thy love thou comfortest mine age."

Then would the ivy tell quaint stories to the old and broken
oak-tree,--stories she had learned from the crickets, the bees, the
butterflies, and the mice when she was an humble little vine and played
at the foot of the majestic oak-tree, towering in the greenwood with no
thought of the tiny shoot that crept toward him with her love. And these
simple tales pleased the old and riven oak-tree; they were not as heroic
as the tales the winds, the clouds, and the stars told, but they were
far sweeter, for they were tales of contentment, of humility, of love.

So the old age of the oak-tree was grander than his youth.

And all who went through the greenwood paused to behold and admire the
beauty of the oak-tree then; for about his seared and broken trunk the
gentle vine had so entwined her graceful tendrils and spread her fair
foliage, that one saw not the havoc of the years nor the ruin of the
tempest, but only the glory of the oak-tree's age, which was the ivy's
love and ministering.

1886.




[End of _The Oak-tree and the Ivy_ by Eugene Field]