the tree was thinking of a summer day in
the forest; and of Christmas evening, and of "Humpty Dumpty," the only
story it had ever heard or knew how to relate, till at last it was
consumed. The boys still played in the garden, and the youngest wore
the golden star on his breast, with which the tree had been adorned
during the happiest evening of its existence. Now all was past; the
tree's life was past, and the story also,--for all stories must come
to an end at last.

THE FLAX

The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as
delicate as the wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and
the showers watered it; and this was just as good for the flax as it
is for little children to be washed and then kissed by their mother.
They look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.

"People say that I look exceedingly well," said the flax, "and
that I am so fine and long that I shall make a beautiful piece of
linen. How fortunate I am; it makes me so happy, it is such a pleasant
thing to know that something can be made of me. How the sunshine
cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing is the rain; my happiness
overpowers me, no one in the world can feel happier than I am."

"Ah, yes, no doubt," said the fern, "but you do not know the world
yet as well as I do, for my sticks are knotty;" and then it sung quite
mournfully--

"Snip, snap, snurre,
Basse lurre:
The song is ended."

"No, it is not ended," said the flax. "To-morrow the sun will
shine, or the rain descend. I feel that I am growing. I feel that I am
in full blossom. I am the happiest of all creatures."

Well, one day some people came, who took hold of the flax, and
pulled it up by the roots; this was painful; then it was laid in water
as if they intended to drown it; and, after that, placed near a fire
as if it were to be roasted; all this was very shocking. "We cannot
expect to be happy always," said the flax; "by experiencing evil as
well as good, we become wise." And certainly there was plenty of
evil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted, and broken,
and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it. At last it
was put on the spinning wheel. "Whirr, whirr," went the wheel so
quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts. "Well, I have
been very happy," he thought in the midst of his pain, "and must be
contented with the past;" and contented he remained till he was put on
the loom, and became