Now the Fir-tree had seen some children one day, and he knew about their bright eyes, and their rosy cheeks, and their dear soft little hands. The day they came into the woods, they had made a ring and danced about him, and one little girl had held up her finger, and asked the others to hush and hear the song he was singing. So of all the thing's the birds had told him, the sweetest to him was about the Christmas tree. If only he might be a Christmas tree, and have the children dance about him again, and feel their presents among his green branches! So he did all that a little tree could do to grow strong in every part, and each day he sang his song:&& “Root, grow thou longer, Heart, grow thou stronger; Sweet sunshine, bless me, Softly caress me; Cold raindrops, patter, Wind, my leaves scatter, My roots must grow longer, My heart must grow stronger,” Soon the days began to grow cold. The birdlings who had been born in the Fir-tree's branches had gone far away to the South. The father and mother bird had gone too, and on the way had stopped to say good-by to the brave little tree. The white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and the glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold in the forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever. One day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and cut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir. They fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling and waving, over the smooth snow. The mother-tree had gone,--“gone to be useful,” said the little Fir; and though he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty when he looked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong trunk, yet he was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir. Still the days grew colder, and often the Fir-tree wondered if the children who had made a ring and danced about him would remember him when Christmas time came. He could not grow, for the weather was too cold, and so he had the more time for thinking. He thought of the birds, of the mother-tree, and, most of all, of the little girl who had lifted her finger, and said, “Hush! hear the Fir-tree sing.” Sometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and almost thought he would never be a Christmas tree. But suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the ringing of Christmas bells. It was the children laughing and singing, as they ran over the snow. Nearer they came, and stood beside the Fir. “Yes,” said the little girl, “it is my very tree, my very singing tree!” “Indeed,” said the father, “it will be a good Christmas tree. See how straight and well shaped it is.” Then the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but glad that they saw he had tried his best. {Illustration: Not all firs can be Christmas trees.}