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
“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
“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
“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.