09

The Tinker Plants a Tree

Edward W. Frentz

Trees are the oldest living things in the world! Today there are growing in our country trees that were here when Columbus came to our land. Some of them were here even hundreds of years before he came.

“Only God makes trees, but sometimes we can help Him, ” said the Tinker in his story.

One day, when my Grandfather Gifford was about seven years old, he looked across the road to his father' s blacksmith shop. He saw someone sitting on the bench by the door and went over to find out who it was.

There he saw a little old man, with thick, bushy eyebrows and bright blue eyes. At the old man' s side was an open bag, in which grandfather could see some tools and sheets of tin. The man was a traveling tinker, who came once or twice a year to mend leaky pans and pails.

The old man was eating his lunch, a slice or two of bread, a bit of cold meat, and a cold potato. It seemed so poor a lunch, that grandfather went to the house and brought two big apples from the cellar. The old man thanked him and ate the apples. Then he got up, and went down to the brook for a drink of water. In a few minutes he came back and sat down on the bench near the door.

“Now, my boy, ” he said, “we will make a tree grow down by the brook. There should be one, for shade.”

“Make a tree! ” cried grandfather. “How can we make a tree? I thought only God made trees.”

“True, ” said the old man. “Only God makes trees, but sometimes we can help Him.”

With these words, he took from the bench at his side a stick that he had cut somewhere and had been using for a cane. It was slender and straight, and its smooth bark was a beautiful light-green color.

“From this, ” said the tinker, “we will make a tree in which the birds shall build their nests. Under it the animals shall find shelterfrom the hot sun. But first let us make some music. Take this stick down to the brook, and dip it in the water.”

My grandfather took the stick and did as the old man had told him. When he came back, the tinker had a large knife open in his hand. With it he made a cut through the bark of the stick, about a foot from one end. By holding the knife still, and turning the stick slowly toward him in his fingers, he cut the bark all the way round. Then he cut a big notch, near the end of the stick and, farther down, he made four or five smaller notches. Last of all, he laid the stick across his knee, and, turning it slowly, began to tap it gently with the handle of the knife.

After a while the tinker laid down the knife, took the stick in both hands, and gave it a little twist. At once, grandfather heard something pop. Then he saw the bark slip from the stick above the knife-cut, all in one long, round piece.

After this the old man cut away more than half of the part of the stick from which he had slipped the bark. Across the upper end he made a smooth, slanting cut. Then he told grandfather to wet the stick again, after which he slipped the bark back to its place.

The old tinker put the end of the stick in his mouth, placed his fingers over the smaller notches, and began to blow. As he lifted first one finger and then another, out of the deep notch came sweet music like the voice of a bird singing a long way off.

While the old man played, he seemed to forget all about grandfather. By and by he laid down the whistle, smiled, and said, “Come. Bring the whistle. Now we shall make the tree.”

They walked down to the brook together, and crossed over on some stepping-stones to a place where the ground was soft and black and wet. While the boy held the stick, the old man pushed it far down into the mud until it stood up straight, with the whistle at the upper end.

Then the old man bowed to the stick, and said:

“Little brother, we leave you here, where you will never be hungry or thirsty. You have made your sweet music for us today. But when you have grown tall and strong, gentle winds will make even sweeter music among your branches.”

A little while after that the old man put on his pack and went away; but my grandfather could not forget him or what he had done. Almost every day the little boy looked at the stick by the brook. The whistle at the top began to dry up, and the loose bark cracked open and fell off, until it seemed as if the whole stick must be dead.

But one day my grandfather saw a tiny bud below the place where the whistle had been. The bud became a little sprout, and the sprout became a little branch. Then other branches followed, until the stick was indeed a little tree.

Year after year it grew taller and stronger, until “The Tinker' s Willow” was known as the greatest tree in all the countryside. The birds did, indeed, build their nests among its branches, the winds made sweet music among its leaves, and the cattle lay in its shade on hot summer days.