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- Herausgeber: Zenith Maple Leaf Press
- Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
- Sprache: Englisch
A Christmas tree becomes a gateway to treasured memories and festive wonders. In A Christmas Tree, Charles Dickens invites readers to gather around a beautifully decorated tree as he recalls the joys, mysteries, and enchantments of Christmas past. Through vivid imagery and gentle nostalgia, Dickens reflects on toys, games, ghost stories, and the simple pleasures that make the season magical. First published in 1850, this short but evocative piece captures the Victorian spirit of Christmas—a celebration of warmth, family, and imagination. Blending humor, sentiment, and a touch of the supernatural, it remains a charming companion to Dickens's more famous holiday works, offering a tender glimpse into his own love for the season. "A charming, sentimental gem that captures Dickens's gift for blending memory with magic." – The Guardian "An intimate and nostalgic piece, perfect for fireside reading during the holidays." – The New York Times ✅ Why Readers Love It: 🎄 A lesser-known Dickens holiday classic full of warmth and nostalgia 🕯️ Captures the Victorian Christmas atmosphere in rich, evocative detail 📚 Perfect as a quick seasonal read or as part of a Dickens Christmas collection 🎯 Click 'Buy Now' to share in Dickens's festive memories—and let A Christmas Tree rekindle your own holiday spirit.
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Seitenzahl: 32
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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A Christmas Tree
Charles Dickens
A Christmas Tree
I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind the green leaves; and there were real watches (with movable hands, at least, and an endless capacity of being wound up) dangling from innumerable twigs; there were French-polished tables, chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, eight-day clocks, and various other articles of domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton), perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy housekeeping; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agreeable in appearance than many real men—and no wonder, for their heads took off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums; there were fiddles and drums; there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes, peep-show boxes, and all kinds of boxes; there were trinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than any grown-up gold and jewels; there were baskets and pincushions in all devices; there were guns, swords, and banners; there were witches standing in enchanted rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there were teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-wipers, smelling-bottles, conversation-cards, bouquet-holders; real fruit, made artificially dazzling with gold leaf; imitation apples, pears, and walnuts, crammed with surprises; in short, as a pretty child, before me, delightedly whispered to another pretty child, her bosom friend, “There was everything, and more.” This motley collection of odd objects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing back the bright looks directed towards it from every side—some of the diamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the table, and a few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts, and nurses—made a lively realisation of the fancies of childhood; and set me thinking how all the trees that grow and all the things that come into existence on the earth, have their wild adornments at that well-remembered time.
Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all remember best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree of our own young Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life.
Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top— for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth—I look into my youngest Christmas recollections!
