"Well, that's a new ending to the story," said stork-papa. "I had certainly not expected it. But I like it very well."
"But what will the young ones say to it?" said stork-mamma.
"Yes, certainly, that's the important point," replied he.
THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK TREE.
A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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 rested for a moment in quiet bliss the tiny creature, 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!"