THE FIR CONES.
AN IDYL OF CHRISTMAS EVE.
"Well, the old tree has gone at last," said the farmer, as he latchedthe heavy door and began to stamp the snow from his boots.
"What tree?" cried a girl's voice, as the whir of the busy wheelsuddenly slackened. "Oh, father, not the Lovers' Tree,--the old fir?Surely thou canst not mean _that_?"
"No other, Hilda; the Lovers' Tree, under which thy mother and Iexchanged our troth-plight more than twenty years back. Hey, dame?" Andhe turned with a smile to where his wife sat in the sunset light,humming a low tune to the accompaniment of her clicking needles. Shesmiled back in answer.
"Yes, Paul, and my mother as well; and thine too, I'll be bound, for shealso was a Brelau girl. All Brelau knows the fir,--a hundred years oldit was, they say."
"More than that," said the farmer. "My grandfather courted his lassunder its shade, and his father did the same. Add a hundred and fifty toyour hundred, and it won't be so far amiss, wife. But it has fallen atlast. There'll be no more maidens wooed and won under the Lovers' Tree.Thou hast lost thy chance, Hilda." And he turned fondly to his girl.
"That was indeed a terrible wind last night," went on the dame. "Itrocked the bed till it waked me from my sleep. Did it rouse thee also,Liebchen?"
But Hilda responded neither to word nor look. She had left her wheel,had crossed the room, and now stood gazing from the window to whereacross the valley the green obelisk of the old fir had risen. Men weremoving about the spot where once it stood, and the ring of axes on thefrosty air told that already the frugal peasantry were at work; and thepride of the village, confidant of many secrets, was in process ofreduction to the level of vulgar fire-wood.
In rushed two children. "Hast thou heard the news?" they cried. "TheLovers' Tree is blown down! All the people are up there chopping. May wego too, and see them chop? We will bring home all the cones to build theChristmas fire. Ah, do let us go, mother; fir cones blaze somagnificently."
"You are such little ones, you will get in the way of the axes and behurt," replied their mother, fondling them.
But the farmer said,--
"Yes, let them go; we will all go. Get thy cloak, Ursula, and thywoollen hood. We will see the old tree once more before it is carriedaway. Wilt thou come too, Hilda?"
But Hilda shook her head, and did not turn or answer. The childrenrioted about, searching for baskets and fagot strings; but she neithermoved nor spoke. Then the door closed, and all was quiet in the cottage.But still Hilda stood in the window, looking with dreamy, unseeing eyesacross the valley to the opposite hillside.
She was looking upon a picture,--a picture which nobody would ever seeagain; upon the venerable tree, beloved of all Brelau, which for moreyears than men could count, had stood there watching the tide of humanlife ebb and flow, as some majestic old man might stand with childrenplaying about his kindly knees. Whole generations of lovers had heldtryst under its shade. Kisses had been interchanged, vows murmured,--theold, old story of human love, of human joy, of hope, of longing, oftrust, had been repeated and repeated there, age after age, and stillthe old tree guarded its secrets well, as in days of greenest youth, andstill bent to listen like a half-human friend. White arms clasped itstrunk, soft cheeks were laid there, as if the rough bark could feelresponsive thrill. Two centuries of loving and listening had mellowedits heart. The boughs seemed to whisper meanings to those who soughttheir shade,--gay songs to the young, counsels to the burdened,benedictions to those who, bowed down with trouble, came, black-clad andsorrowful, to look across the valley where once the purple lights ofhope had met their eyes. "Wait," the rustling murmur seemed to say tosuch; "only wait--wait, as I have waited, and you shall be madeexceedingly glad. Behold, the day dawns and the shadows fly away!" Andthough the heavy heart might not comprehend the whispered words,something seemed lifted from the weight of sadness, and the mournersdeparted comforted, knowing not why.
But not upon a vague picture only did Hilda look. German girls can keeptheir own counsel as well as girls of other nations, and for all herfather's joking she had not "lost her chance" under the Lovers' Tree.Often had she sat there--sat there not alone--and now in thought she wasthere again. She heard a voice--she leaned to meet a kiss. "Wilhelm,"she faltered, and then the vision dissolved in a mist of hot and rushingtears. In the old fir she seemed to lose a friend, an intercessor. Oh,why had this unhappy quarrel arisen? Why had she and Wilhelm loved atall, if only to be so unhappy in the end?
But, in truth, it is very easy for lovers to quarrel. Like particles ofelectric matter, the two natures near, attract, repel. The fire thatleaps from either soul, responsive to kindred fire, fuses or destroys. Ahint, a suspicion, jealousy, mistrust, the thousand and one smallchances of life, come between, and all is over. Only--
"The little pitted speck in garnered fruit"
is needful. A trifle, or what seemed a trifle, had been the beginning ofmischief between Hilda and Wilhelm, but the breach had slowly widenedtill now; when for weeks they had neither met nor spoken, and the idylbegun under summer boughs was withering in time of frost like summerflowers.
To the old tree, and to him alone, did the girl confide herwretchedness. In his dumb ear she owned herself in the wrong. "Why doyou not say so?" the responsive murmur seemed to breathe. "Wilhelm istrue! Wilhelm is kind! only a word, and all will be well." But pridelaid his finger on her lips. She neglected the kindly monitor, the wordcame not, and now the dear old fir was gone; and thinking of all thesethings, Hilda's heart was very sad.
Meantime upon the hillside a great crowd of people were assembled aboutthe fallen trunk. Old men and women, with wistful eyes, stood there;comely middle-aged pairs, surrounded by children; young girls and theirbachelors; boys with fresh rosy faces and wondering eyes,--all alike hadcome to see once more the face of the village friend. Merrily rang theaxes upon the wood. Some looked sad, some merry, as the work went on.There was much interchange of "Do you remembers," much laughing andjoking, a few tears. The children with their baskets ran about pickingup the bright cones which once hung like a coronet upon the forehead ofthe fir. Here and there a woman stooped for a chip or a small twig tocarry away as relic. And then it began to grow dark. The peoplerecollected themselves, as people will after doing a sentimental thing,and saw that it was time to go home. So in contented crowds theydescended the hill to their suppers, and threw billets of the old fir onthe fire, and beside the blaze partook of sausage and cheese, andlaughed and gossiped no less merrily than usual, and the funeral of theold tree was over.
"We will keep all our cones, and the big fagot which Fritz tied up,until day after to-morrow," said little Gretchen; "because, you know,day after to-morrow comes Christmas eve, and the Christ-child must besure to find a good fire."
No one gainsaid this, so the fagot was laid aside.
All next day, and the next, did Hilda labor busily, throwing herselfwith feverish energy into the Christmas preparations. There was a plentyto do. The furniture must shine its brightest, veal and puddings must bemade ready for spit and oven, green boughs be hung everywhere, and,above all, the tree must be prepared. Hard and continually she worked,and as the sun set on the blessed eve all was in order. A vast firecrackled on the hearth of the "big room," thrown open in honor of thefestival. Its bright blaze was reflected back from the polished panelsof the tall corner clock, and danced on the rosy apples and glossyfilberts of the still unlighted tree, which stood, green andmagnificent, beyond. Little fruit of value did this wonderful tree bear.Jackets, stockings, leather shoes, loaded the lower boughs; above was aflowering of warm hoods and gay neck-cloths, there was a wooden cow forGretchen, a trumpet of red tin for little Paul; but the useful and thenecessary predominated. Tender hands had arranged all, had hung themany-colored tapers, crowned the whole with bright-berried stems, and,in the moss at the foot, laid reverently a tiny straw cradle, with waxenoccupant, in memory of that resting-place in the Bethlehem manger whereonce a "young child lay." And now, pale and tired,
Hilda stood gazingupon her finished work.
"Sister, sister!" clamored eager voices through the closed door, "hasn'tthe Christ-child come yet?"
"No, dears, not yet. Go away and play quietly in the kitchen. I'll callyou when he comes."
The little footsteps retreated, and Hilda seated herself before the firewith a weary sigh. It would be an hour or more before her father wouldreturn, and the lighting of the tree begin; so, leaning back in the highcarved chair, she gave herself up to rest of body, leaving her mind torove listlessly as it would.
The basket of cones stood beside the hearth. Half mechanically shestooped for a handful, and threw them on the blaze. Then a certaindrowsy peace came over her, broken only by the flickering noise of theburning cones. They did not burn like other cones, she thought, and evenas the idea floated through her brain, a strange, phantasmal changepassed over them. Moving and blending, they began to build a picture inthe heart of the fire,--the picture of a tree, drawn in flaming lines.Hilda knew the tree. It was the old fir of Brelau, complete in limb andtrunk. And, as she gazed, figures formed themselves beneath theboughs,--figures as of people sitting there, which moved andscintillated, and, swaying toward each other, seemed to clasp and kiss.She uttered a low cry of pain. At the sound the scene shifted, the treedissolved as in fiery rain, and the cones, raising themselves andclimbing upward, stood ranged in a group on the topmost log, like achoir of musicians about to play. Strange notes seemed to come from theblaze, low and humming, like a whispered prelude, then voices began tospeak, or to sing--which was it?--in tones which sounded oddly near, andyet infinitely far away. It was like a chorus of elves sung to theaccompaniment of rustling leaves. And all the time it went on, certainbrightly flaming cones, which took precedence, emphasized the music witha succession of quick, glancing sparks, darting out like tinyfinger-points, as if to attract attention.
"Look at us! look at us!" were the words of the strange _staccato_ chantwhich sounded from the fire. "We are all light and glorious as your loveused to be,--used to be. It isn't so any longer." Then other cones, halfburned and crusted over with white ashes, pushed forward and took up thestrain in sad recitative: "Look at us! look at us, Hilda! We are as yourlove is now,--is now. Ah, there will be worse to come ere long!" And allthe time they sang, glowing strongly from within, they fixed whatseemed eyes, red and winking, on Hilda's face. Then the ashes frombelow, drifting upward in an odd, aimless way, formed themselves into ashadowy shape, and began to sing in low, muffled tones, full of sadness."We are dead, Hilda," was their song; "all dead! dead as your love willbe--will be--before long." And at the close of the strain all the conesclosed together, and emitted a sigh so profound and so melancholy thatHilda started from her chair. Tears stood upon her cheeks. She stared atthe fire with strange excitement. It was burning quietly now, andwithout noise. She was certainly awake. Had she been dreaming?
Just at that moment the latch of the door clicked slightly, and somebodyentered, slowly, hesitatingly, propelled from behind by a childishfigure. "Hilda," said Gretchen's voice, "here's Wilhelm wanting to seethe father. I told him to come in, because _perhaps_ the father washere, or else the mother." And Gretchen's eyes explored the room insearch of the Christ-child, for a glimpse of whom she had resorted tothis transparent device. Then, alarmed by Hilda's stony silence, shesuddenly hung her head, and, rushing out, clapped the door behind her,and left the two alone.
Hilda gave a gasp of bewilderment. She could not move. Was this part ofthe vision? Wilhelm stole one furtive glance at her face, then droppedhis eyes. For a moment perfect stillness prevailed, then, shiftinguneasily from one leg to the other in his embarrassment, the young manmuttered something undistinguishable, and turned. His hand was on thedoor,--a moment more and he would be gone. Hilda started forward.
"Wilhelm!" she exclaimed, with the hoarse utterance of one who seeks toescape from some frightful dream.
Wilhelm turned. He saw the pale, agitated face, the eyes brimmed withtears, the imploring, out-stretched hands. Another second and he heldher in his arms. The familiar touch melted the ice of Hilda's heart, herhead sank upon his breast, and in a few broken words all was spoken andexplained.
So brief an interval and all life changed! The same intense feelingwhich drove them asunder drew them as inevitably together now that oncethe returning tides had chance to flow. Clasped in close embrace, withtears and smiles and loving self-reproachings, they stood before thefire; and as they bent for their first reconciled kiss, the fir cones,flashing once more into life and activity, rose upon the topmost log.Even the burned and blackened ones glowed with fresh fire. Hand in hand,as it were, they climbed into position, and leaped and capered side byside as if merrily dancing, while little jubilant cracks and clicks andsounds, as of small hands clapped for joy, accompanied the movement.Then suddenly the splendor faded, and sinking with one consent intoashes, the cones sifted through the logs and vanished forever, theirmission accomplished, their work done.
With eyes of amazement the lovers gazed upon the spectacle to its close.As the last spark faded, Hilda laid her head again on Wilhelm's breast.
"Ah!" she said, tenderly sighing, "the dear old fir! He loved us well,Wilhelm, and that was his 'good-by.'"
Perhaps it was!
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