I don’t know about the weather near you, but here in Wisconsin — not ten minutes ago — the snowblower rolled in from the garage, parked on a heated blanket, and now refuses to go out again until the windchill departs from the negative 30s.
Come on in out of the cold, and let us talk of trees.
Hans Christian Andersen’s “The Fir Tree,” published in 1844, is the tale of a dissatisfied fir. I recently did some thinking and writing about how grateful I am for conifers, but I must admit I failed to wonder if they were thankful for me. Andersen, a Dane, employs the brooding evergreens of his homeland to impart a lesson about gratitude to the reader.
He writes:
Far down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh air made a sweet resting-place, grew a pretty little fir-tree; and yet it was not happy, it wished so much to be tall like its companions — the pines and firs which grew around it. The sun shone, and the soft air fluttered its leaves, and the little peasant children passed by, prattling merrily, but the fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the children would bring a large basket of raspberries or strawberries, wreathed on a straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say, “Is it not a pretty little tree?” which made it feel more unhappy than before. And yet all this while the tree grew a notch or joint taller every year; for by the number of joints in the stem of a fir-tree we can discover its age. Still, as it grew, it complained, “Oh! how I wish I were as tall as the other trees, then I would spread out my branches on every side, and my top would over-look the wide world. I should have the birds building their nests on my boughs, and when the wind blew, I should bow with stately dignity like my tall companions.” The tree was so discontented, that it took no pleasure in the warm sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that floated over it morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay white and glittering on the ground, a hare would come springing along, and jump right over the little tree; and then how mortified it would feel! Two winters passed, and when the third arrived, the tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it. Yet it remained unsatisfied, and would exclaim, “Oh, if I could but keep on growing tall and old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the world!” In the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down several of the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which was now grown to its full height, shuddered as the noble trees fell to the earth with a crash. After the branches were lopped off, the trunks looked so slender and bare, that they could scarcely be recognized. Then they were placed upon wagons, and drawn by horses out of the forest. “Where were they going? What would become of them?” The young fir-tree wished very much to know; so in the spring, when the swallows and the storks came, it asked, “Do you know where those trees were taken? Did you meet them?”
You can read the full story here.
My favorite exchange resides in the penultimate paragraph, when the dying fir is cross-examined by rats:
“Do you know only one story?” asked the rats.
“Only one,” replied the fir-tree; “I heard it on the happiest evening of my life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time.”
“We think it is a very miserable story,” said the rats. “Don’t you know any story about bacon, or tallow in the storeroom.”
“No,” replied the tree.
“Many thanks to you then,” replied the rats, and they marched off.
As a writer, I occasionally feel like the fir-tree with but one story to tell. Every day I write for you, knowing there’s demand for lurid tales of tallow and bacon, things I cannot produce. But some of you return to hear the story I love to tell. Thank you.
Merry Christmas! Stay warm, and look out for deer!
For your ears, here is Andrea Bocelli’s “O Tannenbaum” (almost as good as “O Lutefisk“):
