“Oh!” all the children said.
“Yes, it’s so lovely. You don’t do anything but eat the whole day, and while we have it so good there, there’s not a green leaf to be seen on the trees here. It’s so cold here that the clouds freeze to pieces and fall down in little white patches.” It was snow she meant, but she couldn’t explain it any better.
“Do the naughty boys also freeze to pieces?” asked the stork babies.
“No, they don’t freeze to pieces, but they aren’t far from it, and they have to sit inside their dark houses and twiddle their thumbs. But you, on the other hand, will fly around in foreign lands where there are flowers and warm sunshine.”
Time passed, and the young storks were so big that they could stand up in the nest and look all around, and stork father flew in every day with frogs, little grass snakes, and other tasty storky snacks that he found! Oh, it was fun to see the tricks he did for them! He lay his head way back on his tail, and he clattered his beak as if it were a little rattle, and then he told them stories from the marsh.
“All right, now you must learn to fly,” said stork mother one day, and all four young storks had to go out on the ridge of the roof. Oh, how they tottered! They balanced with their wings but almost fell over!
“Watch me,” mother said. “Hold your heads like this. Place your legs like this. One, two! One, two! This is what’ll get you moving up in life.” Then she flew a little distance, and the children made a little clumsy hop and thud! There they lay because their bodies were too heavy.
“I don’t want to fly,” said one young stork, and climbed back into the nest. “I don’t care about getting to the warm countries.”
“Do you want to freeze to death here when winter comes? Shall the boys come and hang and burn and beat you? I’ll call them.”
“Oh no,” said the young stork, and hopped out on the roof again with the others. By the third day they could actually fly a little, and they thought that they could sit and rest on the air too. They tried that, but thud! They took a tumble, and so they had to move their wings again. There came the boys down on the street, singing their song,“Fly storky storky ... ”
“Shouldn’t we fly down and peck their eyes out?” asked the young storks.
“No, forget about it,” said their mother. “Just listen to me. That’s much more important. One, two, three, fly to the right. One, two, three, now left around the chimney.—Oh, that was very good! That last stroke of the wings was so lovely and correct that you’ll all be allowed to come to the swamp with me tomorrow. Several fine stork families will be coming there with their children. Let me see that mine are the prettiest, and be sure to hold your heads high. That looks good, and others will respect you.”
“But won’t we get revenge on the naughty boys?” asked the young storks.
“Let them cry whatever they want. You’ll fly above the clouds, and come to the land of the pyramids, while they must freeze here without a green leaf or a sweet apple.”
“But we’ll get revenge,” they whispered to each other, and then there were more maneuvers to do.
Of all the boys in the street none was worse at singing the cruel ditty than the one who had begun it, and he was quite a small boy, not more than six years old. The young storks thought he was a hundred because he was quite a bit bigger than their mother and father, and what did they know about how old or big humans could be? They determined to be revenged on this one boy—he had started it, and he kept it up. The young storks were so irritated, and as they became bigger, they tolerated it even less. Their mother finally had to promise them that they would get revenge, but not until the last day they were to be in the country.
“First we have to see how you manage the big maneuvers. If you don’t do well so that the General stabs his beak in your chests, then the boys would be right, at least in a way. Let’s wait and see.”
“And see you shall!” said the young ones, and they really took great pains. They practiced every day and flew so lovely and lightly that it was a pleasure to see them.
Then fall came, and all the storks started gathering to fly away to the warm countries while we have winter here. What a maneuver! They flew over the forests and towns just to see how well they could fly. There was a big trip lying ahead of them. The young storks did their flying so beautifully that they graduated frog and snake cum laude. That was the best possible mark, and they could eat the frog and snake, which they also did at once.
“Now our revenge!” they said.
“Yes indeed,” said the stork mother. “I have thought of just the thing. I know where the pond is where all the little humans lie until the stork comes and brings them to their parents. The lovely little ones dream and sleep as beautifully as they never will again. All parents would gladly have such a little child, and all children want a brother or a sister. Now we’ll fly to the pond and get a little child for each of those who didn’t sing the naughty song and make fun of the storks, because those naughty children shouldn’t get one!”
“But what about the one who started the song, the naughty, nasty boy,” cried the young storks. “What’ll we do to him?”
“In the pond there is a little dead child that has dreamed itself to death. We’ll bring it to him, and then he must cry because we have brought him a dead little brother. But you haven’t forgotten the good little boy have you? The one who said, ‘It’s a shame to make fun of the animals?’ We’ll bring him both a brother and a sister and since that boy was named Peter, you will all be called Peter too.”
And it happened as she said, and all the storks were named Peter, and that is what they’re called to this very day.
THE SPRUCE TREE
IN THE FOREST THERE was such a lovely spruce tree. It was well placed with sunlight and plenty of air, and all around it grew many bigger companions, both spruce and pine, but the little spruce tree was so eager to grow that it didn’t think about the warm sun and the fresh air. It didn’t care about the country children who chattered as they were out picking strawberries and raspberries. Often they came with a whole jar full, or had the strawberries strung on a straw. Then they sat by the little tree and said, “Oh, what a cute little tree,” and the tree didn’t like hearing that at all.
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 gree
tings 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 crate
s 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.
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