A Little Tree Is Not Bad at All, Really--It Just Needs Some Love
An imagining of the first Christmas tree, in L. Frank Baum’s Burzee Forest
Our story began far, far to the frozen north in the Burzee Forest, home of the Knooks, helpers to Santa. This magical forest is across from the Deadly Desert, south of the Quadling Country and is exactly the place where Santa Claus grew up. L. Frank Baum (remember his Wizard in Oz?) wrote of the Burzee and about how the Daemons stole Christmas from the Laughing Valley. That story is reminiscent of another well-loved story by Dr. Seuss.
Forest of Burzee - Alchetron, The Free Social Encyclopedia The Forest of Burzee is a fictional fairytale land originated by L. Frank Baum, famous as the creator of the Land of Oz.
How kindness morphed a plain old spruce into a wonder to behold
To go back to our story at hand, you never knew what would happen in those days in that Burzee forest. Christmas traditions were growing, and magic was always afoot.
Anyway, it was almost a thousand years ago—way before you or I were even a thought. Our story has come down generation to generation. Spoken lovingly from grandparents to parents to children.
It’s said that a flock of birds—likely sparrows, the poorest of birds—had to go south as usual, ahead of winter’s bitter cold. Being a little unorganized, like the grasshopper of old fables, they put their journey off, enjoying nice weather and basking in the sunshine. Instead of preparing and getting a move on, they swooped along treetops, snacked on abundant seeds and berries, and played.
Too long, it turns out.
After a time, the sparrows finally soared upward to begin their journey. All seemed well. Their first travel day was sunny. Balmy. But the afternoon sky grew heavy as clouds rolled in behind the flock. The lead sparrows glanced over their tiny feathered shoulders and worried.
Day two was another thing altogether.
Wind swept in from the frigid north, strong and gusty, rudely shoving sparrows every which way. Gusts stuck ice crystals into feathers, gluing them together. Sleet blurred the birds’ vision.
Some sparrows tried to take to the trees below. The angry wind pursued them, shaking them off the branches. The birds plopped down, shivering, trying with all their might to take to the sky again. Staying aground was too risky.
They flew on, using terrible amounts of energy. All the long day, the sparrows froze right down to their very bones. No sun. The heavy snow tired each little bird, making them heavy and clumsy. The ground was a white wasteland. Terrified, the sparrows forged on—valiantly trying to outdistance the blizzard—but becoming hopelessly lost. South? Who knew where South was now?
The sun, seeming just as worn out, slumped to the horizon, and the birds knew they couldn’t go on. The leaders gathered the flock into a small V pattern so they could see each other, stick together, and find shelter.
Sadly, one by one, wings stiff, feathers wet, heavy, and frozen, they dropped from the sky like little stones. All hope gone.
A large spruce tree, firmly anchored in the stormy dusk of Burzee Forest, saw sparrows plummeting toward him. He took a deep breath, swelling his branches to their widest width, and he caught birdies two-by-two, sheltering them in his greenness. Spruce, whose heart was as warm as his branches, sheltered the little flyers, soothed their terror, and rocked them gently to sleep.
Finally, the storm blew itself out and faded away. Soft yellow moonlight picked out shadows on the snow. The moon smiled at the birds snoring peacefully in evergreen beds.
In the meadow, quite near the spruce, stood a tiny log house. The garden patch around it was widely known for its bounty of vegetables and flowers in the spring. The house snoozed under snow and moonlight now. Smoke sailed up through the cabin chimney, making the air smell homey and warm. In the window stood a single candle with a red ribbon tied to its base to hold it in place on the sill.
Earlier in the day, when the storm had begun, the grandma, who lived there with her husband, gazed worriedly out the window. At noon, she breathed a circle of warmth on the frozen glass, rubbed away the frosty crystals, and peered through a tiny open space.
“Hmm. I need to light the way for travelers this day,” she said. “It’s Christmas. Getting lost is no Christmas present.” She grinned and lit her candle.
Grandpa tossed a Yule log on the fire, saying, “I’ll keep the fire up so we can remember how the sun blesses us in summer.”
Grandma nodded.
When they slept later that night, both the grandmother and the grandfather had the same dream. A young woman, carrying a baby, crossed the clearing. She looked cold and lonely as she approached their cabin.
The grandmother woke, got out of her warm bed, and looked out the window. There, like in the dream, a lady walked toward the house.
The grandmother thought, “It’s odd how she leaves no footprints.”
The grandfather opened the door, put his arm around the lady, and led her in. They sat her to rest in their best rocking chair. They fed her, wrapped her and the baby in warm blankets, and talked with her by the fire as she nursed the little one.
Later, the old couple went back to bed, but their visitor said she’d sit a while. It was a night of peace and warmth. Slumbering deeply, Grandfather snorted a snore. Grandmother snuggled into the quilt.
As the moon crossed the sky and the night helped the forest recover from the storm, a little girl figure flitted, radiant and gorgeous, near the spruce. Her gossamer robes rivaled the brilliance of snow shimmering on the branches. She hovered by way of softly feathered wings and wore a circle of golden light round her curly locks.
Christy’s angel eyes were as blue as glass balls you’ve seen on Christmas trees. Her lips were the exact color of candy cane stripes, and her hair was precisely the shade of milky sweet cocoa. Her glowing aura woke the sleeping spruce and the birds in his branches.
“So, Tree,” she said, “long ago, trees like you, on the very first Christmas night, sheltered that newborn Baby in their beautiful branches. You’ve lived up to their kindness by taking pity on these humble creatures of the skies. Bless you.”
The tree swished his branches, rustling shyly, pleased with the compliment.
“Well,” Christy went on, “those nice folks in the cottage helped some strangers, too. They shared their holiday, showed concern for others, and lent a hand cheerfully. Even with snow all around, there’s warmth here.”
She put her chin in her hand and sat cross-legged, hovering above the snowy ground for a moment. Obviously, she was planning something.
“Ok. As an official Christmas angel, I’ve got a Christmas present for all of you! Watch this.”
She put two fingers between her lips and whistled. The shrill sound echoed through the night. She clapped her hands sharply, too. The spruce winced and looked around warily.
From every direction came silkworms. Christy pointed to the spruce, and the spinners sped up to the top branches. They spun silky strands all the way to the ground. Moonlight and reflections from snow and stars turned the silk threads gold and silvery. Points of light speared the crisp winter air, glittering for quite a distance.
Christy fluttered her wings. She darted up to the dark sky and grabbed a handful of stars, tugging them like a little dog wrestles with a rag bone.
Stardust mixed with snowflakes on the spruce branches, sending a rainbow of twinkling light splashing across the clearing. Startled from their sleep, sparrows twittered frantically for a moment. But Christy’s calm, quiet eyes soothed them.
For her final task, she called little furry creatures to her, bent down, and whispered into their ears. They dove off into drifts and burrows and returned minutes later, each bringing a bundle of berries and nuts from the forest floor or from their own winter stock.
Christy scattered the colorful ornaments into the spruce branches and stood back, admiring her artistry. She adjusted a berry here, blew some starlight from this branch to that, and was satisfied.
She winked, smiled, and vanished.
Sparrows chirped in Christmas beds. The spruce shook off his amazement, admiring the beauty before him. The woods settled once again.
A few hours later, the old couple woke when a log crashed to the hearth and sent a shower of sparks up the chimney. The lady and baby were gone, having been sent to find out if humans could be kind. The dim light from the fireplace shone on a dozen white candles, tied with a red silk ribbon, on the seat of the still-rocking chair. The cottage door was latched from the inside.
Opening the door slowly, brows furrowed, Grandma and Grandpa peeked out.
“Oh my,” the old woman exclaimed, rubbing her eyes as if the vision before her were a dream.
The old man clapped his hands and laughed, delighted with the gorgeous tree. His booming chortles bounced from limb to limb in the morning chill.
They had no clue how that first Christmas tree came to be in their clearing that night, but the soft Christmas Day breeze seemed to be trying to whisper something they just couldn’t catch. No matter.
Grandpa shrugged, tittered, and said, “It might have been the work of angels, you know.”
At that moment, from across the treetops came the faint sound of a silvery giggle. The spruce rustled his branches, and the sparrows twittered. And for the rest of their lives, the old man and his sweet wife decorated a spruce tree at Christmas. Soon, everyone who knew them did the same.
And the sparrows? It’s to be hoped they learned something about timing.
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What a lovely origin story! Perfect for Christmas. Thank you.