tween grassy banks, kissing the willows which bent
down towards it, or whispering softly to the blue Forget-me-nots; and so
clear was it, you could see the smooth pebbles lying at the bottom, and
the fish skimming along gaily, as if there were no such things in the
whole world as fishing-rods.

All through the day it rippled merrily, catching every ray of sunlight
that flickered through the trees or the blue sky above; but if an angry
black cloud ever chanced to see itself reflected in its clear mirror,
it scudded away as if ashamed of looking so dark.

But at night, when the holy stars were shining, ah, how softly the
little brook murmured to them! you could almost fancy it did not babble
so loudly as in the day-time, for fear lest it should wake the sleeping
flowers on its mossy banks.

It was a happy little stream, so calm, so placid, no angry ripples ever
disturbed its pure surface, over which the Swallows lightly skimmed. And
it meandered along for many miles; sometimes you would lose sight of it
altogether, then out it would come from some quiet, grassy nook, gaily
sparkling, and glide with a merry sound, as if laughing, towards the
steady rushes, and they would sway to and fro at its approach, dancing
to its rippling music.

But, as I was saying, a sturdy Oak grew by the side of the brook; it had
sprung from an acorn many hundred years ago, now it was very old. Wintry
storms had vainly tried to subdue it; many a time they had bent its
branches, plucked at its roots, but fruitless was their fury, for the
noble tree firmly held its place, rearing its proud head more loftily
than ever; and so the storms, finding their power availed them nought,
passed away over the land, howling with rage at their failure.

Then, oh, how the birds loved the clear old tree! Summer after summer
did they return to build nests among its moss-grown branches; and the
branches, glad that the songsters had come back again, would put forth
green leaves to hide them from prying eyes, so that they could rest
there securely. Can you wonder, then, that they sang sweet songs of
gratitude to it, and that the little brook should murmur her sweet
melody as she glided along at its feet?

On the opposite bank grew an Aspen.

It was not so old as the Oak, who had seen it grow up from a mere
sapling; still they had been neighbours for many years, and the graceful
Aspen looked with love and reverence upon her aged friend's sturdy face
and form. O