THE WHISPERER.
Uncle Joe,being “stumped” by the children to tell a story about a birch-tree, began as follows:—
“There was once a lovely princess who had a fairy for a godmother. This young princess was slender, graceful, and very fair to behold. She usually dressed in green, green being her favorite color.
“This pretty creature would have been a great favorite but for her troublesome habit of whispering. She had always some wonderful news, or seemed to have, which everybody must hear privately: so no wonder that she came to be known, at last, by the name of ‘The Whisperer.’
“Now, this conduct was very displeasing to the old fairy, who, being of a hasty temper, would often become angry, and scold and threaten her; though, when good-natured, she would smile most pleasantly upon her, and drop gold in her path.
“The princess, as may be imagined, liked to see herself well dressed; and every year she saved up the gold which her godmother had dropped, and spun and wove herself a fine golden mantle. The fairy was quite willing to find her in gold to spin; and all would havegone well, only for the habit above mentioned; which habit, I will say in passing, was very strong upon her in breezy weather.
“But one day the old lady, who, as has been remarked, was of rather a hasty turn, became so provoked, that she lost all patience with the whisperer, and, touching her with her wand, changed her, quick as thought, to a slender green tree.
“‘Now stand there and whisper to the winds!’ cried the angry fairy.
“And sure enough she did. The pretty, graceful tree did stand and whisper to the winds ever after, but always saved up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for itself a golden mantle, and, when decked in that, was as pleased as a tree could be to see itself so fine.
“And that’s the way, so I’ve been told,” said uncle Joe, laughing, “that birch-trees began. Go into the woods any time when there’s a light breeze stirring, and you may hear them whispering, whispering, whispering. They never fail, however, to save up sunshine enough through the long summer-days to weave for themselves fine golden mantles. But these fine golden mantles are sure to be spoiled by a rough old king who comes this way every year, storming and raging, and making a great bluster. He gives them white ones instead; but they are not as pretty.
“Say, my little children, do you know who this old king is?”