The Good Fir-Tree

There were two little fir-trees that happened to grow In the shade of the forest wide, And one was a good tree and one was as bad As you’d find in a day-long ride. He never would listen, he never would mind The words of the motherly tree; And it needn’t surprise you to learn he was soon As crooked as crooked could be.

The good little fir-tree delighted to hear The counsels of wisdom that fell From the myriad lips of the motherly tree, And he pondered them all right well. “Strike deep with your rootlets,” the mother advised; “Hold firmly your head in the air; There are wonderful things that may happen to come To a fir-tree that’s perfect and fair.”

The bad little sapling was sulky and rude; He said a fine tree never grew In such a deep shade as that tangled-up wood; He was bound to be crooked, he knew. His needles they withered; he blighted at heart; And his fate at the end it was dire; For they pulled him up bodily, rootlet and crown. And they used him to kindle the fire!

But oh, the good fir-tree, he never had hoped And scarce could believe such a thing-- The children discovered his place in the wood And round him they danced in a ring. They carried him homeward, and--what do you think?-- ’Twas the happiest lot that could be,-- And fairest of fortunes that ever befell-- Why, they made him a Christmas Tree!