  There was a little miser elf who had a precious store Of silver motes from moonbeams and priceless grains of ore, And shiny dust of marigold, and glittering jeweled eyes Of burnished stars and spangles from the wings of butterflies, And bales of wondrous gossamer and green-gold beetles’ wings, And many other marvelous and rare and costly things. But, alas! with all his golden dust and jewels rich and rare, This little elf was never free from misery and care. The wealth that might have conjured up all good things at his beck Was just a golden millstone that hung around his neck. He never had one moment’s peace, his treasure out of sight, Though he buried it for safety in a different place each night; Each night the thought of robbers made him close his eyes in vain, And just as soon as it was light he’d dig it up again. One night (it was a woodland place in which he chanced to bide)— As usual he sought a place in which his gold to hide. He had not long been seeking before he chanced to see A thing he’d never seen before—a curious kind of tree: The stem was smooth and straight, and on the top there grew a sort Of dome or hat—let’s call it an umbrella-tree, for short. “The very place!” exclaimed the elf. “So strange a tree, ’tis clear, Is just the thing to mark the spot. I’ll hide my treasure here.” No sooner said than done; and then, his treasure buried deep, Upon a bed of moss near by he laid him down to sleep. For once the elf enjoyed a night from dreams and terrors free; And, waking, sought with bounding step his tall umbrella-tree. “Ah, here it is!” he cried; and sure enough, before his sight It stood. “But what is this?” Another like it to the right! “Which can it be?” He rubbed his chin. “What underneath the sun Has happened? Why, I could have sworn last night there was but one. Which can it be that marks the spot in which my treasure lies?” And looking round, another tree of the same shape and size, Another and another still met his astonished eyes. Then the dreadful truth burst on him, and he stood transfixed with fright In a forest of umbrella-trees all grown up in a night. When walking in the autumn woods, dear reader, and you pass A toadstool lying on its side among the leaves and grass, Think of the little miser elf, for ’tis a sign that he Still digs for his lost treasure underneath the umbrella-tree. |
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