Old Father Oak Tree became dismayed,
while beneath his branches the children played.
“I’ve lost my Book!” He cried and sobbed,
While the leaves of his branches fluttered and bobbed.
“A Storm blew through with a mighty breeze,
and tossed my book out among the other trees!”
The children looked up at Father’ Oak’s face,
“To find your book at once we shall race!”
They cast about the roots of the tree,
but to no avail; the book had blown free.
Across the wide forest its pages were scattered,
It’s bindings wind-torn, worn and tattered.
Little Blonde George who stood in the Northwest,
cried “If we work together, we’ll be at our best!
To find Father’s Oak’s book among the far boughs,
we must gather together and search high and low.
If we go out alone, our chances are slim,
to find his tome and return it to him.”
Red-headed Frances looked out North and East,
fidgeting with her skirt, pleat and crease.
Out from her pack she took her tools,
Lenses, gears, cogs, and wire on spools.
She build a machine that would comb the wood,
and set it out to find the book, as it should.
Impetuous Walter ran too and fro,
Searching high and searching low.
Over the Western Mountains he peeked,
And was the first to spot what they’d seek.
The spine of the book lodged among stones,
Far away from their houses and homes.
Raven-haired Beatrice threw caution aside.
West-by-Southwest she began to stride.
At home among the forest she went ever forward,
The Wild’s most intrepid explorer.
With the other children following in tow,
They walked and walked, with miles to go.
Precocious young Thomas cried “That’s not the right way!
Toward the Southeast, our path does stray.
I’ve read the maps and read the charts,
And I know navigation is science, not art.
Let’s take the pass that leads us straight there,
and victory in finding the Book we shall share.”
Pale young Este held up her hand.
“Hold, my friends, 'till we have surveyed the land.
The paths we walk must head back East
back towards Father Oak tree, at least.
Once the Book’s found, what good will it do,
if we cannot find our way back through?"
The six little children (and Frances’ finding machine)
all made their way through glade and green.
They found Father’s book, nestled in rocks
and yanked it free, stronger than an ox.
They carried it back towards Father Oak tree,
shining with a pride that all could see.
“My Book! It’s been found!” exclaimed Old Father Oak,
then to the children, to each he then spoke:
“George, Frances, Walter, Beatrice, Thomas, Este,
you have each worked hard this on harrowing day.
Now rest and slumber, as you each deserve.
You have made me proud, my book is preserved!”
The children each layed down their tired young heads,
Oak’s leaves were their pillows, his branches, their beds.
And they dreamed of quiet, peaceful place,
where struggle was no more, with hearts filled with grace.
Old Father Oak looked on with pride,
at each of his children laying down sleepy-eyed.
And then the raging Storm did see,
Father and children resting happily.
He saw the anguish he had caused;
at that, the anger in heart did pause.
With the last page held in his grasp,
he knew he had one final task:
He returned the last page to Father Oak Tree
and finally could rest too, among the leaves [as a gentle breeze].