_Carolyn Wells_
Longer ago than you ever heard of, and farther away than you ever
dreamed, the great Tree-master went out to make the trees.
Now the making of trees was a most important matter, and the
Tree-master put his whole mind to it. He made all sorts of trees to
use for building houses and making things to furnish the houses. Oak,
maple, elm, ash, mahogany, rosewood, and many more, as you well know.
Then he made all sorts of trees to bear food: fruits, nuts, olives, and
queer things like breadfruit and cocoanuts.
And he made lovely trees just to look pretty. He made dogwood,
magnolia, horse-chestnut, and holly.
Then the Tree-master gave each tree its orders about blooming blossoms
and bearing fruit, and at last the Tree-master thought his work was
about done, and he turned to go away.
“Oh, please, sir,” said an anxious little voice, “aren’t you going to
give me anything nice to do?”
“Who is speaking?” growled the Tree-master, in a voice of thunder.
“It’s only I,” and a very trembly tone reached his ear. “I’m a little
fir-tree, and I’m neither beautiful nor useful.”
“You’re good enough,” said the Tree-master, as he glanced at the poor
little thing. “Behave yourself, and no one will notice you.”
But they did notice her. The springtime came, and all the fruit-trees
put on their beautiful blossom-frocks, and they jeered at the forlorn
little fir-tree.
“Ho!” said the apple-tree, “look at my pink and white garb. Is it not
exquisite? Don’t you wish you could be dressed like this?”
The poor little fir-tree looked on with longing eyes, but she was too
crushed to reply.
“And see mine!” vaunted the peach-tree. “Was there ever such a perfect
shade of color as I wear? How it is set off by my green leaves!”
The little fir-tree, though tempted to envy them, had a generous heart,
and she said, “Your clothes are indeed beautiful, O Apple-tree and
Peach-tree! I never saw more delicate and lovely coloring. Indeed, I
wish I might dress like that! I have my old dull needles!”
“And see me!” cried the cherry-tree; “after all, there’s nothing more
beautiful than my pure white with touches of feathery green.”
“True, true,” agreed the little fir-tree. “The colors are all so
lovely, I scarce know which to choose.”
The fruit-trees tossed their blossomy branches, and showers of dainty
petals fell all around.
“Oh!” cried the little fir-tree, enraptured, “I never saw anything so
wonderful! If only I had been made like that!”
But the fruit-trees paid little heed to the fir-tree’s lament, they
were so busy admiring themselves and flaunting their glories to the
breeze.
Then the wood trees broke into their soft spring greens.
“Look at me!” said a young maple, proudly; “is not my pale yellowy
green as lovely as the pink and white of the fruit-trees?”
And gazing at the delicate shade of the tiny leaves, the little
fir-tree admitted that it was.
“Oh,” she said, with a deep sigh, “if I could have that soft light
green to wear, I wouldn’t ask for pink blossoms! But how I hate my old
dull needles!”
The oaks and elms put out their young green also, and the feathery
willows down by the brook waved young withes like fairy wands.
As every fresh beauty unfolded, the poor little fir-tree wept anew and
wished the Tree-master had given her the like. But so engrossed were
the trees in watching their own decorations that they paid small heed
to the sad little fir-tree.
And then summer came. The fir-tree felt sure new beauties would come
to the trees, and she almost hoped some wonderful change might come to
her. But she watched and waited in vain.
The others, though! Ah, how they reveled in their happiness!
The fruit-trees fairly laughed aloud under their happiness of fruit!
Saucy red cherries, crimson velvet peaches, mellow golden apples, dewy
purple plums, everywhere a riot of color, fragrance, and sweetness!
How they boasted!
“Ah, little fir-tree,” they said: “what would you give for glories like
these?”
And the poor, forlorn little fir-tree shook with sorrow to her very
heart as she replied, “Ah, if I might be like that!”
“Too bad,” said the peaches, carelessly, and they went about their
business, which was to hold their soft cheeks up toward the sun that he
might kiss them till they blushed.
“Yes, too bad!” chattered the pears, not heeding what they were saying,
as they swayed gently on their stems while they slowly ripened to a
golden and rosy glow.
The poor little fir-tree shuddered at their cruel indifference, which
was even harder to bear than their outright scorn.
And the shade-trees were just as bad.
And then autumn came. Oh, the triumphs of the trees then! The wonderful
flaming banners of scarlet and gold that they flung out to dazzle all
nature! The rich depths of bronze and crimson that lurked mysteriously
in their thick foliage!
The little fir-tree marveled. “Is there no end to their magnificence?”
she thought: “must I ever see more and more of these wonders that I may
not share?”
And the poor little thing wept until her needles lay in a pool all
around her feet. The willows down by the brook saw her and they wept
in sympathy. The little fir-tree saw the weeping willows and she was
grateful for their kind thought, but so saddened was she that she only
wept more needles to the ground.
And the nut-trees! They shook their nuts in her very face, and taunted
her afresh with her uselessness and her lack of beauty.
The little fir-tree thought she would die.
And then the Tree-master came walking around. “Hey, hey, what’s this?”
he exclaimed, as he saw the sadness of the little fir-tree.
In a burst of woe, the fir-tree told him all her trials and sorrows.
“Oh, pooh, pooh,” said the old Tree-master, who was really most
kind-hearted, “have you forgotten this? All through the winter the
other trees will be shivering and shaking in bare boughs. They will
have no beauty and they will be sad and forlorn. You will be green and
handsome, and then you can ask them why they look so ugly and downcast.”
The fir-tree cheered up a little, for though not vindictive, she had
been so scorned by the other trees that she was glad to look pretty in
the winter when they were forlorn and bare.
And yet, somehow, she felt it was not enough. To be sure she was green
and glossy and shapely, and all the other trees looked really ugly, but
she had no gay-colored blossoms and no rich fruits or nuts.
The kind old Tree-master laughed when he heard this. He was not so busy
now, and he could listen to the troubles of his little fir-tree.
“Ho! ho!” he said; “so you want fruit and flowers, do you? Well, I
rather guess we can fix that! Hereafter you shall bear wonderful fruit
and flowers and nuts every winter, when the other trees are impatiently
waiting for spring. And the blossoms and fruits you show shall far, far
excel anything they have ever flaunted in your face!”
The little fir-tree could scarcely believe this good news. But it was
true.
The Tree-master ordered that she should be the Christmas Tree!
And so, every winter, the fir-tree blossoms out in marvelous blooms
of color and gold! Her branches are hung with wondrous fruits such as
never grew on a summer tree! Nuts are there, and more holly berries
than the holly-tree herself ever showed! And high above, crowning the
glorified little fir-tree, the Christmas star sheds its rays in a
blessing never bestowed on any other tree!
[20] Reprinted by permission of the author and “St. Nicholas Magazine.”