The Fir Tree

Quick Answer

Why This Story Works for Bedtime

It’s calm, poetic, and perfect for gentle reflection. It can feel bittersweet, but it’s deeply soothing when framed as a gratitude story: notice the good that’s already here.

Story Synopsis

A young fir tree grows in the forest, surrounded by sunlight, birds, and the quiet company of other trees. But instead of enjoying his life, he is restless. He wishes to be taller, to be older, to be something more than he is. The birds tell stories of far‑off places; he longs to leave the forest and be important. Seasons pass. The fir tree grows, yet the wishing doesn’t stop. When he is finally cut down and taken away, he expects greatness—but change brings discomfort. He is carried into a warm house and decorated as a Christmas tree, covered in candles, ornaments, and bright attention. For a brief night, he feels admired. Then the celebration ends. The candles burn out, the ornaments are removed, and the tree is thrown aside. He is moved from place to place, slowly drying, slowly losing the green life he once had. Only when it is too late does he remember the forest: the sun on needles, the birds in branches, the simple happiness of being alive. His regret is quiet and honest. The Fir Tree is a gentle reminder that longing for ‘next’ can blur the gift of ‘now.’ At bedtime, it can open a soft conversation: What was one small good thing in our day?

Story Excerpt

Far down in the forest, where warm sunbeams slipped between the branches and the air smelled fresh and clean, a little fir-tree grew. It was a pretty tree, with neat, dark-green needles. The birds sang above it. Soft clouds sailed across the sky. Sometimes small peasant children came by, laughing and chatting as they went to pick berries. But the fir-tree was not happy. It wished, with all its might, to be tall—tall like the pines and the older firs that stood around it. “Oh, if only I were as tall as the others,” it sighed. “Then I could spread my branches wide. My top would look out over the whole world. Birds would build their nests in me, and when the wind blew, I would bow with stately dignity like my companions.” The sun shone kindly on its needles. The wind brushed it as gently as a hand. The morning dew cooled its roots. “Rejoice in your youth,” whispered a sunbeam. But the fir-tree hardly listened. Sometimes, in the summer, the children came and sat nearby with baskets of raspberries or strawberries. They would look at the little fir-tree and say, “Is it not a pretty little tree?” Instead of feeling pleased, the fir-tree felt even more restless. “Pretty,” it thought. “But small.” Each year it grew, notch by notch, joint by joint, as fir-trees do. In winter, snow lay white and glittering on the ground. A hare would come springing along and—oh, how it stung!—jump right over the little fir-tree. The fir-tree felt terribly embarrassed. Two winters passed. When the third came, the fir-tree had grown tall enough that the hare had to run around it instead. And still the fir-tree was not satisfied. “Oh, if I could only keep growing and growing,” it said. “There is nothing else worth caring for in the world!” Then autumn arrived, and with it came the woodcutters. One day the fir-tree heard the sharp sound of axes and the deep, heavy crash of great trees falling.

In One Glance