The Selfish Giant
by Oscar Wilde

Every afternoon, as they were coming home from school, the children used to go to play in the Giant’s garden.

It was a lovely garden, with soft green grass. Here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were delicate peach trees that in the spring time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit. The birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them. “How happy we are here!” they cried to each other.

One day, the Giant came back. He had been to visit his friend the Cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years. After the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle. When he arrived, he saw the children playing in the garden.

“What are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
“My own garden is my own garden,” said the Giant; “any one can understand that, and I will allow nobody to play in it but myself.” So he built a high wall around it, and put up a notice board: Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted. He was a very selfish Giant.

The poor children now had nowhere to play. They tried to play in the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it. They used to wander round the high walls when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside. “How happy we were there,” they said to each other.

Then the Spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds. Only in the Garden of the Selfish Giant was it still winter. The birds did not care to sing it in as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom. Once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went to sleep. The only people who were pleased were the Snow and the Frost. “Spring has forgotten this Garden,” they cried, “so we will live here the year round!” The Snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the Frost painted all the trees silver. Then they invited the North Wind to stay with them, and he came. He was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down. “This is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must as the Hail to come on a visit.” So the Hail came. Every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go. He was dressed in gray, and his breath was like ice.

“I cannot understand why the Spring is so late in coming,” said the Selfish Giant, as he sat at the window and gazed out at his cold, white garden. “I hope there will be a change in the weather.”

But the Spring never came, nor the Summer. The Autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the Selfish Giant’s garden she gave none. “He is too selfish,” she said. So it was always Winter there, and the North Wind, and the Hail and the Frost and the Snow, danced about through the trees.

One morning, the Giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music. It sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the King’s musicians passing by. It was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it had been so long since he had heard a bird singing in his garden that it seemed to him the most beautiful music in the world. Then the Hail stopped dancing over his head, and the North Wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement. “I believe the Spring has come at last,” said the Giant; and he jumped out of his bed and looked out.

What did he see?

He saw a most wonderful sight. Through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees. In every tree that he could see there was a little child And the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads. The birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing. It was a lovely scene, only in one corner was it still winter. It was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy. He was so small that he could not reach up through the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all around it, crying bitterly. The poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the North Wind was blowing and roaring above it. “Climb up, little boy” said the Tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.

And the Giant’s heart melted as he looked out. “How selfish I have been!” he said, “now I know why the Spring has not come here! I will put that poor little boy on top of the tree, and then I will knock down my wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground forever and ever.” He was really very sorry for what he had done.

So he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden. But when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again. Only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the Giant coming. And the Giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree. And the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them around the Giant’s neck, and kissed him. And the other children, when they saw that the Giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the Spring. “It is your garden now, little children,” said the Giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall. And when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the Giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.

All day long they played, and in the evening they came to the Giant to bid him goodbye.

“But where is your little companion?” he said, “the boy I put into the tree.” The Giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.

“We don’t know,” answered the children, “he’s gone away.”

“You must tell him to be sure he comes here tomorrow,” said the Giant. But the children said that they did not know where he lived, and that they had never seen him before; and the Giant felt very sad.

Every afternoon when school was over, the children came and played with the Giant. But the little boy whom the Giant loved was never seen again. The Giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him. “How I would like to see him!” he used to say.

Years went over, and the Giant grew very old and feeble. He could not play about anymore, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden. “I have many beautiful flowers,” he said, “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”

One winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing. He did not hate the winter now, for he knew it was only the Spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.

Suddenly he rubbed his eyes n wonder, and looked and looked. it certainly was a marvelous sight. In the farthest corner of the garden was a tree covered in lovely white blossoms. Its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.

Downstairs ran the Giant in great joy, and out into the garden. He hastened across the grass, and came near the child. And when he came quite close his face became red with anger, and he said: “Who hath dared wound thee?” For on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.

“Who hath dared wound thee?” cried the Giant “Tell me, that I may take my great sword and slay him.”

“Nay!” answered the child, “but these are wounds of love.”

“Who art thou?” said the Giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the child.

And the child smiled on the Giant, and said to him: “You let me play once in your garden, today you shall come with me to my garden, which is Paradise.”

And when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the Giant lying dead under the tree, all covered in white blossoms.

Note: This story was taken from “The Happy Prince: And Other Tales,” published by David Nutt, 1888. Its copyright has lapsed and can therefore legally be reprinted here.


Quite the story, isn’t it? It’s really a very simple affair: the Giant sins, and sin cuts the sinner off from others, which is sin’s punishment. But the Giant repents and is granted forgiveness and the company of others, and later finds his reward in Paradise. It’s a very moralistic tale, and very Christian, but what keeps me from saying “yick” and turning away is Wilde’s simplicity. He doesn’t overwork it. We don’t have to hear descriptions of the wickedness of the Giant’s heart, or hear rhapsodizing about the Jesus child, or (worse still) hear in-depth descriptions of his wounds. Wilde just tells the story, and he does it very nicely, with just a hint of Bible-speak (“and the child said to the Giant…”)

The story’s so compact (and relatively short) that I can find relatively little to comment on, except its treatment of time and childhood. One thing that most fairy tales share is their timelessness, and by “timelessness” I don’t mean their enduring literary relevance (though there’s that, too). I mean that time does not exist in the fairy tale world in the same way that it does in the “real” world. Such is the case here. Childhood can, says the fairy tale, if one looks at it right, will last forever. The Giant is gone seven years to visit his friend the Cornish ogre (the one touch of humor in an otherwise steady tale). In seven years, those children have remained children, still playing in a garden. Also, after the Giant allows the children back into his Garden, he grows old playing with them. More time – maybe even another seven years – has past. Childhood exists within the garden, as a state of innocence, of Pre-Fall wonder and happiness and unselfishness. It is no coincidence that it is a Garden in which the children want to play: the Garden is, of course, a symbol of the Garden of Eden, a place of child-like innocence outside of Time. Wilde’s story is but one in a long, long line of children’s tales that use a simplicity of language to invoke a simpler time (childhood) that is associated with that ultimate child-like place, the Garden of Eden.

And hey, even if Baby J has some creepy stigmata, its still a rather sweet story.