thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas
Eve, and of the little mice who had listened so happily to the
story of Humpty Dumpty.

'Too late! Too late!' thought the old tree. 'If only I had
enjoyed myself whilst I could. Now all is over and gone.'

And a servant came and cut the tree into small pieces, there was
quite a bundle of them; they flickered brightly under the great
copper in the brew-house; the tree sighed deeply, and each sigh
was like a pistol-shot; so the children who were playing there
ran up, and sat in front of the fire, gazing at it, anad crying,
'Piff! puff! bang!' But for each report, which was really a
sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer's day in the wood, or of
a winter's night out there, when the stars were shining; it
thought of Christmas Eve, and of Humpty Dumpty, which was the
only story it had heard, or could tell, and then the tree had
burnt away.

The children played on in the garden, and the youngest had the
golden star on his breast, which the tree had worn on the
happiest evening of its life; and now that was past--and the tree
had passed away--and the story too, all ended and done with.

And that's the way with all stories!

Here our Danish author ends. This is what people call sentiment,
and I hope you enjoy it!