In the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the open
seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred and
sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the same
number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,
and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is
obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does
not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;
its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many
a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,
had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,
for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large
fresh leaves, the tree would always say, “Poor little creature! your
whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be
quite melancholy.”
“Melancholy! what do you mean?” the little creature would always
reply. “Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and
beautiful, that it makes me joyous.”
“But only for one day, and then it is all over.”
“Over!” repeated the fly; “what is the meaning of all over? Are you
all over too?”
“No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my day
is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never
reckon it out.”
“No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my days,
but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and happy.
Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?”
“No,” replied the tree; “it will certainly last much longer,–
infinitely longer than I can even think of.” “Well, then,” said the
little fly, “we have the same time to live; only we reckon
differently.” And the little creature danced and floated in the air,
rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in
the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and
wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges,
wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all these was so
strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly. The long
and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that
when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and
slowly it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded
its little head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and
sweetly. The fly was dead.
“Poor little Ephemera!” said the oak; “what a terribly short life!”
And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same
questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was
continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt
equally merry and equally happy.
The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of
summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew
nigh– winter was coming. Already the storms were singing,
“Good-night, good-night.” Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf.
“We will rock you and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will
sing you to sleep, and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old
twigs good; they will even crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly,
sleep sweetly, it is your three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night.
Correctly speaking, you are but a youngster in the world. Sleep
sweetly, the clouds will drop snow upon you, which will be quite a
cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and
pleasant dreams.” And there stood the oak, stripped of all its
leaves, left to rest during the whole of a long winter, and to dream
many dreams of events that had happened in its life, as in the
dreams of men. The great tree had once been small; indeed, in its
cradle it had been an acorn. According to human computation, it was
now in the fourth century of its existence. It was the largest and
best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above all the other
trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a
landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly
for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built her nest, and
the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and his
well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the
leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would
come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across
the sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that
every one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that
sprang forth from the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat
on them, and talked of the hard times which were beginning, and how
difficult it was in winter to obtain food.
It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream.
The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive time had
arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells ringing from
all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be a beautiful
summer's day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was crowned with
spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played among the leaves
and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and
blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies
danced around him, as if the world had been created merely for them
to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the tree during
every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in a festive
procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble ladies ride
by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes waving in
their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded,
and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored dresses and
glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents, and
anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men sang and
slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers meet
in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the initials
of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk. Once, but
long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had
been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang
there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The
wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and
the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to
live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every
fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest
branches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while
through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he
grew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost
boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth,
so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous
longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright
sun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds,
which floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large
white swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed
eyes to see. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and
sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory
the well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers
who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were
wonderful and happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy;
and yet, amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning,
longing desire that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers
beneath him, might be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and
to see all this splendor, and experience the same happiness. The
grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in the midst of his
enjoyment, while all the rest, both great and small, were not with
him. And this feeling of yearning trembled through every branch,
through every leaf, as warmly and fervently as if they had been the
fibres of a human heart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro,
and bent downwards as if in his silent longing he sought for
something. Then there came to him the fragrance of thyme, followed
by the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he
fancied he heard the note of the cuckoo. At length his longing was
satisfied. Up through the clouds came the green summits of the
forest trees, and beneath him, the oak saw them rising, and growing
higher and higher. Bush and herb shot upward, and some even tore
themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly. The birch-tree was
the quickest of all. Like a lightning flash the slender stem shot
upwards in a zigzag line, the branches spreading around it like
green gauze and banners. Every native of the wood, even to the brown
and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while the birds ascended
with the melody of song. On a blade of grass, that fluttered in the
air like a long, green ribbon, sat a grasshopper, cleaning his wings
with his legs. May beetles hummed, the bees murmured, the birds
sang, each in his own way; the air was filled with the sounds of
song and gladness.
“But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?” asked
the oak, “and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?” You see the
oak wanted to have them all with him.
“Here we are, we are here,” sounded in voice and song.
“But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the
lilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their
bloom? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the
glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what
may have but now sprouted forth could be with us here.”
“We are here, we are here,” sounded voices higher in the air, as if
they had flown there beforehand.
“Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,” said the oak
in a joyful tone. “I have them all here, both great and small; not
one has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined?” It seemed
almost impossible.
“In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is
possible,” sounded the reply through the air.
And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that
his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.
“It is right so, it is best,” said the tree, “no fetters hold me
now. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And
all I love are with me, both small and great. All– all are here.”
Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a mighty
storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas time.
The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a
cracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the
ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being
loosened from the earth. He fell– his three hundred and sixty-five
years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning
of Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all
the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even
of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the
smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids' altars. The
sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had
withstood the tempest during the night, all the flags were
displayed, as a token of joy and festivity. “The tree is down! The
old oak,– our landmark on the coast!” exclaimed the sailors. “It
must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who can replace it?
Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree; short,
but well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore,
and over it sounded the notes of a song from the ship– a song of
Christmas joy, and of the redemption of the soul of man, and of
eternal life through Christ's atoning blood.
“Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”
Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the
ship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer,
even as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful
dream on that Christmas morn.
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