John Smith's

In the small village where I currently live, there was once a man who lived alone with his young daughter. It was about the time when the twentieth century was nearing its final years. They lived in a cosy little cottage which straddled the village green.  They weren’t at all well off. The father was a labourer at the local brick furnace, and although he never drank, smoked, or was ever foolish enough to gamble, he struggled with the rising cost of living. His daughter was his everything. He was totally devoted to her and although they had little, he always ensured his daughter had whatever she needed. Warm clothes, shoes, schoolbooks, toys, whatever, and there was always a hearty meal on the table and a warm bed to sleep in. Not having had much of an education, he nevertheless studied enough books to be able to help his daughter with her schoolwork. A passionate gardener, he owned a small parcel of land where together they grew fruit and vegetables. He and his daughter spent some of their most enjoyable times together there, oftentimes with a refreshing drink of sherbet powder and lemon juice the father made up for hot summer days.

One particularly cold winter the man suffered much hardship himself. He needed warmer clothes, yet for the sake of his daughter went without. He wanted to give her as best a Christmas as he could. Managing to purchase a partridge for a reasonable sum from a gamekeeper friend to cook along with potatoes and vegetables they had grown for their Christmas dinner. A local forester sold the father a small tree which he potted whilst it stood in their home. Together they made paper decorations and his daughter tied one of her dolls to the top of the tree to be the angel. Her present on Christmas morning was a painting of a unicorn, which he had painstakingly worked on for many long hours each night after his daughter had fallen asleep. She adored it! He hung it above her bed to be her companion in the realms of dreamland.

            Weeks later, as the fresh winds of spring finally blew away the cobwebs of winter, he planted the tree out in their garden to use again the following year.

            “It’ll be even taller next Christmas,” he told her.

“I will grow taller too!” she replied, but she never did. A fever struck her before the following winter had hardly arrived. She lay in the grip of its fury. Steadily, despite various remedies, she worsened, and the doctor was called. He meticulously examined her as her father stood anxiously by her bedside waiting, hoping, to hear the doctor confirm all will be well. But as he looked towards him, he could see by his eyes the doctor feared the worse. That night, tightly holding his daughter’s hand, she slipped from this life into the next. One can only imagine how heartbroken you would be at the loss of a daughter unless you had personally experienced such pain. No amount of tears could ever suffice to heal a blood drained heart.

  Over the following years he barely spoke a word to anyone finding a small measure of solace tending his garden. He cared for the Christmas tree like it was his child, yet it never graced his cottage the following Christmas, or any other. Years passed by. The tree grew tall. The man grew old. His weather worn face evidenced his many years of sorrow. Then one particularly dark autumn night a storm blew in. Blustery winds violently battered the tree. For a fair while it appeared to stand firm until one especially ferocious gust took the tree down. It had stood immovable for so many years. The following morning the old man stood motionless when he came across the tree lying uprooted on the ground. Then, with a calm resolution, he realised, turned and walked home. During the night he passed away peacefully in his sleep. Beyond the realms of our suffering world he entered the peace of the ‘Great Beyond’. There waiting for him was his daughter and she rushed into his arms.