Don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles? Can't you tell any larder stories? No, said the tree. Then goodbye, said the rats, and they went home. At last the little mice stayed away also, and the tree sighed. After all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little mice sat round me, and listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. Why one morning there came a quantity of people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown, rather hard it is true, down on the floor, but a man drew him towards the stairs where the daylight shone. But it was not the fir tree that they meant. It was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of tinsel was still on the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine. In the courtyard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at Christmas round the fir tree, and were so glad at the sight of him. And the gardener's boy chopped the tree into small pieces. There was a whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply. However, that was over now. The tree gone, the story at an end. All is said without a word. I sit beneath thy looks as children do in the noon sun, with souls that tremble through their happy eyelids from an unavowed yet prodigal inward joy.