(1858)
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
