this way and that so many times, that now she realized that she did not know which way to turn to find her hopie. She ran around and around in a frenzy, looking for some familiar landmark, but she found none. It was no use. She was quite, quite lost, and she threw herself down on the log again and wept with the terrible desolation of this knowledge. Now nothing seemed wonderful to her any longer. The trees looked gro tesque and strange all about her; the sound of the brook was no longer cheerful, but mocking; the butterfly had disappeared, and the flowers lay dead at her feet. Every time a twig snapped she was terrified. She won dered now how she could ever have been so foolish as to leave her father’s house and all the safe comfort that she had known there. Suddenly she heard steps coming through the forest and saw a man ap proaching. Now she was more fright ened than ever. She longed to get up and run away, but she seemed frozen to the spot. So she sat where she was and only sobbed the louder. As he came nearer he saw her and stopped. “ Little girl,” he said, “Why do you weep?” When he spoke she was no longer frightened for his voice was wonderfully kind. “ I’m lost,” she said. “I came into the woods and I don’t know the way out.” “Which way did you come?” “That’s what I don’t know. I’ve been going ’round and ’round. I don’t know where I am. I don’t know how to get home. Oh, why did I ever come?” she sobbed. “Well, don’t cry. Come with me, and we’ll find a way out,” he said, slipping her hand into his. Together they followed the forest trails on and on and on, and at last they came to a little knoll where a great tree stood. When they had gone past the tree they were in a clear place, from which they could see the country all around. Suddenly the lit tle girl exclaimed with joy, “ There it is now! I can see it now! There is the apple tree, there is the swing, there is my father’s house! And this,” she said, turning to the tree behind her, “ is the big tree on the hill that I am always watching from my yard at home. I know the way now. I can get home from here.”
everywhere— old and young, rich and poor, little and big. It is a story for you. It means much at Christmas. Far away on the edge of a forest, a little girl once lived. Her home was a pleasant enough place, with most of the things dear to the heart of a child—an apple tree, a swing, a garden gate. For the most part she was quite happy to stay in her own yard, but once in awhile, she looked with longing toward the for est and wondered what lay over these in its mysterious shadows. One day the urge to find out was so strong upon her that she left the shade of the apple tree, and went through the garden gate and into the woods beyond. She was delighted with what she found! The ground beneath the trees was carpeted with wild flow ers and, in her eagerness, she clutched at first one and then another. The distant music of a brook en ticed her and she followed on until she came upon it meandering through the meadow, now babbling over mossy stones in the sunlight, now losing itself in the tall grasses along its bank. Just to look at it made her very thirsty and, stooping down, she cupped her hands and raised some of the water to her lips. It was cool and refreshing, and she stooped for more. Then a brilliant butterfly captured her fancy and away she ran, chasing it through the tangle of undergrowth, but never quite able to close her hands upon it. She ran, and she ran, and she ran. At last she grew weary and sat down upon a fallen log. The flowers she had gathered were withered now, so she let them fall, and just sat and watched the long fingers of the sunlight reaching through the trees, and making strange patterns of light on the shadows be low. She reached out her own fingers to snatch at the sunbeams, and her hand seemed to glow strangely in the borrowed light. It felt warm and good. “ Ah,” she said, “ The world is a beautiful place indeed. I am so glad I came to see for myself. But now I guess I better be going home.” She rose, and stretched herself, and turned to go back, and suddenly ter ror seized her! She found that she had no idea in which direction “ back” was. She had come so far and turned
“Well, I will leave you then,” the stranger said. “ But, before I go let me tell you something. You had bet ter not come into these woods again. It is dangerous for a little girl to go so far from home. But, if you should ever come again, remember this hill and this tree. From here you will be able to see your way back. If you ever get lost again, just come to the tree on the hill.” The little girl thanked him and ran happily home. This is the story of The Tree on the Hill. It is a good story because it is a true story. It happened to a little girl I knew very well. She left her Fa ther’s house to go out into the world and see what it was like. She chased the butterflies of pleasure; she drank of the streams of earthly delights; she snatched at the beauties of sight and sound around her; she sought to warm her hands at the sunshine of this world! At last the world grew bleak around her and she sat down and wept, for she realized that she was lost. Then a stranger came and spoke to her of God. He told her of Jesus Christ Who came into the world to seek and to save the lost. He took her by the hand and led her up a hill—a little hill called Calvary — and there, as they stood beside the tree where the Lord Jesus was crucified, the stranger told her how it was for her He died. “ It was your sin and my sin that nailed Him to the tree,” he said. She looked at the Tree on the Hill and she believed, and knew that she was not lost any longer, but that her Father’s house lay just beyond. Now, as she goes about the world, she keeps her eyes on the tree, for she knows that God has His eye upon it, too, and that it is only as she stands within the shadow of the cross that she can see all the way home to God. This is the story of the Tree on the Hill. It is a good story, for it is a true story. It happened to a little girl who now says to all other little girls —yes, and little boys too, “Won’t you come to the Tree on the H ill?” When she had finished, the chil dren sat quietly for a moment, and then Janey said, “The little girl was you, wasn’t it, Mother?” But Mother only smiled. “ Is that your Father coming now?” she said.
DECEMBER, 1961
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