The next year it was a shoot bigger, and the next year even taller. Indeed, you can always tell how old a spruce tree is by how many shoots it has.

“Oh, if only I were a big tree like the others!” sighed the little tree. “Then I could spread my branches so far around and from the top see out into the wide world! The birds would build nests within my branches, and when the wind blows, I could nod as nobly as the others do.”

It took no pleasure from the sunshine, or the birds, or the red clouds that sailed over it morning and evening. Often in the winter, when the snow lay glistening white all around, a rabbit would come hopping and jump right over the little tree—Oh, it was so irritating! But two winters passed, and by the third winter, the tree was so big that the rabbit had to go around it. Oh, to grow, to grow, to become big and old! That’s the only beauty in this world, thought the tree.

In the autumn the wood cutters always came and chopped down some of the largest trees. It happened every year, and the young spruce tree, which was pretty well grown now, trembled because the big magnificent trees fell crashing and bashing to the ground. The branches were chopped off so they looked quite naked and long and narrow. They were almost unrecognizable, and then they were laid on wagons, and horses pulled them out of the forest.

Where were they going? What was going to happen to them?

In the spring, when the swallows and the stork came, the tree asked them: “Don’t you know where they went? Didn’t you see them?”

The swallows didn’t know anything, but the stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said, “Yes, I think so. Flying up from Egypt I met a lot of new ships, and on the ships were magnificent wooden masts. I dare say that that was them. They smelled like spruce, and I bring you greetings from them. They stood proudly, really spruced up.”

“Oh, if only I were big enough to fly over the ocean! What is this ocean exactly, and what does it look like?”

“It takes too long to explain!” said the stork, and he left.

“Enjoy your youth!” said the sunbeams. “Enjoy your fresh growth, and the young life that’s in you!”

And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew cried tears over it, but the spruce tree didn’t understand.

When it was Christmas time some very young trees were felled—trees that weren’t even as big or old as the spruce tree who had no peace and rest, but always wanted to be on its way. These young trees (and they were always the very prettiest) kept their branches. They were placed on the wagons, and horses pulled them out of the forest.

“Where were they going?” asked the spruce tree. “They aren’t any bigger than me. There was even one a lot smaller. Why did they keep all their branches? Where did they go?”

“This-see-we! This-see-we!” chirped the grey sparrows. “We’ve peeked in the windows down in town. We know where they’re going. Oh, they go to the greatest splendor and magnificence that can be imagined! We have looked through the windows and have seen how they’re planted right in the middle of the warm living room and decorated with the most lovely things, such as gilded apples, honey cakes, toys, and many hundreds of candles!”

“And then—?” asked the spruce tree, trembling in all its branches. “And then? What happens then?”

“Well, we didn’t see anything more. It was just splendid!”

“I wonder if I was born to go that shining way!?” rejoiced the tree. “That’s even better than sailing on the ocean. Oh, how I suffer from longing! If only it were Christmas! Now I’m tall and stretched upward like the ones who were taken away last year!—Oh, if only I were already on the wagon! If only I were in the warm room with all the splendor and magnificence! And then—? Then something even better will happen, even more beautiful. Why else would they decorate me like that? Something even greater, even more splendid—But what? Oh, how I am suffering! I’m pining! I don’t even know myself what’s the matter with me!”

“Take pleasure in us,” said the air and the sunshine. “Be happy in your fresh youth out in the open air!”

But the tree wasn’t happy at all. It grew and grew. Both winter and summer it was green. Dark green it stood there, and people who saw it said, “that’s a lovely tree,” and at Christmas it was cut first. The ax cut deeply through the pith, and the tree fell with a sigh to the earth. It felt a pain and a powerless-ness, and couldn’t think of any joy. It felt saddened to be parted from its home, from the spot where it had grown up. It knew, of course, that it would never again see its dear companions, the small bushes and flowers all around, maybe not even the birds. The departure was not at all pleasant.

The tree came to itself in the yard, unpacked with the other trees, when it heard a man say, “That one’s magnificent! We won’t take any other!”

Then two servants in uniform came and bore the spruce tree into a big beautiful room. Portraits were hanging on the walls, and by the big porcelain stove there were Chinese vases with lions on the lids. There were rocking chairs, silk sofas, big tables full of coffee table books, and toys worth hundreds upon hundreds of dollars—at least that’s what the children said. And the spruce tree was raised up in a big tub filled with sand, but no one could see that it was a tub because green material was wound around it, and it stood on a big embroidered rug. Oh, how the tree trembled! What was going to happen? Both servants and young ladies of the house decorated it. On one branch they hung small nets, cut from colored paper. Each net was filled with candies. Gilded apples and walnuts hung as if they had grown there, and over a hundred red, blue, and white candles were fastened to the branches. Dolls that looked as real as humans—the tree had never seen anything like them before—floated in the branches, and at the very top was placed a big gold tinsel star. It was magnificent, quite exceptionally magnificent.

“Tonight,” they all said, “tonight it will be radiant!”

“Oh,” thought the tree, “if only it were evening! If only the lights were lit soon! And I wonder what will happen then? I wonder if trees from the woods will come and look at me? Will the grey sparrows fly by the windows? I wonder if I’ll grow permanently here and stand here decorated winter and summer?”

Well, that’s what it knew about it! But it really had bark-ache from pure longing, and bark-ache is as painful for a tree as a headache is for the rest of us.

Then the lights were lit. What brilliance! What magnificence ! All the branches of the tree trembled with it, so much so that one of the candles started a fire on a branch, and that really stung.

“God save us!” cried the ladies and put out the fire in a hurry.

Now the tree didn’t dare tremble at all. Oh, it was terrible! It was so afraid of losing some of its finery. It was really quite bewildered by all the splendor—and then both folding doors were swung open, and a crowd of children rushed in as if they were going to tip over the whole tree. The older people followed composedly behind. The little ones stood quite silently—but only for a moment. Then they cheered again so it resounded in the room. They danced around the tree, and one gift after another was plucked off.

“What are they doing?” thought the tree. “What’s going to happen?” And the candles burned right down to the branches, and as they burned down they were extinguished, and then the children were allowed to plunder the tree. Oh, how they rushed at it so that all the branches creaked! If it hadn’t been fastened to the ceiling by the top and the gold star, it would have tipped over.

The children danced around with their splendid toys. No one looked at the tree except the old nanny, who was peering and peeking through the branches, but only to see if one more fig or an apple had been overlooked.

“A story! a story!” cried the children and pulled a little fat man over toward the tree. He sat down right by it, “for then we’re out in nature,” he said, “and it will be good for the tree to listen too. But I’ll only tell one story. Do you want to hear the one about Dorky Porky or Clumpy Dumpy, who fell down the stairs and still gained the throne and got the princess.”

“Dorky Porky,” cried some. “Clumpy Dumpy,” cried others. There was yelling and shouting, only the spruce tree was very quiet and thought, “Am I not part of this at all? Am I not going to do something?” Of course it had already done its part, what it was supposed to do.

And the man told about Clumpy Dumpy who fell down the stairs and still gained the throne and got the princess. And the children clapped their hands and shouted: “Tell more! Tell more!” They wanted to hear Dorky Porky too, but they were only told the one about Clumpy Dumpy. The spruce tree stood very quietly and thoughtfully. None of the birds in the woods had told stories like this. “Clumpy Dumpy fell down the steps and still got the princess! Well, well, that’s how the world is,” thought the spruce tree and believed the story was true since such a nice man told it. “Well, well, who can tell. Maybe I’ll also fall down the steps and get a princess!” And it looked forward to the next day when it would be dressed with candles and toys, gold and fruit.

“Tomorrow I won’t shake,” he thought. “I’ll enjoy myself in all my splendor. Tomorrow I’ll hear the story about Clumpy Dumpy again and maybe the one about Dorky Porky.” And the tree stood quietly and thoughtfully the whole night.

In the morning the servants entered the room.

“Now the finery starts again,” thought the tree, but they dragged it out of the living room, up the stairs, into the attic, and there, in a dark corner where there was no daylight, they left it. “What’s the meaning of this?” thought the tree. “I wonder what I’m supposed to do here? I wonder what I’ll hear here?” And it leaned up against the wall and thought and thought.—And it had plenty of time because days and nights passed. No one came up there, and when someone finally did come, it was to put some big crates in a corner. The tree stood quite out-of-sight. You would think that it had been completely forgotten.

“Now it’s winter outside,” thought the tree. “The earth is hard and covered with snow. The people couldn’t plant me, so I’ll stay sheltered here until spring! That’s very smart! How good people are! If it just wasn’t so dark and lonely here—not even a little rabbit. It was nice out in the woods with snow on the ground when the rabbit jumped by. Yes, even when it jumped right over me, but I didn’t like it then. Still, up here it’s really lonely.”

“Squeak, squeak!” said a little mouse just then and popped out, and then another one came. They sniffed at the spruce tree and crept through the branches.

“It’s awfully cold,” the little mice said. “Otherwise it’s nice being here. Isn’t that right, you old spruce tree?”

“I’m not old at all,” said the spruce tree. “There are many who are much older than I am.”

“Where do you come from?” asked the mice, “and what do you know?” They were dreadfully curious. “Tell us about the most beautiful place on earth! Have you been there? Have you been in the kitchen where there’s cheese lying on the shelves, and there are hams hanging from the ceiling? Where you dance on tallow candles and go in skinny and come out fat?”

“I don’t know about that,” said the tree, “but I know the woods, where the sun shines, and where the birds sing.” And then he told all about his childhood, and the little mice had never before heard anything like that, and they listened carefully and said, “Oh, you have seen so much! How happy you have been!”

“Me?” said the spruce tree, and thought about what it had said. “Yes, they were actually pretty good times,” and then it told about Christmas Eve, when it was decorated with cakes and candles.

“Oh,” said the little mice, “how happy you have been, you old spruce tree!”

“I am not at all old,” said the tree. “I just came from the forest this very winter. I’m in the prime of life. I’m just not growing right now!”

“You’re a good storyteller,” said the little mice, and the next night they brought four other little mice to hear the tree tell stories. The more it talked, the clearer it remembered everything, and it thought, “they really were fun times, but they can come again. They can come! Clumpy Dumpy fell down the stairs and still got the princess, maybe I can get a princess too.” And then the spruce thought about such a lovely little birch tree that grew out in the forest—that was a truly lovely princess to the spruce tree.

“Who is Clumpy Dumpy?” asked the little mice. And then the spruce tree told the whole story. It remembered every single word, and the little mice almost climbed to the top of the tree in pure pleasure. The next night even more mice arrived, and on Sunday two rats, but they said that the story wasn’t funny, and that saddened the little mice who then also thought less of it.

“Is that the only story you know?” asked the rats.

“The only one,” the tree answered. “I heard it the happiest evening of my life, but at that time I didn’t realize how happy I was.”

“It’s an extraordinarily bad story. Don’t you know any about bacon and tallow candles? No pantry stories?”

“No,” said the tree.

“Well, we’ll say thanks anyway then,” said the rats and went home to their own concerns.

Finally the little mice went away too, and the tree sighed. “It was also rather nice when those nimble little mice sat around me and listened to what I said. But now that is over too—but I will enjoy myself when I’m taken out of here again!”

But when would that happen? Well, there finally came a morning when people came up to the attic and puttered around. Boxes were moved, and the tree was pulled out; true, they threw it rather hard on the floor, but soon a man dragged it right towards the stairs, where there was daylight.

“Now life begins again,” thought the tree. It felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam, and then it was out in the yard. Everything went so quickly; the tree completely forgot to look at itself, there was so much to see all around. The yard was right next to a garden, and everything was blooming there. The roses hung fresh and fragrantly over the little railing, the linden trees were blooming, and the swallows flew around and sang, “tweet sweet, my husband’s come,” but it wasn’t the spruce tree they meant.

“Now I’ll live!” it rejoiced, and spread out its branches. Oh, they were all withered and yellow, and now it was lying in a corner between weeds and nettles. The gold paper star was still sitting in the top and was shining in the clear sunlight.

In the yard a couple of the cheerful children, who had danced around the tree and been so happy with it, were playing. One of the smallest ran over and tore off the gold star.

“Look what’s still sitting on the ugly old Christmas tree,” he said and trampled on the branches so they cracked under his boots.

And the tree looked at all the flowers and freshness in the garden. It looked at itself, and it wished it had stayed in its dark corner in the attic. It thought about its fresh youth in the forest, the wonderful Christmas Eve, and the small mice, who had so happily listened to the story about Clumpy Dumpy.

“Over, all is over,” said the poor tree. “If only I had been happy when I could have been. Over, all over.”

And the servant came and chopped the tree into small pieces. A whole bundle lay there. It flamed up beautifully under the big boiler, and it sighed so deeply, each sigh was like a little shot. That’s why the children who were playing ran in and sat in front of the fire, looked into it, and cried out, “Pop!” With every crack, that really was a deep sigh, the tree thought about a summer day in the forest, and a winter night out there when the stars were shining. It thought about Christmas Eve and Clumpy Dumpy, the only story it had heard and could tell—and then the tree burned out.

The boys played in the yard, and the smallest wore the gold star that the tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now it was over, and the tree was gone and the story too. Over, all over, as all stories are.