ON the borders of a forest a pretty little fir-tree once started to grow. The sun shone full on him, the breezes played freely around him, and in the neighborhood grew many companion fir-trees, both large and small. But the little fir-tree was not happy. He was always longing to be full grown. He thought not of the warm sun and the fresh air. He took no pleasure in the songs of birds, or in the clouds that sailed over him. He cared not for the merry, prattling peasant children who came to the forest to look for berries.
By and by it was winter, and the ground was covered with the glistening snow. Then the fir-tree often saw a hare scampering about, and sometimes the hare would jump right over the little fir-tree’s head. The tree did not like that at all. However, when two winters had passed, the fir-tree was so tall the hare was obliged to run around him; for each year he sent upward a long green shoot, just as all fir-trees do, and you could tell how old he was by counting the number of joints on the main stem.
“Oh, that I was as tall as the big trees I see near me!” sighed the little tree. “Then I should spread out my branches so far, and I could look over the wide world around. The birds would build their nests among my branches, and when the wind blew I would bend my head so grandly just as all the big trees do. Yes, I want to become tall and old. That is the only thing worth living for.”
Every autumn the woodcutters came and felled some of the largest trees. The young fir-tree shuddered when he saw the grand trees crash to the ground. He watched the men chop off all the boughs from the fallen trees, and how terribly naked and lanky and long they looked then. They could hardly be recognized. Finally they were loaded on wagons, and were drawn away from the forest. Where could they be going? What might be their fortunes?
When it was spring, and the swallows and the storks returned from the south, the tree called to them, and said: “Know you whither they have taken the great trees that have been cut? Have you met these friends of mine?”
The swallows knew nothing about the matter, but one of the storks looked thoughtful for a moment, nodded his head, and said: “Yes, I believe I have seen them. As I was flying from Egypt to this place I noticed several ships, and those ships had splendid masts. I have little doubt those masts were the trees of which you speak. They supported the sails so that the ships moved on gloriously.”
“Oh that I too were tall enough to be a mast, and journey on the sea!” exclaimed the fir-tree.
“Rejoice in your youth,” said the sunbeams. “Rejoice in the fresh life that is within you.” And the sunbeams caressed the tree, and the wind kissed him, but he understood them not.
Christmas was drawing near, after the little fir-tree had lived and grown for several years, and many small trees were felled by the woodmen. Some were no taller than the restless young fir-tree who was always longing to be away. The branches were not cut off, but the trees were put on wagons, green boughs and all. When the wagons had gone, the fir-tree asked where his companions were being taken.
“We know, we know,” twittered the sparrows. “They are on the way to the town. You cannot imagine what honor and glory they will receive. We have peeped through the house windows in years gone by, and we know. They will be planted in a warm room, and be decked with the most beautiful things—sweetmeats, playthings, and hundreds of bright candles.”
“And what happens afterward?” asked the fir-tree, quivering with excitement in every bough.
“We saw no more,” the sparrows replied, “but what we did see was beautiful beyond compare.”
“That is far better than sailing over the sea,” cried the fir-tree with delight. “How I wish such a glorious lot might be mine! And there must be something still better to follow, else why should any one take such trouble to decorate the trees.”
“Rejoice in our love,” said the air and the sunshine. “Rejoice in your freedom.”
But rejoice he never would. Time went on and he grew more and more sturdy and full of dark green foliage, and when the next Christmas drew near he was the first tree that was cut. Then for a moment he forgot to think of his good fortune, and was sorry to be compelled to leave his home. He knew he should not see the other trees again, or the little bushes and flowers that had flourished under his shadow—perhaps not even the birds.
At last he found himself in the courtyard of a house in the town whither he had been carried with a load of his fellows, and a man picked him out from among the rest and said: “This is a beautiful one—the very thing we want.”
Then two smartly dressed servants came and carried the fir-tree into a large and handsome parlor where he was planted in a stout tub filled with sand. A young lady, assisted by the servants, now began to adorn him. On some branches they hung little bags filled with candy. From others apples and walnuts were suspended, looking just as if they had grown there; and a great number of tiny wax tapers, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the boughs. Here and there were hung dolls and picture books and toys, and on the summit was fastened a large star of gold tinsel. This was indeed splendid!
“In the evening the tree will be lighted up,” they said.
“Would that it were evening,” thought the tree. “Would that the candles were already lighted. What will happen then? Will the trees come out of the forest to see me? Will the sparrows look in at the windows? Shall I stand here adorned both winter and summer?”
At last evening came, and the candles were lighted. Oh, what radiance! The tree trembled in all his branches so that one of the lights set fire to a bough. “Heaven preserve us!” exclaimed the young ladies, and they sprang forward and extinguished the flame.
The tree dared not tremble again, though he felt greatly bewildered in the midst of all this glory and brightness. Suddenly, both the folding doors that communicated with the next room were flung open, and a troop of children rushed in. The older people followed more quietly. At first the children gathered about the tree soberly gazing and admiring. Then they began dancing and shouting and tearing off the presents.
“What are they doing?” thought the tree. “What will happen now?”
The candles burned down to the branches, and were blown out, and the children amused themselves with their beautiful playthings. No one thought any more of the tree except the old nurse, who came and peeped among the boughs, but it was only to see whether perchance an apple or a candy bag had been left among them.
Later in the evening the children tired of their play and begged their father to tell a story. “Very well,” said he. “Would you like to hear about Chicken Licken, or about Thumpty Klump, who fell down stairs, but afterward won a princess and came to a throne?”
“Chicken Licken!” cried some.
“Thumpty Klump!” cried others, and there was a great uproar.
When they grew quieter the man told the story of Thumpty Klump, and, as soon as he had finished, the children clapped their hands and called for another story, but they did not get it.
The fir-tree stood meanwhile quite silent and thoughtful. “The birds in the forest never related anything like this,” said he. “Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet won a princess and was raised to a throne. Yes, yes, strange things come to pass in the world. Who knows but I may fall down stairs and win a princess?”
He rejoiced in the expectation of being next day again decked out with candles and glittering ornaments and playthings. In the morning the maids came in. “Now begins my magnificence anew,” said the tree to himself.
But they dragged him out of the room, up the stairs, and into an attic, where they thrust him into a dark corner and left him. “What can be the meaning of this?” thought the tree. “What am I to do here?” And he leaned against the wall and thought and thought.
He had plenty of time to think as much as he pleased, for day after day and night after night passed, and yet no one entered the attic. “It is winter,” said the tree. “The ground is hard and covered with snow. They cannot plant me now. So I am to stay in shelter till spring. How kind they are! I only wish it was not so dark and so dreadfully lonesome.”
“Squeak! squeak!” cried a little mouse, just then gliding out of a hole in the wall.
Another followed. They snuffed at the fir-tree and slipped in and out among the branches. “It is horribly cold,” said the little mice. “Don’t you think so, you old fir-tree?”
“I am not old,” responded the fir-tree. “There are many trees much older than I am.”
“How came you here?” questioned the mice, “and what do you know? Tell us about the most delightful place on earth. Have you ever been there? Have you been into the storeroom where cheeses lie on the shelves, and bacon hangs from the ceiling, where one can dance over tallow-candles, where one goes in thin and comes out fat?”
“I know nothing about that,” the tree answered, “but I know the forest, where the sun shines and where the birds sing.”
Then he spoke of his youth and its pleasures. The little mice had never heard anything like it before. They listened with all their ears, and said: “Well, to be sure, how much you have seen! How happy you have been!”
“Happy!” repeated the fir-tree in surprise, and he thought a moment over all he had been saying. “Yes, on the whole, those were pleasant times.”
He then told about the Christmas Eve when he had been decked with toys and candles.
“Oh!” cried the little mice, “how happy you have been, you old fir-tree!”
“I am not old at all,” declared the tree, “and it is only this winter that I left the forest.”
“How well you can talk!” said the little mice, and the next night they came again and brought with them four other little mice who also wanted to hear the tree’s history.
The more the tree spoke of his youth in the forest the more vividly he remembered it. “Those were pleasant times,” he remarked in conclusion, “and they may come again. Thumpty Klump fell down stairs, and yet for all that he won the princess. Perhaps I, too, may win a princess;” and then the fir-tree thought of a pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest. She was a very real and very lovely princess to him.
“Who is this Thumpty Klump?” the little mice inquired.
So he related the tale. He could remember every word of it perfectly, and the little mice were so pleased they jumped for joy. The night following, several more mice came, and on Sunday they returned and brought with them two rats. The rats, however, declared that the story was not at all amusing, and the little mice, after hearing the rats’ opinion, did not like it so well either.
“Do you know only that one story?” asked the rats.
“Only that one,” answered the tree. “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, though I did not then know how happy I was.”
“It is a miserable story,” the rats declared. “Do you know none about pork and tallow? Don’t you know some storeroom story?”
“No,” said the tree.
“Well, then, we have heard enough,” said the rats, and they went their way.
They did not come again, nor did the little mice. As the lonely days passed, the tree sighed and said: “It was very pleasant when those lively little mice sat around me listening to my words. Now that, too, is all past. However, I still have the pleasure of remembering it.”
One morning people came and gave the attic a cleaning out. The tree was dragged from the corner and carried down stairs. Once more he beheld the outdoor daylight. “Life is about to begin again,” he thought.
He felt the fresh air and the warm sunbeams. He was out in the court, and the court adjoined a garden where everything was fresh and blooming. The roses clustered bright and fragrant round the trellis work, the apple-trees were in blossom, and the swallows flew backward and forward twittering, “Quirri-virri-vit, my beloved is come!” But it was not the fir-tree whom they meant.
The tree was filled with delightful hope. He tried to spread out his branches. Alas! they were all dry and stiff. He was thrown down on a heap of weeds and rubbish. The star that had been fastened on his top sparkled brightly in the sunshine. Some children were playing in the court. They were the same who at Christmas-time had danced round the tree in the parlor. The youngest perceived the gold star and ran to tear it off. “Look at it, still on the ugly old Christmas-tree,” cried he, trampling and breaking the boughs under his feet.
The tree looked at the flowers of the garden blooming in the freshness of their beauty, and he called to mind his happy forest life, the merry Christmas Eve, and the little mice who had listened so eagerly when he related the story of Thumpty Klump. “Past, all past,” sighed the poor tree.
Presently a servant came and set fire to the rubbish heap. The children all ran to the place and jumped about in front of the blaze, crying, “Hurrah, hurrah!”
The tree burned to ashes and the fire flickered out. Then the boys began to play about in the court as before, and on the breast of the youngest sparkled the gold star that the tree had worn on the happiest evening of his life. But now the tree has come to an end, and the story also has come to an end.
