"Very well," was the mayor's decision--and little they guessed what the
words were destined to mean--"I will do it myself." And that year he
planted one hundred trees, the first the island had ever seen.
"Too cold," said the islanders; "the severe north winds and storms will
kill them all."
"Then I will plant more," said the unperturbed mayor. And for the
fifty years that he lived on the island he did so. He planted trees
each year; and, moreover, he had deeded to the island government land
which he turned into public squares and parks, and where each spring he
set out shrubs and plants.
Moistened by the salt mist the trees did not wither, but grew
prodigiously. In all that expanse of turbulent sea--and only those who
have seen the North Sea in a storm know how turbulent it can be--there
had not been a foot of ground on which the birds, storm-driven across
the water-waste, could rest in their flight. Hundreds of dead birds
often covered the surface of the sea. Then one day the trees had grown
tall enough to look over the sea, and, spent and driven, the first
birds came and rested in their leafy shelter.
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