The star jewels, and other wonders

There was once a lad named Karl who lived with his father and mother in a little village of the Flat Land. Karl was a big fellow, tall and yellow-haired. But all his strength was in his long, lean body. There was none in his poor head. Karl was the village simpleton.

Poor Karl! His life was a sorry one. He was despised and jeered at by the whole village. The children followed and tormented him at every chance, because he could not learn at school; the grown folk were little kinder, but nudged one another and made jokes about him when he came to the market-place. Even the cur-dogs followed and barked at him, but they knew no better. They were cruel folk, those dwellers in the Flat Land.

Karl’s own parents were the unkindest of all. They did not love their son nor pity his wretchedness, but were ashamed because he was so simple. They were angry, too, because in their poverty he could not help them earn a living. For there seemed little indeed that poor Karl could learn to do,—he was so very simple. His parents were continually telling him how useless he was in this workaday world.

“Oh, you stupid fellow!” they would sometimes say, driving him out of the house with blows of broom or stick. “Oh, you great good-for-nothing, sitting here and eating our bread without doing aught to pay for it! Were ever parents troubled with so worthless a son? Other folk have bright boys and girls who will grow up to do some good in the world and be a credit to their parents. But you will always be a big, overgrown baby for us to take care of. Bah! Karl, we are tired of seeing you about!”

With the tears streaming down his face poor Karl would shuffle out of the mean little cottage where they lived, the most unhappy boy in the whole wide world. There was one place whither Karl loved to go at such times, the only place where he was sure of finding rest and quiet and a friend. In a corner of the village was a little wood,—a rare sight in the Flat Land, where trees grew but sparsely.

Few other persons came here, for the folk of the country cared little about rest or quiet, and nothing at all for the beauty of nature. They were quite satisfied with the look of their clean-shaven country, their smooth lawns and geometrical canals, their straight, shadeless roads, curbed neatly on either hand. It had never occurred to them to plant trees for beauty and shade, and for the other good things which trees offer. The little wood had grown quite by accident, and no one cared anything about it. But Karl loved the lonely, pretty place, and especially the great oak which grew in the midst thereof, the only oak in the whole Flat Land. It was so big, so sturdy, and yet withal so gentle when it stretched its great limbs protectingly over his wretchedness, giving the comfort of its shade and coolness to refresh him in his troubles. It was Karl’s only friend.

A hot, sultry day came upon the Flat Land, and it seemed to be Karl’s evil day. In the morning a rout of children and dogs chased him through the village, pelting him with bad eggs and fruit, and with stones, too. They chased him until the school bell rang, when he escaped; for Karl did not go to school,—he was too simple. When he returned home, breathless, bruised, and weary, scarcely able to speak from fright and exhaustion, his father beat him because he could not tell where he had been all the morning. Poor Karl! There was no part of the whole town where he had not been in that dreadful chase. But he had not the words to explain this to his parents; so his cruel father punished him, and his mother drove him out without his dinner.

More wretched than ever before, Karl fled to his refuge, the little wood, and flung himself on the greensward beneath the giant oak tree. He buried his face in the cool, soft moss, and cried as though his heart would break.

“Poor fool! Poor fool!” he wailed. “Poor Karl, good for nothing!”

While he lay thus, sobbing aloud and filling the cups of the moss with his tears, he heard a heavy tread approaching. Glancing up fearfully,—for he had no hope to meet a friendly face, since none in all the world had ever smiled upon him,—he saw a Farmer approaching with a great axe over his shoulder.

“Hullo, there!” cried the Farmer when he spied Karl under the tree. “You Simpleton, better get up. I am going to cut down that tree which grows over your head.”

“Cut down my tree!” gasped Karl, and he began to tremble. Was he to lose his only friend?

“Your tree!” jeered the Farmer. “Poor Fool, I never knew that you owned anything, even your senses. The tree is mine, with the land on which it grows and acres on every hand. I am going to cut down the tree to make firewood for next winter. That is all trees are good for.”

“Oh, do not do that!” begged Karl, spreading out his arms as if to protect the tree. “I will not let you cut it down!”

“Ho ho!” laughed the Farmer. “How will you prevent it, Simpleton? And what is the tree to you, anyway?”

“The only big tree there is anywhere!” sobbed Karl. “The only shade; the only safe, quiet, cool, kind place in the whole world! O Man, do not cut down the tree! You cannot make another.”

The Farmer had lifted his axe to strike, but now he paused and rested it on the ground. Karl’s last words had struck him with a new thought. “The Fool speaks a word of wisdom,” he growled to himself. “It is easier to cut down a tree like this than to make another. The acorn which I might plant to-day would become no such tree in my lifetime—nor in that of my son, or my grandson, or my great-grandson, for that matter. Fool, I will think it over (the more fool I, ’tis likely). I will spare your tree—ha ha!—for a time. I can cut it down whenever I like. But as you say, I cannot soon grow another. My folly bids yours good-day, Fool.”

Shouldering his axe, the Farmer trudged half sulkily away. Then Karl fell to sobbing again, but this time with joy that his tree was spared. He flung his arm around the great trunk and pressed his lips against the rough bark, kissing it again and again. Suddenly he heard a sharp crack in the oak; another and another, as if the bark were being ripped away. He started up in a fright and stood back from the tree, wondering what was happening to his old friend.

Presently a long vertical slit appeared in the side of the tree and grew gradually wider and wider. A door was opening in the trunk! Karl stood gazing spell-bound at this amazing sight, when out from the dark entrance stepped a figure most wonderful to see. It was a lovely maiden, dressed all in brown,—the color of the tree-bark. About her head was twined a wreath of green oak leaves and acorns, and in her hand she carried a wand, made from a branch of the tree. She was a Dryad, the spirit whose home was the old oak tree; but Karl was too simple to know that. He merely stood staring at the beautiful stranger, too much surprised even to close his poor foolish mouth, which hung wide open.

The Dryad smiled sweetly at the lad and said, “Thanks, kind friend, for saving my tree. I heard your wise words to the cruel Farmer, and brave you were to speak them. Now what can I do to make you happy, as we Dryads love to make happy him who does kindness to our sheltering trees?”

Poor Karl did not understand how he had saved the tree. He only knew that for some reason the cruel Farmer had changed his mind. As little did he understand why the Dryad thanked him. But he heard the kindness of her voice, and knew she offered aid.

“Oh, can you help me, beautiful Stranger?” he cried, clasping his hands eagerly and looking at her with tears in his eyes.

“Indeed, I will help you all I can, kind lad,” said the Dryad, waving her wand and taking a step towards him. “Tell me about your trouble.”

Then Karl told the Dryad all the sorrow of his life,—how he was foolish and of no use, a burden to his parents and a disgrace to the town; how all the village, even the little children and the cur-dogs, hated and despised him; how unhappy and lonesome he was.

“O fair Stranger,” said Karl as he finished the sad little tale, “I am only a poor simpleton, and I can never do anything good or great. But if you could only teach me how to do some little thing that will be of use to the world, so that I shall not always be hated and despised even by the little children and dogs of the village, I should be so very happy! Will you do this, dear Tree-Maiden?”

The Dryad looked at him pityingly, and the tears stood in her own brown eyes when she heard his wish. “Poor boy,” she said, and her voice was very sweet, “you ask nothing for yourself, neither riches nor happiness nor even wisdom. You ask only to be taught how your simplicity may be of some use to the world which has treated you so unkindly. Some would call it a foolish wish. But I say, O Karl, that it is not foolishness. Twice to-day you have spoken wisely, lad.”

The Dryad looked up into the tree under which they stood; she looked down upon the ground; then she glanced around and about, thinking hard for Karl’s sake. And at last she spoke again.

“Remember the words which you spoke to-day when the Farmer raised his axe. You told him that he could not make another such tree; and those words saved this great oak. You were right, Karl. And he was right when he agreed that the acorn which he might plant to-day would not become like this king of trees in his lifetime, nor in that of his son, or his grandson, or his great-grandson. Yet the acorn which you plant will grow, and its shade, its beauty, its greenness will one day equal this. Though you may never see it, the world will be better for your deed, and future generations will bless you for it. This shall be your task, Karl, to fare forth upon a lifelong pilgrimage and plant as you go the blessed trees which will shelter the many people who are to come after you. Thus the Flat Land will become famous for all time as the place of happy wayfaring.”

Now poor Karl understood not one word of all this which the Dryad had so prettily spoken, save that he was to go away. But this thought he seized eagerly.

“I am to go away!” he cried. “When, dear Maiden, and where?”

“You must go to-night,” answered the Dryad, waving her wand. “See, already the shadows are falling. You must not be missed nor sought for this night. You must take with you only this,—a sack of acorns upon your shoulders. See where they lie all about us under the tree, ready for you to gather! And look! I will take this green mantle which I wear and make of it a sack to hold your burden. Take it, Karl, and fill it thus with the gift of your old friend, the oak.”

Karl did as she showed him, and presently he had the long, soft sack filled with brown acorns. Then the Dryad gave him a lesson in planting. She showed him how to dig a little hole for each acorn and cover it with mould; and though Karl was so simple he learned the lesson readily, for he had a loving teacher. Then the Dryad told him how he must walk a hundred paces from the planting of one acorn before he turned earth to cover the next.

“Now, Karl, you shall go forth,” she said, “from village to village wherever your thought may lead,—for it does not matter,—planting acorns on either side of the way. And if any one asks you why you do this, do you tell him the story of this day; and I warrant you will need no other pence to pay for food or a bed whenever you need them. Do not forget this story, Karl. Do not forget.”

“I am a simpleton,” said Karl humbly, “yet I shall never forget this day’s happenings, nor your words to me. But shall I indeed be doing something for the world’s good? I do not see how that can be.”

“Trust me, Karl,” said the Dryad kindly. “Indeed and indeed, you will be doing much, I promise you,—more than many men who call themselves wise. But see, already the night is falling. It is time that you were starting upon your journey.”

Thereupon she helped him to place the stout sack of acorns upon his shoulders, and with a wave of the wand started him forth upon his pilgrimage. Smiling with joy to think that at last he was about to be of some use in the world, Karl bent his long frame under the heavy burden, and trudged out of the little wood. When he reached the highroad, he turned to wave a last farewell to the Dryad. But already she had retreated into her tree-cell, closing the door behind her so tightly that one would never know where it opened. It was to his friend the great oak, alone, that Karl bade his last good-by.

Thus Karl began his pilgrimage with the green sack of acorns on his back, and with neither penny nor crust in his pocket. He began his pilgrimage at dusk, when every one was indoors at the evening meal; so no one thought of him, or spied his doings. With great glee the simple fellow planted his first acorn in the heart of the village, just within sight of the parent oak. So long as light lasted he trudged on with a happier heart than he had ever known. He was being of some use to the world! He did not understand how, but he believed the gentle Dryad’s promise. At every hundred paces he planted an acorn, and he was so busy counting his steps between whiles that he forgot all his troubles. And this, too, the wise Dryad had foreseen.

At last, when the way had grown so dim that Karl could barely see to dig earth for the last planting, a wayfarer accosted him.

“What ho, Stranger! What are you doing there?” cried this man.

“I am planting an acorn,” said Karl simply.

“Ho ho! what an idea!” cried the fellow with a guffaw. “You’ll never live to enjoy the oak that grows from that acorn. Why do you take so much trouble for nothing, my funny fellow?”

Then Karl told him the whole story, as the Dryad had bade him do. And when he paused at the end, the man was silent for a little time.

“Poor fellow!” he said at last. “Simple, simple! What a story made of fool’s fancies! An oak tree—a maiden coming out of it—acorns to be planted along the road for shade and rest! Yet—there is something in that last thought. It might not be a bad thing to have trees along our highways, though I never before heard of such a thing. Whew! I know I should have been glad to-day for the shade of a tree when I ate my luncheon in the burning sun.—Have you supped? Where do you lodge to-night, lad?”

Karl dropped his foolish mouth and said blankly that he did not know. In truth, he had never thought of the matter until that minute. But the stranger clapped him on the shoulder and said,—

“Come home with me and I will give you a bed and a sup. Your wonderful story deserves so much reward.”

So Karl fared well that night, and on the morrow once more started happily forth upon his mission. Thus indeed he fared wherever he went. At first folk laughed at the story which he told. But when they came to think it over, they found it not so ridiculous. Looking at the poor fool’s eager face and watching his tireless labor for the good of people whom he would never see, their hearts smote them for their own selfishness, and they were ashamed. They treated him well. Karl never lacked for a meal or a bed; the telling of his story always earned either. Yet he never expected this reward, but was continually wondering why folk were so good to him. He thanked them humbly for their charity, and when he was refreshed, went forth again upon his pilgrimage with no care for the morrow or for the next meal. Karl was indeed a simpleton.

The days and the weeks and the years went by, and Karl still wandered, planting the acorns as he went. He never retraced his steps, but went on and on, down new roads, new avenues, new boulevards, into new countries. He never was curious to see how his work was faring. He was too simple to think of that. He had been told what he must do in order to be useful in the world; that was enough. The Power that watches over little acorns and great oaks, over simpletons and wise men, would take care of the work which Karl had begun.

Mile after mile he traversed, country after country he visited; the years passed over his head, silvering his hair and bending still more his tall frame. As Karl grew older the burden on his shoulders became lighter to carry; but very gradually. The sack made from the Dryad’s mantle must have had magic woven in its tissue. For that first stock of acorns from the old oak tree lasted throughout the entire pilgrimage, during the whole of Karl’s life, so that he had no need to return to the unfriendly village for a fresh supply. On and on he went, and behind him for miles and miles through the countries and the years stretched rows of little oak saplings, of various heights and sizes, and full of promise,—the beginning of a wonderful arched avenue. For after he had passed out of sight, the people of every village, remembering his strange words and his wild story, began to think of him as a holy man, and to look upon the acorns which he had planted as holy things. So the sprouts were cherished carefully and more carefully as the years went by.

Now at last, after many years, Karl was grown old and feeble, and the acorns were few in the bottom of the Dryad’s green sack; and he knew that his pilgrimage was almost over. He was many, many miles from home, and for the first time he thought of returning, longing for the Tree, his friend. He was now bowed and white-haired. A snowy beard descended to his waist; his garments were in rags and his shoes were mere strips of leather bound around his bare feet. But he was very happy, for he knew his work was done.

In a little village of the far South country he planted the last acorn, and sank upon the spot, unable to go any farther. The towns-folk gathered around him, saying, “Who is this? What holy man is this?” For his face was indeed that of a blessed saint. Then once more, for the last time, he told his story. He told it in a faint and faltering voice, and it was so sad, so sweet, that every one wept to hear it, and marveled greatly, saying,—

“Surely, he is indeed a holy man! See, the green wonder-sack is empty. This is the end of his pilgrimage. Our village is blest and shall be famous as the end of his pilgrimage. We will set up a shrine in his honor where the last acorn is planted. But first we must take him home.”

“Yes, take me home!” said Karl, who understood only this word of all the praise they gave him.

They laid him on the green mantle and started gently to carry him where he would be. He could not tell them the name of the place, but they traced the way by the acorns which he had planted and which had sprung up in his honor. As they went from village to village, folk came out who remembered the holy pilgrim who had passed erewhile, telling his quaint story; and they claimed a share in bearing the blessed burden. So that poor Karl had a continually growing company of people ministering to his wants and doing him the kindnesses of love. But he did not know why, thinking only that the world was grown wondrously kind since the days of his boyhood. As they passed on, the wonder grew at the length of his pilgrimage and the extent of Karl’s work. For the journey was not a matter of days but of months, even at the steady pace they held. And as they measured back mile after mile, the planting of Karl became still more wonderful to see. From little sprouts the acorns had now grown tiny treelets. Further on the saplings were waist-high, shoulder high, above the heads of the tallest. In lands where he had passed years before grew rows of tall, beautiful oaks on either side of the road. But it was when the goodly company entered at last the Flat Land itself that they saw the trees become so sturdy and so broad that already it was a fair avenue down which Karl was borne. It was many, many years since he had passed that way. He himself was forgotten, but there remained the tradition of a simple lad who had once gone by, planting the blessed oaks which were now the pride of the land. And his own countrymen joined the company in greater numbers than any heretofore. For now the wisdom of the planting began to be seen. The trees were so tall and so broad-limbed that already they cast a grateful shade, under which the pilgrims rested at every stage. Men, women, and children, even the animals whom they passed, taking shelter from the summer heat under these same trees, blessed the wisdom which had done this thing. But Karl knew nothing of all this. He only knew that he was going home; and he slept, being very weary.

At last they came to the village where Karl was born; but he did not know it for such, he was so simple. Nor did the people who flocked to praise him remember Karl, he was so changed. They only knew him for the unnamed benefactor and friend who had made their town the fairest and most famous in the whole land. Among them were the very children, now grown old like him, who had teased and tormented him that woeful day. But now they crowded around the green litter as it was borne along, seeking to kiss the hand of the wise man who had given them shade and shelter on their weary way to and from the market. The company of pilgrims bore Karl past and under the trees which had sprung up to mark his passing from the town. They came to the last tree, the first which Karl had planted in the heart of the village on that first day, and here they paused, troubled. For they said,—

“The avenue ends here. Whither shall we now carry the holy man, and what would he have us do? For he has spoken no word since we began the journey.”

But under this last tree Karl opened his eyes, and raising himself on his litter stretched out his arms to the East. Gazing whither he pointed, the company saw a little wood, and rising out of it a single giant oak, greater than all the others which Karl had planted,—greater than any which those men had seen.

“There, there!” cried Karl, with joy in his voice. “Take me there! Home, home!”

Wondering, they bore him to the great oak and laid him on the greensward beneath the tree. Then a marvelous thing happened. In the sight of all the people a little door opened in the side of the oak, and out stepped a maiden dressed all in brown, with a girdle of green and with a crown of oak leaves on her head. She bore a branch of the tree in her hand, which she waved gently as she stepped towards Karl.

“Welcome home!” she cried sweetly, smiling upon him. “Welcome home, dear friend. You have had your task and it is ended. Your wish is fulfilled. You have been of great use to the world, and it will bless your name more and more as the years go by. Come, now, and rest.” Tenderly she took him by the hand, aiding him to rise. He lifted himself, feebly at first, but seeming to gain strength from her touch. The Dryad wrapped her green mantle around his shoulders, leading him towards the oak. And lo! When they reached the little door, he turned and smiled at the company, waving his hand in a last farewell, but speaking no word. And they looked at him amazed, such a change seemed to have passed over him; but they could not say how, save that the weight of years, the weariness, the sorrow, the yearning, seemed to have slipped away. He smiled at them, and it was not the smile of a simpleton, but of one who knew the meaning of strange things. Then the Dryad drew him gently after her and they passed in through the little door, into the heart of the great oak tree. Noiselessly it closed behind them, leaving not a crack to show where it had been. And this was the last ever seen of Karl and the Dryad.

But the people were left staring at one another, as folk do when they have seen something that they cannot understand.