I read a bedtime story to my children the other day, and felt that its lesson was meant more for me in that moment than for the kids. In this imperfect and often uncertain journey of life that we each take, it can be easy to look ahead and long for better days. Each of us have our daily struggles and challenges, often so overwhelming at times that we forget to see the good in every moment.
When you’re feeling like life is just too much and there seems to be no joy in the day, take a lesson from the Fir Tree, who never quite appreciated what he had until it was never to be regained again. Hug your family. Tell them you love them. Go outside and be grateful for the warmth of sunshine on your face, and fresh air in your lungs. Look down at your legs and be glad that they’re still strong enough to hold you up. And remind yourself that this time in your life is temporary. Find the good in every day, and be grateful.
The Fir Tree: A Lesson in Contentment
By Hans Christian Anderson
Out in the woods stood such a pretty little fir tree. It grew in a good place, where it had plenty of sun and plenty of fresh air. Around it stood many tall comrades, both fir trees and pines.
The little fir tree was in a headlong hurry to grow up. It didn’t care a thing for the warm sunshine, or the fresh air, and it took no interest in the peasant children who ran about chattering when they came to pick strawberries or raspberries. Often when the children had picked their pails full, or had gathered long strings of berries threaded on straws, they would sit down to rest near the little fir. “Oh, isn’t it a nice little tree?” they would say. “It’s the baby of the woods.” The little tree didn’t like their remarks at all.
Next year it shot up a long joint of new growth, and the following year another joint, still longer. You can always tell how old a fir tree is by counting the number of joints it has.
“I wish I were a grown-up tree, like my comrades,” the little tree sighed. “Then I could stretch out my branches and see from my top what the world is like. The birds would make me their nesting place, and when the wind blew I could bow back and forth with all the great trees.”
It took no pleasure in the sunshine, nor in the birds. The glowing clouds, that sailed overhead at sunrise and sunset, meant nothing to it.
In winter, when the snow lay sparkling on the ground, a hare would often come hopping along and jump right over the little tree. Oh, how irritating that was! That happened for two winters, but when the third winter came the tree was so tall that the hare had to turn aside and hop around it.
“Oh, to grow, grow! To get older and taller,” the little tree thought. “That is the most wonderful thing in this world.”
In the autumn, woodcutters came and cut down a few of the largest trees. This happened every year. The young fir was no longer a baby tree, and it trembled to see how those stately great trees crashed to the ground, how their limbs were lopped off, and how lean they looked as the naked trunks were loaded into carts. It could hardly recognize the trees it had known, when the horses pulled them out of the woods.
Where were they going? What would become of them?
In the springtime, when swallows and storks came back, the tree asked them, “Do you know where the other trees went? Have you met them?”
The swallows knew nothing about it, but the stork looked thoughtful and nodded his head. “Yes, I think I met them,” he said. “On my way from Egypt I met many new ships, and some had tall, stately masts. They may well have been the trees you mean, for I remember the smell of fir. They wanted to be remembered to you.”
“Oh, I wish I were old enough to travel on the sea. Please tell me what it really is, and how it looks.”
“That would take too long to tell,” said the stork, and off he strode.
“Rejoice in your youth,” said the sunbeams. “Take pride in your growing strength and in the stir of life within you.”
And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew wept over it, for the tree was young and without understanding.
When Christmas came near, many young trees were cut down. Some were not even as old or as tall as this fir tree of ours, who was in such a hurry and fret to go traveling. These young trees, which were always the handsomest ones, had their branches left on them when they were loaded on carts and the horses drew them out of the woods.
“Where can they be going?” the fir tree wondered. “They are no taller than I am. One was really much smaller than I am. And why are they allowed to keep all their branches? “Where can they be going?”
“We know! We know!” the sparrows chirped. “We have been to town and peeped in the windows. We know where they are going. The greatest splendor and glory you can imagine awaits them. We’ve peeped through windows. We’ve seen them planted right in the middle of a warm room, and decked out with the most splendid things-gold apples, good gingerbread, gay toys, and many hundreds of candles.”
“And then?” asked the fir tree, trembling in every twig. “And then? What happens then?”
“We saw nothing more. And never have we seen anything that could match it.”
“I wonder if I was created for such a glorious future?” The fir tree rejoiced. “Why, that is better than to cross the sea. I’m tormented with longing. Oh, if Christmas would only come! I’m just as tall and grown-up as the trees they chose last year. How I wish I were already in the cart, on my way to the warm room where there’s so much splendor and glory. Then-then something even better, something still more important is bound to happen, or why should they deck me so fine? Yes, there must be something still grander! But what? Oh, how I long: I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“Enjoy us while you may,” the air and sunlight told him. “Rejoice in the days of your youth, out here in the open.”
But the tree did not rejoice at all. It just grew. It grew and was green both winter and summer-dark evergreen. People who passed it said, “There’s a beautiful tree!” And when Christmas time came again they cut it down first. The ax struck deep into its marrow. The tree sighed as it fell to the ground. It felt faint with pain. Instead of the happiness it had expected, the tree was sorry to leave the home where it had grown up. It knew that never again would it see its dear old comrades, the little bushes and the flowers about it-and perhaps not even the birds. The departure was anything but pleasant.
The tree did not get over it until all the trees were unloaded in the yard, and it heard a man say, “That’s a splendid one. That’s the tree for us.” Then two servants came in fine livery, and carried the fir tree into a big splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hung all around the walls. On either side of the white porcelain stove stood great Chinese vases, with lions on the lids of them. There were easy chairs, silk-covered sofas and long tables strewn with picture books, and with toys that were worth a mint of money, or so the children said.
The fir tree was planted in a large tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub, because it was wrapped in a gay green cloth and set on a many-colored carpet. How the tree quivered! What would come next? The servants and even the young ladies helped it on with its fine decorations. From its branches they hung little nets cut out of colored paper, and each net was filled with candies. Gilded apples and walnuts hung in clusters as if they grew there, and a hundred little white, blue, and even red, candles were fastened to its twigs. Among its green branches swayed dolls that it took to be real living people, for the tree had never seen their like before. And up at its very top was set a large gold tinsel star. It was splendid, I tell you, splendid beyond all words!
“Tonight,” they all said, “ah, tonight how the tree will shine!”
“Oh,” thought the tree, “if tonight would only come! If only the candles were lit! And after that, what happens then? Will the trees come trooping out of the woods to see me? Will the sparrows flock to the windows? Shall I take root here, and stand in fine ornaments all winter and summer long?”
That was how much it knew about it. All its longing had gone to its bark and set it to arching, which is as bad for a tree as a headache is for us.
Now the candles were lighted. What dazzling splendor! What a blaze of light! The tree quivered so in every bough that a candle set one of its twigs ablaze. It hurt terribly.
“Mercy me!” cried every young lady, and the fire was quickly put out. The tree no longer dared rustle a twig-it was awful! Wouldn’t it be terrible if it were to drop one of its ornaments? Its own brilliance dazzled it.
Suddenly the folding doors were thrown back, and a whole flock of children burst in as if they would overturn the tree completely. Their elders marched in after them, more sedately. For a moment, but only for a moment, the young ones were stricken speechless. Then they shouted till the rafters rang. They danced about the tree and plucked off one present after another.
“What are they up to?” the tree wondered. “What will happen next?”
As the candles burned down to the bark they were snuffed out, one by one, and then the children had permission to plunder the tree. They went about it in such earnest that the branches crackled and, if the tree had not been tied to the ceiling by the gold star at top, it would have tumbled headlong.
The children danced about with their splendid playthings. No one looked at the tree now, except an old nurse who peered in among the branches, but this was only to make sure that not an apple or fig had been overlooked.
“Tell us a story! Tell us a story!” the children clamored, as they towed a fat little man to the tree. He sat down beneath it and said, “Here we are in the woods, and it will do the tree a lot of good to listen to our story. Mind you, I’ll tell only one. Which will you have, the story of Ivedy-Avedy, or the one about Humpty-Dumpty who tumbled downstairs, yet ascended the throne and married the Princess?”
“Ivedy-Avedy,” cried some. “Humpty-Dumpty,” cried the others. And there was a great hullabaloo. Only the fir tree held its peace, though it thought to itself, “Am I to be left out of this? Isn’t there anything I can do?” For all the fun of the evening had centered upon it, and it had played its part well.
The fat little man told them all about Humpty-Dumpty, who tumbled downstairs, yet ascended the throne and married the Princess. And the children clapped and shouted, “Tell us another one! Tell us another one!” For they wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy too, but after Humpty-Dumpty the story telling stopped. The fir tree stood very still as it pondered how the birds in the woods had never told it a story to equal this.
“Humpty-Dumpty tumbled downstairs, yet he married the Princess. Imagine! That must be how things happen in the world. You never can tell. Maybe I’ll tumble downstairs and marry a princess too,” thought the fir tree, who believed every word of the story because such a nice man had told it.
The tree looked forward to the following day, when they would deck it again with fruit and toys, candles and gold. “Tomorrow I shall not quiver,” it decided. “I’ll enjoy my splendor to the full. Tomorrow I shall hear about Humpty-Dumpty again, and perhaps about Ivedy-Avedy too.” All night long the tree stood silent as it dreamed its dreams, and next morning the butler and the maid came in with their dusters.
“Now my splendor will be renewed,” the fir tree thought. But they dragged it upstairs to the garret, and there they left it in a dark corner where no daylight ever came. “What’s the meaning of this?” the tree wondered. “What am I going to do here? What stories shall I hear?” It leaned against the wall, lost in dreams. It had plenty of time for dreaming, as the days and the nights went by. Nobody came to the garret. And when at last someone did come, it was only to put many big boxes away in the corner. The tree was quite hidden. One might think it had been entirely forgotten.
“It’s still winter outside,” the tree thought. “The earth is too hard and covered with snow for them to plant me now. I must have been put here for shelter until springtime comes. How thoughtful of them! How good people are! Only, I wish it weren’t so dark here, and so very, very lonely. There’s not even a little hare. It was so friendly out in the woods when the snow was on the ground and the hare came hopping along. Yes, he was friendly even when he jumped right over me, though I did not think so then. Here it’s all so terribly lonely.”
“Squeak, squeak!” said a little mouse just then. He crept across the floor, and another one followed him. They sniffed the fir tree, and rustled in and out among its branches.
“It is fearfully cold,” one of them said. “Except for that, it would be very nice here, wouldn’t it, you old fir tree?”
“I’m not at all old,” said the fir tree. “Many trees are much older than I am.”
“Where did you come from?” the mice asked him. “And what do you know?” They were most inquisitive creatures.
“Tell us about the most beautiful place in the world. Have you been there? Were you ever in the larder, where there are cheeses on shelves and hams that hang from the rafters? It’s the place where you can dance upon tallow candles-where you can dart in thin and squeeze out fat.”
“I know nothing of that place,” said the tree. “But I know the woods where the sun shines and the little birds sing.” Then it told them about its youth. The little mice had never heard the like of it. They listened very intently, and said, “My! How much you have seen! And how happy it must have made you.”
“I?” the fir tree thought about it. “Yes, those days were rather amusing.” And he went on to tell them about Christmas Eve, when it was decked out with candies and candles.
“Oh,” said the little mice, “how lucky you have been, you old fir tree!”
“I am not at all old,” it insisted. “I came out of the woods just this winter, and I’m really in the prime of life, though at the moment my growth is suspended.”
“How nicely you tell things,” said the mice. The next night they came with four other mice to hear what the tree had to say. The more it talked, the more clearly it recalled things, and it thought, “Those were happy times. But they may still come back-they may come back again. Humpty-Dumpty fell downstairs, and yet he married the Princess. Maybe the same thing will happen to me.” It thought about a charming little birch tree that grew out in the woods. To the fir tree she was a real and lovely Princess.
“Who is Humpty-Dumpty?” the mice asked it. So the fir tree told them the whole story, for it could remember it word by word. The little mice were ready to jump to the top of the tree for joy. The next night many more mice came to see the fir tree, and on Sunday two rats paid it a call, but they said that the story was not very amusing. This made the little mice to sad that they began to find it not so very interesting either.
“Is that the only story you know?” the rats asked.
“Only that one,” the tree answered. “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life, but I did not know then how happy I was.”
“It’s a very silly story. Don’t you know one that tells about bacon and candles? Can’t you tell us a good larder story?”
“No,” said the tree.
“Then good-by, and we won’t be back,” the rats said, and went away.
At last the little mice took to staying away too. The tree sighed, “Oh, wasn’t it pleasant when those gay little mice sat around and listened to all that I had to say. Now that, too, is past and gone. But I will take good care to enjoy myself, once they let me out of here.”
When would that be? Well, it came to pass on a morning when people came up to clean out the garret. The boxes were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown-thrown hard-on the floor. But a servant dragged it at once to the stairway, where there was daylight again.
“Now my life will start all over,” the tree thought. It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeam strike it as if it came out into the courtyard. This all happened so quickly and there was so much going around it, that the tree forgot to give even a glance at itself. The courtyard adjoined a garden, where flowers were blooming. Great masses of fragrant roses hung over the picket fence. The linden trees were in blossom, and between them the swallows skimmed past, calling, “Tilira-lira-lee, my love’s come back to me.” But it was not the fir tree of whom they spoke.
“Now I shall live again,” it rejoiced, and tried to stretch out its branches. Alas, they were withered, and brown, and brittle. It was tossed into a corner, among weeds and nettles. But the gold star that was still tied to its top sparkled bravely in the sunlight.
Several of the merry children, who had danced around the tree and taken such pleasure in it at Christmas, were playing in the courtyard. One of the youngest seized upon it and tore off the tinsel star.
“Look what is still hanging on that ugly old Christmas tree,” the child said, and stamped upon the branches until they cracked beneath his shoes.
The tree saw the beautiful flowers blooming freshly in the garden. It saw itself, and wished that they had left it in the darkest corner of the garret. It thought of its own young days in the deep woods, and of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had been so pleased when it told them the story of Humpty-Dumpty.
“My days are over and past,” said the poor tree. “Why didn’t I enjoy them while I could? Now they are gone-all gone.”
A servant came and chopped the tree into little pieces. These heaped together quite high. The wood blazed beautifully under the big copper kettle, and the fir tree moaned so deeply that each groan sounded like a muffled shot. That’s why the children who were playing near-by ran to make a circle around the flames, staring into the fire and crying, “Pif! Paf!” But as each groans burst from it, the tree thought of a bright summer day in the woods, or a starlit winter night. It thought of Christmas Eve and thought of Humpty-Dumpty, which was the only story it ever heard and knew how to tell. And so the tree was burned completely away.
The children played on in the courtyard. The youngest child wore on his breast the gold star that had topped the tree on its happiest night of all. But that was no more, and the tree was no more, and there’s no more to my story. No more, nothing more. All stories come to an end.