I found a cute children's story hidden deep within Google Books. The writing might be dated, but I like the gist of the story. It reminds me of my favorite (so far) Hans Christian Andersen fairytale, The Fir Tree. Since Wait! is a garden story, I thought I would publish it on this blog. It's long, so I might split it into two or three posts. Hope you enjoy. Update: I decided not to split it up.

Wait! A Garden Parable

Oh, how beautiful! how very, very lovely," sighed a Holly-bough, one bright spring morning, as he gazed, in wonder and admiration, at a fine cherry-tree, arrayed in her snowy beauty of pure, white blossoms. "I wish I were a cherry-tree. Dear me, I hadn't thought of it before, but all the garden seems to be waking up to life and beauty, and only I am shabby and ugly, and quite behind the season. I have enjoyed the same sunshine and rain as others, yet with how little result," and he sighed deeply again. A bitter winter had passed away, somewhat tardily, and a late spring had kept back the blossoms rather beyond their usual time for opening, but they were all the more beautiful and perfect for the delay, and now that the sweet sunshine had come, and a soft west wind whispered secrets of bright summer days in store, the cherry-tree had ventured to throw off the brown cases from her white buds, and shake out the beautiful, delicate, shining petals in the sunlight. She had come out into blossom so very quickly that the Holly-bough opposite was quite taken by surprise. But why sigh over it? Why not admire and enjoy the spring loveliness? The fact was this young Holly-bough (for he was but young or perhaps would have known better), was perplexed and dismayed at his own condition. Wasn't all the garden breaking into beautiful blossoms, or, at least, vivid green leaves? Why, even the hedge, over the brook by which he grew, was covered with "living green," and here and there white flecks of "May" showing. The pretty innocent faces of the daisies peered up from the lawn below, and those chumps of scraggy, half-dead leaves in the garden-border had all been alive with sweet, pale, yellow primroses, and broad crinkled new leaves for weeks past. Why, the very moss, that crept up the old palings beneath him, was like emerald velvet now; and how the bees hummed and danced in the sunlight, among the fruit-blossoms, after their long winter's sleep; but they never came near him of course, he had no sweet flowers to tempt them, and he felt quite dingy and shabby in the midst of all this fresh beauty, for, now he came to think of it, his prickly shining leaves looked sober and dull, and, as for blossoms, there were some funny little screwed up green knobs, close to his stem, but he felt so ashamed of them he was a great mind to toss them off altogether. What promise had they of sweet fruit? What mission could they ever fulfill? And so he brooded over his troubles till the fair spring day had passed away, and twilight fell before he had enjoyed it a bit, and he went to sleep, as he swayed to and fro in the warm gentle breeze, in a state of great bewilderment and not a little vexation.

However, the next morning broke as fair and sunshiny as ever, and the Holly-bough resolved he would ask the beautiful tree if she could tell what terrible mistake he had been making, and how she had come to wear that beautiful bridal dress. "Madam," he began rather timidly, "may I venture to inquire how it is that you are now such a picture of beauty, when, only a few weeks ago—I beg your pardon—but you had nothing but long, naked, black stems?"

The Cherry-tree was so occupied watching some little children, who were screaming with laughter and fun, under her boughs, as she shook her wealth of white flakes over their heads, that she did not answer for a moment, or, indeed, appear to hear the Holly-bough's remark at all; but, as the little ones ran off, she waved her finest branches in the wind, shook off some fussy bees, and replied, "'A picture of beauty,' did you say, my young friend, 'long, naked, black stems.' No, I am not at all offended," she went on, as the Holly-bough tried to murmur some apology for the expression, "of course, everybody has long naked stems in the winter, except those strange evergreens, that seem to me to be always standing still, and, of course, everyone of any consequence blooms in the spring. Yes, I've lots of lovely blossoms haven't I, and so has the William-pear over the lawn. The pippin and the five-crowns are promising well, but they are rather slow about it, and they indulge in a little pink. I prefer white. I shall not wear this dress, it is true, very long, but there is something much better to come. My branches will soon be laden with rich, black cherries, and if the children love me now, they will love me far more then. There will be plenty for them this year, plenty for everybody," she went on, in a self-satisfied tone, "and enough to spare for the birds. Of course, foolish Bough, all the trees have blossoms on them now; if they haven't there will be no fruit in the summer and autumn, and, in fact—why they're just no use at all," she added, shortly.

The Bough thanked the Cherry-tree for her kind reply, but he did not care to talk any more, for what the tree had said made him more miserable than ever. "Everybody has blossoms now," he mused, "yes, that's what she said, and it's quite true, why even this prickly wild plum in the hedge is covered with tiny white blossoms. Trees—and bushes—and plants all in blossom, or full of buds, ready to burst out, all but my poor stem. 'No fruit in the summer,' yes, she said that too, 'if there isn't any blossom,' the time is all going by and I shall be 'just no use at all' or beauty either," and the Bough sighed, more deeply than ever, and then fiercely shook off some faded, dry leaves, in disgust, which pattered down into a bed of wood-anemones, that ran, where they liked, on the bank at his feet. "Did I say all the trees were blooming," he went on, presently, "there is that strange, silent old yew hasn't a sign of blossom, but then he is such an odd, eccentric person, he is hardly a rule for others. Still, he is very old, and, I have heard, very wise, I wonder what he would say about it. It won't do to shout across to him, but I'll send and inquire by the first civil little bird that will take a message."

No messenger was at hand, however, or could be met with for some days. A hedge-sparrow and a tomtit lit on the bough for a moment, but the one was much too busy attending to the wants of a large family, and the other was not going in that direction. A hen chaffinch called the next day, but her mouth was so full of insects, that the Bough could not understand whether she promised to go, or not, and, moreover, she flew away before he had given her half the message.

This delay was very trying, but, at last, a blithe, good tempered little robin hopped in one morning, in a friendly way, and promised to take the message, quite correctly, and bring back the answer. His wife was sitting, so he was a little more at leisure just now, and "Bobby" was always as cheerful and bright himself, that he did not mind paying a visit to the solemn, old yew-tree.

The Holly-bough swung to and fro, impatiently, while he was gone, and anxiously inquired for the reply, when the little scarlet breast appeared among his prickly leaves, once more. "Only this," said Robin, "was the message. 'Wait,' I could not get a word more."

"Stupid, tiresome, provoking little bird," burst out the angry Bough, "to think you could bring nothing better than that. 'Wait,' why it is simply foolish, spring isn't the time to wait, but I want to know why I have grown no blossoms, like other people. I don't believe you stayed long enough to hear half the message."

"Indeed I did," chirped Robin, "but the old tree wouldn't say another word; you know he is always very silent, and, perhaps, a bit gloomy, but what he does say is wise, and, do you know, Holly-bough, I can guess, a little, at what he means,—I think."

"Hold your tongue," snapped the Bough, "and be off with you. I didn't ask your opinion, and I can do very well without it."

With that he gave himself a violent jerk, and Robin, seeing he was much too cross to talk any more, flew away without receiving one "thank you" for his kind service. But this did not depress the cheerful little bird, for he had done a kind action, whether he had thanks for it or not, and he went back to his wife and poured out a sweet song of joyous thankfulness for the holly berries he had eaten in the past bitter winter from the very tree he had just left. The Holly-bough recovered his temper after a while, and felt really very sorry that he had treated his kind little messenger so rudely, because the message had been shorter than he expected, and seemed so senseless. "It's no use to ask again, I suppose the old tree will tell me no more," he said to himself. "They say the brook that goes sliding by, just below, has seen a good deal of life, perhaps he would know; he is much more cheerful than that dismal old tree, and, besides, no messenger will be needed, for I could never have the face to ask Robin again." So the Bough inquired the Brook's opinion about his difficulty, and found him much more chatty than the old tree.

"Blossoms?" said the Brook, "yes, I see a good many as I go winding through the meadows and woods, lots and lots of blossoms, of all kinds. A little higher up, there are the sweet, blue forget-me-nots, by my waters, in the summer-time. Tiny, fair, frail things. Fruit? no, there isn't any fruit. Nothing but small dry seeds, and very few of those. But they are so loved, and sought after, pretty dears; and then there is the perishing grass-blossom, falling at the lightest breath, and all cut down before the summer is turned, and made into sweet, fragrant hay. And lots of orchard-blossom, like that on your friend the cherry-tree, is flung into my waters, and comes sailing down, like little flakes of snow, on my bosom. But there are blossoms that no one sees, my friend. How the children race over my banks, and through the woods, in the autumn after hazel-nuts, but who ever admires their blossom? How welcome fall the plump walnuts, in their green shells, to the ground, but who watches for their blooming, or sees them grow? And then that queen, of all fruits—the rich, dark, luscious grape, grown here under kindly shelter, and fostered, and pruned, and nurtured for the sake of its purple clusters—who but the anxious gardener, who 'waiteth for the precious fruit of the earth,' ever notes its bloom? And there are just a few, dear Holly-bough, who keep all their fruit for the dark, icy, stern winter-time, and, when, other trees are bare and leafless, when grape, and cherry, and plum are eaten and forgotten, these brave sturdy trees yield their welcome harvest. And even your leaves, you say, are shabby and old-fashioned by the side of the gay, young, spring green. Never mind, be content, green is plentiful enough to-day; someday the young leaves you are patiently growing, unnoticed now, will be welcomed and valued beyond anything else. The old yew knew that. Now can you wait?"

"I'll try," said tho Holly-bough, a little more hopefully, "but is it a very long time?"

"Never mind that," returned the Brook, "just attend to your growth now, and, if you are not tired of advice, I would add, do not envy other people their spring and summer joy."

The Holly-bough felt rather more cheerful after this, and, while he watched the cherry-tree's blossom all flutter to the ground, and, as the weeks went by, hard, green berries and then ripe fruit take their places, he tried to do his best with his young leaves. There were some little green balls coming on his stem, but they were quite out of sight. The cherry-tree looked almost as beautiful with her clusters of dark, juicy fruit, as she had done in her spring attire, and, truly, the children flocked around her now, and what a bevy of birds she had! Indeed, she was quite the centre of attraction in the garden, for a whole fortnight. But the branches were stripped and forsaken, at last, and sprang high up in the air, again, freed of their load; and the pears began to mellow; and the autumn days drew on; and the flower-garden looked a little wild and seedy, for the brightest flowers were over; and a good deal of "tidying up" was needed, to keep down straggling weeds, and clear away dead leaves and blossoms. A few October peaches lingered on the south wall, and the bullace waited a touch of frost for their pretty pink cheeks.

One day, when the Holly-bough was watching the five-crown apples being carefully gathered for winter store, the robin turned up once  more with his blithe greeting, and, hopping with a lively little jerk into the bough, inquired how he had passed the summer. "Really I was so busy after I last saw you," he began, that I never could find time to come round again; we had so many darling nestlings this year, and an anxious time I've had of it. However, they all fly, and look after themselves now, and I've time to turn myself round, and go and see my friends."

"I feel much better than when you were here," returned the Bough; "but I hardly expected to see you any more, little bird, I'm sorry I was so rude."

"Oh! pray don't mention that," said Robin. "I had quite forgotten it, but, tell me, did the old yew tree explain his message that you should feel so much better?"

"No, I've never had but that one word Wait, but I've been trying to do so, patiently, all the summer, with the help of my dear, kind friend here, the Brook, and though I've no fruit that anyone thinks worth gathering, and my new array of leaves came so gradually that no one saw them, perhaps I shall find out some day what I've waited for. Hope has sprung up, Robin, and if we hope for that we see not, then do we with patience wait for it. I have quite done dropping dead leaves, and my new ones have grown thick, and strong and shiny. Come and see me again little bird, for everyone seems too sleepy to talk, the bees have all laid up for the winter, and indeed, they were never very sociable, and even the brook is quite silent, on frosty mornings now."

"See you again, I should think I would," returned Robin, "why, the tree on which you grow was my best friend all last winter; let the hard frost but come, and the worms be all frozen up, and you'll have plenty of my company." And away he flew.

The Holly-bough felt quite elated when his berries all turned a beautiful, bright red; now he was good for something surely, the gardener would be here soon to gather his fruit, which had come at last. But the weeks passed away, and the last apples were stored, and the bullace mellowed, and dropped; and then gathered in November. But no one noticed the holly-berries, nor did Robin come back. But the Brook had grown quite friendly, and the Bough felt grieved, when, as the days grew dark and cold, his friend told him that, perhaps, he would not be able to talk with him much longer. "I feel numb and icy this afternoon," murmured the stream, languidly, "I cannot hear what you say so well, and a film is gathering over my surface that tells me that a time of silence and darkness awaits me, and, Holly-bough, perhaps I shall not see you any more. You are brave and strong now, and I can just catch the sparkle of your lovely scarlet berries. Be patient still. 'It is good both to hope and to quietly wait.' You will be honored and useful yet. Other harvests are over, yours is at hand; though it tarry, wait for it. As for me, I shall soon join the mighty river, and roll down, with ships on my bosom, to the everlasting ocean. I have reached here through many tedious windings, and there may be many more, but I am content, I have waited patiently and wearied not. 'Even all the days of my appointed time will I wait till my change come.'"

The Holly-bough felt a little saddened to lose the Brook's voice, even though the last words were so full of hope; but the farewell had been spoken none too soon, for the next morning when he woke, his friend was frozen and silent, yes, and buried too, for a thick mantle of snow covered the thin sheet of ice, and fringed the naked cherry stems, and rested in heavy masses on his own sturdy bright leaves. How prettily the scarlet berries shone out!

With the early morning Robin appeared. "By your leave," said the bright little bird, and shaking the fleecy snow in a shower as he hopped on the Bough, he peered with a sly, wistful eye at the tempting food. "Now, friend Bough," he went on, "may I have my breakfast? There is simply nothing to eat, and if you holly-boughs hadn't provided berries for me, why I must just die at once, and these really are the fattest, and the reddest, and the best I ever saw."

"Pray, help yourself, my dear little friend," returned the Bough. "It is pleasant, indeed, to feed the little messenger who was so civil to me, and got no thanks for it." And the Robin had a sumptuous breakfast, and then poured out one of the sweetest loudest trills on the frosty air. But it was the first and last meal the Bough gave his friend, for he discovered that day that he had waited for another mission beside feeding a hungry thankful little bird, pleasant and good as that was. A more public and honored one, though whether really more lofty who shall decide?

The gardener came into the garden in the afternoon, not with a basket, this time, but the great wheel-barrow, and cut large boughs from the ever-greens and piled them up. Some branches came down from the old yew tree, and laurel and bay mingled with them, cut from the shrubbery. The children, who had played, in the spring beneath the snowy cherry-tree, followed the gardener with great excitement, as he cut and carried off the glossy, green boughs. "Now for the berried holly," cried Conrad. "Come, Gardener, down by the brook it's just lovely. There are more berries than ever, I'm sure, this year." Carefully the old man selected some fine boughs, loaded with fruit, without spoiling the shape of the tree, and amongst them our friend, with his store of great, ripe berries." Oh! how beautiful," exclaimed the children. "Why, those are the biggest of all, I'm sure," added Conrad; "there are more, too, on this bough than on any other."

Into the hall of the old mansion went the high piled up load, and presently, over the stag's horns, and among the pictures and old armour,  gleamed out the scarlet berries. Just a few of the finest and best were laid aside to go up to the church for the Christmas services, but, before the gardener carried them off, Eva sprang upon the beautiful holly-cluster, once more. "Just one little sprig, please, Gardener, for old Widow Weston's Christmas pudding." And a lovely sprig the little girl had given her, all strung with berries, and both the children insisted on going with the servant who carried the liberal Christmas gift, from the hall to the widow's home. "Bless my heart!" said the old woman, as the basket was opened, "and if there isn't a bit of holly, and all so cheerful-like. Many thanks, my little lady, and thank the Lord too," she added, reverently, "for all His benefits, He is indeed good unto them that wait for Him."

Meanwhile, the biggest part of the Holly-bough went on Christmas Eve, with some other choice evergreens, up to the grey, stately old minster, and, among the somber coloring up the richly carved oak in the chancel, and the cold grey of the Gothic arches, gleamed out the shining green, and warm, red berries. And when the early sunlight penetrated the frosty air on Christmas morning, and flung, through the east window, patches of brilliant coloring on the stones below, it rested, too, on the holly-bough, whose leaves and berries partly encircled the Sacred Book on the lectern, from which the angel's message of peace and goodwill would shortly sound forth to the listening worshippers.

And many a waiting heart came up that Christmas day among the throng that streamed into the spacious building. Hearts that had long rested in the Lord and waited patiently for Him, and had found the promise true "that they shall not be ashamed that wait for Me." Hearts, that while remembering with thankful joy their Lord's First Advent were gazing, expectantly into the future, "waiting for the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ." Blessed indeed are such. They shall never wait alone or be forgotten, "for these will the Lord wait that He may be gracious."
And for what are they waiting? Verily, they know not, any more than the Holly-bough could understand in May what mission he should fulfill, or what honor receive in December hours. But their Lord knows, and they are satisfied. Satisfied to wait through days of darkness and cloud, of disappointed hope and chilling gloom, never wearied in the patient waiting for Christ, for they know that the future is full of joy, though "eye hath not seen what He hath prepared for him that waiteth for Him."

The End

Afterwords: I know it's a bit early for Christmas greetings. The vintage Christmas card was the only suitable picture of holly-boughs I could find. If you like vintage Christmas(and other seasons) Cards  you might enjoy Ellen Clapsaddle's designs. Cardcow.com has a large collection of her work. Even if you don't recognize her name, you will certainly recognize her art work. The first four paintings , above, were done by Claude Monet. I don't know the author of Wait! His or Her initials are L.T. The book is The Sunday at Home-Volume 30.

I have doctor's orders to walk thirty minutes a day, six days a week. I will comply. The last two days, I walked around this neighborhood. Walking is fun, I just have to get started again.

I also need to eat food that will lower my cholesterol. Most or all of the Marvins have high cholesterol, even the ones that eat super healthy foods and keep physically active. Now it's my turn to be diagnosed with this artery plugging nemesis. One out of every two people die of a heart attack or stroke. I want to lessen my odds. That's why I'll try to follow doctor's orders and watch my diet and exercise. My Dad's doctor gave him the book, "Good Fat, Bad Fat." I've already started reading it.


Every morning, I eat oatmeal for breakfast. I eat it with low fat milk. So, breakfast isn't the culprit. I don't eat anything too terrible for lunch or dinner. I hardly ever eat fast food. It's just a little of this, and a little of that that I need to avoid. And, I need to add more fruits and vegetables, beans and grains, and whatever else I read about in the "Good Fat, Bad Fat" book. It's sometimes tricky to know what's best to eat. What I read today, will be contradicted by what I read tomorrow. Dietitians can sound convincing, no matter their beliefs. Even the experts have difficulty sorting out the truth.

On to a different topic. I'm testing the ScribeFire Firefox extension. It's a blog editor that allows you to update your blog through Firefox. You can drag and drop formatted text from the web into your blog. You can post entries, take notes, upload images, set timestamps, and more. It works with Blogger, Wordpress, Xanga, LiveJournal, Windows Live Spaces, Tumblr, MySpace, Movable Type, and others. I just want to see if this will post o.k. I'll test some of these other features, later on.

I posted this as a draft. ScribeFire worked as it was supposed to. I'm glad. The computer I'm using doesn't have any other blog editor. I usually just use the editor that comes with Xanga. My family's computer has Windows Live Writer, which is impressive software. I can't download it onto this computer, which is a MacBook.