Sometimes the days seemed long, and he sighed in all his branches, and almost thought he would never be a Christmas tree.

But suddenly, one day, he heard something far away that sounded like the ringing of Christmas bells.  It was the children laughing and singing, as they ran over the snow.

Nearer they came, and stood beside the Fir.  “Yes,” said the little girl, “it is my very tree, my very singing tree!”

“Indeed,” said the father, “it will be a good Christmas tree.  See how straight and well shaped it is.”

Then the tree was glad; not proud, for he was a good little Fir, but glad that they saw he had tried his best.

[Illustration:  Not all firs can be Christmas trees.]

So they cut him down and carried him away on a great sled; away from the tall dark trees, from the white shining snow-carpet at their feet, and from all the murmuring and whispering that go on within the forest.

The little trees stood on tiptoe and waved their green branches for “Good-by,” and the great trees bent their heads to watch him go.

“Not all firs can be Christmas trees,” said they; “only those who grow their best.”

The good Fir-tree stood in the children’s own room.  Round about his feet were flowers and mosses and green boughs.  From his branches hung toys and books and candies, and at the end of each glossy twig was a bright glittering Christmas candle.

The doors were slowly opened; the children came running in; and when they saw the shining lights, and the Christmas tree proudly holding their presents, they made a ring, and danced about him, singing.

And the Fir-tree was very happy!

PICCOLA.

Suggested by One of Mrs. Celia Thaxter’s Poems.

“Story-telling is a real strengthening spirit-bath.”—­Froebel.

Piccola lived in Italy, where the oranges grow, and where all the year the sun shines warm and bright.  I suppose you think Piccola a very strange name for a little girl; but in her country it was not strange at all, and her mother thought it the sweetest name a little girl ever had.

Piccola had no kind father, no big brother or sister, and no sweet baby to play with and to love.  She and her mother lived all alone in an old stone house that looked on a dark, narrow street.  They were very poor, and the mother was away from home almost every day, washing clothes and scrubbing floors, and working hard to earn money for her little girl and herself.  So you see Piccola was alone a great deal of the time; and if she had not been a very happy, contented little child, I hardly know what she would have done.  She had no playthings except a heap of stones in the back yard that she used for building houses, and a very old, very ragged doll that her mother had found in the street one day.