# Scribner's Monthly/Volume 3/Number 1/The Oak Tree's Christmas Gift

Extracted from Scribner's magazine, vol. 3 1871-72, pp. 320–325.
THE OAK TREE'S CHRISTMAS GIFT.
By Julian Hawthorne
Near that spot where irregular walls of red sandstone pile themselves together to form Cape Ann, there stood, not many years ago, a venerable oak tree. Its years had been many, and it had seen much that was sad and strange, and some things that were more strange and joyful. One might imagine that every branch could murmur a history—every leaf rustle a tale. But the oak tree, if it had a mystery to reveal, never while it lived revealed it; or, perhaps, of the many who had reclined in its shade, not one had possessed the power to extract a significance from its multitudinous and ceaseless prattle. Certain it is that no one, even of those who had known it longest and most intimately, ever dreamed there was a meaning in its low-toned talk.
The ocean alone was the oak tree's confidant; they kept up a never-ending conversation together. The tree opened its heart unreservedly to its immeasurably ancient friend, who, in return, sent it soft messages on the June breezes, or bellowed forth thunderous warnings on the September gales. No wonder that, under the guidance of an instructor so profoundly wise, of experience so inimitably vast, yet possessing, in all its vigor, the freshness and power of an immortal youth, the oak tree should become inspired, during the two or three centuries of its existence, with countless noble thoughts and lofty aspirations, and long to do something to prove itself a worthy pupil of its mighty master. But many years had passed, and still the opportunity delayed. In summer tree spread a cool shade across the green-sward, and in winter gave broken branches to kindle poor people's fires; more it could not do, and yet with this it was not satisfied. It yearned for a task commensurate with the height of its love and knowledge; gladly would it have given up its life in the accomplishment of an object worthy of its sacrifice; but alas! it was but a tree, and doomed to stand forever where it grew. Why had it not been made a man, speaking in language men could comprehend,—able to walk amongst them, and pour, forth the truth and wisdom with which its soul was overburdened? In the lonely nights the oak tree tossed its great arms tumultuously abroad, and called to the sea for comfort and counsel; and the sea beat out a resounding answer on the shore, bidding it wait, and trust to the future to bring the opportunity at last.
One night, in the heart of winter, the oak stood looking out across the gloomy ocean, its bare brown arms laden with newly-fallen snow. The prospect was a bleak and dismal one, relieved only by the warm glow of a candle in the window of the neighboring cottage. By the candle sat the young wife of Skipper Donne, who owned the fastest schooner on the coast; and near at hand, in a cradle, a young child lay sleeping. The mother, ever and anon, would turn her face to the window, and a shade of anxiety would flit across her sweet and thoughtful features; but when she looked upon the sleeping child the shade would soften and lighten, and merge at last into a mother's smile. As the hours passed on, however, and still her husband did not return, her eyes were turned more often to the window than to the child. The oak tree wished from the bottom of its heart that it could have soothed and comforted her; standing, as it did, on the plot of ground be- longing to the cottage, it felt a special interest and affection for its inhabitants. It rustled its crisp brown leaves, and sighed sympathizingly; but the wife of Skipper Donne never so much as looked at it, unless it were to shudder at its cold branches outlined against the wintry sky. The oak tree was in despair, and had not the heart to seek consolation even from the immemorial friend who sobbed and murmured among the rocks and weeds on the shore. It had never felt quite so miserable.
All at once there sounded on the breeze the noise of rustling sails, the splash of waves against the ship's side, and the hoarse but low-spoken orders of the skipper to his men. The schooner brought up against the wind, and cast her anchor. Dark figures moved to and fro on her deck; then the boat was launched, some heavy, solid object was lowered into it, the men followed, and the skipper took his place at the helm. They rowed ashore with muffled oars, and drew the boat up silently on a sandy spot between two rocks. Then the heavy, solid object was lifted out, and borne with difficulty up the bank, and set down at the oak tree's foot. It was a square, massive chest, heavily clamped with brass, and studded with nails. Evidently it contained something of vast value; it is in such receptacles as this that tradition places the ill-gotten gains of Captain Kidd, and surely there was room, within its sturdy framework, for a whole fortune of silver and gold. Perhaps, too, this chest was made heavier still by the stain of innocent blood; but, if so, it is a secret which the oak, in life or death, has never once revealed, and therefore let us be thankful.
"Let's anchor her here for the present, my lads," said the skipper to his men. "There's no chance to divide our fortune till these hawks of custom-house officers be off our wake. Let but this night pass, and they find us in the morning safe in port and no tell-tale ballast in the hold, and we may enjoy a merry Christmas even yet. Come! now, to work!"
Thus urged, the men grasped the heavy picks and spades they had brought with them, and in half an hour had made a deep excavation directly under the oak tree's roots; and here the mysterious chest found its resting-place. Then the earth was shovelled back and stamped down; fresh snow was brought and scattered over it, and soon not a sign of the recent disturbance remained. The laborers paused, and their captain spoke again.
"And now, my lads," said he, "we part for this night. But first let us join hands, and swear never, in life or death, to reveal what lies beneath yon oak tree. It belongs to us; we have labored and fought for it; let no outsider, then, deprive us of it. To-morrow, if the coast be clear, we'll heave it up again; but if we must wait longer, let it be in silence; and if any of us should chance, meanwhile, to part his cable, then let the rest divide. Come, your hands!"
The men joined hands accordingly, and swore; and even as the oath was spoken, the topmost branches of the oak tree caught the distant sound of horses' hoofs advancing on the frozen road to the southward. It strove to whisper the news to the skipper, as he leaned against its trunk, but it could not. The sound came nearer. Now the men had departed, and gone down the slope to the boat. The skipper remained awhile musing, with folded arms. At last, in a kind of fanciful humor, he addressed the oak tree:—
"I have confided all I have to thee, my sturdy friend; see to it thou guardest it well. Let no golden kernels be found in thy acorns—no silvery moss upon thy branches. Let no sign appear written on thy leaves of the weighty secret at thy root. And when the time comes for thee to present thy gift, whether it be to-morrow or a hundred years hence, let none but friendly eyes see, or friendly hands accept it. Farewell, till our next meeting."
So speaking the skipper turned away, and directed his steps toward the cottage window, where the light still burned, and seemed to reflect a soft and genial radiance over his weather-beaten face. The oak tree was thrill- ed as it had never been before. For never yet, in all the long years of its existence, had any human being thought of speaking to it. Mankind, whom it loved so much, had seemed separated from it forever by a gulf that every day grew wider and more deep. But now all was changed. In a moment its loneliness was gone—its solitude was a thing of the past. It had become the guardian of a human secret, the sharer of a human interest, the confidant of a human being. It quivered to its topmost twig with happiness, and the sea rolled an enormous breaker to the shore, and dashed it into snowy foam, for sympathy. Scarcely had the sound died away among the rocks when the sharp crack of a pistol-shot rang out on the beach, succeeded by hoarse cries, and the noise of a furious struggle. The skipper paused, hesitated a moment with his eyes fixed on the cottage window, and then, with set teeth, plunged down the bank and into the midst of the conflict. In his hand he held a pistol. A tall, military figure stepped out to confront him, and demanded his surrender. For answer, the skipper raised his weapon and fired: the tall military figure reeled and feel headlong into the snow; but the skipper also staggered back, catching at the air with his hands, and so sank down upon the shore. The custom-house officers gathered up their prisoners and their dead leader, and rode away, leaving Donne lying where he fell. As the oak tree stood horror-stricken, the door of the cottage opened, and a woman with a white, terrified face came swiftly across the snow, and knelt down by the body. She strained the rough form fiercely in her arms, and tried to breathe her life through his lips. There were no tears in her eyes: they were unnaturally bright. After a while a faint, quivering smile flickered over her drawn features. She broke forth in tremulous laughter. "Wake up! Will, dear Will, wake up! baby's waiting to kiss thee; wake up, my darling."
Though her voice was weak and crazed, yet, wakening the endless echoes of immortal love, it made itself heard even across the mighty chasm of death. For a moment, life fluttered back to the man's heart. He felt her with him, and was, perhaps, dimly conscious that he was leaving her destitute in a lonely world. He partly raised his arm, and pointed upwards to where the oak tree was growing on the summit of the slope. "There!" he whispered, "there is treasure—seek for it!"
The woman, stooping down, caught his words, and they remained forever written in her brain, but what their meaning was she comprehended not, and when she was found the next morning sitting by the dead man, stroking his cold face with a hand scarcely less cold, all she could do was to look vacantly at the group of pitying faces, and say, pointing upwards:—
"There is treasure—seek for it!"
They led her back to the cottage, where the child was crying in the cradle from cold and hunger. At the sight of it, her wandering gaze softened and concentrated; she took it to her bosom and became quiet and silent. but if any one questioned her, or sought to attract or divert her attention, she only fixed her weird eyes upon them, and said gently, pointing upwards:
"There is treasure—seek for it!"
So passed that Christmas day, a hundred years and more ago. During all that time the heavy secret lay hidden and unsuspected at the oak tree's root.
The widow Donne lived for many years, and her son grew up to be a stalwart fisherman, known throughout the country side for his strength and courage, and for the tender care he took of his widowed mother. She had become a gentle, quiet woman, with strange, unfathomable eyes, that fascinated and overawed those she looked upon: and the country people scarcely knowing what to make of her, decided among themselves that she must be a sort of sibyl or prophetess, and her insane wanderings were quoted and discussed as though they contained a germ of wisdom all the more invaluable because no one could comprehend it. Most often on her lips was that mysterious saying about the treasure: it was generally considered to be a religious exhortation, meaning that the treasures of heaven were to be sought for; and it is said that more than one stubborn spirit, whose heart refused to be touched by the good words of the parish minister, was quelled and softened with the crazy utterances of this old fisherman's widow.
But the war of the Revolution devastated the land, and times grew harder and harder. The oak tree, standing immovably in its place, saw poverty tighten its grasp, day by day, and year by year, on the inhabitants of the little cottage. The brass-clamped chest seemed to burn at its root, but it was powerless to speak, or give forth the wealth which had been entrusted to its keeping. Often it questioned the ocean, but the answers it received were hard to understand, and gave the oak tree but scanty comfort. It seemed that it must wait and hope, and that in time, perhaps, the solution of the problem would be attained. Sometimes, in the urgency of its desire, the tree half regretted that it had ever become mixed up with human interests and sorrows: almost preferable seemed its former lonely but more undisturbed and quiet existence. But the link which bound it to mankind could not be broken with a wish; the oak was held to its destiny, and in it found its only happiness, sad though it were.
One Christmas eve, when the widow Donne had grown very old and infirm, she rose up from her place before the fire, and seemed to be making preparations to go out. Her son, accustomed always to humor her fancies, wrapped a warm cloak around her shoulders, and followed her forth into the night. She walked along the shore to a spot just below where the oak tree grew, and there stopped and threw herself upon her knees. A little mound of snow, blown together by the wind, chanced to lie close beside her as she knelt. She stooped down and pressed her lips to it, and stroked it with her aged hands, murmuring unintelligible words. Suddenly she raised her head and pointed upwards, to where the oak stood, bare and brown against the sky.
"There!" she cried, "there is treasure—seek for it!"
Her son lifted her up, and carried her back to the cottage, musing over her strange behavior. "She seemed to point to the old oak tree!" he said to himself, and ever afterwards the saying about the treasure was associated with the oak tree in his mind. That night the widow Donne died; but that night, also, a child was born to her son. And so another Christmas passed away.
The war had long been over, now, and the land began to be prosperous once more. The little cottage began to look more comfortable: an addition had been built to it, and. the little plot of ground adjoining had been enclosed with a picket-fence. Near the further end of this enclosure stood the venerable oak tree: it was looked upon with respect and reverence, as being in some way connected with the destiny of the family. The saying of the old crazy woman about the treasure had been handed down from the last generation, and was now thought to refer to the oak, though how no one could tell. A circular bench had been constructed around its trunk, on which the old widow's son, himself an old man now, used to sit and chat with his children in the summer afternoons. Often was the story of the winter's night fifty years before repeated, when grief and horror had driven the wife of the skipper mad; and many a time was the meaning of the strange sentence so often on her lips discussed. The old oak listened, and longed to drop a word into the conversation which should render all the mystery clear; but it could only sigh and murmur and rustle unintelligibly with its leaves; and sometimes, had it not been for the reassuring thunder of the surf upon the rocks, it would have quite lost heart and hope. But its immemorial friend was just as fresh and vigorous and confident as when the oak first peeped forth out of the acorn, and kept up the tree's spirits in its own despite. They would have risen high enough could that dead weight of gold and silver at its roots have been lifted from its position.
Still time went on, and full eighty years had passed since the night of the skipper's tragic death. His son had followed him, and now a third generation, newly introduced into the world, climbed on the knees of parents who were already approaching middle age. One, a fair-haired girl, with wide blue eyes, was called Mildred, after her great-grandmother, whom she was believed closely to resemble. She was a singular child: shy and reserved in manner, and fond of wandering off by herself among the rocks and trees, listening to the roar of the surf and the sighing of the wind. Her favorite position was at the foot of the old oak tree; she would sit with her fair head leaning against its rugged bole, running over in her mind the strange stories of by-gone years, and striving, in her childish way, to fathom the mystery which seemed to underlie them. The ancient tree seemed to cast a peculiarly grateful shade about this child, and perhaps succeeded better than ever heretofore in establishing some sort of communication. Mildred loved it with all her heart, and told it all her secrets; and the tree received them in the most sacred confidence, never repeating them even to the ocean. The latter, however, appreciated the delicacy of the oak's feelings, and never took the least offense. So the three became and remained fast friends long after the girl had ceased to be a child.
Meanwhile the affairs at the cottage had shared in the general prosperity. Mildred's parents had striven to give their children a better education than they themselves had had: their sons were sent to college, and Mildred's naturally refined and thoughtful nature received such improvement as study and accomplishments could give it. But, when all had been done, and the sons had gone forth into the world, all the money which had been saved was spent, and soon after came the war of '61, and times were hard again, and prospects gloomy. The tree wondered whether the hour to deliver up its secret had not yet come.
One day in August, a young man, elegantly dressed, with a valise in his hand, came to the cottage door and asked if he might have lodging there. All the hotels were filled, and this was his last chance. The Donnes were pleased with the young man's frank address and engaging manner, and finally consented to receive him; and he soon became a favorite with them all. He was rich and well connected, and told them many tales of the outside world which they had never known; but when he talked, his eyes most often sought sympathy from Mildred's; and it was she who listened to him with the most rapt attention; and not many weeks had passed before they knew they loved each other.
Sitting together one evening beneath the oak tree, Mildred told her lover the weird story, which, from her frequent musings over it, had become to her as real as if she herself had been an actor in it. He listened to it in silence, and then remained for some time plunged in thought.
"What was the name of the custom-house captain?" asked he at last.
"I never heard," answered Mildred. "Because," continued her companion, "your story reminds me somewhat of a tradition in our own family, which resided somewhere here about a hundred years ago. My great-grandfather is said to have ridden at the head of a party of custom-house officers to arrest a desperate pirate who was believed to have gotten possession of a vast amount of treasure. They encountered the whole crew just as they were on the point of embarking, and on their refusing to surrender, at once attacked them. My great-grandfather was killed by the pirate captain, though not before he had himself sent a bullet through his murderer's heart. But no treasure ever was discovered."
"How strange!" murmured Mildred, with wide open eyes; and then her mother's voice called in the young people from the cool night air.
They were to be married that winter, and Holinshed was to build a handsome villa on the site of the old cottage. The library window was to come right under the shadow of the ancient oak tree, and they were all to live together happily for evermore. Early in October, Hollinshed left them, to arrange his affairs and make his preparations. In a month he was to be with them again. He and Mildred parted beneath the time-honored oak, and what passed between them is known to it alone; it was too discreet ever to babble of it, albeit to the garrulousness of old age much might have been allowed. After he had gone, the tree and Mildred were inseparable. The tree dropped gorgeous leaves, tinged with crimson, gold, and green, into Mildred's lap, and she made them into garlands which she wore for its sake, and placed clusters of them about her chamber, so that the earliest light of morning might reveal them to her. The oak now felt a peace and happiness it had never known before. Even the burden of its ancient secret was well-nigh forgotten. What need was there to furnish gold to those who already possessed a superfluity? So, with an involuntary sigh that, after all its hundred years of waiting, it should be permitted nothing more than to witness a joy to which it could not contribute, the venerable tree settled down to the prospect of an uneventful and green old age.
The weeks passed on, and November came: but no Holinshed. The weeks dragged on, and December came: but not Holinshed. Snow lay upon the ground now, and the wintry gusts stripped great brown leaves from the oak tree's knotted arms; these Mildred gathered up and put in her bosom, saying to herself that her heart was not less sere than they, At last the morning of Christmas eve arrived. It was just a hundred years since that heavy box had been intrusted to the oak tree's care. Small chance of its ever seeing the light of day again.
Towards evening Mildred threw her cloak about her shoulders, and slipped unperceived out of the house. The air was still, and warmer than usual; a strange, indefinable moaning came hovering in from the sea; it was evident that a great storm was about to burst upon Cape Ann. Mildred reached the oak tree, and sank down upon the circular bench which still encompassed it, and gazed out upon the desolate Atlantic. The branches of the old tree tried to murmur a word of sympathy, but only gave forth a discordant croak. Mildred's life seemed shipping away from her; she felt as if she could never rise from that bench again.
But in a moment more her ear caught the sound of a hurrying step on the road, and that was all she was conscious of until she found herself in her lover's arms. He had come back to her, and he was safe. At last he said, in a voice whose tremor he could not command:—
"But I've come to tell you that I am not what I was, my darling. We can build no beautiful villa on the site of the old cottage. If you take me now, Mildred, you take a beggar. I have no money—no home. The war has taken the one, and destroyed the other. Yet I will make a fortune with my hands, if I may work for you also."
Mildred answered, with her head on his shoulder:—
"You have my love, and you live in my heart; and yet you call yourself a beggar, and homeless." But Holinshed never ventured to do it again.
They went on into the house, and left the tree to itself. A thrill ran through it from topmost branch to root. It lifted its head and waved its arms triumphantly. The dried-up sap seemed to course through its cells once more. It sent forth a low call to the ocean, and the ocean answered with a long-drawn, thunderous moan, through which yet quivered a chord of sublime joy, as if mourning and yet rejoicing that now, after the weary waiting and disappointed hopes of a century, the moment when the end of all must take place had arrived; for no great purpose can be attained without sacrifice, and the oak now felt that the accomplishment of its life-long desire would only be effected at that life's cost. Yet it did not shrink, but gloried in the conviction.
Now the wind began to rise, and black clouds gathered together to witness the final scene. The sea bellowed like an imprisoned lion, and leaped madly forward up the steep bank, as if striving to clasp its ancient friend in a last embrace. The tree swayed and strained, and was bent hither and thither in the mad throes of its grand agony. Now it seemed to turn towards the house, where those for whom it was about to die were sleeping unconscious of its sacrifice;—now towards the tumultuous ocean, which for so many centuries had been its constant companion and unwavering friend. Then the wind yelled yet more fiercely, the clouds gathered closer and more darkly still, the sea sent a gigantic breaker booming and foaming to the coast, freighted with a last mighty farewell, and the faithful oak tree, with a final convulsive throb and wild, appalling shriek of victory, was wrenched away from its sturdy foothold in its mother-earth, and flung, crushed and head-long, down the rocky slope.
"Oh! where is the dear old oak tree?" cried Mildred. "See! it has been torn up by the roots and fallen head foremost down the bank," exclaimed Holinshed. "But what is that sticking up there in the roots? Is it a rock, or—a box!"
They approached closer. The tree had fallen on its branches, and its knotted and twisted roots spread upward thirty feet into the air. And there, in the midst of them, bound round and firmly clutched, even in death, by those faithful hands, appeared the massive, brass-bound chest, which it had guarded so well, and now delivered up again so nobly. As Mildred and Holinshed gazed up at it in wonder-stricken silence, it was loosened from its position, and fell crashing down upon a jut of rock. The decayed wood was shattered by the blow, and a flood of gold, silver, and precious stones was scattered in countless profusion at their feet—the oak tree's Christmas Gift; only at the moment, no one thought of that. But the next morning, when the first excitement was over, they sought for the old tree, and sought for it in vain. Its immemorial friend had come up silently in the night, and borne the lifeless remains away upon its soft and mighty bosom.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1934, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 89 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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