The wood flamed up finely under
the large brewing kettle, and it sighed so deeply!
Each sigh was like a little shot. So the children
ran to where it lay and sat down before the fire,
and peeped in at the blaze, and shouted ``Piff!
paff!'' But at every snap there was a deep sigh.
The Tree was thinking of summer days in the
wood, and of winter nights when the stars shone;
it was thinking of Christmas Eve and Klumpy-
Dumpy, the only fairy tale it had heard and knew
how to tell,--and so the Tree burned out.
The boys played about in the court, and the
youngest wore the gold star on his breast which
the Tree had worn on the happiest evening of his
life. Now, that was gone, the Tree was gone, and
gone too was the story. All, all was gone, and
that's the way with all stories.
THE CHRISTMAS CUCKOO
BY FRANCES BROWNE (ADAPTED)
Once upon a time there stood in the midst of a
bleak moor, in the North Country, a certain village.
All its inhabitants were poor, for their fields
were barren, and they had little trade; but the
poorest of them all were two brothers called Scrub
and Spare, who followed the cobbler's craft.
Their hut was built of clay and wattles. The door
was low and always open, for there was no
window. The roof did not entirely keep out the rain
and the only thing comfortable was a wide fireplace,
for which the brothers could never find
wood enough to make sufficient fire.
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