"All!"
This was the oak tree's dream; and whilst it dreamt a fearful storm had burst over sea and land that holy Christmas eve. The ocean rolled heavy billows on the beach—the tree rocked violently, and was torn up by the roots at the moment it was dreaming that its roots were loosening. It fell. Its three hundred and sixty-five years were now as but the day of the ephemeron.
On Christmas morning, when the sun arose, the storm was passed. All the church bells were ringing joyously; and from every chimney, even the lowest in the peasant's cot, curled from the altars of the Druidical feast the blue smoke of the thanksgiving oblation. The sea became more and more calm, and on a large vessel in the offing, which had weathered the tempest during the night, were hoisted all its flags in honour of the day.
"The tree is gone—that old oak tree which was always our landmark!" cried the sailors. "It must have fallen in the storm last night. Who shall replace it? Alas! no one can."
This was the tree's funeral oration—short, but well meant—as it lay stretched at full length amidst the snow upon the shore, and over it floated the melody of the psalm tunes from the ship—hymns of Christmas joy, and thanksgivings for the salvation of the souls of mankind by Jesus Christ, and the blessed promise of everlasting life.
"Let sacred songs arise on high,
Loud hallelujahs reach the sky;
Let joy and peace each mortal share,
While hymns of praise shall fill the air."
Thus ran the old psalm, and every one out yonder, on the deck of the ship, lifted up his voice in thanksgiving and prayer, just as the old oak tree was lifted up in its last and most delightful dream on that Christmas eve.
