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Show A Modern Fable THE TREE THAT DIDNT GET TRIMMED by Christopher Morley F YOU WALK THROUGH a grove of balsam trees, you will notice that the young trees are silent; they are listening. But the old tall ones especially the firs are whispering. They are telling the story of The Tree That Didnt Get Trimmed. It sounds like a painful story, and the murmur of the old trees as they tell it is rather solemn; but it is an encouraging story for young saplings to hear. On warm Autumn days when your trunk is tickled by ants and insects climbing, and the resin is hot and gummy in your knots, and the whole glade smells sweet, drowsy, and sad, and the hardwood trees are boasting of the gay colors they are beginning to show, many a young evergreen has been cheered by it. All young fir trees, as you know by that story' of Hans Andersens if youve forgotten it, why not read it again? dream of being a Christmas Tree some day. They dream about it as young girls dream of being a bride or young poets of having a volume of verse published. With the vision of that brightness and gayety before them, they patiently endure the sharp sting of the ax, the long hours pressed together on a freight car. But every December there are more trees cut down than are needed. And that is the story that no one has thought to put down. The tree in this story should never have been cut. He wouldnt have been, but it was getting dark in the Vermont woods, and the man with the ax said to himself, Just one more. Cutting young trees with a sharp, beautifully balanced ax is fascinating; you go on and on; theres a sort of cruel pleasure in it. The blade goes through the soft wood w'ith one whistling stroke and the boughs sink down with a soft swish. He was a fine, youngster but too tall for his age; his branches were rather scraggly. If hed been left there, he would have been an unusually big tree some day; but now he was in the awkward age and didnt have the tapering shape and the thick, even foliage that people like on Christmas trees. Worse still, instead of running up to a straight, clean spire, his top was a bit lopsided, with a fork in it. But he didnt know this as he sood with many others, leaning against the side wall of the gi eengrocers shop. In those cold December days he was veiy happy, thinking of the pleasures to come. He had heard of the delights of Christmas Eve; the of the tree, the tinsel balls and colored stealthy setting-u- p the toys, tails. peppermint canes and birds with spun-glaEven that old anxiety of Christmas trees burning candles did not worry him, for he had been told that nowadays people use strings of ti iy electric bulbs which cannot set one on fire. I shall be very grand, he said. I hope there will be children to admire me. It must be a great moment when the children hang their stockings on you! He even felt sorry for the first well-gro- ss (Copyright 12 1925, 1927. 1953 by Christopher Morley Family Weekly, December 22, 1957 published by J. B Lippincott Co.) trees that were chosen and taken away. It would be best, he considered, not to be bought until Christmas Eve. Then, in the shining darkness someone would pick him out, put him along the running board of a car, and away they would go. The would clack and jingle merrily on the snowy road. He imagined a big house with fire glowing on a hearth; the hushed rustle of wrapping paper and parcels being unpacked. Someone would say, Oh, what a beautiful tree! How erect and stiff he would brace himself in his iron tripod stand. But day after day went by, one by one the other trees were taken, and he began to grow troubled. For everyone who looked at him seemed to have an unkind word. Too tall, said one lady. The branches are too skimpy, said another. If I chop off the top, said the greengrocer, it wouldnt be so bad. The tree shuddered, but the customer had already passed on to look at others. Some of his branches ached where the grocer had bent them upward to make his shape appear more attractive. Across the street was a variety store. Its bright windows were full of scarlet odds and ends; when the doors opened, he could see people crowded along the aisles, cheerfully jostling one another with bumpy packages. A buzz of talk, a shuffle of feet, a constant ringing of cash drawers came noisily out of that doorway. He could see flashes of marvelous color, ornaments for luckier trees. Every evening, as the time drew nearer, the pavements were more thronged. The handsomer trees, not so tall as he but more bushy and shapely, were ranked in front of him; as they were taken away he could see the gayety only too well. Then he was shown to a lady who wanted a tree very cheap. You can have this one for a dollar, said the grocer. This was only one third of what the grocer had asked for him at first, but even so the lady refused him and went across the street to buy a little artificial tree at the toy store. The man pushed him back carelessly, and he toppled over and fell alongside the wall. No one bothered to pick him up. He was almost glad, for now his pride would be spared. tire-chai- ns Klow it was Christmas Eve. It was a foggy evening with a drizzling rain; the alley alongside the store was thick with trampled slush. As he lay among broken boxes and fallen scraps of holly, strange thoughts came to him. In the still northern forest, already his wounded stump was buried in forgetful snow. He remembered the Wintry sparkle of the woods, the big trees with crusts and clumps of silver on their broad boughs, the keen singing of the lonely wind. He remembered the strong, warm feeling of his roots reaching down into the safe earth. That is a good feeling; it means to a tree just what it means to you to stretch your toes down toward bed. And he had given up all this the bottom of a well-tuckto lie here, disdained and forgotten, in a littered alley. The splash of feet, the chime of bells, the cry of cars went past him. He trembled a little with self-pi- ty and vexation. No toys and stocking for me, he thought .sadly and shed some of his needles. Late that night, after all the shopping was over, the grocer ed |