The white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and the glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold in the forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever.
One day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and cut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir. They fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling and waving, over the smooth snow.
The mother-tree had gone,—“gone to be useful,” said the little Fir; and though he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty when he looked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong trunk, yet he was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir.
Still the days grew colder, and often the Fir-tree wondered if the children who had made a ring and danced about him would remember him when Christmas time came.
He could not grow, for the weather was too cold, and so he had the more time for thinking. He thought of the birds, of the mother-tree, and, most of all, of the little girl who had lifted her finger, and said, “Hush! hear the Fir-tree sing.”
Sometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and almost thought he would never be a Christmas tree.
But suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the ringing of Christmas bells. It was the children laughing and singing, as they ran over the snow.
Nearer they came, and stood beside the Fir. “Yes,” said the little girl, “it is my very tree, my very singing tree!”
“Indeed,” said the father, “it will be a good Christmas tree. See how straight and well shaped it is.”
Then the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but glad that they saw he had tried his best.