Under the oaks, under the maples, under the pine, under the rowan, sat a crumbling, weathering pile of broken stone. No king would have one stone for his castle, no general would take one chip for his fortress. No love for the stones only mocking rain and selfish moss. One day a mason from China came to the stone pile. He examined rock after rock until he found one unblemished by the rain or moss. He set it in his cart and rode away. Next day a man from Egypt came to the stone pile. He searched and searched until he found one hard and pale. He put it in a sack and rode away on his horse. Then the next day a Incan came to the stone pile. He looked hour after hour until he found a stone with blue spots. He put it in his pocket and walked away. What became of those three stones? The Chinaman arrived at the Great Wall and began chipping away at the stone. The Egyptian came home and climbed to the top of the Pyramid of Giza, setting the final stone in place. The Incan spent all night carving away at the stone until it was a sparkling blue gem. When he arrived back at Machu Picchu he presented the gem to his wife. She cried with glee and hugged her husband, and together they watched the sunrise over the mountains.