50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 3 (Golden Deer Classics)

50 Classic Christmas Stories Vol. 3

H. W. Collingwood Hans Christian Andersen Harriet Beecher Stowe Henry Wadsworth Longfellow Hesba Stretton John Masefield John Milton John Strange Winter José María de Pereda Julia Schayer Juliana Horatia Ewing Kate Douglas Wiggin Katharine Lee Bates Kenneth Grahame Louisa May Alcott Lucy Maud Montgomery M.E.S. Margaret E. Sangster Margery Williams Peter Christen Asbjornsen Ralph Henry Barbour Robert Ervin Howard Robert Frost Robert Ingersoll Robert Louis Stevenson Rose Terry Cooke Rudyard Kipling S. Weir Mitchell Willa Cather William Dean Howells William Henry Davies William J. Locke

Copyright © 2018 by Oregan Publishing

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Contents

H. W. Collingwood

1. Indian Pete's Christmas Gift

Hans Christian Andersen

2. The Fir-Tree

Hans Christian Andersen

3. The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree

Hans Christian Andersen

4. The Little Match Girl

Harriet Beecher Stowe

5. Betty's Bright Idea

Harriet Beecher Stowe

6. Christmas In Poganuc

Harriet Beecher Stowe

7. Christmas; or, The Good Fairy

Harriet Beecher Stowe

8. The First Christmas of New England

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

9. Christmas Bells

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

10. The Three Kings

Hesba Stretton

11. The Ghost in the Clock Room

John Masefield

12. Christmas

John Milton

13. On the Morning of Christ's Nativity

John Strange Winter

14. A Christmas Fairy

José María de Pereda

15. A Christmas Eve in Spain

Julia Schayer

16. Angela's Christmas

Juliana Horatia Ewing

17. The Peace Egg

Kate Douglas Wiggin

18. The Birds' Christmas Carol

Kate Douglas Wiggin

19. The Romance of a Christmas Card

Katharine Lee Bates

20. Goody Santa Claus on a Sleigh Ride

Kenneth Grahame

21. Carol

Louisa May Alcott

22. A Christmas Dream, and How It Came to Be True

Louisa May Alcott

23. A Country Christmas

Louisa May Alcott

24. A Song for a Christmas Tree

Louisa May Alcott

25. Cousin Tribulation's Story

Louisa May Alcott

26. Tilly's Christmas

Louisa May Alcott

27. What the Bell Saw and Said

Lucy Maud Montgomery

28. A Christmas Inspiration

Lucy Maud Montgomery

29. Christmas at Red Butte

Lucy Maud Montgomery

30. Uncle Richard's New Year Dinner

M.E.S.

31. Christmas

Margaret E. Sangster

32. The Christmas Babe

Margery Williams

33. The Velveteen Rabbit

Peter Christen Asbjornsen

34. Round the Yule-Log: Christmas in Norway

Ralph Henry Barbour

35. A College Santa Claus

Robert Ervin Howard

36. « Golden Hope » Christmas

Robert Frost

37. Christmas Trees

Robert Ingersoll

38. What I Want for Christmas

Robert Louis Stevenson

39. Markheim

Rose Terry Cooke

40. Christmas

Rudyard Kipling

41. Christmas in India

S. Weir Mitchell

42. Mr. Kris Kringle

Willa Cather

43. A Burglar's Christmas

William Dean Howells

44. Christmas Every Day

William Dean Howells

45. The Night Before Christmas

William Dean Howells

46. The Pony Engine and the Pacific Express

William Dean Howells

47. The Pumpkin-Glory

William Dean Howells

48. Turkeys Turning The Tables

William Henry Davies

49. Christmas

William J. Locke

50. A Christmas Mystery

1. Indian Pete's Christmas Gift

H. W. Collingwood

Indian Pete's Christmas Gift

The moon was just peeping over the pines as Pete Shivershee slunk down the road from the lumber camp into the forest. Pete did not present a surpassingly dignified appearance as he skulked through the clearing, but he was not a very dignified person even at his best.

Most persons would have said, I think, that Pete's method of departure was hardly appropriate for one who had been selected by the citizens of Carter's Camp to go on an important mission. But Pete had his own reasons for his actions. He crept along behind the stumps and logs till he reached the forest. Then, as if the shadow gave him fresh courage and dignity, he drew himself upright, and started at a sharp trot down the road toward the village.

We have said that Pete had reasons for his conduct. They were good ones. In the first place, he was an Indian. Not a noble son of the forest, such as Cooper loved to picture, but a mean, dirty, yellow-faced Injun. Lazy and worthless, picking up a living about the lumber camps, working as little as he could, and eating and drinking as much as possible: such was the messenger. The mission was worse yet.

It was Christmas Eve. The snow covered the ground, and the ice had stilled for the time the mouth of the roaring river. It was Saturday night as well; and for some time past the lumbermen had been considering the advisability of keeping the good old holiday with some form of celebration suited to the occasion.

The citizens of Carter's Camp were not remarkably fastidious. They knew but one form of celebration, and they had no thought of hunting out new ones. The one thing needful to make a celebration completely successful was—liquor. This they must have in order to do justice to the day.

The temperance laws of Carter's were very strict. Not that the moral sentiment of the place was particularly high, but it had been noticed that the amounts of labor and whisky were in inverse proportion. The more whisky, the less labor. It was a pure question of political economy. The foreman had often stated that he would prosecute to the fullest extent of the law the first man caught bringing whisky into camp. The foreman did not attempt, perhaps, to deny that his knowledge of the law was somewhat crude. He had forcibly stated, however, that should a case be brought before him, he would himself act as judge and jury, while his fist and foot would take the place of witness and counsel. There was something so terrible in this statement, coming as it did from the largest man in camp, that very little whisky had thus far been brought in.

Christmas had come, and the drinking element in Carter's Camp proposed that Pete Shivershee—the Injun—be sent to town for a quantity of the liquid poison, that the drinkers might enjoy themselves.

Bill Gammon found Pete curled up by the stove. He took him out of doors and explained the business in hand. Bill prided himself somewhat on his ability to git work out of Injuns. Pete muttered only all right. He took the money Bill gave him, and then slunk away down the road for the forest, as we have seen him.

Bill felt so confident of the success of his experiment that he did not hesitate to inform the boys that Pete was dead sure to return. He would stake his reputation upon it.

Pete was in a hard position. If he loved anything in this world, it was whisky. If there was anything he feared, it was Bill's fist. The two were sure to go together. The money jingling in his pocket suggested unlimited pleasures, but over every one hung Bill's hard fist. He ran several miles through the forest, till, turning a corner of the road, he came upon a little clearing, in which stood a small log house. Pete knew the place well. Here lived Jeff Hunt with his wife, a French woman, and their troop of children.

Jeff was a person of little importance by the side of his wife, though, like all lords of creation, he considered himself the legal and proper head of the family, as well as one of the mainstays of society. His part of the family government consisted, for the most part, in keeping the house supplied with wood and water, and in smoking his comfortable pipe in the corner, while his wife bent over her tub.

Mrs. Hunt was the only woman near the camp, and so all the laundry work fell to her. Laundry work in the pine woods implies mending and darning, as well as washing and ironing, and the poor little woman had her hands full of work surely. It was rub, rub, rub, day after day, over the steaming tub, with the children running about like little wolves, and Jeff kindly giving his advice from his comfortable corner. And even after the children were in bed at night, she must sit up and mend the clean clothes.

What a pack of children there were! How rough and strong they seemed, running about all day, all but poor little Marie, the oldest. She had never been strong, and now at last she was dying of consumption. She could not sit up at all, but lay all day on the little bed in the corner, watching her mother with sad, beautiful eyes.

The brave little Frenchwoman's heart almost failed her at times, as she saw how day by day the little form grew thinner, the eyes more beautiful, the cheeks more flushed. She knew the signs too well, but there was nothing she could do.

Pete was a regular visitor at Jeff's and always a welcome one. His work was to carry the washing to and from camp. He came nearer to feeling like a man at Jeff's house than at any other place he knew of. Everyone but Mrs. Hunt and little Marie called him only Injun, but they always said Mr. Shivershee. The Meester Shivershee of the little Frenchwoman was the nearest claim to respectability that Pete felt able to make. One night while carrying home the clothes, he dropped them in the mud. He never minded the whipping Bill Gammon gave him half as much as he did poor Mrs. Hunt's tears, to think how her work had gone for nothing.

As Pete came trotting down the road, Jeff stood in front of his house chopping stove-wood from a great log. A lantern, hung on a stump, provided light for his purpose. Pete stopped from sheer force of habit in front of the house, and Jeff, glad of any chance to interrupt his work, paused to talk with him.

Walk in, Injun, said Jeff, hospitably. Yer clo'es ain't quite ready, but the woman will hev 'em all up soon—walk in.

It suddenly came over Pete that this was his night for taking the clothes home, but his present errand was of far more importance than mere laundry work.

Me no stop. I goin' ter town. Great work. Large bizness. By which vague hints he meant no doubt to impress Jeff with a sense of the dignity of his mission, and yet cunningly to keep its object concealed.

Goin' to town, be ye? Great doin's ter camp ter-morrer, I s'pose. I'll be round ef I kin git away, but walk in, Injun, an' git yer supper, an' see the wimmin, and Jeff opened the door for Pete to pass in.

The thought of supper was too much for Pete and he slunk in after Jeff and stood in the corner by the door. The room was hardly an inviting one, and yet if Pete had been a white man some thoughts of home, sweet home, must have passed through his mind. But he was only a despised Injun.

A rough board table was laid for supper at one side of the room. In the corner little Marie lay with the firelight falling over her poor thin face. Pete must have felt, as he looked at her, like some hopeless convict gazing through his prison bars upon some fair saint passing before him. She seemed to be in another world than his; there seemed between them a gulf that could not be bridged. Three of the larger children were sobbing in the corner, while the rest formed a sorrowful group about an old box in which were two or three simple plants frozen and yellow. Mrs. Hunt was frying pork over the hot stove. As she looked up at Pete, he noticed that she had been crying.

Jeff was the very prince of hosts. He made haste to make Pete feel at home.

Set by, Injun. So the boys is goin' ter kinder cellybrate ter-morrer, be they?

But Pete felt that his mission must not be disclosed. What matter is with kids? he asked, to change the subject.

Oh, they're jest a-yellin' about them flowers, explained Jeff. Ye see they hev been a-trainin' some posies indoors against ter-morrer, ye know. Ter-morrer's Christmas, ye see, an' them kids they hed an idee they'd hev some flowers fer ter dekerate thet corner where the little gal is. Little gals, when they ain't well, like sech things, ye know.

Pete nodded. He was not aware of this love of diminutive females, but it would not show very good breeding to appear ignorant.

Wall, ye see, continued Jeff, they kep the flowers away from the little gal, meanin' ter s'prise her like. But jest this afternoon they gut ketched by the frost, an' now there they be stiffer'n stakes. It is kinder bad, ain't it—'specially ez it's Christmas, too?

What Crissmus? put in Pete.

Oh, Christmas? Wall, it's a sorter day like. It's somethin' like other days, an' yet it ain't. But then, Injun, I don't s'pose ye would understand ef I wuz ter tell ye. And Jeff concealed his own ignorance, as many wiser and better men have done, by assuming a tone too lofty for his audience.

But Mrs. Hunt could explain, even if Jeff could not. She paused on the way to the stove with a dish of pork in her hand.

It eez the day of the good Lord, Meester Shivershee. It eez the day when the good Lord He was born, and when all people should be glad. But the little woman belied her own creed as she thought of little Marie and the dead flowers.

I hardly think Pete gained a very clear idea of the day, even from Mrs. Hunt's explanation. It was, I fear, all Greek to him.

What flowers fer? he asked, as, in response to Jeff's polite invitation, he sat by and began supper.

Wall, it's a sorter idee of the wimmin, explained Jeff. Looks kinder pooty to see flowers round; ye see, kinder slicks up a room like. All these things hez ter come inter keepin' house, ye see, Injun. With which broad explanation Jeff helped himself to a piece of pork.

But Mrs. Hunt was bound to explain too. Her explanation was certainly more poetic.

It eez the way we show our love for the good Lord, Meester Shivershee. What is more beautiful than the flowers? We take the flowers, and with much love we place them upon the walls, and we make others happy with them, and the good Lord, who loves us all, He is pleased,—but here, seeing the sobbing children and the frozen plants, she could not help wiping her eyes upon her apron.

The little sufferer on the bed saw this action. Her voice was almost gone. Never mind, mamma, she whispered; but the beautiful eyes were filled with tears, for she knew that mamma would mind—that she could not help it.

Pete listened to all this attentively. Injun that he was, of course he could not understand it all, and yet he could hardly help seeing something of the sorrow that the loss of the flowers had brought upon the family. He finished his supper, and then slunk out at the door again. Jeff followed him out.

Little gal ever git well? asked Pete.

No; I don't s'pose she will, answered Jeff. There ain't no hopes held out fer her. Makes it kinder bad, ye see. Nice, clever little gal as ever lived, too. Stop in an' git yer clo'es when ye come back, will ye?

All right, muttered Pete, as he trotted away toward the town.

I wonder what Pete was thinking about as he ran through the forest. An Injun's thoughts on any ordinary subject cannot be very deep, yet when one comes from such a scene as Pete had just witnessed, and when such sad eyes as Marie's haunt one all along a lonely road, even an Injun's thoughts must be worth noticing. Let us imagine what Pete's thoughts were as he shuffled mile after mile through the snow. The scene he had just left rose before his dulled Injun mind. How kind Mrs. Hunt had always been to him! She was the only one that called him Mister. How queer it was that the children should cry because the flowers were killed! How little Marie had looked at him! Somehow Pete could not drive those sad eyes away. They seemed to be looking at him from every stump, from every tree. They were filled with tears now—could it be because the flowers were frozen?

It is no wonder that when at last the few lingering village lights came into view, Pete was wondering how he could help matters out.

It was quite late, and most of the shops were closed. Only here and there some late worker showed a light. The bar-rooms were open full blast, and as Pete glided down the sawdust street it needed all the remembrance of Bill's fist to keep him from parting with a portion of the jingling money for an equal amount of good cheer. But the fist had the best of it, and he went straight on to the last bar-room. Surely Bill was right. Nothing but a miracle could stop him.

But the miracle was performed, and when Pete least expected it.

Pete knew better than to go into the front door of the bar-room. He knew how well he and all his race are protected by the government. It had been decided that no one should be allowed to sell liquor to an Injun—at least at the regular bar. If an Injun, however, could so far lose sight of his personal dignity as to come sneaking in at the back door, and pay an extra price for his liquor, whose business was it?

Pete knew the way of bar-tenders. He had been in the business before. He did not go in at the front door where the higher-bred white men were made welcome, but slunk down an alley by the side of the building, meaning to go in the back way.

There was no light in the store next the bar-room. It was a milliner's store and had been closed for some hours. But in the back room two women were working away anxious to finish a hat, evidently intended for some village belle's Christmas. Pete stopped in the dark alley for a moment to watch them.

A man sat asleep in a chair by the stove, but the women worked on with tireless fingers. The hat was growing more and more brilliant under their quick touches. By their side stood a basket of artificial flowers and bright ribbons. It seemed to Pete that he had never before seen anything so beautiful. Here were flowers—why could he not get some for the little sick girl?

It was a severe struggle for the poor Injun, out there in the dark alley. The thought of the thrashing he would receive on the one hand, and the sad eyes of Marie on the other. What could he do? But even an Injun can remember a kindness. It may have been a miracle, or it may have been just the out-cropping of the desire to repay a kindness which even an Injun is said to possess. At any rate the eyes conquered and Pete braved the fist of Bill. For fear that he should lose courage, he pushed against the door of the room, and entered without ceremony.

There was a great commotion, I can assure you. The idea of an Injun pushing his way into the back parlor of a milliner's shop was too much of a revolutionary proceeding to pass unnoticed. The women dropped their work with a little scream, while the man started from his chair with most violent intent upon poor Pete.

What be ye after here, Injun? he growled. Hump yerself outer here—git a-goin'!

But Pete pulled out his money, at the sight of which the standing army of the milliner's store paused. Money has smoothed over many an outrage. It might perhaps excuse even such an action on the part of an Injun.

I want flowers, Pete said, pointing to the basket. Give me flowers—I pay.

Oh, ye wanter buy sum of them artyficial flowers, do ye? This is a pooty time o' night ter come flower huntin,' ain't it? Jest pick out yer flowers, an' then climb out!—and he held the basket out at arm's length for Pete to select.

Pete took a great red rose, and a white flower. There was not very much of a stock to select from, but Pete, with Injun instinct, selected the largest and gaudiest.

Them is wurth about ten shillins, figured up the merchant, taking the money from Pete's hand.

Pete carefully placed the flowers in the pocket of his ragged coat, and started for the door. The milliner's man, rendered affable by the most surprising bargain he had just made, naturally wished to retain the patronage of such a model customer.

Want anything in our line, Injun, jest call round an' we'll please ye. Only come a little afore bed-time when ye come again. But Pete slunk out at the door and did not hear him.

Pete's money was nearly gone, but he had a scheme in his head. He slunk in at the back door of the bar-room, and obtained his jug, and what whiskey he could buy with the rest of his money. Then up the street he ran again, out of town, stopping only once at the pump to fill the jug to the top with water. Resolutely fastening in the stopper, and not even raising the jug to his mouth, he started for camp at his long, swinging trot, with the jug in his hand. Mile after mile was passed over, yet Pete did not stop till Jeff Hunt's cabin came in sight. Hiding his jug behind a log, he crept up to the window and looked in.

The light was burning on the table, while Mrs. Hunt sat nodding over her work. She had been mending the clothes so that Pete could take them back with him. Tired out, she had fallen asleep. The box of frozen plants still stood by the table. Pete grinned as he saw them, thinking of the great flowers in his pocket. Marie was asleep. Over her head were hung long clusters of moss, with masses of ground pine and red berries.

Pete stole to the door and went in. Mrs. Hunt woke with a start, but at sight of Pete smiled in her weary way. Pete made up his bundle of clothes, and then pulled out the great red rose and the white flower. He laid them on the table with—Flowers fer little gal. Sick. Make her think Crissmus. Good flowers. All color. No fade. No smell. No wear out. Then, catching up his bundle, he slunk away without waiting for Mrs. Hunt's thanks.

When Bill Gammon woke in the morning, he found the jug at the foot of his bunk. But Pete was nowhere to be seen. He had left the jug and fled.

The Christmas celebration at Carter's was a very tame affair. Many were the curses showered upon Pete, and had that worthy been present, I doubt if even the thought of the famous miracle would have sustained him in the beating he would have received. But if Pete's conduct produced such a sad effect upon the festivities at Carter's, the joy it caused at Jeff Hunt's cabin made matters even. The glad Christmas sun, glad with the promise of the old, old story, came dancing and sparkling over the trees, and looked down in wonderful tenderness upon the humble cabin. The first bright beams fell upon the bed where little Marie was lying. They showed her the rose and the white flower nestling in the evergreens. The children came and stood in wonder before the rude flowers. How wonderful they were! Where could they have come from?

The face of the little girl was more patient than before. The eyes seemed more tender, and yet not so sad. Perhaps the glad sun, the same good sun that had looked upon that far-away tomb from which the stone had rolled, whispered to her, as it played about her face, how soon the stone would roll from her life; how soon she would forget all her care and trouble, and enter the land of sunshine and flowers. It may be that the good old Christmas sun even hunted out poor despised Pete, and told him something of its happiness. I am sure he deserved it. Let us hope so at any rate.

2. The Fir-Tree

Hans Christian Andersen

The Fir-Tree

FAR down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh air made a sweet resting-place, grew a pretty little fir-tree; and yet it was not happy, it wished so much to be tall like its companions- the pines and firs which grew around it. The sun shone, and the soft air fluttered its leaves, and the little peasant children passed by, prattling merrily, but the fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the children would bring a large basket of raspberries or strawberries, wreathed on a straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say, Is it not a pretty little tree? which made it feel more unhappy than before. And yet all this while the tree grew a notch or joint taller every year; for by the number of joints in the stem of a fir-tree we can discover its age. Still, as it grew, it complained, Oh! how I wish I were as tall as the other trees, then I would spread out my branches on every side, and my top would over-look the wide world. I should have the birds building their nests on my boughs, and when the wind blew, I should bow with stately dignity like my tall companions. The tree was so discontented, that it took no pleasure in the warm sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that floated over it morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay white and glittering on the ground, a hare would come springing along, and jump right over the little tree; and then how mortified it would feel! Two winters passed, and when the third arrived, the tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it. Yet it remained unsatisfied, and would exclaim, Oh, if I could but keep on growing tall and old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the world! In the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down several of the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which was now grown to its full height, shuddered as the noble trees fell to the earth with a crash. After the branches were lopped off, the trunks looked so slender and bare, that they could scarcely be recognized. Then they were placed upon wagons, and drawn by horses out of the forest. Where were they going? What would become of them? The young fir-tree wished very much to know; so in the spring, when the swallows and the storks came, it asked, Do you know where those trees were taken? Did you meet them?

The swallows knew nothing, but the stork, after a little reflection, nodded his head, and said, Yes, I think I do. I met several new ships when I flew from Egypt, and they had fine masts that smelt like fir. I think these must have been the trees; I assure you they were stately, very stately.

Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea, said the fir-tree. What is the sea, and what does it look like?

It would take too much time to explain, said the stork, flying quickly away.

Rejoice in thy youth, said the sunbeam; rejoice in thy fresh growth, and the young life that is in thee.

And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with tears; but the fir-tree regarded them not.

Christmas-time drew near, and many young trees were cut down, some even smaller and younger than the fir-tree who enjoyed neither rest nor peace with longing to leave its forest home. These young trees, which were chosen for their beauty, kept their branches, and were also laid on wagons and drawn by horses out of the forest.

Where are they going? asked the fir-tree. They are not taller than I am: indeed, one is much less; and why are the branches not cut off? Where are they going?

We know, we know, sang the sparrows; we have looked in at the windows of the houses in the town, and we know what is done with them. They are dressed up in the most splendid manner. We have seen them standing in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with all sorts of beautiful things,- honey cakes, gilded apples, playthings, and many hundreds of wax tapers.

And then, asked the fir-tree, trembling through all its branches, and then what happens?

We did not see any more, said the sparrows; but this was enough for us.

I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen to me, thought the fir-tree. It would be much better than crossing the sea. I long for it almost with pain. Oh! when will Christmas be here? I am now as tall and well grown as those which were taken away last year. Oh! that I were now laid on the wagon, or standing in the warm room, with all that brightness and splendor around me! Something better and more beautiful is to come after, or the trees would not be so decked out. Yes, what follows will be grander and more splendid. What can it be? I am weary with longing. I scarcely know how I feel.

Rejoice with us, said the air and the sunlight. Enjoy thine own bright life in the fresh air.

But the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller every day; and, winter and summer, its dark-green foliage might be seen in the forest, while passers by would say, What a beautiful tree!

A short time before Christmas, the discontented fir-tree was the first to fall. As the axe cut through the stem, and divided the pith, the tree fell with a groan to the earth, conscious of pain and faintness, and forgetting all its anticipations of happiness, in sorrow at leaving its home in the forest. It knew that it should never again see its dear old companions, the trees, nor the little bushes and many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps not even the birds. Neither was the journey at all pleasant. The tree first recovered itself while being unpacked in the courtyard of a house, with several other trees; and it heard a man say, We only want one, and this is the prettiest.

Then came two servants in grand livery, and carried the fir-tree into a large and beautiful apartment. On the walls hung pictures, and near the great stove stood great china vases, with lions on the lids. There were rocking chairs, silken sofas, large tables, covered with pictures, books, and playthings, worth a great deal of money,- at least, the children said so. Then the fir-tree was placed in a large tub, full of sand; but green baize hung all around it, so that no one could see it was a tub, and it stood on a very handsome carpet. How the fir-tree trembled! What was going to happen to him now? Some young ladies came, and the servants helped them to adorn the tree. On one branch they hung little bags cut out of colored paper, and each bag was filled with sweetmeats; from other branches hung gilded apples and walnuts, as if they had grown there; and above, and all round, were hundreds of red, blue, and white tapers, which were fastened on the branches. Dolls, exactly like real babies, were placed under the green leaves,- the tree had never seen such things before,- and at the very top was fastened a glittering star, made of tinsel. Oh, it was very beautiful!

This evening, they all exclaimed, how bright it will be! Oh, that the evening were come, thought the tree, and the tapers lighted! then I shall know what else is going to happen. Will the trees of the forest come to see me? I wonder if the sparrows will peep in at the windows as they fly? shall I grow faster here, and keep on all these ornaments summer and winter? But guessing was of very little use; it made his bark ache, and this pain is as bad for a slender fir-tree, as headache is for us. At last the tapers were lighted, and then what a glistening blaze of light the tree presented! It trembled so with joy in all its branches, that one of the candles fell among the green leaves and burnt some of them. Help! help! exclaimed the young ladies, but there was no danger, for they quickly extinguished the fire. After this, the tree tried not to tremble at all, though the fire frightened him; he was so anxious not to hurt any of the beautiful ornaments, even while their brilliancy dazzled him. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a troop of children rushed in as if they intended to upset the tree; they were followed more silently by their elders. For a moment the little ones stood silent with astonishment, and then they shouted for joy, till the room rang, and they danced merrily round the tree, while one present after another was taken from it.

What are they doing? What will happen next? thought the fir. At last the candles burnt down to the branches and were put out. Then the children received permission to plunder the tree.

Oh, how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked, and had it not been fastened with the glistening star to the ceiling, it must have been thrown down. The children then danced about with their pretty toys, and no one noticed the tree, except the children's maid who came and peeped among the branches to see if an apple or a fig had been forgotten.

A story, a story, cried the children, pulling a little fat man towards the tree.

Now we shall be in the green shade, said the man, as he seated himself under it, and the tree will have the pleasure of hearing also, but I shall only relate one story; what shall it be? Ivede-Avede, or Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs, but soon got up again, and at last married a princess.

Ivede-Avede, cried some. Humpty Dumpty, cried others, and there was a fine shouting and crying out. But the fir-tree remained quite still, and thought to himself, Shall I have anything to do with all this? but he had already amused them as much as they wished. Then the old man told them the story of Humpty Dumpty, how he fell down stairs, and was raised up again, and married a princess. And the children clapped their hands and cried, Tell another, tell another, for they wanted to hear the story of Ivede-Avede; but they only had Humpty Dumpty. After this the fir-tree became quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the forest told such tales as Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs, and yet married a princess.

Ah! yes, so it happens in the world, thought the fir-tree; he believed it all, because it was related by such a nice man. Ah! well, he thought, who knows? perhaps I may fall down too, and marry a princess; and he looked forward joyfully to the next evening, expecting to be again decked out with lights and playthings, gold and fruit. To-morrow I will not tremble, thought he; I will enjoy all my splendor, and I shall hear the story of Humpty Dumpty again, and perhaps Ivede-Avede. And the tree remained quiet and thoughtful all night. In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in. Now, thought the fir, all my splendor is going to begin again. But they dragged him out of the room and up stairs to the garret, and threw him on the floor, in a dark corner, where no daylight shone, and there they left him. What does this mean? thought the tree, what am I to do here? I can hear nothing in a place like this, and he had time enough to think, for days and nights passed and no one came near him, and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put away large boxes in a corner. So the tree was completely hidden from sight as if it had never existed. It is winter now, thought the tree, the ground is hard and covered with snow, so that people cannot plant me. I shall be sheltered here, I dare say, until spring comes. How thoughtful and kind everybody is to me! Still I wish this place were not so dark, as well as lonely, with not even a little hare to look at. How pleasant it was out in the forest while the snow lay on the ground, when the hare would run by, yes, and jump over me too, although I did not like it then. Oh! it is terrible lonely here.

Squeak, squeak, said a little mouse, creeping cautiously towards the tree; then came another; and they both sniffed at the fir-tree and crept between the branches.

Oh, it is very cold, said the little mouse, or else we should be so comfortable here, shouldn't we, you old fir-tree?

I am not old, said the fir-tree, there are many who are older than I am.

Where do you come from? and what do you know? asked the mice, who were full of curiosity. Have you seen the most beautiful places in the world, and can you tell us all about them? and have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses lie on the shelf, and hams hang from the ceiling? One can run about on tallow candles there, and go in thin and come out fat.

I know nothing of that place, said the fir-tree, but I know the wood where the sun shines and the birds sing. And then the tree told the little mice all about its youth. They had never heard such an account in their lives; and after they had listened to it attentively, they said, What a number of things you have seen? you must have been very happy.

Happy! exclaimed the fir-tree, and then as he reflected upon what he had been telling them, he said, Ah, yes! after all those were happy days. But when he went on and related all about Christmas-eve, and how he had been dressed up with cakes and lights, the mice said, How happy you must have been, you old fir-tree.

I am not old at all, replied the tree, I only came from the forest this winter, I am now checked in my growth.

What splendid stories you can relate, said the little mice. And the next night four other mice came with them to hear what the tree had to tell. The more he talked the more he remembered, and then he thought to himself, Those were happy days, but they may come again. Humpty Dumpty fell down stairs, and yet he married the princess; perhaps I may marry a princess too. And the fir-tree thought of the pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest, which was to him a real beautiful princess.

Who is Humpty Dumpty? asked the little mice. And then the tree related the whole story; he could remember every single word, and the little mice was so delighted with it, that they were ready to jump to the top of the tree. The next night a great many more mice made their appearance, and on Sunday two rats came with them; but they said, it was not a pretty story at all, and the little mice were very sorry, for it made them also think less of it.

Do you know only one story? asked the rats.

Only one, replied the fir-tree; I heard it on the happiest evening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time.

We think it is a very miserable story, said the rats. Don't you know any story about bacon, or tallow in the storeroom.

No, replied the tree.

Many thanks to you then, replied the rats, and they marched off.

The little mice also kept away after this, and the tree sighed, and said, It was very pleasant when the merry little mice sat round me and listened while I talked. Now that is all passed too. However, I shall consider myself happy when some one comes to take me out of this place. But would this ever happen? Yes; one morning people came to clear out the garret, the boxes were packed away, and the tree was pulled out of the corner, and thrown roughly on the garret floor; then the servant dragged it out upon the staircase where the daylight shone. Now life is beginning again, said the tree, rejoicing in the sunshine and fresh air. Then it was carried down stairs and taken into the courtyard so quickly, that it forgot to think of itself, and could only look about, there was so much to be seen. The court was close to a garden, where everything looked blooming. Fresh and fragrant roses hung over the little palings. The linden-trees were in blossom; while the swallows flew here and there, crying, Twit, twit, twit, my mate is coming,- but it was not the fir-tree they meant. Now I shall live, cried the tree, joyfully spreading out its branches; but alas! they were all withered and yellow, and it lay in a corner amongst weeds and nettles. The star of gold paper still stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In the same courtyard two of the merry children were playing who had danced round the tree at Christmas, and had been so happy. The youngest saw the gilded star, and ran and pulled it off the tree. Look what is sticking to the ugly old fir-tree, said the child, treading on the branches till they crackled under his boots. And the tree saw all the fresh bright flowers in the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the garret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas evening, and of the little mice who had listened to the story of Humpty Dumpty. Past! past! said the old tree; Oh, had I but enjoyed myself while I could have done so! but now it is too late. Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces, till a large bundle lay in a heap on the ground. The pieces were placed in a fire under the copper, and they quickly blazed up brightly, while the tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol-shot. Then the children, who were at play, came and seated themselves in front of the fire, and looked at it and cried, Pop, pop. But at each pop, which was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in the forest; and of Christmas evening, and of Humpty Dumpty, the only story it had ever heard or knew how to relate, till at last it was consumed. The boys still played in the garden, and the youngest wore the golden star on his breast, with which the tree had been adorned during the happiest evening of its existence. Now all was past; the tree's life was past, and the story also,- for all stories must come to an end at last.

3. The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree

A Christmas Tale

Hans Christian Andersen

Copyright © 2018 by OPU

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

The Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree

In the forest, high up on the steep shore, hard by the open sea coast, stood a very old Oak Tree. It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five years old, but that long time was not more for the Tree than just as many days would be to us men. We wake by day and sleep through the night, and then we have our dreams: it is different with the Tree, which keeps awake through three seasons of the year, and does not get its sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest, its night after the long day which is called spring, summer, and autumn.

On many a warm summer day the Ephemera, the fly that lives but for a day, had danced around his crown—had lived, enjoyed, and felt happy; and then the tiny creature had rested for a moment in quiet bliss on one of the great fresh Oak leaves; and then the Tree always said,

'Poor little thing! Your whole life is but a single day! How very short! It's quite melancholy.'

'Melancholy! Why do you say that?' the Ephemera would then always reply. 'It's wonderfully bright, warm, and beautiful all around me, and that makes me rejoice.'

'But only one day, and then it's all done!'

'Done!' repeated the Ephemera. 'What's the meaning of done? Are you done, too?'

'No; I shall perhaps live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole seasons long! It's something so long, that you can't at all manage to reckon it out.'

'No? then I don't understand you. You say you have thousands of my days; but I have thousands of moments, in which I can be merry and happy. Does all the beauty of this world cease when you die!'

'No,' replied the Tree; 'it will certainly last much longer—far longer than I can possibly think.'

'Well, then, we have the same time, only that we reckon differently.'

And the Ephemera danced and floated in the air, and rejoiced in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, and rejoiced in the balmy breezes laden with the fragrance of the meadows and of wild roses and elder flowers, of the garden hedges, wild thyme, and mint, and daisies; the scent of these was all so strong that the Ephemera was almost intoxicated. The day was long and beautiful, full of joy and of sweet feeling, and when the sun sank low the little fly felt very agreeably tired of all its happiness and enjoyment. The delicate wings would not carry it any more, and quietly and slowly it glided down upon the soft grass-blade, nodded its head as well as it could nod, and went quietly to sleep—and was dead.

'Poor little Ephemera!' said the Oak. 'That was a terribly short life!'

And on every summer day the same dance was repeated, the same question and answer, and the same sleep. The same thing was repeated through whole generations of Ephemerae, and all of them felt equally merry and equally happy.

The Oak stood there awake through the spring morning, the noon of summer, and the evening of autumn; and its time of rest, its night, was coming on apace. Winter was approaching.

Already the storms were singing their 'good night! good night!' Here fell a leaf, and there fell a leaf.

'We pull! See if you can sleep! We sing you to sleep, we shake you to sleep, but it does you good in your old twigs, does it not? They seem to crack for very joy. Sleep sweetly!-sleep sweetly! It's your three hundred and sixty-fifth night. Properly speaking, you're only a year old yet! Sleep sweetly! The clouds strew down snow, there will be quite a coverlet, warm and protecting, around your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams!'

And the old Oak Tree stood there, stripped of all its leaves, to sleep through the long winter, and to dream many a dream, always about something that had happened to it, just as in the dreams of men.

The great Oak Tree had once been small—indeed, an acorn had been its cradle. According to human computation, it was now in its fourth century. It was the greatest and best tree in the forest; its crown towered far above all the other trees, and could be descried from afar across the sea, so that it served as a landmark to the sailors: the Tree had no idea how many eyes were in the habit of seeking it. High up in its green summit the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo sat in its boughs and sang his song; and in autumn, when the leaves looked like thin plates of copper, the birds of passage came and rested there, before they flew away across the sea; but now it was winter, and the Tree stood there leafless, so that every one could see how gnarled and crooked the branches were that shot forth from its trunk. Crows and rooks came and took their seat by turns in the boughs, and spoke of the hard times which were beginning, and of the difficulty of getting a living in winter.

It was just at the holy Christmas-time, when the Tree dreamed its most glorious dream.

The Tree had a distinct feeling of the festive time, and fancied he heard the bells ringing from the churches all around; and yet it seemed as if it were a fine summer's day, mild and warm. Fresh and green he spread out his mighty crown; the sunbeams played among the twigs and the leaves; the air was full of the fragrance of herbs and blossoms; gay butterflies chased each other to and fro. The ephemeral insects danced as if all the world were created merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that the Tree had experienced for years and years, and that had happened around him, seemed to pass by him again, as in a festive pageant. He saw the knights of ancient days ride by with their noble dames on gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their bonnets and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors in coloured jerkins and with shining weapons, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents and striking them again. The watchfires flamed up anew, and men sang and slept under the branches of the Tree. He saw loving couples meeting near his trunk, happily, in the moonshine; and they cut the initials of their names in the grey-green bark of his stem. Once—but long years had rolled by since then—citherns and Æolian harps had been hung up on his boughs by merry wanderers; now they hung there again, and once again they sounded in tones of marvellous sweetness. The wood-pigeons cooed, as if they were telling what the Tree felt in all this, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to live.

Then it appeared to him as if new life were rippling down into the remotest fibre of his root, and mounting up into his highest branches, to the tops of the leaves. The Tree felt that he was stretching and spreading himself, and through his root he felt that there was life and warmth even in the ground itself. He felt his strength increase, he grew higher, his stem shot up unceasingly, and he grew more and more, his crown became fuller and spread out; and in proportion as the Tree grew, he felt his happiness increase, and his joyous hope that he should reach even higher—quite up to the warm brilliant sun.

Already had he grown high up above the clouds, which floated past beneath his crown like dark troops of passage-birds, or like great white swans. And every leaf of the Tree had the gift of sight, as if it had eyes wherewith to see: the stars became visible in broad daylight, great and sparkling; each of them sparkled like a pair of eyes, mild and clear. They recalled to his memory well-known gentle eyes, eyes of children, eyes of lovers, who had met beneath his boughs.

It