So the parents of the children went on up the mountain. At first they thought only of how pretty it looked to see all the rosy-cheeked little children scattered over the gray hills. Later they observed how the children were working,—how some were setting out shrubs, while others were digging furrows and sowing seeds. Others again were pulling up heather to prevent its choking the growing trees. They saw that the children took the work seriously and were so intent upon what they were doing that they scarcely had time to glance up. The fathers and mothers stood for a moment and looked on; then they, too, began to pull up heather,—just for the fun of it. The children were the instructors, for they were already trained and had to show their elders what to do. Then it happened that all the grown-ups who had come to watch the children took part in the work. Then, of course, it became greater fun than before. By and by the children had even more help. Other implements were needed, so a couple of long-legged boys were sent down to the village for spades and hoes. As they ran past the cabins, the stay-at-homes came out and asked, "What's wrong? Has there been an accident?" "No, indeed! But the whole parish is up on the fire-swept mountain planting a forest." "If the whole parish is there, we can't stay at home." So party after party of peasants went crowding to the top of the burnt mountain. They stood a moment and looked on. The temptation to join the workers was irresistible. "It's a pleasure to sow one's own acres in the spring and to think of the grain that will spring up from the earth, but this work is even more thrilling," they thought. Not only slender blades would come from that sowing, but mighty trees with tall trunks and sturdy branches. It meant giving birth not merely to a summer's grain, but to many years' growths. It meant the awakening hum of insects, the song of the thrush, the play of grouse, and all kinds of life, on the desolate mountain. Moreover, it was like raising a memorial for coming generations. They could have left a bare, treeless height as an heritage. Instead, they were to leave a glorious forest. Coming generations would know their forefathers had been a good and wise folk and they would remember them with reverence and gratitude. WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE Woodman, spare that tree! Touch not a single bough! In youth it sheltered me, And I'll protect it now. 'Twas my forefather's hand That placed it near his cot; There, woodman, let it stand—— Thy axe shall harm it not!