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On the very edge of a dark woods a little fir tree grew strong andbeautiful in a summer day. In spite, however, of its noble mother,

of its own lovely form, and sweet scent of its quivering needles,the little fir was most unhappy.

Looking across a little ravine, it could see the heart-shaped leavesof the silver birch, fluttering and dancing in the slightest breeze.Alas! sighed the little fir. Would that I had leaves like the silver

birch. Oh dear mother, I am tired to death of these sharp, thinneedles that I wear.

The voice of the little fir reached up to the mother tree andanswered, When the winter comes the birch leaves will be tornaway by the angry wind, but your delicate needles will remainmore beautiful.

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Now it happened that the great wood spirit was abroad. Heheard the complaint of the foolish tree and answered it. In asecond the beautiful green needles had dropped off, and intheir place sprouted silvery heart-shaped leaves. However,

when a gray goat walked out the shadowy woods. There wassomething very strange about him. Oh, dear, wailed the littlefir, this will never do. I must get the leaves that even a hungrygoat cannot eat. Oh how I wish I were covered with leaves ofpure gold.

Silly child, murmured the old tree mother. Gold comes to thewoodland in the fall and then only for a few days, for thegreedy old wind steals it all away.

But mine must be real golden leaves that even the greedy

wind cannot snatch away. said the little fir.

Of course, the powerful wood spirit was not far away. No matterhow the wind blew, they hung heavy and dead.

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However, before the little fir could decide whether it liked its newleaves or not, a man strode out of the forest. He was very queerman. He had funny little horns on his head, and his feet, instead ofshoes, wore the silver hoofs of a wild goat. As he walked, with ashout of joy the man began picking the leaves and putting them allin a big bag which slung from his shoulders.

Oh dear cried the little fir, What a dreadful world! I have hadmy lesson. I was never meant to be anything but what I am.

What is more beautiful than a noble fir tree? murmured themother fir. If only I had back my green needles, said the littleone, I would never complain again.In an instant the baby fir stood clothed again, while out of a sacka queer man looking emptied a pile of golden leaves into a little

hollow beneath a horse brier.

It will be a beautiful, happy world, sighed the mother tree,when we all cease from envying our brother and strive, instead,to make ourselves just as beautiful and useful as we ourselves cannever be.

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