Beyond a quiet village lay a garden of perfect beauty, with grass as soft as silk, twelve peach trees heavy with blossoms, and birds that sang as though their hearts would break with joy. Every afternoon, children came to play beneath the trees, their laughter mingling with the wind.

One day, after seven long years away, the Giant returned from visiting his friend, the Cornish ogre. He saw the children in his garden and thundered, “What are you doing here?” The frightened children quickly fled. “This is my garden,” said the Giant. “No one shall play here but me.”

The Giant built a high stone wall around the garden and put up a sign: 'Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.' He felt pleased and proud as he gazed upon his silent, empty domain, but without the children's laughter, even the flowers seemed to close their petals in sorrow.

Spring came to every field and forest, but the Giant’s garden remained cold and white. Snow covered the grass, frost painted silver leaves upon the trees, and the North Wind howled day and night. The Giant’s heart, like his land, grew hard and chill.

Outside the wall, the children still played in sunshine and blossom. Inside, the Giant sat by his window, watching the frost and snow dance together. “Why does Spring never come here?” he muttered, not understanding that Spring shuns selfish hearts.

One morning, the Giant awoke to the sweet music of a linnet singing beneath his window. Through a small hole in the wall, children had crept in. Wherever they played, blossoms burst forth and birds returned, bringing Spring back to the garden. Only one corner of the garden stayed frozen.

In the farthest corner, a tiny boy stood, too small to reach a branch. The tree above him was still crusted with frost. The Giant’s heart softened as he watched. “How selfish I have been,” he whispered. “Now I know why Spring would not come.”

The Giant stole downstairs, opened the door quietly, and stepped into the garden. The children fled at his shadow, all but the little boy, who looked up and smiled. The Giant gently lifted him into the tree, and at that touch, the tree burst into blossoms, and birds sang once more.

“From now on,” said the Giant, “this is your garden, children.” He took a hammer and broke down the wall. By evening, the village children returned, laughing and running beneath the peach trees. The Giant smiled, and Spring danced joyfully across his land.

Years passed. The Giant grew old and feeble, sitting beneath the shade of his trees, watching the children play. “I have many lovely flowers,” he would say, “but the most beautiful are the children.”

One winter morning, the Giant saw a marvelous sight: in one corner of the garden stood a tree covered with white blossoms, golden fruit, and silver leaves. Beneath it was the little boy he had once lifted up, smiling, but with wounds like nail-prints shining on his hands and feet.

The Giant knelt before the child. “Who hurt you?” he cried. “These are the wounds of love,” said the boy softly. “You once let me play in your garden; now you shall come with me to mine, which is Paradise.” The Giant’s heart filled with peace.

That afternoon, when the children ran in, they found the Giant lying beneath the tree, covered with white blossoms. His face shone with calm and joy, as though he were merely sleeping in eternal Spring.

The children tended the garden and played among its blossoms. Each spring they saw the same tree bloom more beautifully than before, and they whispered, “The Giant is happy now.” And indeed, somewhere beyond the clouds, he walked once more in an everlasting garden of love.