The Little Christmas-Tree

Susan Coolidge

The Christmas-day was coming, the Christmas-eve drew near;

The fir-trees they were talking low, at midnight cold and clear.

And this was what the fir-trees said, all in the pale moonlight:

“Now which of us shall chosen be to grace the Holy Night?”

The tall trees and the goodly trees raised each a lofty head,

In glad and secret confidence, though not a word they said.

But one, the baby of the band, could not restrain a sigh:

“You all will be approved,” he said, “but oh, what chance have I?

I am so small, so very small, no one will mark or know

How thick and green my needles are, how true my branches grow;

Few toys or candles could I hold, but heart and will are free,

And in my heart of hearts I know I am a Christmas-tree.”

The Christmas angel hovered near; he caught the grieving word,

And laughing low he hurried forth, with love and pity stirred.

He sought and found St. Nicholas, the dear old Christmas Saint,

And in his fatherly kind ear rehearsed the fir-tree’s plaint.

Saints are all powerful, we know, so it befell that day

That, axe on shoulder, to the grove a woodman took his way.

One baby-girl he had at home, and he went forth to find

A little tree as small as she, just suited to his mind.

Oh, glad and proud the baby-fir, amid its brethren tall,

To be thus chosen and singled out, the first among them all!

He stretched his fragrant branches, his little heart beat fast.

He was a real Christmas-tree: he had his wish at last.

One large and shining apple with cheeks of ruddy gold,

Six tapers, and a tiny doll were all that he could hold.

The baby laughed, the baby crowed to see the tapers bright;

The forest baby felt the joy, and shared in the delight.

And when at last the tapers died, and when the baby slept,

The little fir in silent night a patient vigil kept.

Though scorched and brown its needles were, it had no heart to grieve.

“I have not lived in vain,” he said. “Thank God for Christmas-eve!”