Among the wide, endless fields that stretched from horizon to horizon, there stood a single oak tree. His name was Old Giant. He was already three hundred years old. Once there was a forest nearby - but people cut it down a long time ago. They left one oak tree - because it is so big that you can't move it with an axe. And so it stands. Alone.
In the fall, when the cranes flew south, they didn't stop near it. In the winter, the birds found forests. No one flew to the Oak. Only once every few years would a crow sit down, warm itself, and fly away again.
The oak did not cry - oaks do not know how to cry. But inside, where the heart of the tree lives, it was empty. "I was once part of the forest. Now I am alone. This is also life. But I want to hear a voice near me.".
Winter had come. The snow lay deep. A cold wind blew in the field. The oak tree stood bare, only its bark rustled in the frost.
Before Christmas Eve, a big storm began. Not an ordinary one, but one that even rabbits couldn't get out of their holes. The wind broke dry branches, and snow dust flew over the fields.
And suddenly — the Oak heard. A thin squeak. Two small birds — black and white chubby ones — were flying against the wind. Tired, icy, looking for some kind of shelter. They saw the Oak. And sat on its lower branch. They leaned against each other. They shivered.
The oak held its breath. "Don't be afraid," it whispered to the dry branches. "I will protect you. Sit deeper, in a crack in the bark. There is less wind there.".
The little ones climbed into the hollow. They huddled together. The oak tree bent its branches slightly, covering them. He didn't know if they could hear him, but he suddenly felt warm in his very oak heart.
The storm died down in the morning. The sun rose over the fields. Snow had fallen—knee-deep. The oak tree moved cautiously. The little skunks looked out of the hollow. They looked at each other. And they sang—softly, thinly, like bells.
The oak listened. The first singing in his life. No one had ever sung for him before.
And far, far away across the field to the Oak, someone was walking. In white robes with gold, with a mitre on his head, with a crutch. He walked slowly, leaving a long trail in the snow. He reached the Oak, stopped, and stroked its bark with a warm hand.
— Hello, Old Giant. It's been a long time since I've seen you. I knew you were lonely. And I knew that today you would protect those in need. That's why I brought you a gift.
In his palm lay an acorn. Large, heavy, golden brown.
— This is your son. I will plant him next to you. In many years he will grow up to be your neighbor. And in another hundred years it will be a new forest. Birds, animals, trees will live here again. And you will be the patriarch. You are not alone — you were just the first. It is always a long wait to be the first.
Saint Nicholas planted an acorn in the snow. He placed his hand on it, and a small green sprout sprouted around the snow. Right now, in the spring, there will be an oak shoot.
The oak tree could not speak. It only nodded its branches softly. The sedges remained in its hollow for the whole winter. And in the spring, when everything thawed, a small oak tree blossomed around the oak tree. And a year later, another one. And in ten, a real young grove. The oak tree looked at them, and its branches rustled warmly. Because it knew: it was not alone. It was the first. And this was a great honor.
💛 No one is alone if they give shelter to someone.