So the years passed, the angel watching his blooming charge. Sometimes
the beasts strayed toward the little tree and threatened to devour its
tender foliage; sometimes the woodman came with his axe, intent upon
hewing down the straight and comely thing; sometimes the hot,
consuming breath of drought swept from the south, and sought to blight
the forest and all its verdure: the angel kept them from the little
tree. Serene and beautiful it grew, until now it was no longer a
little tree, but the pride and glory of the forest.
One day the tree heard some one coming through the forest. Hitherto
the angel had hastened to its side when men approached; but now the
angel strode away and stood under the cedars yonder.
"Dear angel," cried the tree, "can you not hear the footsteps of some
one approaching? Why do you leave me?"
"Have no fear," said the angel; "for He who comes is the Master."
The Master came to the tree and beheld it. He placed His hands upon
its smooth trunk and branches, and the tree was thrilled with a
strange and glorious delight. Then He stooped and kissed the tree, and
then He turned and went away.
Many times after that the Master came to the forest, and when He came
it always was to where the tree stood. Many times He rested beneath
the tree and enjoyed the shade of its foliage, and listened to the
music of the wind as it swept through the rustling leaves. Many times
He slept there, and the tree watched over Him, and the forest was
still, and all its voices were hushed.
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