THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK [0]
1872
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the
open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred
and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the
same number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,
and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is
obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does
not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;
its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many
a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,
had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,
for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large
fresh leaves, the tree would always say, "Poor little creature! your
whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be
quite melancholy."
"Melancholy! what do you mean?" the little creature would always
reply. "Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and
beautiful, that it makes me joyous."
"But only for one day, and then it is all over."
"Over!" repeated the fly; "what is the meaning of all over? Are
you all over too?"
"No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my
day is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never
reckon it out."
"No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my
days, but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and
happy. Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?"
"No," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer,-
infinitely longer than I can even think of. "Well, then," said the
little fly, "we have the same time to live; only we reckon
differently." And the little creature danced and floated in the air,
rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in
the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and
wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges,
wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all these was so
strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly. The long
and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that
when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly
it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little
head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The
fly was dead.
"Poor little Ephemera!" said the oak; "what a terribly short
life!" And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same
questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was
continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt
equally merry and equally happy.
The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon
of summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew
nigh- winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, "Good-night,
good-night." Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. "We will rock you
and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep, and
shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even
crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your
three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but a
youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow
upon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your
feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams." And there stood the
oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a
long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened in
its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had
FAIRY TALES OF HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN
THE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK
by Hans Christian Andersen
IN the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the
open seacoast, stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred
and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the
same number of days might be to us; we wake by day and sleep by night,
and then we have our dreams. It is different with the tree; it is
obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year, and does
not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest;
its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many
a warm summer, the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day,
had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if,
for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on one of his large
fresh leaves, the tree would always say, "Poor little creature! your
whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must be
quite melancholy."
"Melancholy! what do you mean?" the little creature would always
reply. "Everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and
beautiful, that it makes me joyous."
"But only for one day, and then it is all over."
"Over!" repeated the fly; "what is the meaning of all over? Are
you all over too?"
"No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my
day is whole seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never
reckon it out."
"No? then I don't understand you. You may have thousands of my
days, but I have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and
happy. Does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?"
"No," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer,-
infinitely longer than I can even think of. "Well, then," said the
little fly, "we have the same time to live; only we reckon
differently." And the little creature danced and floated in the air,
rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in
the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and
wild roses, elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges,
wild thyme, primroses, and mint, and the scent of all these was so
strong that the perfume almost intoxicated the little fly. The long
and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that
when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly
it glided down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little
head as well as it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The
fly was dead.
"Poor little Ephemera!" said the oak; "what a terribly short
life!" And so, on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same
questions asked, and the same answers given. The same thing was
continued through many generations of Ephemera; all of them felt
equally merry and equally happy.
The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon
of summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew
nigh- winter was coming. Already the storms were singing, "Good-night,
good-night." Here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf. "We will rock you
and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep. We will sing you to sleep, and
shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even
crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your
three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but a
youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow
upon you, which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your
feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams." And there stood the
oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a
long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened in
its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree had