roots are not striking deep
enough: they must have a firmer hold in the earth, and only the wind
and the fierce blast will do it."

It was now sunset, and the faithful gardener put away his tools, closed
the garden gates, and went into his cottage. Soon a mass of dark clouds
began to gather on the horizon. "I am sorry to use such harsh means,"
he said, waving his hand in the direction of the wind clouds; "but the
tree needs to be more firmly rooted, and naught but a violent wind will
aid it."

A low, moaning sound went through the air, shaking every bush and
tree to its foundation.

"Oh, dear!" sighed the tree. "Oh, the cruel gardener, to send this
wind! It will surely uproot me!"

The tree readied forth its branches like arms for help, and implored
the gardener to come and save it from the fearful blasts. The flowers at
its feet bowed their heads, while the winds wafted their fragrance over
the struggling, tempest-tost tree.

"They do not moan, as I do. They cannot be suffering as I am," said
the tree, catching its breath at every word.

"They do not need the tempest. The rain and the dew are all they
want," said a vine, which had been running many years over an old dead
oak, once the pride of the garden. "I heard the gardener say this very
afternoon," continued the vine, "that you must be rooted more firmly;
and he has sent this wind for that purpose."

"I wonder if _I_ am the only thing in this garden that needs shaking,"
spoke the oak, somewhat indignantly. "There's a poor willow over by
the pond that is always weeping and--"

"But," interrupted the vine, "that's what keeps the beautiful sheet of
water full to the brim, and always so sparkling,--the constant dropping
of her tears; and we ought to render her gratitude. Besides, she is so
graceful--"

"Oh, yes: all the trees are lovely but me. I heard the gardener's
praise, the other day, of the elms and the maples, and even the pines;
but not one word did he say about the oaks. I didn't care for myself
in particular, but for my family, which has always been looked up to.
Well, I shall die, like my brother, and soon we shall all pass away; but,
unlike my brother oak, no one will cling to me as you do, vine, to his
old body."

"You're mistaken, sir. The gardener said, but a few days ago, that he
should plant a vine just like myself at your trunk if your foliage was
not better, so that you might present a finer appearance by the mingling
of the vine's soft