The Beautiful Christmas Tree_nodrm

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Charlotte Zolotow

TheBeautifulChristmasTree

illustrated by Ruth Robbins

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THEBEAUTIFULCHRISTMASTREEby Charlotte Zolotowillustrated byRuth RobbinsOn the first Christmas after Mr.Crockett moves into his brownstonehouse, the scraggy little pottedpine tree makes a poor showing inhis window compared to the bushyornamented Christmas trees of hisneighbors. And the neighbors areshocked. They are even more shockedwhen, the following spring,Mr. Crockett plants the small uglytree in front of his house. Asthe seasons go by, the lonely littleman cares for his tree, warming itwith hay in winter and watering it insummer. He puts out crumbs for thewinter and summer birds until moreand more birds come to feed and singaround the growing pine. Years lateron Christmas Day, the neighborsdiscover the joy of Mr. Crockett'ssecret: living things need love.The illustrations evoke the warmthof this gentle, human story.PARNASSUS PRESSBERKELEY, CALIFORNIA


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TheBeautifulChristmas MTree JU?

by Charlotte Zolotowillustrated by

Ruth RobbinsPARNASSUS PRESS BERKELEY. CALIFORNIA


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COPYRIGHT I972 BY CHARLOTTE ZOLOTOW FOR STORYCOPYRIGHT I972 BY RUTH ROBBINS FOR ILLUSTRATIONSPUBLISHED BY PARNASSUS PRESSLIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOG CARD NUMBER 7O-182950PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICAISBN O-87466-OO4-I

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here was once a city street with a row of trees,one in front of each brownstone house. It was alovely street. Birds sang in the trees, people sweptthe stoops and sat there on hot summer nights en-joying the stars. All the houses were lived in exceptone. It had been empty a long time.

The street with its trees and birds began to at-tract more and more elegant people. These newpeople did not sit out on their stoops at night towatch the stars. They were too elegant for that andthey were not the sort, these new people, to buy ahouse that had been empty for years, a house asrundown as the lonely brownstone.


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Its stoop was dirty, the sidewalk was cracked,the windows were grey with dust, and the tree thatonce grew in front of the house had dried up anddied.

That place is an eyesore, the neighbors said.Each day they hoped that someone fashionable

and elegant would move in and fix it over.When Mr. Crockett moved in it was plain that

he was neither elegant nor fashionable. They sawhim on weekends washing the dirty windows ofhis brownstone with ammonia and water, andthey snorted. He's a strange little man, theysaid, and their lips were tight as they talked abouthim. Imagine doing it himself They had reg-ular window washers who squeegeed their win-dows clean during the week. But the gnarledlittle man named Donald Crockett washed hiswindows until they shone and sparkled like asheet of mountain air fresh and clean.

No one knew much about Mr. Crockett be-cause the neighbors didn't care to talk to some-one who worked all week and scrubbed the whitesteps of his own brownstone on weekends. Hedid it slowly and carefully, as though he enjoyedit, dipping his gnarled stubby hands into thebucket of foamy water, scrubbing back and forth


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the city dirt that was not scrubbed out of thecorners of their stoops.

One fall day they saw Mr. Crockett come outwith a spading-fork. He loosened the dirt in thelittle patch in front of his house where long agothe neglected tree of the empty house had died.He dug his spading-fork in and turned the

ground. Then he stooped down and let some ofthe dirt fall through his fingers.

Good rich soil, he said to himself.A fat worm squiggled its way back into theground and Mr. Crockett smiled.

It's good earth, something will grow here,he said to himself.


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The neighbors watching through their win-dows frowned as he put his fork over his shoulderand walked happily up the steps of his brown-stone, where the windows sparkled like a sheetof mountain air.

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At the end of the street and just around thecorner there was a flower store. Coming homefrom work every night Mr. Crockett stopped infront of the window and looked in. That fallthe window was filled with yellow and orangechrysanthemums, edged round with flaming oakleaves and bunches of red maple leaves, like ablaze of country road.

As it grew closer to Christmas the displaysin the flower shop window changed. Mossy pots


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of dark green ivy filled the window, ivy andphilodendron and giant poinsettia plants whoseleaves looked like the red petals of a flower. Somesmall bushy pines stood in white tubs in frontof the store, and inside on the floor and on thewalk outside the florist's window, there werepiles of cut trees from some forest far away. Therewere spruce and pine, small ones and big ones,with their branches trussed together to save space.

When Mr. Crockett passed the store on theway home from work each night the strong pinesmell enfolded him, as if he were walkingthrough a pine forest instead of down a coldcity street. Long boxes were filled with holly andmistletoe, the red holly berries and milky whitemistletoe berries glowing against green leaves.Mr. Crockett's neighbors bought bunches of hollyand mistletoe, and many of the Christmas treeswere marked with white tags telling who hadbought them and when they were to be delivered.

In some of the brownstone windows the treesalready stood shimmering with their Christmasdecorations. The neighbors clucked to see Mr.Crockett trudging home from work each nightlooking happily at their trees as he passed.

The day before Christmas Mr. Crockett


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stopped as usual to look in the flower store win-dow. There were many lovely trees left in thestore. There were still pots of poinsettia and darkgreen ivy with bright red bows, and little Jeru-salem cherry plants and pots of white and redcyclamen. There were still white wooden potswith little growing bushy pines. Mr. Crockettstood staring into the store. The air was verycold. His breath steamed in front of him as helooked at the flowers and leaves and trees underthe incandescent store light. It was almostChrismas Eve. Then off in a dark corner of theshop he saw one white wooden tub with awizened little plant in it. The plant was a scrubbydark small pine. Its branches drooped and dryneedles had fallen around it onto the black andwhite linoleum flower store floor.

It was true, as the neighbors said of Mr.Crockett, that he was a gnarled gnome of a man.He was short and had shaggy grey and browneyebrows and large black eyes. He had curlygrey and brown hair and a curly grey and brownbeard. Some people would say he was not a hand-some man.

And the little scrubby pine was not a hand-some plant.


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Mr. Crockett couldn't help imagining howit would feel to be that small misshapen treeamongst all the straight healthy bristling darkgreen pines.

He opened the door to the shop and walkedin. A bell tinkled overhead. The fragrance ofthe pines and the warm flower-scented air en-folded him. He took a deep breath.

The florist came from the back of the shop.Mr. Crockett was the only customer there.Good evening, sir, he said, What can I do

for you?


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Mr. Crockett stood there looking, with hisgrey and brown curly beard and large blackeyes, as out of season in the store as the smallalmost bare tree in the corner.

Mr. Crockett stared at the little tree.A nice poinsettia plant? the florist sug-

gested. We have some beauties.Mr. Crockett shook his head no but before

he could speak the flowerman went on, A pot-ted spruce? We have some lovely little trees stillleft. And he picked up one of the bushy pinesand held it out for Mr. Crockett to see.

It's very fine, said Mr. Crockett smiling,but the plant I want is that little one in thecorner.


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That one said the flowerman. That willnever be much good. Here is a handsome littletree that will flourish.

It's the little one in the corner I want, Mr.Crockett repeated. His voice was low but firm.

The flowerman shook his head. This gnomeof a man must be mad, he thought, and decidednot to argue. All he said was, You're sure?

Quite sure, said Mr. Crockett. The flower-man brought the pine over. Mr. Crockett touchedthe almost bare branches. He touched themgently like a doctor pressing to find the pain.

Shaking his head the flowerman lifted thepot and put it into Mr. Crockett's arms.

I can't really charge you for it. It's ugly.


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Mr. Crockett smiled.I want to pay for it, he said. You know

when I was a boy, there was a saying that is stilltrue.

What's that, sir, said the flowerman count-ing out Mr. Crockett's change.

Beauty is as beauty does, said Mr. Crockett.The bell tinkled overhead as he opened the doorto leave.

Alone in the store the flowerman shrugged.He'd have shrugged even more if he had

heard Mr. Crockett talking to the tree as hewalked along.

You need sun, he told the tree, and I havejust the window for you. Sun and water, hesaid as though the tree could hear him, and nextspring we'll put you in the ground.

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Mr. Crockett knew a secret. Living thingsneed love.

That night the snow began to fall. OnChristmas day when the neighbors went to churchthey glanced at each beautifully decorated treestanding in the window of each brownstone.

When they passed Mr. Crockett's house therewas a white wooden pot in the window witha stick of a tree, crooked and almost withoutneedles. He hadn't even put an ornament onthe tree.

Awful they said.When the carolers who sang on Christmasafternoon came by, they didn't stop in front ofMr. Crockett's house. He stood behind his shinywindows and watched as they stopped every-where else.

Beauty is as beauty does, he said sadly.


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The winter passed. The days grew longer. Thebirds that flew south in the winter came back tothe trees and began, like the birds who weatheredthe winter on the street, to build their nests.one spring evening Mr. Crockett came outagain with his spading-fork. He loosened theearth in front of his house once more. He duga deep wide hole and filled it with water. Thenhe brought out the stick of a tree in its whitewooden tub. Carefully he lifted the little pineout of the tub and set it gently in the hole. Thenhe emptied another pan of water around it sothe roots floated comfortably into position. Mr.


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Crockett packed the earth down all around untilthe little pine stood firm in its new home.

The neighbors were shocked.Look at that stick he's planted out front,

they said. What a disgrace They didn't knowMr. Crockett's secret.

Every day when Mr. Crockett was at workthe soft spring sunlight beat down warming theground and the little pine planted in it.

Every night when Mr. Crockett came home,he watered the pine carefully and then sat outon the stoop near it while the sun went down.

He would watch the children on the streetplaying hopscotch or jumprope. He smiled at

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them but the children had been told to stay wayfrom Mr. Crockett and only one little boy smiledback. His name was David and he liked the wayMr. Crockett smiled. He liked the thorough slowway Mr. Crockett cleaned his windows and stoop.He liked to see him watering his tree and reach-ing over to pat the trunk.

Mr. Crockett sat alone on his stoop eveningafter evening. He watched the children. Hewatched his fashionable neighbors who passedby without saying good evening. And when itwas dark he went inside and left the little treeunder the city stars for the night.

Early one evening sitting on the stoop Mr.Crockett noticed a small sparrow hopping aboutnear his pine. It pecked, searching the ground,but there was nothing there. The next night Mr.Crockett brought out a small brown bag of breadcrumbs and sprinkled them around his tree.

The neighbors watched him. He acts likean old farmer. He runs down the whole neigh-borhood.

But if Mr. Crockett heard them he gave nosign.

The spring grew into summer and the hotsun beat down on the little tree.


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Every night when Mr. Crockett came homefrom work he watered the little pine, and sprin-kled bread crumbs around it and sat out on hisstoop to watch the birds until the sun went down.Not only the summer birds but the winter onesas well came to feed under his tree.

The summer passed.The wind blew in from the country with its

smell of autumn.The flower store had its display of gold and

red leaves and yellow chrysanthemums.More needles fell off the little pine and blew

down the street in the wind. Mr. Crockett puthay in a mound around its base to keep it warmfor the winter.

Farmer stuff, the neighbors fumed whenthey saw what he was doing. That little manruins our whole street.

he first snow came and it powdered the streetwhite. It covered the steps of the brownstones.It clung to the branches of Mr. Crockett's littlepine. But the hay kept the tree's roots warm. Itwas a cold hard winter and some of the biggertrees along the street suffered from the storms.The neighbors hadn't protected their trees. Hay


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was not elegant.They wagged their heads when they saw Mr.

Crockett sprinkling bread crumbs in the snowunder his pine for the birds to eat. They didn'tworry about the birds. Most of the songbirdshad flown south for the winter. But the winterbirds remained. And Mr. Crockett had food forthem.

That old man and his bag of crumbs, theneighbors said. But the children saw that everyday when Mr. Crockett was at work, the spar-rows came like little black inkdrops and fed andchirped at the foot of the bleak little pine.

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On Sundays Mr. Crockett saw them, too. OneSunday he saw a bright red cardinal like a spotof blood in the snow sharing the crumbs withthe sparrows. And another Sunday afternoon hesaw a large bluejay join the birds under the tree.It looked like a patch of sky against the whitesnow. Along with the crumbs Mr. Crockett be-gan bringing peanuts for the jays and pumpkinseeds for the cardinals. He would stand at hiswindow to see the birds feeding in front of hishouse, and he felt less lonely than before.

.t last the winter was over. The sun grewstronger. The days were longer. The smell ofspring blew in on the soft country wind.

Mr. Crockett took away the hay.The little tree was covered with clusters of

blue-green needles. But the neighbors didn't no-tice. They didn't notice that their own treesweren't quite as full and leafy as they used to be,and that there were not so many birds in thebranches of their trees. They didn't see that withthe sparrows came iridescent grackles and redcardinals with their orange brides and a largewhite mourning dove, all to eat the food Mr.Crockett put out. And the little pine's blue-tippedV


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branches fanned out into dark green needles andmade a shadow like an etching on the whitestoop of Mr. Crockett's house.

They didn't notice that the pine was growingtaller and that everything about his brownstoneshone clean and cared for while slowly their ownhouses were losing some of the elegance they


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liked. A few of the more elegant neighbors movedaway.

Some of the children noticed Mr. Crockett'stree. Especially David. He would stop on his wayhome from school and look at the unusual birdshopping around at the foot of the tree. Someevenings David came and sat next to Mr. Crockett.They'd sit talking, or just listening to the citysounds and feeling the coolness that finally comeswhen the hot summer day edges into night.

.he summer passed. And fall came. And fallpassed and winter came. And several years wentby. Most of the birds came now to Mr. Crockett'stree. They sang in its branches all day. Theyslept in the branches at night and they fed inthe bright green grass at the foot of the pinewhere Mr. Crockett put out food for them everymorning before he went to work.

Even the neighbors couldn't help noticing.They were surprised, for they still didn'tunderstand that live things need love. The treewas quite tall and as the summers passed, theshade of the pine made Mr. Crockett's house cooland beautiful. In the winter it stood green whenthe other trees were bare, loud with songs of


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birds when the other trees were quiet.Mr. Crockett was still a strange looking

gnome of a man. His long curly hair was whitenow. His curly beard was white and his shaggyeyebrows were white. But his large black eyeswere the same as they had been long ago whenhe first moved to the street and everyone hadfrowned at him.

He must have some secret, the neighborsadmitted grudgingly. Only David who was grow-ing up had guessed what the secret was. He hadseen the good things Mr. Crockett did.

on a Christmas Eve years after Mr. Crocketthad moved into the street and bought his tree, itbegan to snow. It snowed all night, covering thesteps of the brownstones. It covered Mr. Crockett'shouse, it clung to the beautiful branches of Mr.Crockett's strong pine.

On noon of Christmas Day, Mr. Crockettwent out to put down food for the birds. Thebirds were waiting, the grackles and bluejays andcardinals, the doves and sparrows and chicka-dees. They stood on the crust of the snow, peckingand hopping in circles of color, feasting on nutsand seeds and crumbs.


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And when it stopped snowing the white worldsparkled like crystal. Down the street came thecarolers. In front of each brownstone they sangtheir songs. Their voices rang out clear and sweetin the cold air. When they came to Mr. Crockett'shouse, David stopped them.

We'll sing here, too, he said. And theysang. Their voices beginning so suddenly, startledthe birds under the pine. With a lovely flackingsound the birds circled around and around againstthe sky and as the carolers looked up to watchthem they recircled lower and lower, and slowly,each bird resettled on the branches of the pine.

At the very top of the tree one white dove lit,and the other birds with their beautiful coloredfeathers, spaced in the needles and branches,looked like living ornaments.

The carolers watched spellbound. It was likea Christmas festival, the full green snow- tippedtree trimmed with birds nestling in the branches

Ohhhhhhhhh, they sighed. Together theytook a deep breath and began singing one of themost beautiful Christmas songs of all, and theirvoices low and sweet made the birds themselvesbegin to sing from the branches of the pine.


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Mr. Crockett standing behind his shiningwindow upstairs listened to their singing, carol-ers and birds together. It was a chorus of loveand Mr. Crockett knew that this is what Christ-mas is meant to be.


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CHARLOTTE ZOLOTOW is one ofAmerica's best-loved writers foryoung children. Of her manypublished books for boys and girls,among the most well-known areThe Bunny Who Found Easter, TheS\y Was Blue, The White Marble,Mr. Rabbit and the Lovely Present,The Man with Purple Eyes. The authorlives in an old house in Hastings-on-Hudson and is the mother of a sonand daughter, now married. Sheloves to garden, read, and go to thetheatre, and at present is senioreditor in the Junior Books Departmentof Harper & Row.

RUTH ROBBINS enjoys writingand illustrating children's books.Among those she has illustratedare A Penny and A Periwinkle,Fisherman s Luc\, Stories CaliforniaIndians Told, Ishi Last of His Tribe,and she is the author and illustratorof Taliesin and King Arthur.Besides writing and illustratingbooks for young people Ruth Robbinsdevotes her time to designing booksand directing theni throughproduction. She lives in Berkeley,California with her husbandHerman Schein, book publisher, andhas one son Steven.


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Lithographed in U.S.A. by Kaiser Graphic Arts

The Beautiful Christmas Tree_nodrm

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