that spot where irregular walls of red sandstone pile themselves together to form Cape Ann, there stood, not many years ago, a venerable oak tree. Its years had been many, and it had seen much that was sad and strange, and some things that were more strange and joyful. One might imagine that every branch could murmur a history—every leaf rustle a tale. But the oak tree, if it had a mystery to reveal, never while it lived revealed it; or, perhaps, of the many who had reclined in its shade, not one had possessed the power to extract a significance from its multitudinous and ceaseless prattle. Certain it is that no one, even of those who had known it longest and most intimately, ever dreamed there was a meaning in its low-toned talk.
The ocean alone was the oak tree's confidant; they kept up a never-ending conversation together. The tree opened its heart unreservedly to its immeasurably ancient friend, who, in return, sent it soft messages on the June breezes, or bellowed forth thunderous warnings on the September gales. No wonder that, under the guidance of an instructor so profoundly wise, of experience so inimitably vast, yet possessing, in all its vigor, the freshness and power of an immortal youth, the oak tree should become inspired, during the two or three centuries of its existence, with countless noble thoughts and lofty aspirations, and long to do something to prove itself a worthy pupil of its mighty master. But many years had passed, and still the opportunity delayed. In summer tree spread a cool shade across the green-sward, and in winter gave broken branches to kindle poor people's fires; more it could not do, and yet with this it was not satisfied. It yearned for a task commensurate with the height of its love and knowledge; gladly would it have given up its life in the accomplishment of an object worthy of its sacrifice; but alas! it was but a tree, and doomed to stand forever where it grew. Why had it not been made a man, speaking in language men could comprehend,—able to walk amongst them, and pour, forth the truth and wisdom with which its soul was overburdened? In the lonely nights the oak tree tossed its great arms tumultuously abroad, and called to the sea for comfort and counsel; and the sea beat out a resounding answer on the shore, bidding it wait, and trust to the future to bring the opportunity at last.
One night, in the heart of winter, the oak stood looking out across the gloomy ocean, its bare brown arms laden with newly-fallen snow. The prospect was a bleak and dismal one, relieved only by the warm glow of a candle in the window of the neighboring cottage. By the candle sat the young wife of Skipper Donne, who owned the fastest schooner on the coast; and near at hand, in a cradle, a young child lay sleeping. The mother, ever and anon, would turn her face to the window, and a shade of anxiety would flit across her sweet and thoughtful features; but when she looked upon the sleeping child the shade would soften and lighten, and merge at last into a mother's smile. As the hours passed on, however, and still her husband did not return, her eyes were turned more often to the window than to the child. The oak tree wished from the bottom of its heart that it could have soothed and comforted her; standing, as it did, on the plot of ground be- longing to the cottage, it felt a special interest and affection for its inhabitants. It rustled its crisp brown leaves, and sighed sympathizingly; but the wife of Skipper Donne never so much as looked at it, unless it were to shudder at its cold branches outlined against the wintry sky. The oak tree was in despair, and had not the heart to seek consolation even from the immemorial friend who sobbed and murmured among the rocks and weeds on the shore. It had never felt quite so miserable.