The children danced about with their beautiful playthings:  no one looked at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been forgotten.

“A story! a story!” cried the children, drawing a little fat man toward the tree.  He seated himself under it, and said:  “Now we are in the shade, and the Tree can listen, too.  But I shall tell only one story.  Now which will you have:  that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Klumpy-Dumpy who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the princess?”

“Ivedy-Avedy!” cried some; “Klumpy-Dumpy” cried the others.  There was such a bawling and screaming—­the Fir-tree alone was silent, and he thought to himself, “Am I not to bawl with the rest?—­am I to do nothing whatever?” for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.

And the man told about Klumpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess.  And the children clapped their hands, and cried out, “Oh, go on!  Do go on!” They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy, too, but the little man only told them about Klumpy-Dumpy.  The Fir-tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the birds in the woods had never related the like of this.  “Klumpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess!  Yes!  Yes! that’s the way of the world!” thought the Fir-tree, and believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking.  “Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!” And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.

“I won’t tremble to-morrow,” thought the Fir-tree.  “I will enjoy to the full all my splendour.  To-morrow I shall hear again the story of Klumpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy, too.”  And the whole night the Tree stood still and in deep thought.

In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.

“Now, then, the splendour will begin again,” thought the Fir.  But they dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft; and here in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him.  “What’s the meaning of this?” thought the Tree.  “What am I to do here?  What shall I hear now, I wonder?” And he leaned against the wall, lost in reverie.  Time enough had he, too, for his reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner out of the way.  There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.

“’Tis now winter out of doors!” thought the Tree.  “The earth is hard and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been put up here under shelter till the springtime comes!  How thoughtful that is!  How kind man is, after all!  If it only were not so dark here, and so terribly lonely!  Not even a hare.  And out in the woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes—­even when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then.  It is really terribly lonely here!”