“Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea,” said the fir tree.  “Tell me what is this sea, and what does it look like?”

“It would take too much time to explain, a great deal too much,” said the stork, flying quickly away.

“Rejoice in thy youth,” said the sunbeam; “rejoice in thy fresh growth, and in the young life that is in thee.”

And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with tears; but the fir tree regarded them not.

Christmas time drew near, and many young trees were cut down, some that were even smaller and younger than the fir tree, who enjoyed neither rest nor peace with longing to leave its forest home.  These young trees, which were chosen for their beauty, kept their branches, and were also laid on wagons, and drawn by horses far away out of the forest.

“Where are they going?” asked the fir tree.  “They are not taller than I am; indeed, one is not so tall.  And why do they keep all their branches?  Where are they going?”

“We know, we know,” sang the sparrows; “we have looked in at the windows of the houses in the town, and we know what is done with them.  Oh! you cannot think what honor and glory they receive.  They are dressed up in the most splendid manner.  We have seen them standing in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with all sorts of beautiful things;—­honey cakes, gilded apples, playthings, and many hundreds of wax tapers.”

“And then,” asked the fir tree, trembling in all its branches, “and then what happens?”

“We did not see any more,” said the sparrows; “but this was enough for us.”

“I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen to me,” thought the fir tree.  “It would be better even than crossing the sea.  I long for it almost with pain.  Oh, when will Christmas be here?  I am now as tall and well grown as those which were taken away last year.  Oh, that I were now laid on the wagon, or standing in the warm room, with all that brightness and splendor around me!  Something better and more beautiful is to come after, or the trees would not be so decked out.  Yes, what follows will be grander and more splendid.  What can it be?  I am weary with longing.  I scarcely know what it is that I feel.”

“Rejoice in our love,” said the air and the sunlight.  “Enjoy thine own bright life in the fresh air.”

But the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller every day and, winter and summer, its dark green foliage might be seen in the forests, while passersby would say, “What a beautiful tree!”

A short time before Christmas the discontented fir tree was the first to fall.  As the axe cut sharply through the stem, and divided the pith, the tree fell with a groan to the earth, conscious of pain and faintness, and forgetting all its dreams of happiness, in sorrow at leaving its home in the forest.  It knew that it should never again see its dear old companions, the trees, nor the little bushes and many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps not even the birds.  Nor was the journey at all pleasant.