The Most Beautiful Thing
Author Unknown
A Suggestion from Grandpa would be to:
Sit down with your Child/children and read this story out loud.
The sides of the path were covered with rugs of white
snow. But in the center, its whiteness was crushed and
churned into a foaming brown by the tramp, tramp of
hundreds of hurrying feet. It was the day before
Christmas. People rushed up and down the path carrying
armloads of bundles. They laughed and called to each
other as they pushed their way through the crowds.
Above the path, the long arms of an ancient tree reached
upward to the sky. It swayed and moaned as strong winds
grasped its branches and bent them toward the earth. Down
below a haughty laugh sounded, and a lovely fir tree
stretched and preened its thick green branches, sending a
fine spray of snow shimmering downward to the ground.
"I should think," said the fir in a high smug voice,
"That you'd try a little harder to stand still. Goodness knows
you're ugly enough with the leaves you've already lost.
If you move around anymore, you'll soon be quite bare."
"I know," answered the old tree.
"Everything has put on its most beautiful clothes
for the celebration of the birth of Christ. Even from
here I can see the decorations shining from each street
corner. And yesterday some men came and put the
brightest, loveliest lights on every tree along the
path--except me of course." He sighed softly, and a
flake of snow melted in the form of a teardrop and ran
down his gnarled trunk.
"Oh, indeed! And did you expect they'd put lights
upon you so your ugliness would stand out even
more?" smirked the fir.
"I guess you're right," replied the old tree in
a sad voice. "If there were only somewhere I could
hide until after the celebrations are over, but here I
stand, the only ugly thing among all this beauty.
If they would only come and chop me down,"
and he sighed sorrowfully.
"Well, I don't wish you any ill will," replied the fir,
"But you are an eyesore. Perhaps it would be better for
us all if they came and chopped you down." Once again he
stretched his lovely thick branches. "You might try to
hang onto those three small leaves you still have.
At least you wouldn't be completely bare."
"Oh, I've tried so hard," cried the old tree
"Each fall I say to myself, 'this year I won't give
up a single leaf, no matter what the cause,' but someone
always comes along who seems to need them more than
I," And he sighed once again.
"I told you not to give so many to that dirty little
paper boy," said the fir. "Why you even lowered
your branches a little bit, so that he could reach them.
You can't say I didn't warn you then."
"Yes you did at that," the old tree replied.
"But they made him so happy. I heard him say he
would pick some for his invalid mother."
"Oh, they all had good causes," mocked the fir,
that young girl, for instance, colored leaves for her
party indeed! They were your leaves!"
"She took a lot, didn't she?" said the old tree,
and he seemed to smile.
Just then a cold wind blew down the path and a tiny brown
bird fell to the ground at the foot of the old tree and
lay there shivering, too cold to lift its wings. The old
tree looked down in pity and then he quickly let go of
his last three leaves. The golden leaves fluttered down
and settled softly over the shivering little bird, and it
lay there quietly under the warmth of them.
"Now you've done it!" shrieked the fir. You've
given away every single leaf! Christmas morning you'll
make your path the ugliest sight in the whole city!"
The old tree said nothing. Instead he stretched out his
branches to gather what snowflakes he could that they
might not fall on the tiny bird. The young fir turned
away in anger, and it was then he noticed a painter
sitting quietly a few feet from the path, intent upon his
long brushes and his canvas. His clothes were old and
tattered, and his face wore a sad expression. He was
thinking of his loved ones and the empty, cheerless
Christmas morning they would face, for he had sold not a
single painting in the last months.
But the little tree didn't see this. Instead he turned
back to the old tree and said in a haughty voice,
"At least keep those bare branches as far away from
me as possible. I'm being painted and hideousness will
mar the background."
"I'll try," replied the old tree. And he raised
his branches as high as possible. It was almost dark when
the painter picked up his easel and left. And the little
fir was tired and cross from all his preening and posing.
Christmas morning he awoke late, and as he proudly shook
away the snow from his lovely branches, he was amazed to
see a huge crowd of people surrounding the old tree,
ah-ing and oh-ing as they stood back and gazed upward.
And even those hurrying along the path had to stop for a
moment to sigh before they went on.
"Whatever could it be?" thought the haughty fir,
and he too looked up to see if perhaps the top of
the old tree had been broken off during the night.
Just then a paper blew away from the hands of an
enraptured newsboy and sailed straight into the young
fir. The fir gasped in amazement, for there on the front
page was a picture of the painter holding his painting of
a great white tree whose leafless branches, laden with
snow, stretched upward into the sky. While down below lay
a tiny brown bird almost covered by three golden leaves.
And beneath the picture were the words,
"The Most Beautiful Thing Is That Which Hath Given All."
The young fir quietly bowed its head beneath the
great beauty of the humble old tree.
 | Page 1=The Opening Page |
 | Page 5=Cool and Different |
 |
Page 9=The Most Beautiful Thing |
| Page 2=Beginning to look |
| Page 6=The Night Before |
| Page 10=Front Entrance |
| Page 3=Santa Clause is | | Page 7=Grandma got run over by a ? |
|
Page 11=Season Greetings |
|
|
Page 4=Kissing Santa |
|
Page 8=The Last Christmas Tree | |
Page 12=Closed |
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