The Maccabaean

T

In the center of the market-place lay an old Log. By all appearances it was dead. But on a quiet summer evening, when sleep unfolded everything around it and the moon and stars were napping behind a cloud, the old witch, Hocus Pocus, would bring the Log to life again.

All I know of the little town where he lies, I owe to him. His stories generally begin with himself, and rightly so, for the divine center of every being is himself; the rest of the world simply circles around him. . .

Once upon a time the Log was a mighty tree growing in a dense forest. His roots penetrated deep into the ground and his branches rose high into the heavens. He pushed himself above the other trees of the forest, and, aspiring to be higher than any of them, it seemed to him that one more tiptoe, one more stretch upward, and he would be crowned by the heavens. He lived tolerably well. He had thousands of leaves with which to breathe and drink in the good air. He possessed many roots to gather up sap and salt. And to elevate his spirits there were bird concerts in his branches and masques in the heavens. . He heard symphonies and operas, and the clouds were driven about picturesquely by the wind. That was in the summer time.

But in the winter, the tree drew on his white mantle and fell into a doze. He dreamt of worlds and worlds far beyond him. Once, while slumbering, he heard a heavy thud—"truk-truk," and he muttered drowsily, "Is it thunder or the axe? Am I attacked or my neighbor?" And

before he knew, he was stretched out lengthwise on the snow. . . .

lengthwise on the snow. . . . But he turned in his sleep and dreamt on and on. He was lost beyond a doubt; a new world was about to open for him; a new life. He would never again see his forest or strive among his equals, but he would be eternally an alien. . . .

Yet he dreamt that he had become themast of a ship and scudded along withsome great sea-monster on the great sea.He beheld the world in all its splendor.But, never, never did he forget his ownforest, and when he neared the shore, he,as a mast, bowed and gave it greeting.And the wind often brought him the scentof leaves, and on the ship there was acaged bird who sang. . . . So he dreamt,and the axe cut into his sides and toreasunder the fibre. But that was no greathurt. Other trees had been cut down andbroken into splinters or burnt to ashes,but their ashes were scattered to the winds,—and he would become a great mast! . . .

But when he awoke he was a beam built into a house, closed in, suffocating in darkness, oppressed on every side. He swooned away, and slept an empty sleep, without dreams and hopeless.

So he slept—Was it a century or more? —until he was disturbed once more. He was immersed in a sea of fire; there was a blaze around him, and tongues of flame licked him thirstily. “It is the end” he thought, “I am in hell.” . . .

But wherever he was, the world lived on, and he soon lumbered the market place, and there lay rotting. But his days of usefulness were not over. He gave sustenance to the wood-louse; kitchen maids wrenched large pieces from his sides; the