在一个树林里，在宽广的海岸旁的一个陡坡上，立着一株很老的栎树。它的年纪恰恰是三百六十五岁，不过对于这树说来，这段时间也只是等于我们人的三百六十五个昼夜。我们白天醒过来，晚上睡过去，于是我们就做起梦来。树可就不是这样。它一年有三个季节是醒着的，只有到冬天，它才去睡觉。冬天是它睡眠的季节，是它度过了春、夏、秋这一个漫长的白昼以后的夜晚。
在许多夏天的日子里，蜉蝣环绕着这树的簇顶跳起舞来，生活着，飞舞着，感到幸福。然后这小小的生物就在安静的幸福感中，躺在一片新鲜的大栎树叶子上休息。这时树儿就说：
“可怜的小东西!你整个的生命也不过只有一天!太短了!这真是悲哀!”
“悲哀!”蜉蝣总是这样回答说。“你这话是什么意思?一切是这样无比的光明、温暖和美丽。我真感到快乐!”
“然而也不过只有一天，接着什么都完了!”
“完了!”蜉蝣说。“什么完了?你也完了吗?”
“没有。像你那样的日子，我恐怕要活到几千几万个。我的一天包括一年所有的季节!它是那么长，你简直没有方法计算出来!”
“是吗?那我就不了解你了!你说你有几千几万个像我这样的日子，可是我有几千几万个片刻;在这些片刻中我能够感到快乐和幸福。当你死了以后，难道这个世界的一切美景就会不再有吗?”
“当然会有的，”树儿说;“它会永远地存在——存在得出乎我想像之外地久远。”
“这样说来.我们所有的时间是一样的了，只不过我们计算的方法不同罢了!”
蜉蝣在空中飞着，舞着，欣赏它那像薄纱和天鹅绒一样精致的翅膀，欣赏带来原野上的车轴草、篱笆上的野玫瑰、接骨木树和金银花的香气的熏风，欣赏车叶草、樱草花和野薄荷。这些花儿的香味是那么强烈，蜉蝣觉得几乎要醉了。日子是漫长而美丽的，充满了快乐和甜蜜感。当太阳低低地沉落的时候，这只小飞虫感到一种欢乐后的愉快的倦意。它的翅膀已经不想再托住它了;于是它便轻轻地、慢慢地沿着柔软的草叶溜下来，尽可能地点了几下头，然后便安静地睡去——同时也死了。
“可怜的小蜉蝣!”栎树说。“这种生命真是短促得可怕!”
每年夏天它跳着同样的舞，讲着同样的话，回答着同样的问题，而且同样地睡去。蜉蝣世世代代地重复着这同样的事情;它们都感到同样地快乐和幸福。老栎树在它春天的早晨、夏天的中午和秋天的晚上，一直是站在那儿，没有睡。现在它的休息的时刻，它的夜，马上就要来了，因为冬天一步一步地接近了。
暴风雨已经唱起了歌：“晚安!晚安!”这里有一片叶子落下来，那里又有一片叶子落下来了!“我们摘下叶子，我们摘下叶子!看你能不能睡着!我们唱歌使你睡着，我们把你摇得睡着，这对于你的老枝子是有好处的，是不是?它们似乎快乐得裂开了!甜蜜地睡去吧!甜蜜地睡去吧!这是你的第三百六十五个夜呀!按规矩说，你还不过是一个刚刚满一岁的孩子!甜蜜地睡去吧!云块撒下雪来，这是一层毯子，一层盖在你脚上的温暖的被子。愿你甜蜜地睡去，做些愉快的梦吧!”
老栎树立在那儿，叶子都光了;它要睡过这漫长的冬天，要做许多梦——梦着它所经历过的事情，像人类所做的梦一样。
它曾经一度也是很小的——的确，那时它的'摇篮不过是一颗槠子。照人类的计算法，它现在正是在第四百个年头之中。它是森林里一株最大和最好的树。它的顶高高地伸在所有的树上，人们在海上就可以远远地看到它，因此它成了船只的一个地形标记。它一点也不知道，该是有多少眼睛在寻找它。斑鸠在它绿色的顶上高高地建起窝来，杜鹃坐在它的枝丫里唱着歌。在秋天，在树叶看起来像薄薄的钢片的时候，候鸟就飞来，在它们没有到大海的彼岸去以前，停在这儿休息一下。不过现在是冬天了，谁也可以看得出来，这树没有剩下一片叶子;它的枝丫长得多么弯，多么曲啊，乌鸦和白嘴鸦轮流地到它的枝丫里来，在那里休息，谈论着那快要开始的严寒的季节，谈论着在冬天找食物是多么困难。
这正是神圣的圣诞节的时候;这树做了一个最美丽的梦。
这树明显地感觉到，这是一个欢乐的季节。它觉得它听到周围所有教堂的钟都敲起来了。然而天气仍然是像一个美丽的夏天，既柔和，又温暖。它展开它庄严的、新鲜的、绿色的簇顶;太阳光在枝叶之间戏弄着;空气充满了草和灌木的香气;五颜六色的蝴蝶在互相追逐。蜉蝣跳着舞，好像一切都是为了他们的跳舞和欢乐而存在似的。这树多年来所经历过的东西，以及在它周围所发生过的东酉，像节日的行列一样，在它面前游行过去。它看到古代的骑士和贵妇人——他们的帽子上插着长羽毛，手腕上托着猎鹰，骑着马走过树林。狩猎的号角吹起来了，猎犬叫起来了。它看到敌对的武士，穿着各种颜色的服装，拿着发亮的武器矛和戟，架起帐篷，收起帐篷。篝火燃起来了;人民在它展开的枝丫下面唱歌和睡觉。它看到一对一对的恋人在月光中幸福地相会，把他们名字的第一个字母刻在它灰绿色的树皮上。有个时候——自此以后多少年过去了——快乐的游荡者把七弦琴和风奏琴①挂在它的枝子上，现在它们又在那上面挂起来了，又发出非常动听的音调。斑鸠在喁喁私语，好像是在讲这树对这一切事物的观感;杜鹃在唱它还能活多少个夏天。
这时它觉得仿佛有一种新的生命力在向它最远的细根流去，然后又向它最高的枝子升上来，一直升到它叶子的尖上。这树儿觉得它在伸展和扩大;通过它的根，它感到连土里都有了生命和温暖。它觉得它的气力在增长。它长得更丰满，更宽大。它越长越高。它的躯干在上升，没有一刻停止。它在不断地生长。它的簇顶长得更丰满，更宽大，更高。它越长得高，它的快乐就越增大;于是它就更有一种愉快的渴望。渴望要长得更高——长到跟明朗和温暖的太阳一样高。
它已经长到超出云层之上了。云块在它的簇顶下浮过去，像密密成群的候鸟，或者像在它下面飞过去的白色的大天鹅。
这树的每片叶子都能看到东西，好像它有眼睛一样。它在白天可以看见星星——那么巨大，那么光耀。每颗星星像一对眼睛——那么温柔，那么晶莹。这使得它记起那些熟识的亲切的眼睛，孩子的眼睛，在它的枝下幽会的恋人的眼睛。
这是一个幸福的片刻——一个充满了快乐的片刻!然而在这幸福之中，它感到一种渴望;它希望看到树林里一切生长在它下面的树、一切灌木丛、草儿和花儿，也能跟它一起长高，也能欣赏这种快乐和美景。这株巨大的栎树在它美丽的梦中并不感到太幸福，因为它没有使它周围大大小小的植物分享这种幸福。这种感觉在它的每个小枝里，每片叶子里，激动着，好像在人类的心里一样。
这树的簇顶前后摇动着，好像它在寻找一件什么东西而没有找到。它朝下面望。于是它嗅到车叶草的香气;不一会儿，它闻到金银花和紫罗兰的更强烈的香味。它相信它听到杜鹃在对自己讲话。
是的，树林的一片绿顶透过了整个的云层;栎树看到它上面其余的树也在生长，像自己一样在向上伸展。灌木和草儿也长得很高，有些甚至把自己的根都拔起来，为的是想飞快地上长。桦树长得最快。它细嫩的躯干，像一条白色的闪电似地在向上伸;它的枝子摇动起来像绿色的细纱和旗子。树林中的一切植物，甚至长着棕毛的灯心草，也跟着别的植物一齐在向上长。鸟儿跟着它们一起向上飞，唱着歌。一根草叶也在飞快地生长，像飘着的一条缎带。一只蚱蜢坐在它上面，用腿子擦着翅膀。小金虫在嗡嗡地唱着歌，蜜蜂在低吟着。每只鸟儿都用自己的嘴唱着歌。处处是一片直冲云霄的歌声和快乐声。
“可是水边的那朵小蓝花在什么地方呢?它应该和大家一起也在这儿。”栎树说，“那紫色的钟形花和那小雏菊在什么地方呢?”是的，老栎树希望这些东西都在它的周围。
“我们都在这儿呀!我们都在这儿呀!”这是一片歌唱的声音。
“不过去年夏天的那棵美丽的车叶草——而且去年这儿还有一棵铃兰花!还有那野苹果树，它是多么美丽!还有那年年都出现的树林胜景——如果这还存在，到现在还存在的话，那么也请它来和我们在一起吧!”
“我们都在这儿呀!我们都在这儿呀!”更高的空中发出这么一个合唱声。这声音似乎早就在那儿。
“唔，这真是说不出的可爱!”老栎树高声说。“他们大大小小都在我的周围!谁也没有被忘记掉!人们怎么能想象得到这么多的幸福呢?这怎么可能呢?”
“在天上这是可能的，也可以想象得到的!”高空中的声音说。
这株不停地生长着的栎树觉得它的根从地上拔出来了。
“这是再好不过了!”这树说。“现在再没有什么东西可以牵制住我了!我现在可以飞了，可以在灿烂的阳光中向最高的地方飞了!而且一切大大小小的心爱的东西都和我在一起!大家都和我在一起!”
这是老栎树做的一个梦。当它正在做这梦的时候，一阵狂暴的风雨，在这个神圣的圣诞节之夜，从海上和陆地上吹来了。海向岸上卷起一股巨大的浪潮，这树在崩裂——当它正在梦着它的根从土里解放出来的时候，它的根真的从地上拔出来了。它倒下来了。它的三百六十五岁现在跟蜉蝣的一日没有两样。
在圣诞节的早晨，太阳一出来，暴风雨就停了。所有的教堂都发出节日的钟声。从每一个烟囱里，甚至从最小茅屋顶上的烟囱里升起了蓝色的烟，像古代德鲁伊②僧侣的祭坛上在感恩节升起的烟一样。海渐渐地平静了。海面停着的一条大船上——它昨夜曾经战胜了暴风雨——悬起了各色的旗帜庆祝这个美丽的节日。
“这树已经倒下来了——这株很老的、作为地形的指标的栎树!”水手们说。“它在昨夜的暴风雨中倒下来了!谁能再把它栽上呢?谁也不能!”
这是人们对于这栎树所作的悼辞。话虽然很短，但是用意很好。这树在盖满了积雪的海岸上躺着;从船上飘来的圣诗的歌声在它的躯体上盘旋着。这是圣诞节的愉快的颂歌，基督用血把人类的灵魂赎出来的颂歌，永恒的生命的颂歌。
唱哟，高声唱哟，上帝的子民!
阿利路亚，大家齐声欢庆，
啊，处处是无边的欢乐!
阿利路亚!阿利路亚!
这是一首古老圣诗的调子。在这歌声和祈祷中，船上的每个人都感到一种特有的超升的感觉。正如那株老树在它最后的、最美的。圣诞节晚上的梦中所感到的那种超升的感觉一样。
①这是一种放在风中就自动发出音调的古琴。
②德鲁伊(Druids)是古代高卢人(Gaul)和不列颠人(Briton)享有特权的一种祭司阶层。
老栎树的梦—个圣诞节的童话英文版：
The Last Dream of the Old Oak
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 once been small; indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to human computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above all the other trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a landmark to the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly for it. In its topmost branches the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual vocal performances, and his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in autumn, when the leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage would come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across the sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth from the trunk. Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and talked of the hard times which were beginning, and how difficult it was in winter to obtain food.
It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream. The tree had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive time had arrived, and in his dream fancied he heard the bells ringing from all the churches round, and yet it seemed to him to be a beautiful summer’s day, mild and warm. His mighty summits was crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies danced around him, as if the world had been created merely for them to dance and be merry in. All that had happened to the tree during every year of his life seemed to pass before him, as in a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times and noble ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded, and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored dresses and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents, and anon striking them. The watchfires again blazed, and men sang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree. He saw lovers meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine, and carve the initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk. Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang there again, and he could hear their marvellous tones. The wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he had yet to live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through every fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest branches. The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he grew higher and still higher, with increased strength, his topmost boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to his growth, so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright sun itself. Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage, or large white swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to see. The stars became visible in broad daylight, large and sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to the memory the well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful and happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet, amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him, might be able also to rise higher, as he had done, and to see all this splendor, and experience the same happiness. The grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment, while all the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling of yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as warmly and fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human heart. The summit of the tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards as if in his silent longing he sought for something. Then there came to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the note of the cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak saw them rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot upward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly. The birch-tree was the quickest of all. Like a lightning flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native of the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass, that fluttered in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a grasshopper, cleaning his wings with his legs. May beetles hummed, the bees murmured, the birds sang, each in his own way; the air was filled with the sounds of song and gladness.
“But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?” asked the oak, “and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?” You see the oak wanted to have them all with him.
“Here we are, we are here,” sounded in voice and song.
“But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the lilies-of-the-valley, which last year covered the earth with their bloom? and the wild apple-tree with its lovely blossoms, and all the glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year? even what may have but now sprouted forth could be with us here.”
“We are here, we are here,” sounded voices higher in the air, as if they had flown there beforehand.
“Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,” said the oak in a joyful tone. “I have them all here, both great and small; not one has been forgotten. Can such happiness be imagined?” It seemed almost impossible.
“In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is possible,” sounded the reply through the air.
And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that his roots were loosening themselves from the earth.
“It is right so, it is best,” said the tree, “no fetters hold me now. I can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And all I love are with me, both small and great. All—all are here.”
Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a mighty storm came rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas time. The sea rolled in great billows towards the shore. There was a cracking and crushing heard in the tree. The root was torn from the ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied it was being loosened from the earth. He fell—his three hundred and sixty-five years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of Christmas-day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids’ altars. The sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy and festivity. “The tree is down! The old oak,—our landmark on the coast!” exclaimed the sailors. “It must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who can replace it? Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree; short, but well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes of a song from the ship—a song of Christmas joy, and of the redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ’s atoning blood.
“Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”
Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the ship felt his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on that Christmas morn.
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