DAVID was the son of an honest wood-cutter. He lived with his father in a little cottage on the border of the woodlands. Away, away as far as the eye could see stretched great tree-covered hills and mountains. This vast area was called, by the people of the country, the Dark Forest.

Some feared the mysteries of this unknown and unexplored region, for there were many stories and superstitions concerning giants, gnomes, and elves who dwelt within its shaded wilderness. But David, ever since he could remember, had always had a friendly feeling for the rough, hard bark of a pine or oak tree; and the fringed softness of the paper birch had been a delight to him ever since the day he first noticed its ragged beauty—a late summer afternoon on which, as he returned to his father’s cottage, the setting sun touched the whiteness of the tree-trunk beneath the cool green of its shining leaves.

“Some day I shall go far into the Forest,” he would say to himself. “Who knows what treasures I may find?”

David grew fast and was strong, for his life in the woodlands was one to make any boy well and happy. He learned his father’s trade, and in a short time, although he was not nearly full grown, he could wield an axe as well as many a grown man; in fact, he could put some men to shame, for his skill was far greater than that of the average boy of his age.

One day, while walking along a narrow path used by the wood-cutters, he met an old, old woman. Her dress was brown and made of a coarse homespun. A large basket strapped to her back was filled with pieces of firewood which she had been gathering. When she saw David she called to him. And as he approached her he noticed how beautiful she was; for, although her clothes were ragged, that mattered little—her face seemed more kind and beautiful than any he had ever seen. Her hair—one lock had fallen from beneath the brown cap that she wore—was white as driven snow. Her eyes were the soft colour of oak leaves in winter, and so filled with gentleness that David could only stand and look at her.

“Can you tell me,” she asked in a voice that sounded like a breath of wind stirring through the pine needles, “can you tell me where I can find a bit of water? I have been all day in the woods and have found no spring or brook; and I am thirsty, so thirsty! for a drink of pure, cool mountain water.”

“Yes!” cried David. “There is a beautiful spring not far from here. I will get some of the water for you. Rest here in the shade till I return: it will take me but a few moments.”

As he spoke he lifted her basket, that she might the more easily slip her arms through the leathern straps that served to hold it in place upon her back. She swung her clumsy burden to the ground and thanked him; and as soon as he saw her comfortably seated on a bed of moss beneath a sheltering tree, he hastened on his way towards the spring.

As he walked along he took out his hunting knife. For first he must find a birch tree: he wanted some of its white bark to make a cup in which to carry the water. Soon he came to a beautiful great tree. Cutting a clean wide strip of bark, he shaped it into a bowl-like receptacle. Next he pinned the edges together with twigs, so whittled to a point that they would pierce the bark and hold it in place. Then, hastening to the spring, he filled the birchen cup to overflowing with the clear, cool crystal water. In a few moments he stood before the old woman again and handed her the dripping cup. She took it, drank deeply, and was refreshed.

David gazed upon her. There was something about her that he could not explain; nor could he explain to himself his strange longing to talk to her. She looked up at him and smiled; then she motioned to him to sit down on the moss beside her. David did so.

“Do you live in these woods?” he asked timidly. “I do not remember ever having seen you before.”

“No,” answered the old woman. “My house is a long, long way from here—yet not so very far away, either, if only one is wise enough to follow the trail and not seek any short cuts.”

“Does the trail we are on lead to your home?” asked David, pointing to the woodpath that stretched away before them, seeming to lose itself far in the distance.

“Yes and no,” answered the old woman. “It leads you there if you know how to follow it—but there are many turnings, and some of them will lead you right and some of them will lead you wrong. It is not always easy to know which one to take, and if you choose the wrong one it will lead you far astray.”

“Dear me!” said David, “it is too bad the way is not more clearly marked.”

“It never is,” said the old woman, “and it never can be, for each year the new leaves grow up to cover the old trail, and each year a new trail has to be found. In fact, each one has to make his own trail, even when he seems to be following another’s and deceives himself into thinking that he is doing so. It is the law of the Forest, for any trail other than the one we make ourselves may lead us where we do not desire to go, and all at once we find ourselves deep in the woods, the path lost and we ourselves lost. No: we have to know where we are going and why we are going there. Then, when we know thus much for sure, there is always some sign to follow that will prevent us from losing the way. So you see, although I may start out on this path, that does not mean I shall follow it all the way; it depends upon the way the bird flies.”

“What bird?” asked David.

“The Blue Bird,” answered the old Woman.

“There are no blue birds in these woodlands,” said David. “I have lived here all my life and have never seen one. There are yellow birds and red birds, brown birds and green birds, white birds and black birds; but I have never seen a blue bird—I did not know there was one of that colour.”

“Well,” said the old Woman, “perhaps some day you will see a Blue Bird. When you do—let me give you just this word of advice—follow it, no matter where you are walking, no matter how smooth and beautiful your path may be, no matter through what regions the Bird may lead you. Follow it, follow it, little boy, for it will guide you there.”

“Where?” asked David.

“To the Tree,” answered the old Woman.

“What tree?” asked David.

“To the Tree in the midst of the Garden.”

“What Garden?”

“The Garden in the depths of the Forest.”

“What Forest?”

“The Forest beyond the Woodlands.”

“Is your home there?” asked David.

“Not a very great way from it,” said the old Woman. “You will see a Blue Bird some day, little boy; I am sure of that. I am glad that I met you. Thank you for bringing me the cool, refreshing water. Now I must go on my way, since I have told you about the Blue Bird. Remember, David: seek for it and follow it. You will know what it really means only when you have reached the end of the trail.—Help me lift the basket to my back again.—Thank you.—Now I must be off.”

“Here,” said David, “take this birch cup: you may grow thirsty again before you reach home, and if you come to a brook or spring, you will be glad to have this with you.”

“Thank you, boy.—I am sure you will see the Blue Bird some day, for you have the seeing light in your eye. But don’t forget to look for it!”

She turned and walked slowly down the wooded path.

David returned to his father’s home. For many, many days the memory of the old woman remained with him. Indeed, he never really forgot her, though a very long time passed and strange things happened,

before he saw her again, that sometimes made his memory grow dim.

One day—it must have been several months after this meeting in the woods—David had been felling trees and gathering faggots of wood; for this was his daily task. Suddenly a bird’s clear, glad song broke upon the calm of the noontime air. It was unusual to hear any bird’s song at that hour; but to this fact David gave no thought, for the clear, rich sweetness of the notes held him spellbound. He paused, resting his axe upon the ground, his head thrown back, listening. He closed his eyes, for the beauty of the music was such that he desired to think only of it and to shut out all other thoughts from his mind.

A deep silence fell upon the woodlands. Then, suddenly, but as gently as a breeze stirring the petals of a rose, the song came again—clear, sweet notes that thrilled through David’s heart. All at once, as the music faded again, a bird darted from the topmost branch of a neighbouring birch tree. The sunlight played upon its wings and breast, and the heavenly beauty of the little creature dazzled David’s eyes, as he caught a glimpse of it before it was lost in the deep shadows of the pine-clad hillside. But in that fleeting moment, he saw the colour of the bird.

It was blue—the deep celestial blue of the cloudless sky.