Dreams of a Christmas Tree

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I am a Christmas tree, and my home is a conifer farm. My roots are deep in the lovely moist soil, and I can grow up to 130 feet. Some people might think that I am just the same as the other conifers that grow all around me. But those people would be wrong! I am different.

My cones are glowing brown, and even my needles fall much slower than the other Christmas trees.

Not for me draughty halls where I could catch colds, or an overheated living room where I could sweat. I am a tree that wants to be free.

I crave love and attention. I want to be planted in an important place like Trafalgar Square, Buckingham Palace, outside No. 10 Downing Street. Then the tourists and the Londoners can admire me. I don’t want to be thrown out with the rubbish after the twelve days of Christmas. I don’t want to be ignored and thrown out with the wrapping paper and old used crackers.

The other fir trees that I am surrounded by are okay. There’s quite a friendly relationship between us, but they have no ambition. They don’t mind who buys them or where they will live. They are just happy to be chosen!

When the farmer goes home, we chat and hang out together. We discuss the Christmas holidays and what Father Christmas is doing and the weather reports. Hedge Sparrows like to roost in our branches, and they usually bring news.

Recently we have heard that people are buying artificial trees. They are cheap and easy to keep.

Some come fully decorated and even with their own lights! We were all so upset. We searched for comfort where there was none. I tried to reassure the others. They are all panicking, lots of sleepless nights, and many are off their feeds. I try to calm them down.

Several customers have called in to the Christmas tree farm. The spindlier short budget trees are quick to sell. They are packed tightly into cars. It is downright cruelty to see them being twisted and suffocated. Can’t they read the signs that say that the farmer delivers? I only hope that I don’t get the same treatment!

I am working on my looks. My cones are shiny and have controlled the rate that my needles fall.

I brush my branches every night and am trying out my best side, so when Buckingham Palace or the Prime Minister comes to buy a tree, I will be ready.

The next day, I am woken up by the roaring of the farmer’s van. Before I know it, the farmworkers are digging away, and I am placed in the van. The window is narrow, but I saw some of my pals waving good-bye and wishing good luck.

The stress of being uprooted has made me sleepy. I must have dozed off, so not sure which route I am on. When I awake I realised that we are parked outside a big building—the writing on the side seems to be “Children’s Hospital”. I imagine that the Queen is too busy to collect me or the Prime Minister is doing his Christmas shopping. It seems that I am wrong.

The next day, I am carried carefully out of the van, and before I know it, my roots are planted into a container and boxes of decorations are hung on my branches. The decorations are lovely and very light on my branches. The nurses who work on me are so kind and considerate, and the tiny lights shine out.

When visiting hour comes that evening, parents and children begin putting the presents underneath me.

There is lots of excitement tonight. Carols are being sung, and a special Father Christmas comes to brighten all the little children’s faces. Father Christmas sits one or two children in his lap and asks them what presents they want. The children are so happy, and so am I.

It’s funny changing your mind the way I have. I would rather be in this famous London children’s hospital watching the kids playing with their presents than Buckingham palace or even Downing Street!

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