Then the gardener called his workmen and ordered them to take up the tree and carry it to his brother's farm. They did so, and the next morning the farmer began to wonder where he should plant it. “If I plant it on the hill,” said he to himself, “the wind might catch it and shake down the delicious fruit before it is ripe; if I plant it close to the road, passers-by will see it and rob me of its luscious apples; but if I plant it too near the door of my house, my servants or the children may pick the fruit.” So, after he had thought the matter over, he planted the tree behind his barn, saying to himself: “Prying thieves will not think to look for it here.” But behold, the tree bore neither fruit nor blossoms the first year nor the second; then the farmer sent for his brother the gardener, and reproached him angrily, saying:-- “You have deceived me, and given me a barren tree instead of a fruitful one. For, behold, this is the third year and still it brings forth nothing but leaves!” The gardener, when he saw where the tree was planted, laughed and said:-- “You have planted the tree where it is exposed to cold winds, and has neither sun nor warmth. How, then, could you expect flowers and fruit? You have planted the tree with a greedy and suspicious heart; how, then, could you expect to reap a rich and generous harvest?” THE DRYAD OF THE OLD OAK BY JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL (ADAPTED) In olden times there was a youth named Rhoecus. One day as he wandered through the wood he saw an ancient oak tree, trembling and about to fall. Full of pity for so fair a tree, Rhoecus carefully propped up its trunk, and as he did so he heard a soft voice murmur:-- “Rhoecus!” It sounded like the gentle sighing of the wind through the leaves; and while Rhoecus paused bewildered to listen, again he heard the murmur like a soft breeze:-- “Rhoecus!” And there stood before him, in the green glooms of the shadowy oak, a wonderful maiden. “Rhoecus,” said she, in low-toned words, serene and full, and as clear as drops of dew, “I am the Dryad of this tree, and with it I am doomed to live and die. Thou hadst compassion on my oak, and in saving it thou hast saved my life. Now, ask me what thou wilt that I can give, and it shall be thine.” “Beauteous nymph,” answered Rhoecus, with a flutter at the heart, “surely nothing will satisfy the craving of my soul save to be with thee forever. Give to me thy love!” “I give it, Rhoecus,” answered she with sadness in her voice, “though it be a perilous gift. An hour before sunset meet me here.” And straightway she vanished, and Rhoecus could see nothing but the green glooms beneath the shadowy oak. Not a sound came to his straining ears but the low, trickling rustle of the leaves, and, from far away on the emerald slope, the sweet sound of an idle shepherd's pipe.