"Past! past!" said the old Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I could have
done so! Past! past!"
And the servant came and chopped the Tree into little pieces; a whole
bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing kettle,
and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the
children who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the
fire, looked into it, and cried "Puff! puff!" But at each explosion,
which was a deep sigh, the Tree thought of a summer day in the woods,
or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of
Christmas Eve and of Klumpey-Dumpey, the only story he had ever heard
or knew how to tell; and then the Tree was burned.
The boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a
golden star, which the Tree had worn on its happiest evening. Now that
was past, and the Tree's life was past, and the story is past too:
past! past!--and that's the way with all stories.
THE DARNING-NEEDLE
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
There was once a Darning-needle, who thought herself so fine, she
imagined she was an embroidering-needle.
"Take care, and mind you hold me tight!" she said to the Fingers that
took her out.
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