2 ACORN The Lily and The Cross The lily lifted her head and smiled a good morning to her neighbors. Of all the flowers she was most pure and beautiful. The sunbeams played around her and kissed her white petals with more tenderness than was bestowed upon any of the other flowers. They told her of their travels and what they had seen, the green fields, the warm rains, the cold and snow, the pretty villages, the big cities with their crowded streets and of the poverty, the filth and wickedness found among those restless crowds. And then they told her the wondrous story of Christmas in remembrance of the Christ child of humble birth. 'Twas He who taught the wise men, blessed the poor and forgave the wicked. "We know these things," they said, 'for high on the church is the cross that tells of His suffering and glory." These were surely strange things the sunbeams had told her, but though it was all mysterious, she listened and loved the beautiful story so new to her, but very old to them, for they had heard it in many lands. When the sunbeams had gone she wondered and wondered what the big world was like. They had spoken of cold and snow, of church, and the Christ; they had described the cross that at times seemed to be suspended in the air. And these other words, poor filth, and wickedness. What did it all mean? It was a vast sea of bewilderment, for her world was the hot house and she had known nothing but warmth and sunshine. It was a very perplexed lily that went to sleep Christmas eve and all night she dreamed of the curious cross and the many things it stood for; faith, hope, charity, pain, suffering, peace and happiness. In the morning she awoke at the first call of the sunbeams. "Merry Christmas," they called, "It is Christmas day." They were so happy that the lily felt happy too. But the lily's Christmas was to be a decided change from anything she had known before. Already the gardener was coming toward her with the clippers in his hand. She was in an instant cruelly severed from her roots and placed in the arms of a red-faced messenger boy with other lilies, all of which she learned were to be sent to the church. "Good-bye," called the sunbeams, sorry to lose her. "Now you will see the world perhaps." It hurt the flower to be cut from its roots. "This must be pain," she thought, as she remembered what the sunbeams had said about the intense pain suffered by the Savior. Just then the careless boy dropped her and left her lying in the snowy street. ACORN 3 As she lay there she wondered if this awful feeling were cold. How she longed for the sunbeams to come and cheer her with their bright faces. They had told her of the Christmas music in the church and now she would miss it all. She looked toward the sky, and there in the east, she saw the cross. Somehow it seemed to soothe her sorrow and fill her heart with a bursting gladness. But what was that! The murmur of voices softly singing a Christmas song reached her ear. She listened as the song of the "Babe in the Manger" was sung. Then they sang another and long after it had died away the refrain still surged through the lily's soul, "Peace on earth, good will to men." The night came cold and dark; the sunbeams had long been gone. "I wonder," thought the lily, "if the cross will go too? The sunbeams, the songs and people had gone and the snow, the cold and the darkness will surely go as well. Then I wonder if the cross will go?" But as the night grew darker it seemed to blaze forth in a light of its own. She gazed bewildered at the sight, for it inspired awe and reverence. No longer did it think of the sunbeams. No longer did it feel the cold. Here was something that would bring comfort during the long hours when pain was cruel and when brightness had gone. A calm peacefulness, mingled with an infinite longing, filled the lily's soul. "Take me to you, O! blessed cross," she cried, and the cross looked down a benediction. M. R. B., '11. O tiny seed of wondrous oaken birth, Tell us the story of the mighty force That lies concealed within your modest shell, Ere nature's voice first summons it to growth. Today a seed blown by the wayward winds, Tomorrow storm defying in your might; Today a seed of worthless prize to man; Tomorrow nations crave your ripened growth. Your oaken wood their kingly courts adorn, And serve as floors for royal feet to tread. The polished table of the banquet hall, Your stately trunk and giant branches form. O, little seed, mysterious world of life, How much our common manhood looks to you. You give the wood wherewith our homes are built, And leaves enriching barren plots of earth That serve as shelter from the noon day sun. A Corresponding Friend