Children, this story I tell to you,
Of Piccola sweet and her bird, is true.
In the far-off land of France, they say,
Still do they live to this very day.

THE LITTLE FIR TREE

[When I was a very little girl some one, probably my mother, read to me
Hans Christian Andersen's story of the Little Fir Tree. It happened
that I did not read it for myself or hear it again during my childhood.
One Christmas day, when I was grown up, I found myself at a loss for
the "one more" story called for by some little children with whom I was
spending the holiday. In the mental search for buried treasure which
ensued, I came upon one or two word-impressions of the experiences of
the Little Fir Tree, and forthwith wove them into what I supposed to be
something of a reproduction of the original. The latter part of the
story had wholly faded from my memory, so that I "made up" to suit the
tastes of my audience. Afterward I told the story to a good many
children, at one time or another, and it gradually took the shape it
has here. It was not until several years later that, in re-reading
Andersen for other purposes, I came upon the real story of the Little
Fir Tree, and read it for myself. Then indeed I was amused, and
somewhat distressed, to find how far I had wandered from the text.

I give this explanation that the reader may know I do not presume to
offer the little tale which follows as an "adaptation" of Andersen's
famous story. I offer it plainly as a story which children have liked,
and which grew out of my early memories of Andersen's "The Little Fir
Tree"].

Once there was a Little Fir Tree, slim and pointed, and shiny, which
stood in the great forest in the midst of some big fir trees, broad,
and tall, and shadowy green. The Little Fir Tree was very unhappy
because he was not big like the others. When the birds came flying
into the woods and lit on the branches of the big trees and built their
nests there, he used to call up to them,--

"Come down, come down, rest in my branches!" But they always said,--
"Oh, no, no; you are too little!"

And when the splendid wind came blowing and singing through the forest,
it bent and rocked and swung the tops of the big trees, and murmured to
them. Then the Little Fir Tree looked up, and called,--

"Oh, please, dear wind, come down and play with me!" But he always
said,--

"Oh, no; you are too little, you are too little!"

And in the winter the white snow fel