is
whole seasons long; indeed, it is so long that you could never reckon it
up."

"No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my days, but
I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and happy. Does all
the beauty of the world cease when you die?"

"No," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer, infinitely
longer than I can think of."

"Well, then," said the little fly, "we have the same time to live, only
we reckon differently." And the little creature danced and floated in
the air, rejoicing in its delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing
in the balmy breezes laden with the fragrance from the clover fields and
wild roses, elder blossoms and honeysuckle, and from the garden hedges
of wild thyme, primroses, and mint. The perfume of all these was so
strong that it almost intoxicated the little fly. The long and beautiful
day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that, when the sun sank,
the fly felt tired of all its happiness and enjoyment. Its wings could
sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly it glided down to the soft,
waving blades of grass, nodded its little head as well as it could, and
slept peacefully and sweetly. The fly was dead.

"Poor little Ephemera!" said the oak; "what a short life!" And so on
every summer day the dance was repeated, the same questions were asked
and the same answers given, and there was the same peaceful falling
asleep at sunset. This continued through many generations of Ephemeras,
and all of them felt merry and happy.

The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of
summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night, drew
near--its winter was coming. Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf.
Already the storms were singing: "Good night, good night. We will rock
you and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep,
and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will
even crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your
three hundred and sixty-fifth night. You are still very young in the
world. Sleep sweetly; the clouds will drop snow upon you, which will be
your coverlid, warm and sheltering to your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and
pleasant dreams."

And there stood the oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during
the whole of a long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had
happened, just as men dream.

The great tree had once been s