“See what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree,” he cried, and stamped on the boughs till they crackled under his boots.
And the tree saw all the fresh, bright flowers in the garden, and looked at itself, and wished it had been left lying in the dark corner of the garret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice that had listened so happily to the tale of Humpty Dumpty.
“Past! past!” said the poor tree. “O had I only enjoyed myself while I could! But now it is too late,—it is all past.”
Then a lad came and chopped the tree into small pieces, till a large pile lay heaped on the ground. The pieces were placed in a fire, where they blazed up brightly, and the tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol shot. Then the children who were at play came and sat in front of the fire and [[61]]looked at it, and cried, “Piff! puff! bang!” But at each “bang,” which was a deep sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in the forest, or of some winter night out there, when the stars were shining brightly, or of Christmas Eve, or of Humpty Dumpty, the only story it had ever heard or could tell,—till at last the tree burned away.
The children played on in the garden, and the youngest wore on his breast the golden star which the tree had worn on the happiest evening of its life. Now that was past,—all was past; the tree’s life was past, and this story, too, is past, for all stories must come to an end some time or other.
[[62]]
PLEIADES, OR THE SEVEN STARS
There was once a man who had six sons. He did not give them names like other people, but only called them according to their ages,—Eldest, Next-Eldest, Third-Eldest, Third-Youngest, Next-Youngest, and Youngest. They had no other names.