“Bend down, palm.  Bend down, palm.”

But what was this, what could this be?  The palm-leaves rustled, as if a hurricane rushed through them, and shudder upon shudder passed through the tall stem.  And the palm felt that the little one was the stronger.  It could not resist him.

And with its high stem it bowed down before the child, as men bow down before princes.  In a mighty arch it lowered itself towards earth, and at last bowed so low that its great crown of trembling leaves swept the sand of the desert.

The child did not seem to be either frightened or surprised, but with a joyous exclamation it ran and plucked one cluster after another from the crown of the old palm.

When the child had gathered enough, and the tree was still lying on the earth, he again went to it, stroked it, and said in his gentlest voice: 

“Arise, palm, arise.”

And the great tree raised itself silently and obediently on its stem, whilst the leaves played like harps.

“Now I know for whom they play the death-song,” the old palm said to itself, when it again stood erect.  “It is not for any of these strangers.”

But the man and woman knelt down on their knees and praised God.

“Thou hast seen our fear and taken it from us.  Thou art the Mighty One, that bends the stem of the palm like a reed.  Of whom should we be afraid when Thy strength protects us?”

Next time a caravan passed through the desert, one of the travellers saw that the crown of the great palm had withered.

“How can that have happened?” said the traveller.  “Have we not heard that this palm should not die before it had seen a King greater than Solomon?”

“Perhaps it has seen Him,” answered another wanderer of the desert.

THE HAUGHTY ASPEN

A German Legend

NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH

As I went through the tangled wood
  I heard the Aspen shiver. 
“What dost thou ail, sweet Aspen, say,
  Why do thy leaflets quiver?”

“’Twas long ago,” the Aspen sighed—­
  How long is past my knowing—­
“When Mary Mother rode adown
  This wood where I was growing. 
Blest Joseph journey’d by her side,
  Upon his good staff resting,
And in her arms the Heav’nly Babe,
  Dove of the World, was nesting. 
Fair was the mother, shining-fair,
  A lily sweetly blowing;
The Babe was but a lily-bud,
  Like to his mother showing.

The birds began, ’Thy Master comes! 
  Bow down, bow down before Him!’
The date, the fig, the hazel tree,
In rev’rence bent to adore Him. 
I only, out of all the host
  Of bird and tree and flower,—­
I, haughty, would not bow my head,
  Nor own my Master’s power. 
‘Proud Aspen,’ quoth the Mother-Maid,
  ’Thy Lord, dost thou defy Him? 
When emperors worship at His shrine,
  Wilt courtesy deny Him?’
I heard her voice; my heart was rent,
  My boughs began to shiver,
And age on age, in punishment,
  My sorrowing leaflets quiver.”