Agatha was a small desert cottonwood sapling. Though she loved the warm desert clime, she longed for company, and, above all, a home.
Other trees in other lands would send her dispatches, and talk about the dwellings next to them. As Agatha read about the Colonials, Cape Cods, and Art Deco Moderns, she sunk into despair, sure that she would spend the rest of her life in the barren stretch of desert, quite lonely, and quite homeless.
One day she was surprised to see that she had company. A man named Lance walked around her, scanning the ground. He would occasionally stop to drink water from a large bottle, and when he didn’t do that, all he would do was say the word “treasure.”
Agatha asked Lance why he kept saying that word, and Lance simply swept his hand, indicating the ground in which Agatha grew.
Agatha’s chosen place to grow was a little known section of the desert in which assorted multicolored rocks had, with the passage of time, dwindled down to sand. Now, the stretch that surrounded Agatha was a rainbow of color.
The man was filling bags with the sand, and Agatha, so glad to have company, pointed out assorted special pigments that she had noticed in her life of sitting still and meditating while the wind blew the sand this way and that. Then, because she wanted Lance to stay—for she had never had company—she suggested that they spend the day playing Pinochle, for Agatha had always longed to play with a friend.
They played for a time, until, at last, Lance said that, sadly, he needed to go.
“I would love to stay longer,” he said, “but I’m out of water, and must take the sand back to my workshop.”
“Wait,” said Agatha, “we cottonwoods, as any naturalist can tell you, are particularly adept at finding water. In fact, we can often point out little known wells, for we choose to grow where water is near.”
She pointed out a nearby well, and the man rejoiced.
“Now I don’t need to keep coming here for my artistic endeavors,” he exclaimed, “why, I could build a workshop right here.”
Agatha rejoiced at the prospect of Lance’s frequent proximity, and pointed out yet more deposits of the precious sand, the better to spur on Lance’s creative endeavors.
So it was that Lance, now in possession of the sand he needed to make his works, set up a glassblowing workshop right there, in the middle of the desert. He took Agatha home with him, and so that she could stay warm, built a greenhouse next to his home. There, in her dwelling of multicolored panes of glass, she basked in the sun, feeling not only the warmth of its rays, but the joy of finally having a house of her own.
Other trees in other lands would send her dispatches, and talk about the dwellings next to them. As Agatha read about the Colonials, Cape Cods, and Art Deco Moderns, she sunk into despair, sure that she would spend the rest of her life in the barren stretch of desert, quite lonely, and quite homeless.
One day she was surprised to see that she had company. A man named Lance walked around her, scanning the ground. He would occasionally stop to drink water from a large bottle, and when he didn’t do that, all he would do was say the word “treasure.”
Agatha asked Lance why he kept saying that word, and Lance simply swept his hand, indicating the ground in which Agatha grew.
Agatha’s chosen place to grow was a little known section of the desert in which assorted multicolored rocks had, with the passage of time, dwindled down to sand. Now, the stretch that surrounded Agatha was a rainbow of color.
The man was filling bags with the sand, and Agatha, so glad to have company, pointed out assorted special pigments that she had noticed in her life of sitting still and meditating while the wind blew the sand this way and that. Then, because she wanted Lance to stay—for she had never had company—she suggested that they spend the day playing Pinochle, for Agatha had always longed to play with a friend.
They played for a time, until, at last, Lance said that, sadly, he needed to go.
“I would love to stay longer,” he said, “but I’m out of water, and must take the sand back to my workshop.”
“Wait,” said Agatha, “we cottonwoods, as any naturalist can tell you, are particularly adept at finding water. In fact, we can often point out little known wells, for we choose to grow where water is near.”
She pointed out a nearby well, and the man rejoiced.
“Now I don’t need to keep coming here for my artistic endeavors,” he exclaimed, “why, I could build a workshop right here.”
Agatha rejoiced at the prospect of Lance’s frequent proximity, and pointed out yet more deposits of the precious sand, the better to spur on Lance’s creative endeavors.
So it was that Lance, now in possession of the sand he needed to make his works, set up a glassblowing workshop right there, in the middle of the desert. He took Agatha home with him, and so that she could stay warm, built a greenhouse next to his home. There, in her dwelling of multicolored panes of glass, she basked in the sun, feeling not only the warmth of its rays, but the joy of finally having a house of her own.
