“That’s what they taste of,” exclaimed Malcolm—­“salt; and I don’t like salt things.”

“I think,” said his governess, with a smile, “that I have seen a boy whom I know enjoying sliced ham and tongue very much indeed.”

“So I do, Miss Harson,” was the eager reply; “but ham and tongue, you know, don’t taste like olives.”

“No, because they are ham and tongue.  But they certainly taste salty, and that is what you object to.  It is generally found that sweeping assertions are not very safe ones.  But to come back to our olive tree:  it is an evergreen, and it grows very easily.  The readiness with which a twig will take root reminds us of the willow.  A fine grove of olive trees at Messa, in Morocco, was accidentally planted.  It is said that one of the kings of the dynasty of Saddia, being on a military expedition, encamped here with his army.  The pegs with which the cavalry picketed their horses were cut from olive trees in the neighborhood, and, some sudden cause of alarm leading to the abandonment of the position, the pegs were left in the ground.  Making the best of the situation, the pegs developed into the handsomest group of olive trees in the district.”

The children wondered if any trees had ever been planted in such a strange way before, and little Edith said thoughtfully,

“But, Miss Harson, why don’t good people go around and plant trees wherever there aren’t any?  It would be so nice!”

“Some good people do plant trees, dear, wherever they can,” replied her governess, “thinking, as they say, of those who are to come after them; a great many roadside trees have grown in this way.  But no one is allowed to meddle with other people’s property; waste-places might easily be beautified with trees if the owners cared for anything but for their own present interests.  But here is something you will like to hear about the olives of Palestine:  ’They are all planted together in the grove like the trees in a forest, and it would seem scarcely possible for the owners to distinguish their own property.  But when the fruit is getting ripe, watchmen are appointed to guard the grove and prevent a single olive from being touched even by the person who has a right to the tree.’—­You do not look as if you would like that, Malcolm.”

[Illustration:  OLIVE TREE.—­GATHERING THE FRUIT.]

“Indeed I wouldn’t!” replied the boy.  “I rather think I’d take my own olives whenever I wanted ’em.”

“Not if you lived where all were agreed on this point, as they seem to be in Palestine.—­’Days pass on, and the autumn is at hand before the governor of the district issues the wished-for proclamation; then the watchmen are removed.  Immediately the scene becomes a most animated one.  The grove is alive with an eager throng of men, women and children shaking down the precious fruit.  It is, however, scarcely possible to bring every berry down, nor would it seem desirable, since after this great harvest comes the gleaning-time, when the poor, who have no olive trees, are permitted to come into the grove and shake down what is left.’”