A tree and a little bird were very good friends. The little bird would perch on the tree's branches and sing songs all day, and all day long, the tree would listen.
However, at the end of the season, the weather grew cold, and the little bird had to say goodbye to the tree.
"So long. Please come back next year and let me hear you sing again," the tree said.
"Yes. Please wait for me until then." And then the little bird flew away toward the south.
Spring came around again. The snow gradually melted from the fields and the forests.
The little bird went back to where its good friend, the tree from last year, had stood.
But then—what was the meaning of this? The tree was not there. Only a stump remained.
"The tree that stood here—where did it go?" the little bird asked the stump.
"A lumberjack cut it down with an axe and took it away to the valley," the stump said.
So the little bird flew over to the valley.
At the bottom of the valley there was a big factory. The high-pitched buzzing noise of wood being sawed was coming from there.
The little bird sat on top of the factory gate and asked, "Mr. Gate, do you know by any chance what happened to my good friend, the tree?"
The gate said: "A tree, you say? It was probably chopped into small pieces in the factory and turned into matches that were sold to people in that village over there."
So the little bird flew over to the village.
A girl was sitting there beside a lamp.
"Excuse me, do you happen to know where I can find the match that lit this lamp?" the little bird asked.
The girl said: "The match has burned out already. But the fire that the match lit is still burning inside this lamp."
The little bird stared fixedly at the flame inside the lamp.
Then the bird sang last year's songs to the fire.
The fire trembled and flickered, and appeared to be dancing in delight.
When the little bird had finished singing the songs, it looked fixedly at the fire inside the lamp again.
And then the little bird flew away.
THE END
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