So he did all that a little tree could do to grow strong in every
part, and each day he sang his song:--

"Root, grow thou longer,
Heart, grow thou stronger;
Sweet sunshine, bless me,
Softly caress me;
Cold raindrops, patter,
Wind, my leaves scatter,
My roots must grow longer,
My heart must grow stronger,"

Soon the days began to grow cold. The birdlings who had been born in
the Fir-tree's branches had gone far away to the South. The father and
mother bird had gone too, and on the way had stopped to say good-by to
the brave little tree.

The white snow had fallen in gentle flakes, and covered the cones and
the glossy carpet of pine needles. All was still and shining and cold
in the forest, and the great trees seemed taller and darker than ever.

One day some men came into the wood with saws and ropes and axes, and
cut down many of the great trees, and among these was the mother-fir.
They fastened oxen to all the trees, and dragged them away, rustling
and waving, over the smooth snow.

The mother-tree had gone,--"gone to be useful," said the little Fir;
and though he missed her very much, and the world seemed very empty
when he looked up and no longer saw her thick branches and her strong
trunk, yet he was not unhappy, for he was a brave little Fir.