THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK

                                  1872

                 FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN

                     THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK

                       by Hans Christian Andersen



IN the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the

open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred

and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the

same number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,

and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is

obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does

not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;

its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many

a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,

had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,

for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large

fresh leaves, the tree would always say, "Poor little creature! your

whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be

quite melancholy."

"Melancholy! what do you mean?" the little creature would always

reply. "Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and

beautiful, that it makes me joyous."

"But only for one day, and then it is all over."

"Over!" repeated the fly; "what is the meaning of all over? Are

you all over too?"

"No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my

day is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never

reckon it out."

"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 even 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 her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in

the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and

wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges,

wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all these was so

strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly. The long

and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that

when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and

enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly

it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little

head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The

fly was dead.

"Poor little Ephemera!" said the oak; "what a terribly short

life!" And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same

questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was

continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt

equally merry and equally 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

nigh- winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, "Good-night,

good-night." Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. "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. Correctly speaking, you are but a

youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow

upon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, 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 in

its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had once been small;

indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to human

computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was

the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above

all the other trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it

served as a landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes

looked eagerly for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built

her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and

his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the

leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would

come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across

the sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every

one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth

from the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and

talked of the hard times which were beginning, and how difficult it

was in winter to obtain food.

It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a

dream. The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive

time had arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells

ringing from all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be

a beautiful summer's day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was

crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played

among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance

from herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the

summer flies danced around him, as if the world had been created

merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the

tree during every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in

a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble

ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes

waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn

sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored

dresses and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their

tents, and anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men

sang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers

meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the

initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk.

Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian

harps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed

to hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The

wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and

the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to

live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every

fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest

branches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while

through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he

grew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost

boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth,

so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous

longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright

sun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which

floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large white

swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to

see. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and

sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory the

well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers who

had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful

and happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet,

amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire

that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him,

might be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and to see all this

splendor, and experience the same happiness. The grand, majestic oak

could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment, while all

the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling of

yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as

warmly and fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human

heart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards

as if in his silent longing he sought for something. Then there came

to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the more powerful scent

of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the note of the

cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds

came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak

saw them rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot

upward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more

quickly. The birch-tree was the quickest of all. Like a lightning

flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches

spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native of

the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest,

while the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass,

that fluttered in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a

grasshopper, cleaning his wings with his legs. May beetles hummed, the

bees murmured, the birds sang, each in his own way; the air was filled

with the sounds of song and gladness."

"But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?"

asked the oak, "and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?" You see

the oak wanted to have them all with him.

"Here we are, we are here," sounded in voice and song.

"But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the

lilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their

bloom? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the

glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what may

have but now sprouted forth could be with us here."

"We are here, we are here," sounded voices higher in the air, as

if they had flown there beforehand.

"Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed," said the

oak in a joyful tone. "I have them all here, both great and small; not

one has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined?" It seemed

almost impossible.

"In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is

possible," sounded the reply through the air.

And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt

that his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.

"It is right so, it is best," said the tree, "no fetters hold me

now. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And

all I love are with me, both small and great. All- all are here."

Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a

mighty storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas

time. The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a

cracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the

ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being

loosened from the earth. He fell- his three hundred and sixty-five

years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of

Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the

churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the

smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from

the festive thank-offerings on the Druids' altars. The sea gradually

became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the

tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token

of joy and festivity. "The tree is down! The old oak,- our landmark on

the coast!" exclaimed the sailors. "It must have fallen in the storm

of last night. Who can replace it? Alas! no one." This was a funeral

oration over the old tree; short, but well-meant. There it lay

stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes

of a song from the ship- a song of Christmas joy, and of the

redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ's

atoning blood.

              "Sing aloud on the happy morn,

              All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;

              With songs of joy let us loudly sing,

              'Hallelujahs to Christ our King.'"

Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the

ship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even

as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on

that Christmas morn.

                        THE END

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