: The Stories Mother Nature Told Her Children

The stream that crept down from the hills, three miles away, has worn a

smooth bed for itself in the gravel; has watered the farmer's fields,

and turned the wheel of the old grist-mill, where the miller tends the

stones that grind the farmer's corn. But down below here the stream has

something else to do. It has been working hard, up and away from dam to

dam again; and as always in life there should be something besides

business,--something beautiful and peaceful,--so the stream has swept

round this corner, behind the wooded point of land which hides the mill,

and spread itself out in the hollow of Brown's meadow, where farmer

Brown says his grandfather used to tell him some Indian wigwams stood

when he was a boy. The land has sunk since then, and there is something

more beautiful than Indian wigwams there now.

Where the old squaws used to sit weaving baskets, and the papooses

rolled and played, is now thick, black mud, in which are great tangled

roots, some of them bigger than my arm.

All winter they lie there under the ice, while the children skate over

them. In the spring, when every thing stirs with new life, they, too,

must wake up: so, slowly and steadily, they begin to put up long stems

to reach the surface of the water. Chambered stems they are, each having

four passages leading up to the air, and down to the root and black mud.

The walls of these chambers are brown and slimy, and each stem bears at

its top a slimy bud,--slimy on the outside, brownish-green as it pushes

up through the water; for this outer coat is stout and waterproof, and

can well afford to be unpretending, since it carries something very

precious wrapped up inside.

Not days, but weeks,--even months, it is working upon this hidden

treasure before we shall see it. And the July mornings have come while

we wait.

Can you wake at three o'clock, children, and, while the birds are

singing their very best songs, go down the road under the elms, across

the little bridge, and through the hemlock grove at the right? It is a

mile to walk, and you will not be there too early. The broad, smooth

pond, that the brook has made for its holiday pleasure, is at our feet.

At its bottom are the tangled roots; on the surface, among the flat,

green leaves, float those buds that have been so long creeping towards

the light.

One long, bright beam from the sun just rising smiles across the meadow,

and touches the folded buds. They must, indeed, smile back in reply; so

the thick sheath unfolds, and behold! the whitest, fairest lily-cup

floats on the water, and its golden centre smiles back to the sun with

many rays.

We watched only one, but perhaps none is willing to be latest in

greeting the sun, and the pond is already half-covered with a snowy

fleet of boats fit for the fairies,--boats under full sail for fairy-

land, laden with beauty and fragrance.

And this is what the dark mud can send forth. This is one of Mother

Nature's hidden treasures. Perhaps she hides something as white and

beautiful in all that seems dark and ugly, if only we will wait and

watch for it, and be willing to come at the very dawn of day to look for


The lilies will stay with us, now that at last they are here, all

through the rest of the summer, and even into the warm, sunny days of

earliest October; but it will be only a few who stay so late as that And

where have the others gone, meanwhile? You see there are no dead lilies

floating, folded and decaying, among the pads.

The stem that found its way so surely to the upper world knows not less

surely the way back again; and when its white blossom has opened for the

last time, and then wrapped its green cloak about it again, not to be

unfolded, the chambered stem coils backward, and carries it safely to

the bottom, where its seed may ripen in the soft, dark mud, and prepare

for another summer.