Prevod

In the forest, high on the slope beside the open sea, stood a very old oak tree. It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five years old, but that long span was no more to the tree than as many days are to us human beings. We wake by day and sleep by night, and then we have our dreams; with the tree it is different. The tree is awake through three seasons, and only as winter approaches does it fall asleep. Winter is its sleeping time, its night after the long day we call spring, summer, and autumn.

On many a warm summer day the mayfly had danced around its crown, lived, floated, and felt happy; and whenever the little creature rested for a moment in quiet bliss upon one of the great fresh oak leaves, the tree would always say, "Poor little thing! Your whole life is only a single day! How short it is! How sad!"

"Sad!" the mayfly would always answer. "What do you mean by that? Everything is so wonderfully bright, so warm and lovely, and I am so happy!" "But only for one day, and then it is all over!"

"Over!" said the mayfly. "What is over? Are you over too?" "No, I may live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole seasons long! It is so long that you cannot possibly reckon it!"

"No, for I do not understand you! You have thousands of my days, but I have thousands of moments in which to be glad and happy! Does all the beauty of this world come to an end when you die?"

"No," said the tree, "it will surely last longer, infinitely longer, than I can imagine!" "Then we have just as much, only we reckon differently!"

And the mayfly danced and wheeled in the air, delighting in its delicate, precious wings, their gauze and velvet, delighting in the warm air, so richly scented with the clover field and the wild roses, elder, and honeysuckle of the hedgerow, not to mention woodruff, cowslips, and wild mint. The fragrance was so strong that the mayfly felt a little drunk with it. The day was long and lovely, full of joy and sweet sensations, and when the sun went down, the little fly always felt pleasantly tired from all its merriment. Its wings would no longer bear it, and very gently it drifted down onto a soft, swaying blade of grass, nodded its head as only it could nod, and fell so happily asleep. That was death.

"Poor little mayfly!" said the oak tree. "That was far too short a life!" And every summer day brought the same dance, the same conversation, answers, and falling asleep; it went on through whole generations of mayflies, and they were all equally happy, equally glad. The oak stood awake through its spring morning, summer noon, and autumn evening; now bedtime was drawing near, its night, and winter would come.

Already the storms were singing, "Good night, good night! A leaf has fallen, a leaf has fallen! We are plucking, we are plucking! See that you get to sleep! We will sing you to sleep, we will shake you to sleep, but it does your old branches good, does it not? They creak with sheer delight! Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly! This is your three hundred and sixty-fifth night; really, you are only a yearling! Sleep sweetly! The cloud is sprinkling snow; it will make a whole sheet, a snug coverlet about your feet! Sleep sweetly and dream pleasantly!"

And the oak stood stripped of all its leaves, ready to rest through the long winter and dream many a dream, always of something it had lived through, just as in human dreams.

It too had once been little; indeed, an acorn had been its cradle. By human reckoning it was now living in its fourth century. It was the greatest and finest tree in the forest, its crown towering high above all the other trees, visible far out at sea, a landmark for ships. It never thought of how many eyes sought it. High in its green crown the wood pigeons nested, and the cuckoo called there; in autumn, when the leaves looked like sheets of beaten copper, the migrating birds came to rest there before flying across the sea. But now it was winter, and the tree stood leafless; one could clearly see how its branches stretched out, twisted and crooked. Crows and jackdaws came by turns to perch there and talk of the hard times that were beginning, and how difficult it was to find food in winter.

It was at the holy Christmas season that the tree dreamed its loveliest dream; let us hear it. The tree had a distinct feeling that this was a festive time; it seemed to hear all the church bells ringing round about, and yet it was like a lovely summer day, mild and warm. It spread its mighty crown, so fresh and green; sunbeams played among the leaves and branches, and the air was filled with the fragrance of herbs and bushes. Bright butterflies played tag, and the mayflies danced as though everything existed only for them to dance and enjoy themselves. All that the tree had experienced through the years and seen around it passed by as in a great festive procession. It saw knights and ladies of old riding through the forest, with plumes in their hats and falcons on their wrists; hunting horns sounded and hounds bayed. It saw enemy soldiers in gleaming armour and colourful clothes, with spears and halberds, pitching their tents and taking them down again; watchfires blazed, and men sang and slept beneath the tree's outstretched branches. It saw lovers meeting here in quiet happiness by moonlight and carving their names, their first initials, into the grey-green bark. Zithers and Aeolian harps had once been hung in the oak's branches by merry wandering lads—yes, there had been years between those visits—and now they hung there again, now they sounded again so sweetly. The wood pigeons cooed as though they would tell what the tree felt at this, and the cuckoo called out how many summer days it still had to live.

Then it was as though a new current of life coursed through it, right down into its smallest roots and up into its highest branches, out to the very leaves. The tree felt itself stretching with it; through its roots it sensed that even down in the earth there was life and warmth. It felt its strength increasing; it grew higher and higher. The trunk shot upward without pause, growing ever more and more; the crown grew fuller, spread wider, rose higher—and as the tree grew, so too did its sense of well-being, its blissful longing to reach ever higher, right up to the bright, warm sun.

Already it had grown high above the clouds, which drifted beneath it like dark flocks of migrating birds or great flights of white swans. And every leaf of the tree could see, as though it had eyes to see with; the stars became visible by day, so large and bright. Each twinkled like a pair of eyes, so gentle, so clear; they recalled familiar, loving eyes, children's eyes, the eyes of lovers meeting beneath the tree.

It was a moment of blessed life, so full of joy! And yet, amid all that joy, it felt a longing and a wish that all the other trees of the forest down below, all the bushes, herbs, and flowers, might rise with it and feel and share this radiance and delight. The mighty oak, in all its glorious dream, could not be wholly happy without having them all with it, great and small; and this feeling trembled through its branches and leaves as deeply, as strongly, as in a human breast.

The tree's crown stirred as though it were searching for something it missed. It looked back, and then it caught the scent of woodruff, and soon the still stronger fragrance of honeysuckle and violets; it thought it could hear the cuckoo answering.

Yes, the green treetops of the forest were peeping through the clouds! It saw beneath it the other trees growing and rising as it did; bushes and herbs shot high into the air. Some tore themselves free by the roots and flew faster still. The birch was swiftest; like a white flash of lightning its slender trunk shot crackling upward, its branches waving like green veils and banners. The whole living forest, even the brown-plumed reeds, grew with it, and the birds followed, singing. On a blade of grass that fluttered and flew like a long, loose green ribbon sat the grasshopper, playing its wing against its shin. The cockchafers droned and the bees hummed, every bird sang with its own beak, and all was song and joy, right into heaven.

"But the little blue flower beside the water must come too!" said the oak tree. "And the red bellflower! And the little daisy!" Yes, the oak wanted them all to come!

"We are here! We are here!" came the ringing song. "But the beautiful woodruff from last summer—and the year before there was a whole carpet of lilies of the valley here! And the wild apple tree, how lovely it stood—and all the forest's splendour through the years, through so many years! If only it had lived and lasted until now, then it too could have come!"

"We are here! We are here!" came the ringing song from still higher up; it seemed as though they had flown on ahead. "Why, it is all too wonderfully beautiful!" rejoiced the old oak. "I have them all with me! Great and small! Not one is forgotten! How can all this happiness be possible, be conceivable!"

"In God's heaven it is possible and conceivable!" came the answer. And the tree, still growing, felt its roots loosening from the earth. "This is best of all!" said the tree. "Now nothing holds me back! I can fly to the very highest light and glory! And I have all my dear ones with me! Great and small! All with me!"

"All!" That was the oak tree's dream, and while it dreamed, a violent storm swept over sea and land on that holy Christmas night. The sea hurled heavy waves against the shore; the tree creaked, cracked, and was torn up by the roots at the very moment when it dreamed that its roots were loosening. It fell. Its three hundred and sixty-five years were now like a single day to the mayfly.

On Christmas morning, when the sun came out, the storm had subsided. All the church bells rang merrily, and from every chimney, even the smallest on the cottager's roof, smoke rose blue as from the altar at a Druid's feast, the smoke of a thank-offering. The sea grew calmer and calmer, and on a great ship out at sea, which had safely weathered the night's fierce storm, all the flags were now hoisted, festive and beautiful for Christmas.

"The tree is gone! The old oak, our landmark on shore!" said the sailors. "It fell in last night's storm! What could ever take its place? Nothing can!"

Such was the funeral oration, brief but heartfelt, given to the tree as it lay stretched upon the snowy carpet beside the shore; and over it drifted the singing of a hymn from the ship, a song of Christmas joy and the salvation of the human soul in Christ, and of eternal life:

"Sing to the skies, God's faithful throng! Hallelujah, our hearts are full, Our joy beyond all measure! Hallelujah, hallelujah!" So rang the old hymn, and everyone aboard the ship was uplifted in their own way by it and by the prayer, just as the old tree had risen in its last, its loveliest dream on Christmas night.