The children often
came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them
threaded on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh,
how pretty he is! what a nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree
could not bear to hear.
At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year
he was another long bit taller; for with fir-trees one can always tell
by the shoots how many years old they are.
"Oh, were I but such a high tree as the others are!" sighed he. "Then I
should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look
into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my
branches; and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much
stateliness as the others!"
Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds, which morning
and evening sailed above them, gave the little Tree any pleasure.
In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would
often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that
made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the tree
was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and
grow, to get older and be tall," thought the Tree--"that, after all, is
the most delightful thing in the world!"
In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest
trees.
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