Once upon a time, there was a little gnome called George. His nose was quite as long and his beard as long and as pointed as you would expect a real gnome’s to be; and he wore bright red trousers and a bright blue waistcoat by way of clothes. In his every-day manner of life George was just like you and me. He had to cook and sweep and hammer and make and mend all day every day, just as we do; but now and then he had a happy time when he did nothing of the sort and went out quite by himself. Indeed it was on one of these happy outings that he found the wonderful tree.
He had wandered far away from his usual home and amusement into the gloomy depths of the woods that he had never come across before. He was wondering where the path lay when he noticed at some distance before him what looked like a gate of purest gold.
“Oh, how beautiful!” cried George; and ran forward through the underbrush.
The closer he came to it the more splendid did that gate appear; for the four massive posts that held it up were cut in a curious pattern that looked like what we should call lacework. The wide bars that joined these pillars together were thick as a man’s arm, and so shining was the gold that when under the rays of the sun all the brilliant colours of the rainbow seemed to dance upon its surface.
“Now, I wonder where this gate leads to? and how did it come to be all alone here?” thought George to himself.
But just then he noticed that one of the large bars near him was swinging gently up and down, as if he were beckoning George to come in.
“Well, whoever did it, there can be no great harm in my just peeping through,” said the little gnome; for he had all his life been taught to obey a kind voice, even when he did not know who it was that spoke it.
So he squeezed his little body through the opening, and before him, and on all four sides, stretched the most lovely sight that ever was seen. There were trees and trees and trees. Some of them all covered with pretty flowers, some standing thick like a forest, and some growing far apart over fields of the richest green, like a huge park. Shady dells, and banks bright with moss and lichen, and tiny winding brooks with fish swimming here and there, completed the beauty of the enchanted scene. But one thing there was that far excelled all the rest: at least a hundred yards in front of George stood a tree much larger than the whole of that beautiful island put together.
“Whatever sort of tree it can be, I should so like to know!” thought George; and clapping his little pointed red hat firmly on his head, and planning a little path by way of a passage through the thick brushwood, he set off to make the tree’s acquaintance.
As he drew near to it he was still more and more surprised; for imagine a tree, if you can, covered all over with fine sparkling stars! It seemed as if all that we see in the sky when the sun is set were planted one and all in the bark of that tree. Then the branches seemed full of golden singing-birds, but the noise they made was not quite of the usual kind.
“Ah, it’s a past and present sort of tune they are singing!” cried George delighted.
As he reached the foot of the tree, the largest branch of all, which was nearly as thick as George himself, bent down so low that the gnome could see quite clearly a hollow in the trunk. And there sat a regular angel, with long white wings that reached to his feet, and fair hair done up with gold bands piled it as high as his head could possibly bear. The gnome stood amazed, unable for the moment to think or to speak.
“Well, my little man,” said the angel, and smiled, “I never thought that ever a gnome would come and see me.”
“Oh, oh!” cried George, not knowing what to say; “I am no gnome!”
“Oh, oh!” mimicked the angel, “really not a gnome? And pray what may you be, then, except a gnome?”
Now the gnome did not like to find that fairy folk, who had talents both for singing and for summoning creatures that he had never in all his life come within sight of before—that the fairy folk, I say, should not know the difference between one creature and another; so he greatly admired the tree, and said he had not seen anything of the sort in all his life.
“You have pretty long life for a gnome,” replied the angel sneeringly.
This rudeness annoyed George so much that he said “Good-bye,” turning himself round upon his heel and giving the angel a look that would quite have turned a squirrel and all its relatives to stone.
“Take care,” said the angel, “before you go; you cannot step backwards without falling off my tree!”
George looked before him; and sure enough the ground sloped most dangerously downwards.
Then the angel said, “If that is not a gnome’s cap, of what use is it?” As he spoke he pointed his middle finger, the one in the middle, you know, towards the shapes of birds and beasts that were mixed up among the stars on the trunk of the tree, and George’s red cap, magically sticking to his head, immediately took root, and in a moment afterwards bloomed into fresh green leaves.
Now I must tell you that when a gnome’s cap is turned into a flower or a tree, some other plant is sent somewhere else to make up the loss. If you see now and then a crocus growing close to an oak, you may be sure the crocus has dropped there from the nose of a very old gnome that one day or another will perhaps manage to see beautiful London or Paris, or whatever city contains the prettiest ladies and the freshest flowers to adorn their hats.
Well, when George’s cap thus grew into a gnarled young plant, he found that he could turn round freely upon his feet, and with a sigh of thankfulness, away he went.
He thought from the first that he would not tell anybody about the splendid tree, and he was rather pleased to think that he should soon be richer each day. So he hid himself here and there, and had just given the bush near his nose a splendid pair of a beard’s-length extra thick coarse hairs, delivered at a regular postage, when somebody came to say that his brother Alfred and the other gnomes wanted him.
“George is never more happy than at his work,” they said; “so there is no use in calling him.” However everybody knew well that in the Gnome tongue this was an exact translation of “We won’t have him! We do not want his help!” So George, to punish them, ran and fetched his birthday hat, with the sole remaining feather from off a giant-cardinal’s wing, turned it into a pair of blushing strawberries, stuck it in the back of his head, covered his nose with a huge dark-green olive-patch for the purpose of getting rid of something that did not want or require anything approaching a patch, turned Alfred’s carpet into blue horns and black shoes, and hid the far-off roar of the invisible waves beneath a nice little garden turf of the glorious purple violets that grew splendidly not half-a-dozen yards away.
Then after his little joke had remained in that position a proper time, he started for home.
Everybody came to hear the news from George’s new country. Some said the whole was nonsense; some said it was too beautious to be true; while others, again, only asked their nickname at all; but as yet there was nothing that was sure to be said.
It happened soon after that the birthday came, and a large present of the sort that suits a gnome’s taste was given to George to remember it by. For that, too, the tree had probably something to do with. Every day since George had only to think of something that he wished to have, and then to take it direct from off a branch of his tree.
Now, although there is no real harm in having every wish at once satisfied, yet if instead of saying on the instant all that you most want you stop to think first, or to choose the thing you like best out of a great many all first, than if you were to be desired to choose only one single present you mean to choose first, it is in that case that you feel happiest over your gift. Then, again, if all your brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles, and aunts, asked you before going to their breakfast what they should like you to bring them home from school, you would feel just as satisfied.
Yes, George went on flourishing away very well for months and months together, fully understanding who it was that passed in and out through the branches of his giving tree, granting George all he wanted, hand after hand. Well, Winters arts got at last hold of its usual joke, and then George thought his power would soon soon vanish; so in order to be ready he disposed of all his pretty things, as issuingly as possible, and took a vast deal of trouble too over what they would like that during the rest of their lives they must feel too thankful for to think about his tree and itself, as best they could.
Everybody was in a good-natured, happy sort of a trim, when one morning the angel you may yet remember sitting in the hollow trunk came to wake George.
“Good morning to you!” said the angel, such a nasty voice! “You see nature is beginning to recover herself; now come to say good-bye!”
George thought that his tree had finished growing and sending him whatever he desired, and that winter was really going.
The next day the angel returned again. “No, it is not grown yet,” said he, “nor anything else: these are about all the trinkets that you want; as to your shoes, for instance, you really ought to be ashamed of to wear them at such given-proof granny-Lowfell crusts! Now, come, you must come away!”
“But the tree,” begged George, “grow upon!”
“Oh, I see, you cry!” scorned the angel again, and broke out dancing.”
But still not ‘till long he went away, as if he liked being so.
“Well, then, he did, that tells another; and away he went.’
However, to be short with all I’m asking, it makes the last so much happier! George gave all away to the nearest,” said the angel a good many more than seven places, which he would not do by any means this time; he gave part to the gnome dancers, “and there was no end of regret and grumbling, and Everybody said, Yes, it was rather nice, still; and no end of grumbling, and Everybody looked so grim and “thought the other were “so immensely. “And you good as eat it all!” but said an angel’s answer would be, I pulled him too vegely, what be them in Europe,” that he had pulled too red and green plants growing thick down below, said he did, per believes that anybody in this big cookery ever had price to pay a-clock-buy cmd. You just mind what I tell you, whom crystal coffin every prigt Raiment nordic warred around those things he swallowed; which was half-pasts And at last gives place went down, both our own and said it back above is.”
“How on earth the giver gave it here from,” That God stopped people going in often or never got said people tie on, what do you think he would have wished? But he did the nicest way, as his giving root never grows too tries. n. You must feel ten times as daily woorly goodish now, George, give you.
“Ah,” cries George on his word, but ‘Morning, oh, this is just as if the angel said, It was gnomish strong saloon whow, of seconds brilliant shops to listen a second race-agsin big more whiffin spinning procession seen anybody could.”
Gone, and couldn’t go!”
Gives a big always broke wuthinned such-decal dialogue always large, or he Waiting Popery it grew. But anyhow yes, go to well-grown-on, and feel quite doubled visit.™