Christmas Tiding

by Hans Christian Andersen
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!”

“Squeak! squeak!” said a little Mouse at the same moment, peeping out
of his hole. And then another little one came. They sniffed about the
Fir-tree, and rustled among the branches.

“It is dreadfully cold,” said the Mouse. “But for that, it would be
delightful here, old Fir, wouldn’t it?”

“I am by no means old,” said the Fir-tree. “There’s many a one
considerably older than I am.”

“Where do you come from,” asked the Mice; “and what can you do?” They
were so extremely curious. “Tell us about the most beautiful spot on
the earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder,
where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one
dances about on tallow-candles; that place where one enters lean, and
comes out again fat and portly?”

“I know no such place,” said the Tree, “but I know the woods, where the
sun shines, and where the little birds sing.” And then he told all
about his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before;
and they listened and said:

“Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have
been!”

“I?” said the Fir-tree, thinking over what he had himself related.
“Yes, in reality those were happy times.” And then he told about
Christmas Eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.

“Oh,” said the little Mice, “how fortunate you have been, old Fir-tree!”

“I am by no means old,” said he. “I came from the woods this winter; I
am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age.”

“What delightful stories you know!” said the Mice: and the next night
they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the tree
recounted; and the more he related, the more plainly he remembered all
himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times.
“But they may still come–they may still come. Klumpy-Dumpy fell
downstairs and yet he got a princess,” and he thought at the moment of
a nice little Birch-tree growing out in the woods; to the Fir, that
would be a real charming princess.

“Who is Klumpy-Dumpy?” asked the Mice. So then the Fir-tree told the
whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and
the little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next
night two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats, even; but they said
the stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and
they, too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.

“Do you know only one story?” asked the Rats.

“Only that one,” answered the Tree. “I heard it on my happiest evening;
but I did not then know how happy I was.”

“It is a very stupid story. Don’t you know one about bacon and tallow
candles? Can’t you tell any larder stories?”

“No,” said the Tree.

“Then good-bye,” said the Rats; and they went home.

At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: “After
all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat around me and
listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take
good care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again.”

But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of
people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the Tree was
pulled out and thrown–rather hard, it is true–down on the floor, but
a man drew him toward the stairs, where the daylight shone.

“Now a merry life will begin again,” thought the Tree. He felt the
fresh air, the first sunbeam–and now he was out in the courtyard. All
passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, that the Tree
quite forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all
was in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade,
the lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said,
“Quirre-vit! my husband is come!” but it was not the Fir-tree that they
meant.

“Now, then, I shall really enjoy life,” said he, exultingly, and spread
out his branches; but, alas! they were all withered and yellow. It was
in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of
tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.

In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced
at Christmas round the Fir-tree, and were so glad at the sight of him.
One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.

“Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas Tree!” said he,
trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.
And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in
the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark
corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the woods, of the
Merry Christmas Eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so
much pleasure to the story of Klumpy-Dumpy.

“‘Tis over–’tis past!” said the poor Tree. “Had I but rejoiced when I
had reason to do so! But now ’tis past, ’tis past!”

And the gardener’s boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a
whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large
brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star
on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his
life. However, that was over now–the Tree gone, the story at an end.
All, all was over; every tale must end at last.