“It's frightfully cold，”said the two little mice，“otherwise it's very pleasant here.Don't you think so，you old fir tree？”
“I'm not old at all，”answered the fir tree.“There are many much older than I.”
“Where do you come from？”asked the mice，“and what do you know？”
Weren't they outrageously inquisitive？
“Tell us about the most attractive place on earth；have you ever been there？Have you ever been in the larder，where there are cheeses on the shelves，and hams hang from the ceiling，where you can dance over tallow candles，and slip in thin and come out fat？”
“I don't know that place，”replied the tree，“but I know the forest where the sun shines and the birds sing！”And it told all about its youth，and the little mice had never heard anything like it.They listened very attentively and said，“My，what a lot you must have seen！How happy you must have been！”
“I？”said the fir tree，thinking about what it had been saying.“Yes，after all，those days were rather pleasant.”Then it told them all about the Christmas Eve when it had been decorated with sweets and candles.
“Oh！”said the little mice.“How happy you've been，you old fir tree！”
“I'm not old at all，”said the fir tree.“It was only this winter that I came out of the forest；I'm in the prime of life，and I've only just stopped growing for the time being.”
“How beautifully you tell things！”said the little mice；and the next night they brought four other mice to hear the tree tell all about its life，and the more the tree told，the more clearly did it remember everything，and thought，“Those really were quite happy days.But they may return—they may return once more.Humpty-dumpty fell down the stairs and still he won the Princess！Perhaps I too may marry a Princess！”And the fir thought of a most adorable little birch that grew out in the forest—for to the fir tree that little birch was a beautiful real Princess.
“Who is Humpty-dumpty？”asked the little mice.The fir tree then told them the whole story，for it remembered every word，and the little mice were so delighted that they almost leaped to the very top of the tree.The next night many more mice came，and on Sunday even two rats appeared—but they said the story was not amusing，which made the little mice rather sad，for now they did not think much of it either.
“Do you know only that one story？”asked the rats.
“Only that one，”answered the tree.“I heard it on the happiest evening of my life，but I never knew then how happy I was！”
“It's a very boring story.Don't you know any about pork and tallow candles？Any larder stories？”
“No，”said the tree.
“Thank you，then we shan't bother you any more，”said the rats，and they returned to the bosom of their families.
Finally the little mice kept away too，and now the tree sighed：“After all，it was rather cozy when those nimble little mice sat round listening to what I told them.All that is over too；but I shall remember to enjoy myself when I'm taken out from here！”
But when would that happen？
Well，it happened one morning when people came to tidy up the attic.The boxes were moved.The tree was pulled out from the corner and thrown rather brutally on the floor，but at once one of the men dragged it towards the stairs where it saw daylight once more.“Now life is beginning again，”thought the tree.It felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams—and now it was out in the courtyard.All happened so quickly that the tree quite forgot to look at itself，there was so much to see all round.The courtyard was next to a garden where all the flowers were in bloom；the roses hung in great fragrant clusters over the little fence，the lime trees were in full blossom，and the swallows flew high and low，twittering，“Kvee-ve-ve，kvee-ve-ve—my love has come！”—but it was not the fir tree they meant.
“Now I am really going to live！”exclaimed the fir tree，bursting with happiness，and it stretched out all its branches.Alas！they were all withered and yellow—it found itself in a corner amongst weeds and nettles.The tinsel star was still fastened to the top，and sparkled in the bright sunshine.
Some of the merry children who had danced round the tree at Christmastime，and had taken such a delight in it then，were playing in the courtyard.One of the smallest rushed at it and pulled off the gold star.
“Look what is still hanging on that ugly old Christmas tree！”he said，trampling on the branches that crackled under his feet.
And the tree looked at the beauty and splendor of the flowers in the garden，and then looked at itself，and wished it had remained in that dark corner of the attic.It thought of its fresh green youth in the forest，of the merry Christmas Eve，and of the little mice which had listened with so much pleasure to the story of Humpty-dumpty.
“All over and done with，”said the poor tree.“Why didn't I enjoy them while I could？Done with！Done with！”
And the man came and chopped the tree up into small pieces；they made quite a heap.A great blaze flared up under the big copper，and the tree moaned so deeply that each moan was like a faint shot.The children were attracted by the sound，made a ring round the fire，gazed into it and shouted，“Bing！bang！”But at each explosion—which was a deep moan—the tree thought of a beautiful summer's day in the forest，or of a starry winter's night out there；it thought of Christmas Eve and of Humpty-dumpty，the only story it had ever heard and been able to tell...and by now the tree was burnt to ashes.
The boys played in the courtyard，and the youngest one wore on his breast the gold star which had decorated the tree on the happiest evening of its life.
Now that was done with，and the tree was done with，and the story is done with！done with！done with！And that's what happens to all stories.
