The Fir Tree

A young fir tree disliked being small. When hares jumped over it, it wished to be tall. When the wind moved through the older trees, it wished to join their deep conversation. Sunshine and birdsong seemed pleasant enough, but surely something better was coming.

One winter the woodcutters chose it for a Christmas tree. At last, it thought, life was beginning.

In a warm room, people hung ornaments from its branches and set candles among the needles. Children danced around it. Later they listened to a story. The tree tried to remember every word, certain that tomorrow would bring an even finer celebration.

But the next morning the decorations were removed. The tree was carried to a dark attic.

Mice visited it there. To entertain them, it described the lighted room and repeated the story it had heard. As it spoke, the evening seemed more beautiful than it had while the tree was living through it. Then it remembered the forest: the soft ground, the hares, the free wind. Those days, too, had been good.

In spring, someone dragged the tree into the yard. It hoped to grow again, but its branches were dry. Soon it was chopped for firewood.

As it burned, the tree thought of the forest and the children and all the days it had spent wishing itself elsewhere.

The young listeners heard the fire crackle. Outside the window, another spring was unfolding, quietly offering its ordinary gifts.