Once upon a time, as the good old fairy tales always begin, there grew by the side of a little brook a large Oak tree.

The brook was a bright, sunlit stream, gliding along so cheerfully to join the river, between 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. Often, in the calm summer nights, the Oak would talk to her of the days of the long-ago; you would have thought it was merely the breeze sighing amidst the branches, but it was the voice of the Oak telling of the past.

Many of the birds imagined the Aspen to be a weak, trembling tree, quivering always with fear at the slightest wind that ruffled its branches.

'Scarcely safe to build a nest in!' so said an old motherly Rook, who had reared many a brood.

But the fairies who danced beneath its shade on bright moonlight nights knew better; they knew that the fragile-looking tree never trembled with fear; they had often seen it meekly bend beneath the sway of the fierce wintry blasts, knowing full well whose hand guided the storm; and when the summer came they knew that then it quivered with happiness at being created on so fair an earth, and that its leaves only shook with quiet laughter as it listened to the merry chatter of the brook.

Well—winter had passed with his frosts and snows, and spring was scattering her flowers everywhere. The Cuckoo was calling aloud, 'Cuckoo, cuckoo,' all day long, never heeding the young folks who mocked his song; even the Swallows had returned from the warm, sunny South, and were for ever skimming over the brook, just dipping their wings into its limpid waves, then off again with the joyous 'Twit, twit, twit.' The meadows, too, were yellow with buttercups, in which the cows waded knee-deep. Talk of the Field of the Cloth of Gold! Francis the First would have been a clever man could he have made such an one!—no earthly king could create golden fields like these.

All nature was rejoicing in earth's brightness, and our old friends the Oak and the Aspen as much as any. They had put forth their fresh green leaves, and beneath their shade many a tired traveller rested from the noonday sun, thanking them both in his heart for the welcome shelter.

During the winter the Oak had not been idle, for it had extended its branches far and wide; one, indeed, stretched right across the brook, in fact, almost touched its opposite neighbour, and the Aspen welcomed it gladly. You would have thought it great happiness to live in such a lovely spot, I know, but there is never perfect bliss, and if little folks will be discontented, they make the prettiest place appear wretched and miserable.

Now, among the leaves of the Oak there was one that was always restless and fidgety. In vain the sweet birds perched near and sang to him, and the gentle brook murmured tales of other scenes—he never seemed happy. The fairies, too, as I before said, danced by moonlight at the very foot of the parent tree, yet even that brave sight gave him no pleasure, though his brother and sister leaves would clap their tiny hands in ecstasy.

'It disturbed his sleep,' he said. 'Why could they not dance in the day-time?—not when all respectable leaves and flowers were sleeping! making such a noise, especially that mischievous Puck!'

And, unfortunately, he grew on the branch nearest to the Aspen, and his constant grumbles made them quiver with sorrow and pain at such incessant complainings. As to his own relatives, they would not listen, but frisked about merrily enough when the zephyrs came and played with them.

'Alas!' said he one day to a little Aspen leaf that grew on a branch close by, and who had patiently borne with his ungrateful complaints; 'how sad is our lot! Here we are always attached to the same place, in a state of cruel bondage; everything around us moves: the birds, happy in their liberty, fly here and there, singing ever their songs of joy; even the beasts of the forests are free—whilst we—ah me!—we never lose our galling chains but in dying!'

'Why do you murmur thus?' asked the Aspen leaf in a sweet, tremulous voice; 'why are you not contented?'

'Oh, it is all very well for you to preach contentment,' it pertly replied, turning up its point with contempt. 'I am a leaf of intellect. I hate this aimless, monotonous life; it does very well for such silly, trembling things as you and yours,—not for me!'

For a moment the little Aspen leaf felt its pride wounded by the contemptuous speech of its neighbour, and was strongly disposed to answer in the same strain; but fortunately, a fairy who chanced to be passing at the time laid her silver wand lightly on its lips, so with a smile she merely said,—

'Yes, I know I am timid, and cling to my parent tree for security and protection. What would you do if you were free? We are so happy here, I would not leave my home; the soft breezes are ever among us with cheerful stories of the countries they have visited to amuse us; and as to the birds, why, all the day long they are singing their sweetest melodies to gladden our hearts and cheer us.'

'I have heard their songs until I am quite tired of their sameness,' was the ungrateful response; 'besides, in a few months the cold winds will be here, and then we shall fall to the ground and be trodden under foot—that will be the end of us. So I am determined to see something of the world before that time comes. I shall go off with the first north wind that visits us—so I tell you. You will not reason me out of my plan.'

'Oh, stay, stay with us!' cried the trembling listener; 'you cannot surely know the sorrow you would cause, nor the troubles you would have to endure. It is true we leave our kind branches but to die, but we are not carelessly trodden on; the rustling of we poor faded leaves beneath man's feet recall to his mind pure and holy thoughts of the unknown future, filling his heart with unuttered prayers to the Great Power who changeth not. Then, if we poor leaves can teach a lesson, we have not lived in vain. Do not murmur at your humble fate, dear friend, but stay with us, contented with your simple destiny and the goodness of God.'

The Aspen leaf ceased speaking, overcome by its emotion, whilst the little grumbler, silenced, but not convinced, turned sulkily away. It did not relish the kind advice of its true friend, nor did it at all intend to follow it, but still it settled down on its tiny twig so very quietly, that all its relatives firmly believed it had given up its foolish scheme of imaginary happy freedom; but they were mistaken, for a few days after a north wind came quite unexpectedly upon them. It bent the Aspen tree almost to breaking, still the loving little leaves clung trembling to their parent, feeling that their very safety rested on their keeping close to it. Then, finding its strength was in vain, away the north wind rushed to the sturdy old Oak, swaying its branches wildly about, and even making them crack in its fierce rage.

But the Oak reared its proud head defiantly, and its leaves hung tightly on—all save one. Alas! with a mocking laugh at his friends' and his brothers' fears, he threw himself into the arms of the cruel north wind, who bore him swiftly away, and ere the night came the foolish leaf lay faded and dead.

As he was whirled away, a sad, sad moan sighed through the branches of the old Oak. 'Twas a cry of anguish for its wilful child.

The bright summer was gone.

One by one the leaves were falling. With a gentle rustle they fell from their parent trees, and lay in their faded beauty upon the earth.

The little Aspen leaf lingered, but one day a soft, sweet zephyr came and gently released her, and she fluttered slowly down to the calm bosom of the little brook, who had, alas! seen many flowers bloom and die.

Tenderly the stream bore it away to a grassy nook on its banks, and there it placed the tiny leaf, alone in its quiet rest.