A tree, bored with his existence, dreams of another life
Once upon a peaceful time, there was a little Christmas tree. He wasn’t that much different from the other fir trees on the little mountainside. Day by day he stood there soaking in the golden beams of light cast from the setting sun, soaking up the pure, clean water from the dew-wet soil. How boring every day is, thought the little fir tree. There is nothing to do here but feed myself and feel the earth.
But one day, the ground shook and pine needles rained down. The sun glinted off the quivering metal blade of an ax. The little tree shook with terror, and as the blade hacked at his trunk, he cried tears of sap. As he was bound in mesh, the ignorant little tree wished to be strung with tinsel and have presents laid at his feet. How grand I would look, strung with glittering tinsel and having presents laid at my feet like a king; how the other trees would be jealous!
A family brought him home in a truck, and as he was jerked up and about, he was jolted out of his daydream and went back to being disgruntled. His boughs shook and quaked, raining down needles everywhere. He thought, How bedraggled I look. How everyone will look down on me. I shall fix myself up once this wretched vehicle stops. He felt so kingly and royal as he was painstakingly lowered into a pot of water and delighted while these powerful and mighty two-legged people hung elaborate, heavy glimmering orbs. How the others will look up to me! he thought.
For many days he sat in a pot of water. Presents were laid at his feet and shiny, glittery tinsel wrapped grandly around his boughs. He felt rather grand, looking down upon these two-legged emperors of the world. Though presently, he felt quite stuffy and dusty; his branches drooped as his essence was slowly leaking out of him. The air had his sweet-smelling soul entwining through it, and his pride gradually diminished. The tree soon wished for rays of sunshine and the moist, dewy soil—to no avail.
Then, one day after Christmas, his wish was granted when he was tossed outside. As he soared through the air, rays of sunshine were thrust upon him every morning, and icy rain and snow plummeted down on him. He cried some more; the foolish tree would always be wishing away at nothing. And so, his last wish was that he could be grand again, and his many babies were rolled by the wandering wind into the forests, to carry out the tale of the little Christmas tree.