With nothing to repulse or impress, the tree stood forgotten. No child climbed its heights, which were not as high as its fellows. Nor passerby rested in its shade, as it covered little more then the lesser trees. The seasons moved the tree little, certainly not to beauty. The years brought more wear and the tearing voice of the wind. The cold of night, the sun of day, and the rains all found the tree the same as before. Not a story to tell with its never bright leaves. Nor a song to sing with its solemn gray branches. The birds cared little to mention the tree in their songs. The tree's seeds found no root nor met the desire of creatures. All it had was the side of a dry hill to which it held firmly through every passing day. Forgotten.

And yet it fed the earth.

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