The Fir Tree

Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir Tree. He had a very good spot: the sun shone on him, there was plenty of fresh air, and all around grew many larger comrades, pines as well as firs. But the little Fir wanted so badly to be a grown-up tree.

He did not think of the warm sun or the fresh air. He did not care about the little cottage children who ran about and chatted when they were in the woods picking wild strawberries. The children often came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or strung them on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty he is! What a nice little fir!" But the Tree could not stand to hear that.

After a year he had grown quite a bit, and after another year he was even taller. With fir trees you can always tell how old they are by the number of shoots.

"Oh, if only I were as tall as the others," he sighed. "Then I could spread out my branches and look out into the wide world from the top! Then the birds would build nests in my branches, and when the wind blew, I could nod just as grandly as the others!"

The sunbeams, the birds, and the red clouds that sailed above him morning and evening gave the little Tree no pleasure.

In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often come leaping along and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that made him so angry! But two winters passed, and by the third the Tree had grown so tall that the hare had to run around it. "To grow and grow, to get older and tall," thought the Tree, "that is the most wonderful thing in the world!"

In autumn the woodcutters always came and cut down some of the biggest trees. This happened every year, and the young Fir Tree, now quite handsome, trembled at the sight. The huge trees fell to the ground with a crash, their branches were chopped off, and they looked long and bare. They were hardly recognizable. Then they were loaded onto carts, and horses pulled them out of the woods.

Where did they go? What became of them?

In spring, when the swallows and storks came, the Tree asked them, "Don't you know where they were taken? Haven't you seen them anywhere?"

The swallows didn't know anything about it. But the Stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said, "Yes, I think I know. On my way here from Egypt I met many ships; on the ships were magnificent masts. I dare say they were those trees they smelled so strongly of fir. I congratulate you, for they rose up high and majestically!"

"Oh, if only I were old enough to fly across the sea! But what is the sea really like? What does it look like?"

"That would take too long to explain," said the Stork, and off he went.

"Enjoy your growth!" said the Sunbeams. "Enjoy your strong growth and the fresh life inside you!"

And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him. But the Fir did not understand.

When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down—often not as big or as old as this Fir Tree, who could never rest but always wanted to get away. These young trees, always the finest-looking, kept their branches. They were loaded onto carts, and horses pulled them out of the woods.

"Where are they going?" asked the Fir. "They aren't taller than I am. One was even shorter. And why do they keep all their branches? Where are they taken?"

"We know! We know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We peeked through the windows in the town below! We know where they go! The greatest splendor imaginable awaits them. We looked through the windows and saw them planted in the middle of a warm room and decorated with the most wonderful things—gilded apples, gingerbread, toys, and hundreds of lights!"

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, trembling in every branch. "And then? What happens then?"

"We didn't see any more. It was unbelievably beautiful."

"I wonder if I am meant for such a glorious fate," cried the Tree happily. "That is even better than going across the sea! How I long for it! If only Christmas were here! I am tall now, and my branches spread out like those that were taken last year! Oh, if only I were already on the cart! If only I were in that warm room with all that splendor! Then something even better, something grander must follow. But what? Oh, how I long, how I yearn! I don't know what's the matter with me!"

"Enjoy our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight. "Enjoy your own fresh youth!"

But the Tree did not enjoy at all. He grew and grew, green both winter and summer. People who saw him said, "What a fine tree!" And toward Christmas he was one of the first to be cut down. The axe struck deep into his core.

The Tree fell to the ground with a sigh. He felt a pain, like a fainting spell. He could not think of happiness, for he was sad to leave his home, the place where he had grown.

He knew he would never see his dear old friends, the little bushes and flowers around him, ever again. Perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not pleasant at all.

The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a courtyard with the other trees and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! We don't need the others." Then two servants in fine uniforms carried the Fir Tree into a large, beautiful drawing room.

Portraits hung on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases with lions on the lids. There were big armchairs, silk sofas, and large tables covered with picture books and toys worth hundreds of dollars—at least, the children said so.

The Fir Tree was set upright in a tub filled with sand, but no one could tell it was a tub, because green cloth was wrapped around it, and it stood on a large colorful carpet. Oh, how the Tree quivered! What was going to happen?

The servants and the young ladies decorated it. On one branch hung little nets cut from colored paper, each filled with candies. Among the other branches hung gilded apples and walnuts that looked as if they grew there. Little blue and white candles were placed among the needles. Dolls that looked just like people—the Tree had never seen such before—were among the foliage, and on the very top was fixed a big gold star made of tinsel. It was truly splendid, beyond description.

"This evening!" everyone said. "How it will shine this evening!"

"Oh!" thought the Tree. "If only evening would come! If only the candles were lit! Then I wonder what will happen! Maybe the other trees from the forest will come to see me! Maybe the sparrows will tap against the windows! I wonder if I'll take root here and stand covered with ornaments winter and summer!"

He knew a lot about that—but he was so impatient that from sheer longing he got a backache, which for trees is the same as a headache for us.

The candles were lit—what brightness! What splendor! The Tree trembled so much in every branch that one of the candles set fire to the foliage. It blazed up nicely.

"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.

Now the Tree did not dare even to tremble. What a state he was in! He was so afraid of losing any of his splendor that he was completely confused amid the glare. Suddenly both folding doors opened, and a crowd of children rushed in as if they would knock the Tree over. The older people followed quietly; the little ones stood still for a moment, then shouted so that the whole room echoed with joy. They danced around the Tree, and one present after another was pulled off.

"What are they doing?" thought the Tree. "What will happen now?" The candles burned down to the branches, and as they burned, they were put out one by one. Then the children were allowed to plunder the Tree. They fell upon it so violently that all its branches cracked. If it hadn't been fixed firmly in place, it would definitely have tipped over.

The children danced around with their beautiful toys. No one looked at the Tree except the old nanny, who peeked between the branches to see if a fig or apple had been forgotten.

"A story! A story!" cried the children, pulling a fat little man toward the Tree. He sat down under it and said, "Now we are in the shade, and the Tree can listen too. But I'll only tell one story. Which do you want: about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Humpy-Dumpy, who fell downstairs but still came to the throne and married the princess?"

"Ivedy-Avedy!" cried some. "Humpy-Dumpy!" cried others. There was such a noise and screaming—the Fir Tree alone was silent. He thought, "Aren't I supposed to shout too? Am I to do nothing?" For he was part of the company and had done his part.

And the man told about Humpy-Dumpy, who fell downstairs but still came to the throne and married the princess. The children clapped their hands and cried, "Go on! Go on!" They also wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, but the man only told them about Humpy-Dumpy. The Fir Tree stood still and deep in thought. The birds in the wood had never told such a story.

"Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs and yet married the princess! Yes, yes! That's how the world works!" thought the Fir Tree, and he believed it all because the storyteller was so good-looking. "Well, well, who knows—maybe I will fall downstairs too and get a princess as my wife!" And he looked forward happily to the next day, hoping to be decorated again with lights, toys, fruit, and tinsel.

"I won't tremble tomorrow!" thought the Fir Tree. "I will enjoy all my splendor to the fullest! Tomorrow I'll hear the story of Humpy-Dumpy again, and maybe that of Ivedy-Avedy too." And all night the Tree stood still, deep in thought.

In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in.

"Now the splendor will start again," thought the Fir. But they dragged him out of the room and up the stairs into the attic. There, in a dark corner where no daylight could reach, they left him. "What does this mean?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What will I hear now?" He leaned against the wall, lost in thought. He had plenty of time for reflection, for days and nights passed, and no one came up. When someone finally did come, it was only to put some big boxes in a corner. The Tree stood hidden, as if completely forgotten.

"It must be winter outside now," thought the Tree. "The ground is hard and covered with snow. People can't plant me now, so they've put me here under shelter until spring. How thoughtful! How kind people are! If only it weren't so dark here and so terribly lonely! Not even a hare! Out in the woods it was so nice, when the snow was on the ground and the hare ran by—yes, even when he jumped over me. But I didn't like it then! It's really terribly lonely here!"

"Squeak! Squeak!" said a little Mouse, peeking out of his hole. Then another little one came. They sniffed around the Fir Tree and rustled among the branches.

"It's dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But it would be nice here anyway, old Fir, wouldn't it?"

"I am not old at all," said the Fir Tree. "There are many much older than me."

"Where do you come from?" asked the Mice. "And what can you do?" They were very curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful place on earth. Have you been there? Have you ever been in the pantry, where cheese lies on the shelves and hams hang from above, where you can dance on tallow candles—a place where you go in skinny and come out fat and plump?"

"I don't know any such place," said the Tree. "But I know the woods, where the sun shines and the little birds sing." Then he told them all about his youth. The little Mice had never heard anything like it. They listened and said, "My goodness! How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I?" said the Fir Tree, thinking about what he had said. "Yes, those were really happy times." Then he told about Christmas Eve, when he was decorated with cakes and candles.

"Oh," said the little Mice, "how lucky you have been, old Fir Tree!"

"I am not old at all," he said. "I came from the woods this very winter. I am in my prime, just a bit short for my age."

"What wonderful stories you know!" said the Mice. The next night they came with four other little Mice to hear what the Tree would tell. And the more he told, the more he remembered, and it seemed as if those times had really been happy. "But they may come again, they may come again! Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs and still got a princess!" And he thought of a lovely little birch tree that grew in the woods. To the Fir, she would be a real princess.

"Who is Humpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. Then the Fir Tree told the whole fairy tale, for he remembered every single word. The little Mice jumped with joy all the way to the top of the Tree. The next night two more Mice came, and on Sunday even two Rats. But they said the stories were not interesting, which upset the little Mice, and they too began to find them not so amusing.

"Do you only know one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest evening, but I didn't realize how happy I was then."

"That's a very stupid story! Don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles? Can't you tell any pantry stories?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then good-bye," said the Rats, and they went home.

Eventually even the little Mice stopped coming. The Tree sighed, "It was pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and listened to my stories. Now that too is over. But I'll make sure to enjoy myself when I am brought out again."

When would that be? One morning some people came and started working in the attic. The boxes were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown—rather hard, actually—onto the floor. But a man dragged him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now a happy life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam—and now he was out in the courtyard. Everything happened so quickly, so much was going on, that the Tree quite forgot to look at himself. The courtyard adjoined a garden, and everything was in bloom. The roses hung fresh and fragrant over the railing, the lindens were in blossom, the swallows flew by and said, "Quirre-vit! My husband has come!" But they were not talking about the Fir Tree.

"Now I will really enjoy life," he said joyfully, and spread out his branches. But alas, they were all withered and yellow! He lay in a corner among weeds and nettles. The gold tinsel star was still on his top, glittering in the sunshine.

In the courtyard some merry children were playing—the same children who had danced around the Fir Tree at Christmas. They were so happy to see him. One of the youngest ran and tore off the gold star.

"Look what is still on this ugly old Christmas tree!" he said, trampling the branches, which cracked beneath his feet.

And the Tree saw all the beauty of the flowers and the freshness of the garden. He saw himself and wished he had stayed in his dark corner in the attic. He thought of his early youth in the woods, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had so happily listened to the story of Humpy-Dumpy.

"It's over—it's past!" said the poor Tree. "If only I had been happy when I had reason to be! But now it's over, it's past!"

And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces. A whole heap lay there. The wood blazed up splendidly under the large brewing kettle, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played in the yard, and the youngest wore the gold star on his chest—the star that the Tree had worn on the happiest evening of his life. But that was over now—the Tree was gone, the story had ended. All, all was over—every tale must end at last.