So he was unhappy and hung his head, and let the wind blow him further
and further over toward the ground; and as he did not care for his
rootlets, they lost their hold in the earth, and by and by he withered
quite away.

But our brave little Fir-tree grew on; and when a long time had gone
by, his head was on a level with his mother's lowest branches, and he
could listen and hear all the whispering and talking that went on
among the great trees. So he learned many things, for the trees were
old and wise; and the birds, who are such great travelers, had told
them many wonderful things that had happened in far-off lands.

And the Fir-tree asked his mother many, many questions. "Dear mother-
tree," he said, "shall we always live here? Shall I keep on growing
until I am a grand tall tree like you? And will you always be with
me?"

"Who knows!" said the mother-tree, rustling in all her branches. "If
we are stout-hearted, and grow strong in trunk and perfect in shape,
then perhaps we shall be taken away from the forest and made useful
somewhere,--and we want to be useful, little son."

It was about this time that the young Fir-tree made himself some music
that he used to whisper when the winds blew and rocked his branches.
This is the little song, but I cannot sing it as he did.

SONG OF THE FIR-TREE.

Root grow thou long-er heart be thou strong-er;