AND another thing. In the gardens of Haroun-al-Raschid, just past the corner where one pale rose watches her tranquil shadow in the ice-blue water of a marbled pond, grew a black tree that could not wait for the Arabian spring. But on the contrary, instead of leaves she threw over her graceful shoulders a cloak sprigged with red blossom. And that in a single night.

“Oh miracle,” said the first gardener next morning when he observed this bright irregularity, “red snow has fallen in the night.” “Oh marvel,” said the second, “a swarm of red butterflies.” “Oh wonder,” cried the third, “a little lanthorn in each lighted twig.” “You must be blind,” said the first; “or a numbskull,” said the second; “or mad,” cried the third. And thereupon, as was only to be expected, the three fell to fighting furiously one with another.

“What are those men doing?” whispered the terrified blossoms to the mother tree; “we are afraid.”“Hush! blossoms,” murmured the tree, “they think that we are a divine manifestation.”

“What is that?” asked the blossoms.

“The appearance of the God they worship upon earth,” replied the tree.

“And how do you know,” cried the blossoms, “that they think so?”

“Because,” said the tree as the last gardener fell heavily to the ground, “they are killing one another.”