e tiny hearth spot was
greener than any other spot, because it remembered what the fire
had said and done. And each year the oak dropped down food
enough for the little fire. The oak took pay in the vast shadows
the fire made for it. That was the way the oak saw the spirits
of the Past, and when it saw them it sighed; but still it
welcomed the shadows of the Past. So the fire, and the grass,
and the oak, and the shadows of the Past were friends, and each
year they met here. It had been thus for many years. Each year,
for many years, the same hand had laid the little fire, in the
same place, and so given back to the oak its Past. Now, the Past
is a very sad but tender thing.

Near by the little fire I saw a small table formed of
straight-laid boughs, and at either side of this were seats made
cunningly in the workshop of the woods. There were two forms at
this small table. I saw them both. One was gray and bowed
somewhat, stooped as the oaks are, silvered as the oaks are in
the winter days. The other was younger and more erect. Once the
younger looked to the older for counsel, but now it seemed to me
the bowed figure turned to the one that had become more strong.

I saw the savory vapors rise. Even, it seemed to me, I could
note a faint, clear odor of innocent potency. I saw the table
laid, not with gleam of snow and silver, but with plain vessels
which, nevertheless, seemed now to have a radiance of their own.
I knew all this. It was as though there actually lay at hand
these pleasant scenes, as though there actually arose the
appealing fragrance of the evening meal.

Now as I looked, the gray figure bowed its head, there, under
the arm of the oak, and asked on the humble board the blessing
of the God who made the oak, and gave the fire and spread the
pleasant waters on the land. Every mealtime, every year, for
many years, it had been thus. Ever, the oak knew, the gray
figure would first bow and ask the blessing of God. And each
time at the close the oak with rustling leaves pronounced
distinct Amen! Let those jest who will. I do not know. I think
perhaps the oak knows or it would not thus for years have
whispered reverently its distinct Amen! I will not scoff. It is
perhaps we who are ignorant. We do not know all things.

[Illustration]

I ask not what nor who were these two who had come each year to
this place of the oaks, but surely they were friends. In shadow,
I could hear them talk. In shadow, I could see