not enough, for only a few had been preserved; so they took
painted paper and wax and clay, and cut sham leaves and fruits of the
old pattern, which for a time looked bright and gay, and the world, who
did not know what had been done, said--See, the tree is immortal: it is
green again. Then some believed, but many saw that it was a sham, and
liking better to bear the sky and sun, without any shade at all, than to
live in a lie, and call painted paper leaves and flowers, they passed
out in search of other homes. But the larger number stayed behind; they
had lived so long in falsehood that they had forgotten there was any
such thing as truth at all; the tree had done very well for them--it
would do very well for their children. And if their children, as they
grew up, did now and then happen to open their eyes and see how it
really was, they learned from their fathers to hold their tongues about
it. If the little ones and the weak ones believed, it answered all
purposes, and change was inconvenient. They might smile to themselves at
the folly which they countenanced, but they were discreet, and they
would not expose it. This is the state of the tree, and of the men who
are under it at this present time:--they say it still does very well.
Perhaps it does--but, stem and boughs and paper leaves, it is dry for
the burning, and if the lightning touches it, those who sit beneath will
suffer.

COMPENSATION.

One day an Antelope was lying with her fawn at the foot of the flowering
Mimosa. The weather was intensely sultry, and a Dove, who had sought
shelter from the heat among the leaves, was cooing above her head.

'Happy bird!' said the Antelope. 'Happy bird! to whom the air is given
for an inheritance, and whose flight is swifter than the wind. At your
will you alight upon the ground, at your will you sweep into the sky,
and fly races with the driving clouds; while I, poor I, am bound a
prisoner to this miserable earth, and wear out my pitiable life crawling
to and fro upon its surface.'

Then the Dove answered, 'It is sweet to sail along the sky, to fly from
land to land, and coo among the valleys; but, Antelope, when I have sate
above amidst the branches and watched your little one close its tiny
lips upon your breast, and feed its life on yours, I have felt that I
could strip off my wings, lay down my plumage, and remain all my life
upon the ground only once to know such blessed enjoyment.'

The breeze sighed am