The Fir Tree

In a quiet forest stood a small fir tree. Sunlight warmed its needles, the breeze stroked its branches, and birds sang above it. But the little tree hardly noticed. It stretched and strained and wished only to be tall. “Oh, if only I could grow as high as those grand trees,” it sighed. “Then I could see far away. Then I would be something!”

Hares sometimes bounded past, and when they were in a hurry they leapt right over the little tree. It made the fir feel very small indeed. “Just wait,” it whispered. “When I grow, they won’t dare jump over me.”

The older firs murmured kindly, “Enjoy the sunshine on your needles. Feel the soft earth. Grow slowly. There is time.” But the little tree could not. It thought only of the day when it would be big and important.

Every year the tree stretched higher. In winter the snow lay like silver, and in summer the air shimmered green. Sailors of the sky—swallows and storks—rested on the branches of taller trees and told stories of the world beyond the forest. “We have seen ships with tall masts,” they chattered. “Masts made from trees like you. They ride the blue sea and meet the wind!”

The small fir’s needles trembled. “To be a mast! To see the sea!” it dreamed. Another winter came, and men with axes entered the forest. They chose the tallest, straightest firs, snapped their branches, and dragged them away. The little tree shivered as the wind carried the sharp scent of fresh sap. “Where do they go?” it asked a sparrow.

“Many become masts,” chirped the sparrow. “But some—some are taken into warm rooms. Children dance around them. Candles glitter on every branch. Apples and nuts shine like treasure.”

“Candles?” whispered the fir tree. “Children? A warm room? That must be wonderful.” Now the tree had a new wish. “If only Christmas would come, and I would be chosen!”

The seasons turned. The fir grew, but it never stopped longing. Finally, one cold day near Christmas, footsteps crunched in the snow. Men came with axes and rope. “This one,” said a voice. “Straight and handsome. Not too big, not too small.” The blade bit, and the forest spun. The little fir felt a sharp tug at its roots as it fell. Birds flew up. The tree was tied to a sleigh and drawn away, leaving the only home it had ever known.

Into a grand house it went, carried into a bright room with shining floors. The servants set it in a deep tub filled with sand, so it could stand tall. Then the decorating began! Gilded apples glowed on its branches. Paper baskets brimmed with sweets. Nuts wrapped in silver crinkled and flashed. A golden star was fastened at the very top.

At last, candles were clipped to every branch—but not lit. The fir tree trembled with a new kind of fear and joy. “What will happen next?”

Evening came. Children rushed in, eyes wide, hands clapping. The candles were lit, one by one, and the tree shone with a warm, trembling light. The children danced around it, singing. Then an old man told a story, one the children loved, about Klumpe-Dumpe and strange adventures and a happy ending. The fir tree listened so hard it almost forgot to breathe. “This is the finest moment of my life,” it thought. “Tomorrow I will be just as grand—and the next day, and the next!”

But the next morning was different. The servants came and took off the ornaments. The candles, the apples, the silvered nuts—all gone. “Will they dress me up again?” wondered the tree. Instead, they carried it up to the attic, a dark, dusty place. “What does this mean?” The fir tree stood in a corner, puzzled and alone.

Days passed. At first, the tree dreamed of the warm room and bright lights. Then came tiny visitors: mice, their whiskers twitching, their eyes like black beads. “Who are you?” they asked.

“I am a fir tree, from the forest,” it said proudly. “Tell us about it,” squeaked the mice. “What is the forest like? Are there crumbs there? Are there candles?”

The fir told them about the soft moss, the birds’ songs, the cold glitter of winter, the joy of growing tall. The mice listened politely but soon brought their cousins, the rats. The rats wanted stories of sugar and dripping candles and baskets of sweets. “Tell us about the party,” they demanded.

The tree tried, but it had listened more than it had lived that night. It could not remember the old man’s tale very well. The rats twitched their whiskers. “Boring,” they said, and they slunk away. The mice stayed a little longer, but the housemaid came with a broom and chased them off.

So the fir tree stood alone again. “If only they would bring me back to the parlor,” it sighed. “If only it were Christmas every day! If only I were a mast, sailing the sea!” The attic was very quiet, and the days were very long.

At last, spring breezes found their way under the roof. Voices called below. The servants came and dragged the tree outside. “Now I shall be planted again,” the fir thought, its heart (if trees have hearts) leaping. The sun felt warm, and birds sang. But the tree’s needles were dull and brown. Its branches were stiff.

Children ran into the yard. “Look!” cried one. “The old Christmas tree!” They pulled at the branches and found a little golden star still clinging at the top, bent and dusty. A boy tugged it free. “For my treasure box!” he said, and he ran off laughing.

The tree looked around at the open sky. It remembered the forest, the soft moss, the shining snow. “If only I had been happy when I stood there,” it thought. “If only I had loved the sun and the wind.”

Before long, the gardener came with an axe. He chopped the tree into logs. These were carried to the stove and fed into the fire. The flames leaped up. As each piece burned, it gave a small crack, like a soft sigh. The children, warming their hands, exclaimed, “Pop! Pop! Listen to the fire sing!”

The fir tree remembered the night of candles, the old man’s story, the hare leaping over it, the swallows speaking of the sea, and the star at its top. The memories rose like sparks, bright and brief. Then they were gone.

When the ashes cooled, the wind lifted them and scattered them into the garden. In the forest, spring grew green again. New firs stretched toward the light. And somewhere a small tree, feeling the sun on its needles, breathed in the sweet air—and, for a moment, was glad.

And that is the story of the fir tree who wanted to be something more, and learned too late that every day can be precious, just as it is.