Sammy was the shy sort. Perhaps not shy, but not interesting. Certainly not like the others. His whole life had been spent in the box or on the lowest bough of the tree. Not the inside tree either where tales from the other bells regaled of sparkling-coloured lights, shiny tinsels, toys and presents, big and small, all ensconced in wrappings even fancier than the lights. Exclaiming of children’s laughter brought gasps and oohs and awes as the inside bells told tales that made the long winter stored in the boxes so exciting.
Then the outside bells, the ones on the tree on the hillside,
would talk about the twinkling stars on the indigo and inky canvas above, the
brilliant Christmas moons, and the cape of white draped across the trees and
fences and the diamonds on the ground when the sun shone bright. They described the children racing down the
hillside on their latest slide or skating on the pond, each story told from a
different perspective depending where the bell hung on the tree.
When it came to Sammy’s turn, he had nothing to say. He
spent his time on the lowest bough, covered in the fluffy snow and not even
privy to the wind though, admittedly, sometimes the shaking did reach the
lowest perch. His only view was through the eyes of those on the higher
branches. He reveled in the tales from those above him and, on a rare occasion,
wished that he could get to experience what they did. But for all his years on
the outdoor tree, he took the lowest bough.
Excitement built in the trunk when the noises from the attic
grew loud. It was always the same. Scraping and hauling and pushing clamours grew
louder and louder until the lid was lifted on the trunk and the momentary blinding
light signaled it was time.
Their cardboard beds were carried to the tree and as the
tree grew, some of the inside bells even joined them. Those ones were welcomed heartily
and got to see both sides of Christmas. How fortunate they were. For Sammy
nothing had changed. He’d make his yearly debut as the last one to go on and
with a little pat from the mitted hand the tree was ready.
Whispers of the wonders of the night sky reached him through
the limbs though he could only see darkness or green and white. Daytime adventures
rang out through the fields and tickled his ears. Sammy enjoyed this time outside
the box. It was what he was made for.
As snow piled higher, Sammy’s view turned white then black
and then a gray that distinguished night from day. The tree shook more than usual,
and the muffled sounds and whispers grew quieter until they were gone. At first
Sammy paid no heed to the quiet. It had happened before when the winter storms
had been a little more forceful. They’d hung outside for longer and regaled of
swinging round limbs and clinking together when they finally got back to the
time packed away in the trunk. Sammy knew nothing of the swinging and clinking
as he’d always been buried in the snow.
Sammy’s worries grew when the snow began to melt, and the
whispers were no longer there. He shouted in case the other bells couldn’t hear
him but didn’t get a response. Rain began to drip from the limbs overhead as
rain pelted the tree. A few drops ran down his string, but he was mostly dry
and protected. The snow melted and he was freed. It was when he noticed plants peeking
through the ground and the quiet above him was long that he realized he’d been
forgotten.
He wasn’t the first this had happened to. He had heard of
breezy and sunny days, but they were rare. One little bell had told of the birds
that had nested in the tree and how she watched the babies fly off in the
summer. But that was so long ago, he
barely remembered. They had missed her in the cardboard in the trunk, but she
fit right in when she was collected after Christmas the next year. Sammy wouldn’t
see the birds because he was too low. He wouldn’t have those stories to tell.
He had been reminiscing when he felt the soft touch up on. A
baby fawn had taken refuge under the tree. She brushed her new fur against him
as she settled beneath the bows. He watched her doze in the sun before she rose
and knocked into him again. She sent him swinging on the branch. He hadn’t felt
that exhilarating rush of air before. Sammy was gleeful as the fawn returned
every day to visit the resting place and keep him company.
Before too long the bees began to visit. They tickled his
outsides and insides as they looked for flowers. Sometimes they were tired and took
a break at the very top of him or took shelter from the wind within his
hollowed interior. He was happy to give them a safe place to rest before they
buzzed happily away. Flowers grew, the wild hay danced in the breeze, and the
young ones frolicked in the field while their parents kept a watchful eye. Foxes
came to sniff at him with their cold noses making him laugh. It was an exhausting
time.
Sammy grew tired when the first cold winds played around the
base of the tree. The hay had been cut, the animals were gone, and leaves of
various colours swirled by before moving on. His eyes grew heavy.
He heard his name called in chorus when he realized the
other bells were back. It must be Christmas again, he thought. He
shouted to them and welcomed them back to the tree and told them how glad he
was to know they were there and how he’d missed them. He listened to their
whispers over the next few weeks before they returned to the cardboard beds in
the trunk.
“We want Sammy to go first,” the bells all said. “We want to
hear about his adventures.”
Sammy regaled of the fawn, the foxes, and the bees and all
that he had seen from beneath the lowest bough. The oohs and awes of the others
warmed his heart as he was asked several times to tell them again what he’d
seen.
One of the bells from the inside tree proclaimed that Sammy
had outshone them all and they allowed they’d all like to be on the lowest
bough where the best things happened.
