A long long time ago there lived a great tree deep in the heart of the Black Forest of old Germany. This was the most magnificent tree in all the forest as it stood head and shoulders above all the other trees. Its branches spread out far and wide engulfing all the smaller trees nearby. Its broad green leaves beamed up at the sun soaking in her daily rays. Its roots delved deep into the earth drinking in the buried waters from ancient rains.
One day a man came into the forest with an axe in his calloused hands. He stood gawking before the great tree in silence, awed by her majesty. He then humbly knelt before the tree and prayed for its blessing, "Dear Glorious Tree, I am but a poor woodsman and carver. But if you will grant me the gift of your wood, I swear, by all that I am, that I shall create the finest crafts the world has ever seen to befit your grandeur."
Touched by the penitence of the man's words, the tree decided it was better to share its wondrous gifts with the world rather than spend all its days reigning over the lonely forest. Without a second thought the tree promptly drew up its roots and came crashing down onto the floor of the forest below.
Shocked by the sudden uproar, the wood carver leaped up from his prone position and stared with jaws gaping at the sight of the once magnificent tree now sadly keeled over on its side. He stood perplexed for a moment, careful not to tumble into the massive crater left by the tree's once intricate root system. Finally realizing that the tree had heard and answered his prayer, the wood carver bowed before the great fallen trunk to thank the tree for its tremendous sacrifice. Then, true to his word, the man set about chopping up the tree to return the pieces home and begin the monumental task of carving the innumerable crafts suitable to honor the tree's memory.
Upon returning home with his bounty the wood carver wasted no time in crafting many fine wares. He made walking canes for old men, and rocking horses for young boys; broad flat planks for bookshelves and intricate detailed clocks for cuckoo birds; large stately desks and tiny fanciful chess pieces. He chipped and chiseled and cleaved until his calloused hands cracked and bled, and then he carved some more.
Each time the wood carver emerged from his workshop to deliver his wares to market, the villagers there would hail his latest creation as the best one yet. Until he returned the next day with an even better craft, sculpted, shaped, and sliced to utter perfection.
The poor wood carver grew very famous from his work. Townsfolk would gather in his tiny village from hundreds of miles away to buy a piece, any piece created by such an artisan. Whenever one of his many satisfied customers would complement his on his outstanding work, the wood carver would merely bow his head and say, "Don't thank me, for the power and the beauty is in the wood."
The wood carver spent his whole life sculpting goods from the wood of the great tree. He made enough profits from selling his crafts to easily provide for his wife and many children. As he grew into an old man, he decided it was time to retire. After all, he had used up nearly all of the wood from that enormous tree and was left with a single slender twig plucked from the very top of the tree where the oldest wood had grown.
As the man sat staring at this twig pondering what he could possibly carve out of it or even if his hands still had the strength to complete it, he began to reminisce about his life and the many blessings he had received thanks to the sacrifice of that grand old tree. Remembering his oath to the tree on that bright spring day so many years ago renewed his resolve. He set to work one final time, determined to create a final masterpiece that would outshine all of his previous works combined.
The old carver rushed to his workshop flushed with inspiration. He worked tirelessly and for three days and three nights he neither ate, nor drank, nor slept for he was so inflamed with the passion of his life's work. Finally, exhausted from his efforts the old carver came staggering from his workshop. Breathless from his exertions he collapsed into his aged wife's arms. "I've done it. I've finally finished it," he whispered as his heaving chest rattled on his last breath. The carver's wife wept over her dead husband's body and she looked down to find what had driven him to the brink of his own life. There, clutched with both hands to his breast, was his final creation: a long, slender pencil.
Now this was no ordinary pencil. Its delicate tip was finely shaved to a perfect point. Its shaft stood true and straight as an arrow. Longer than most pencils of its day, this pencil was sure to have a long and fruitful life.
Still despondent over the loss of her husband, the carver's wife could hardly stand the sight of the pencil. While it's true that this was certainly the most beautiful pencil ever created, it merely served as a dreadful reminder of her husband's death.
One day she saw a young monk traveling along the road to study at the local monastery. She ran up to him and pressed the lithe pencil gently into his hands saying, "You are a young and pious man. Take this gift from my late husband. May it bring you blessings, for I can only see it as a curse now."
The monk looked at the gift the old woman had bestowed on him and was amazed at the beauty that was infused in this fine pencil. Taking it as a sign, the monk was instilled with new sense of purpose.
Upon arriving at the monastery the monk was given the task of illuminating manuscripts for the Holy Bible. Diving into his charge with great zeal, the monk would often stay up late into the night illustrating the great miracles of saints or terrible tribulations of martyrs with the elegant tip of his pencil. He drew and drew, painstakingly copying the illuminated works. All the other monks worked tirelessly by his side, but none of them could imbue their manuscripts with the same level of beauty and piety as the young monk with the very special pencil.
Until one morning when the monk arrived at his desk, he looked down at his beloved pencil and realized that he had been using it for so long and drawn so many wonderful illustrations with it, that the tip had worn down to a tiny little nub. Dispirited at the sad sight of his inspiration, the monk cried tears of regret. While the monk cherished his pencil and the luminescent drawings it produced, he abhorred the thought of placing blade to wood for fear of permanently damaging the sweet little pencil and forever destroying the exquisiteness it exuded. In a fit of teary-eyed frustration he cast the pencil aside where it rolled across the room into a crack in the floorboards beneath the organist's seat.
And there the little pencil sat pondering the stories it had helped to write. While it was still a very young pencil, it knew that it was very lucky to have been chosen to copy the words of such an important text. And if it never got the chance to write another word, then it would consider itself to have lived a long and fruitful life.
Years passed and still the little pencil sat happily wedged between the floorboards of the old church. Until one day a young musician was sitting in front of a piano where the church's old pipe organ used to rest. He was desperately trying to complete one of his compositions, but couldn't get the ending quite right and needed to make additional notes. He searched through all of his pockets, books, papers, and other belongings but had completely forgotten to pack a pencil. While scrounging around he happened to spy the little pencil wedged between the floorboards just under his seat.
Delighted at his luck, the musician snatched the pencil from its age old hiding spot and quickly resharpened it. As he listened to the creaking of the razor against the grain of the pencil's wood, the composer was struck by the natural melody emanating from the slender beauty. Enraptured by his discovery, the composer continued to sharpen his newfound prize until the once dull nub of a tip was restored once again to a razor sharp point.
The composer quickly began making notes on his sheet music. Line after line was worked and reworked as the composer furiously rewrote his entire concerto, inspired by the simple pleasure of sharpening his new pencil. The pencil, meanwhile, was overjoyed at finding a new friend. Moreover, the pencil was enchanted by this new type of writing it was asked to complete: a fantastic array of dots and dashes that scaled up and down a regimented set of parallel lines. Finally the composer sat down to play the piece that he and his new friend had worked to complete. Both the composer and the pencil were enchanted by the melodious tune that the sharpened pencil inspired.
The composer was ecstatic with the results and quickly snatched up his books and notes as well as his new pencil which he jubilantly kissed before tucking into his satchel. The musician then rushed from the old church, inspiring pencil in tow, to share his brilliant composition with the world.
Together they traveled from town to town, then city to city, playing the opus which the pencil had stirred. Having spent most of its life stuck in the stuffy old church, the pencil was enthralled by the wonders of the world it witnessed. There were fine concert halls stuffed with people and ornate candelabras hanging from the ceiling; small intimate homes with ages of family portraits hanging from the walls; once there was even a small orphanage with grubby faced children skittering about.
Feeling lucky have explored so many exotic new places, the pencil didn't mind when the musician kept it up all night scribbling new notes to scores of new symphonies. It didn't mind that the musician's fervor got him so aroused that his hands seemed to burn the pencil's wood with the heat of his passion. It didn't mind that the musician's grip was so tight that the grains in the pencil's wood begin to warp and skew under the pressure.
Then one early spring evening the composer pulled out his trusty pencil to sharpen it again and draw inspiration anew from its charming call. But after so many years of being held in the fiery vise of the musician's hand, the lovely pencil was no longer straight and tall as in its youth. So this time when the composer set razor to tip, the pencil released an off key crunch instead of its usual melodic croon. The musician was shocked and dismayed by the discordant peal emanating from his once beloved pencil. Saddened by the loss of his old compatriot, the musician walked to his favorite park where the chirping birds reminded him of the melodies his pencil once drew. There he reverently left the pencil beneath a park bench, hoping for his pencil's sake that one of the birds might pity it enough to weave it into their nest so it could always listen to the chirping tunes of the birds.
The pencil sat for many years beneath the park bench listening to the chirping of the birds and marveling at their calls. Each spring they would gather to serenade the little pencil before fluttering off to find a mate for the season. Then summer would rush in with a wave of heat as the birds scurried and fluttered about to feed their young chicks. Until fall arrived and one by one the nests emptied as each flock headed south for the winter. Winters were the loneliest times for the pencil, covered by a muffling blanket of snow and abandoned by his bird friends. The pencil sat and waited for spring to return along with his bird friends, pondering the meanings behind the beautiful music it once helped to create. It knew that it was a very lucky pencil to have been chosen to create such moving arias. And if it never got a chance to write another note, then it would consider itself to have lived a long and fruitful life. Year after year passed and still the little pencil sat happily hidden beneath the park bench.
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