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_The Fir Tree_ was written by Hans Christian
Andersen (1805-1875), and was translated from the Danish by
M. R. James (1862-1936) as part of his _Hans Andersen Forty-Two
Stories_ (1930).

Title: Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories -- The Fir Tree
Author: Andersen, Hans Christian (1805-1875)
Translator: James, Montague Rhodes (1862-1936)
Date of first publication: 1930
Place and date of edition used as base for this ebook:
   London: Faber and Faber, 1953
Date first posted: 18 December 2008
Date last updated: 18 December 2008
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #217

This ebook was produced by: David T. Jones, Mark Akrigg
& the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdpcanada.net




The Fir Tree

by

Hans Christian Andersen

(from _Hans Andersen Forty-Two Stories_ [1930],
translated by M. R. James)


But in the forest there grew a pretty little fir tree. It had a good
place of its own; it could get sunshine, it had plenty of air, and
round it grew numbers of larger comrades, both firs and pines; but the
little fir was in a great hurry to grow. It didn't care about the warm
sun or the cool air, it took no notice of the village children who
came and chattered when they were out gathering strawberries or
raspberries. They often came there with jugs full of them or with
strawberries strung on a straw, and would sit down by the little tree
and say: "Look how pretty and little it is," which the tree didn't at
all like to hear.

Next year it was bigger by quite a length of stem, and the year after
by a yet longer growth: for on a fir tree you can always see how many
years old it is by the number of joints it has.

"Oh, if I were only a big tree like the others," sighed the little
tree, "then I could spread my branches far out round me and look out
into the wide world with my top. The birds would build nests among my
branches, and when the wind blew I could make stately bows like the
others there," and it took no pleasure in the sunshine or the birds or
the red clouds that sailed over it, morning and evening.

When it was winter, and the snow lay sparkling white all round, a hare
would often come bounding along and jump over the little tree, and oh,
it was annoyed! But two winters passed, and by the third the tree was
so big that the hare had to run round it. Oh, to grow, to grow, and be
big and old! That was the only pleasant thing in the world, the tree
thought.

Every spring the woodcutters came and felled some of the largest
trees. This happened every year, and the young fir, who was by this
time well grown, shuddered at it; for the great stately trees fell
with a crash and a smash, and when their branches were cut off they
looked all naked and long and slender; they could hardly be
recognized. Then they were loaded on to wagons, and drawn off out of
the forest by horses.

Where were they going, and what awaited them?

In spring, when the swallow and the stork came, the tree asked them:
"Do you know where they were taken to? Haven't you met them?" The
swallows knew nothing, but the stork looked thoughtful and then nodded
and said: "Yes, I think so. I met a lot of new ships when I set out
from Egypt, and on those ships there were fine masts. I daresay it was
them; they smelt of pine. Many's the time I salute them. They carry
their heads high, that they do."

"Oh, I do wish I was big enough to fly over the sea too! What sort of
thing is the sea really, and what does it look like?"

"Oh, that's a long affair to explain," said the stork, and walked off.

"You should rejoice in your youth," said the sunbeams, "rejoice in
your strong growth and the young life that's in you," and the wind
kissed the tree and the dew shed tears on it, but the fir didn't
understand that at all.

When Christmas time drew near, some quite young trees were felled,
trees many of which were not so big or so old as this fir who could
have neither peace nor quiet, but was always wanting to be off. These
young trees, and they were always the prettiest, always kept their
branches; and they were laid on wagons and drawn off out of the forest
by horses.

"Where are they going?" asked the fir. "They're no bigger than me; in
fact, one of them was much smaller. Why do they all keep their
branches? Where are they being driven?" "We know, we know," twittered
the grey sparrows. "Down in the town we've peeped in at the
window-panes, we know where they're driven to. Why, they come in for
the greatest brilliance and glory you can imagine. We've peeped in at
the windows and seen how they're planted in the middle of a warm room
and decked out with the most lovely things, gilded apples, gingerbread
cakes, toys, and hundreds and hundreds of lights."

"And then?" asked the fir, quivering through all its branches, "and
then, what happens then?"

"Why, we didn't see any more, but it was marvellous." "Can I be
destined to go by that radiant path?" said the tree, exulting. "That's
even better than faring over the sea. I am sick with longing. If only
it was Christmas! I am quite as tall, and stretch out as far now as
those others that were carried off last year. Oh! to be on the wagon,
to be in the warm room with all the splendour and magnificence, and
then? Why, then will come something still better, still more
beautiful, or else why should they deck me out like that? There must
be something still greater, still nobler, but what? Oh! how I suffer
and yearn! I don't know myself what's the matter with me."

"Rejoice in me," said the breeze and the sunshine, "rejoice in your
fresh youth out here in the free air." But it wouldn't rejoice. It
grew and grew; in winter and summer it stood there in green; in dark
green there it stood, and people who saw it said: "That's a fine
tree," and at Christmas time it was the first of all to be felled. The
axe cut deep through its marrow, and the tree fell over on to the
ground with a sigh: it felt a pang and a weakness, and couldn't think
at all of coming happiness, so sorrowful was it at being parted from
its home, from the spot on which it had grown up. It knew that it
would never again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and
flowers about it--no, not even the birds, perhaps. The journey was by
no means agreeable.

The tree came to itself only when it was unloaded with the other trees
in the yard and heard someone say: "That's a fine one. We don't want
anything better than that."

Two servants in gay livery came out and carried the fir in, into a
large handsome drawing-room. All round the walls hung portraits, and
beside the large stove were Chinese vases with lions on their covers.
There were rocking-chairs, silk-covered sofas, large tables covered
with picture-books, and more than a hundred times a hundred
rix-dollars worth of toys--at least, so said the children. And the fir
was set up in a big tub filled with sand; but nobody could see that it
was a tub, for green stuff was draped all about it and it stood on a
large many-coloured carpet. Oh, how the tree quivered! What was going
to happen?

Servants and young ladies came and decked it out. On the branches they
hung little nets cut out of coloured paper and every net was filled
with sweetmeats; gilded apples and walnuts were hung on it, looking as
if they had grown there, and more than a hundred little tapers, red,
blue, and white, were stuck upon the branches. Dolls that looked
exactly like people--the tree had never seen the like of them--swung
to and fro amid the green, and at the very tip-top was fastened a
large star of gold leaf. It was splendid, splendid beyond compare.
"To-night," they all said, "to-night it'll shine all right." "Oh,"
thought the tree, "if it were only night, if only the candles were
lit! And what'll happen then? Will the trees come out of the forest
and look at me? Will the sparrows fly to the window-panes? Shall I
grow here always and be decked out in winter and summer too?"

Ah, it was full of it all, but it had a terrible backache from pure
longing, and backache is every bit as painful for a tree as headache
is for the rest of us.

Then the candles were lit. Oh, the brilliance and the glory! It made
the tree quiver through every branch, till one of the candles set fire
to a sprig, and it smoked furiously.

"Help! Help!" screamed the girls, and hastened to put it out. After
this the tree durst not quiver. What a turn it had got! It was
terribly afraid of losing any of its finery and quite bewildered with
all the splendour. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and in
rushed a crowd of children--fit to throw the tree right down. The
elders followed sedately. The little ones stood dumb--for a moment
only. Then they shouted for joy till the room rang again, and danced
round the tree while one present after another was pulled off it.

"What's this they're doing," thought the tree. "What's going to
happen?"

The candles burnt down to the branches, and as they did so they were
put out, and then the children were allowed to plunder the tree. Oh,
how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked! If it hadn't been
tied fast to the ceiling by the top and the gold star, it would have
been tumbled right over.

The children danced round about with their beautiful toys, and nobody
looked at the tree except the old nurse who went about peering among
the branches; but that was only to see if a fig or an apple had been
missed.

"A story! A story!" cried the children, as they dragged a stout little
man towards the tree. He sat himself down beneath it. "Now we're on
the green," said he, "and it'll be very good for the tree to listen
too; but I'm only going to tell one story. Will you have the one about
Ivede Avede,[1] or the one about Humpty Dumpty who tumbled downstairs
and yet got up to the throne and married the Princess?"

[Footnote 1: Nobody knows what this story was, if it ever existed.]

"Ivede Avede," cried some of them. "Humpty Dumpty," cried others.
There was a deal of shrieking and screaming, and only the fir kept
quiet and thought "Aren't I to take any part or do anything at all?"
Well! it had taken part; it had done what it was meant to do.

So the man told the story of Humpty Dumpty, who tumbled downstairs and
after all got to the throne and married the Princess, and the children
clapped their hands and cried, "Go on, go on." They wanted Ivede Avede
as well, but they only got Humpty Dumpty. The fir stood there quite
still and full of thought; never had the birds in the forest told such
tales as this; "Humpty Dumpty tumbled downstairs and yet married the
Princess. Yes, yes, that's the way things go in the world," thought
the fir, and believed it was all true; the man who told the story was
so nice. "Yes, yes, who can tell? Perhaps I shall tumble downstairs
too and marry a Princess." So it enjoyed itself with thinking of the
next day, and of being dressed out with candles and toys and gold and
fruit. "To-morrow I won't shiver," it thought. "I'll enjoy myself
properly with all my finery. To-morrow I shall hear the story of
Humpty Dumpty over again, and perhaps the one about Ivede Avede." All
night the tree stood still and thought.

Next morning in came the men and the maids. "Now the dressing will
begin again," thought the tree. But they dragged it out of the room
and up stairs into a loft, and there put it away in a dark corner
where no daylight came. "What's the meaning of this?" thought the
tree. "What am I to do here, what can I listen to here?" It leant up
against the wall and stood there, thinking, thinking.

It had plenty of time for that, for days and nights passed by, and no
one came up there, and when somebody did come at last, it was only to
stow away some big boxes in the corner. The tree was quite hidden up;
you might have thought it was clean forgotten.

"It's winter outside now," thought the tree. "The ground is hard and
covered with snow. The people couldn't plant me now, so I shall stay
here under cover till spring. What a good plan that is! Lord, how kind
the people are! I only wish it wasn't quite so dark and so frightfully
lonely here. There's not even a little hare. It was very pleasant
after all, out there in the forest; yes, even when he jumped over me,
though I didn't like that at the time. Frightfully lonely it is up
here, to be sure."

At that moment a little mouse said "Pi pi," and came stealing out, and
then another little one. They sniffed at the fir and ran about among
its branches. "It's horribly cold," said the little mice, "but for all
that it's a delightful place, isn't it, old fir?"

"I'm not at all old," said the fir, "there are a lot who are much
older than me."

"Where do you come from?" asked the mice, "and what do you know
about?" (indeed they were dreadfully inquisitive). "Do tell us about
the loveliest place in the world. Have you ever been there? Have you
been in the storeroom, where there are cheeses lying on the shelves
and bacon hanging from the ceiling, and where you can dance on tallow
candles and go in thin and come out fat?" "No, I don't know that,"
said the tree, "but I know the place where the sun shines and the
birds sing." And with that it told them all its story from its youth
up, and the little mice had never heard anything of the kind before,
and they listened most attentively and said, "Dear me, what a lot
you've seen, and how happy you've been!"

"I?" said the fir and began thinking over what it had told them. "Yes,
after all, those were merry days," and then it told them about
Christmas Eve when it had been decked out with cakes and candles.

"Oh!" said the little mice. "How happy you have been, old fir!"

"I'm not old at all," said the tree, "it was only this winter that I
came out of the forest. I'm in the prime of life. I've hardly begun to
grow properly."

"What lovely stories you do tell!" said the little mice; and next
night they came with four more little mice who wanted to hear the tree
tell stories; and the more it told the more plainly it remembered it
all itself, and thought "Those were very merry days, to be sure, but
they may come again: they may. Humpty Dumpty tumbled downstairs and
yet married the Princess. Perhaps I too shall get a Princess." And
then the fir remembered a very pretty little birch tree that grew in
the forest, and to it she seemed like a real beautiful Princess.

"Who's Humpty Dumpty?" the little mice asked, and it told them the
whole story, for it could recollect every single word of it; and the
little mice were fit to jump to the very top of the tree with delight.
Next night a great many more mice came, and on Sunday two rats
besides; but the rats said the story did not amuse them; and that
disappointed the little mice, for it made them too think less of it.

"So that's the only story you know?" asked the rats. "That's the only
one," the tree replied. "I heard it on the happiest evening of my
life; but at the time I didn't think how happy I was."

"Well, it's an extraordinarily poor story; don't you know one with
bacon and tallow candles in it? Haven't you any storeroom stories?"

"No," said the tree.

"Oh, well! Much obliged, I'm sure," said the rats, and went off home.
At last the small mice stopped away too, and then the tree said with a
sigh, "It was very nice, so it was, when they sat round me, those
nimble little mice, and listened to my stories. Now that's past and
gone too; but I must remember to enjoy myself when I'm taken out
again."

But when did that happen? Why, it was one morning when people came and
rummaged about in the loft. The boxes were shifted and the tree was
pulled out. They tumbled it down on the floor pretty roughly, to be
sure, but then a man dragged it over towards the stairs where the sun
shone.

"Now life's beginning again," thought the tree when it felt the fresh
air and the first sunbeam--and now it was out in the yard. Everything
happened so quickly that the tree quite forgot to look at itself,
there was so much to see all about it. The yard was next door to a
garden, and there everything was in bloom. Roses hung fresh and
fragrant over the low fence, the lime trees were in flower, and the
swallows were flying around and saying, "Kvirre-virre-vit! my
husband's come!" But it wasn't the fir that they meant.

"Now I'm going to live," said the tree, in exultation, stretching out
its branches. Alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was in a
corner that it lay, among weeds and nettles. The gold paper star was
still fixed on its crown, and glittered in the bright sunshine.

Some of the merry children who had danced about the tree at Christmas,
and been so gay, were playing in the yard. One of the littlest ran
across and pulled the gold star off the tree.

"Look what's been left on the ugly old Christmas tree!" he said, and
he trampled on the branches till they snapped under his boots.

The tree looked at all the beauty of blossom and freshness in the
garden and then at itself, and it wished it had stayed in its dark
corner in the loft. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, and
of the merry Christmas Eve, and of the little mice who had so enjoyed
listening to the story of Humpty Dumpty.

"Past and gone, past and gone!" said the poor tree. "If only I'd
enjoyed myself when I could! Past and gone!"

The men came and chopped the tree into little bits--a whole faggot of
them--and it made a rare blaze under the big brewing kettle, and
deeply it sighed, and every sigh was like a little gun-fire. So the
children who were playing about ran in and sat down in front of the
fire and looked at it and cried "Pop, pop!" But at every report--which
was a deep sigh--the tree was thinking of some summer day in the
forest, or a winter night out there, when the stars were shining; or
it was thinking of Christmas Eve and Humpty Dumpty, the one and only
story it had heard and knew how to tell--and with that the tree was
burnt up.

The boys went on playing in the yard, and the smallest of them had on
his chest the gold star which the tree had worn on the happiest
evening of its life. It was past and gone now: the tree was past and
gone, and the story too. Past and gone, past and gone!--it's the same
with all stories.


Transcriber's Note:

1. page 179--changed single quote to double in sentence 'rejoice in
   your strong growth..."

2. page 181--changed single quote to double in sentence "What's this
   they're doing,'

3. page 181--removed extra "to" in following sentence


4. page 182--moved period inside quote marks in sentence "Go on, go on".


[End of _The Fir Tree_ by Hans Christian Andersen, from _Hans Andersen
Forty-Two Stories_, translated by M. R. James]
