The Shepherd’s Story of the Bond of Friendship

The little dwelling in which we lived was of
clay, but the door-posts were columns of fluted marble, found near the spot on
which it stood. The roof sloped nearly to the ground. It was at this time dark,
brown, and ugly, but had originally been formed of blooming olive and laurel
branches, brought from beyond the mountains. The house was situated in a narrow
gorge, whose rocky walls rose to a perpendicular height, naked and black, while
round their summits clouds often hung, looking like white living figures. Not a
singing bird was ever heard there, neither did men dance to the sound of the
pipe. The spot was one sacred to olden times; even its name recalled a memory
of the days when it was called “Delphi.” Then the summits of the
dark, sacred mountains were covered with snow, and the highest, mount
Parnassus, glowed longest in the red evening light. The brook which rolled from
it near our house, was also sacred. How well I can remember every spot in that
deep, sacred solitude! A fire had been kindled in the midst of the hut, and
while the hot ashes lay there red and glowing, the bread was baked in them. At
times the snow would be piled so high around our hut as almost to hide it, and
then my mother appeared most cheerful. She would hold my head between her
hands, and sing the songs she never sang at other times, for the Turks, our
masters, would not allow it. She sang,—

“On the summit of mount Olympus, in a forest of dwarf
firs, lay an old stag. His eyes were heavy with tears, and glittering with
colors like dewdrops; and there came by a roebuck, and said, ’What ailest thee,
that thou weepest blue and red tears?’ And the stag answered, ’The Turk has
come to our city; he has wild dogs for the chase, a goodly pack.’ ’I will drive
them away across the islands!’ cried the young roebuck; ’I will drive them away
across the islands into the deep sea.’ But before evening the roebuck was
slain, and before night the hunted stag was dead.”

And when my mother sang thus, her eyes would become moist;
and on the long eyelashes were tears, but she concealed them and watched the
black bread baking in the ashes. Then I would clench my fist, and cry,
“We will kill these Turks!” But she repeated the words of the song,
“I will drive them across the islands to the deep sea; but before evening
came the roebuck was slain, and before the night the hunted stag was
dead.”

We had been lonely in our hut for several days and nights
when my father came home. I knew he would bring me some shells from the gulf of
Lepanto, or perhaps a knife with a shining blade. This time he brought, under
his sheep-skin cloak, a little child, a little half-naked girl. She was wrapped
in a fur; but when this was taken off, and she lay in my mother’s lap, three
silver coins were found fastened in her dark hair; they were all her
possessions. My father told us that the child’s parents had been killed by the
Turks, and he talked so much about them that I dreamed of Turks all night. He
himself had been wounded, and my mother bound up his arm. It was a deep wound,
and the thick sheep-skin cloak was stiff with congealed blood. The little
maiden was to be my sister. How pretty and bright she looked: even my mother’s
eyes were not more gentle than hers. Anastasia, as she was called, was to be my
sister, because her father had been united to mine by an old custom, which we
still follow. They had sworn brotherhood in their youth, and the most beautiful
and virtuous maiden in the neighborhood was chosen to perform the act of
consecration upon this bond of friendship. So now this little girl was my
sister. She sat in my lap, and I brought her flowers, and feathers from the
birds of the mountain. We drank together of the waters of Parnassus, and dwelt
for many years beneath the laurel roof of the hut, while, winter after winter,
my mother sang her song of the stag who shed red tears. But as yet I did not
understand that the sorrows of my own countrymen were mirrored in those
tears.

One day there came to our hut Franks, men from a far
country, whose dress was different to ours. They had tents and beds with them,
carried by horses; and they were accompanied by more than twenty Turks, all
armed with swords and muskets. These Franks were friends of the Pacha, and had
letters from him, commanding an escort for them. They only came to see our
mountain, to ascend Parnassus amid the snow and clouds, and to look at the
strange black rocks which raised their steep sides near our hut. They could not
find room in the hut, nor endure the smoke that rolled along the ceiling till
it found its way out at the low door; so they pitched their tents on a small
space outside our dwelling. Roasted lambs and birds were brought forth, and
strong, sweet wine, of which the Turks are forbidden to partake.

When they departed, I accompanied them for some distance,
carrying my little sister Anastasia, wrapped in a goat-skin, on my back. One of
the Frankish gentlemen made me stand in front of a rock, and drew us both as we
stood there, so that we looked like one creature. I did not think of it then,
but Anastasia and I were really one. She was always sitting on my lap, or
riding in the goat-skin on my back; and in my dreams she always appeared to
me.

Two nights after this, other men, armed with knives and
muskets, came into our tent. They were Albanians, brave men, my mother told me.
They only stayed a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the knee of one of
them; and when they were gone, she had not three, but two silver coins in her
hair—one had disappeared. They wrapped tobacco in strips of paper, and
smoked it; and I remember they were uncertain as to the road they ought to
take. But they were obliged to go at last, and my father went with them. Soon
after, we heard the sound of firing. The noise continued, and presently
soldiers rushed into our hut, and took my mother and myself and Anastasia
prisoners. They declared that we had entertained robbers, and that my father
had acted as their guide, and therefore we must now go with them. The corpses
of the robbers, and my father’s corpse, were brought into the hut. I saw my
poor dead father, and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke, I found myself in
a prison; but the room was not worse than our own in the hut. They gave me
onions and musty wine from a tarred cask; but we were not accustomed to much
better fare at home. How long we were kept in prison, I do not know; but many
days and nights passed by. We were set free about Easter-time. I carried
Anastasia on my back, and we walked very slowly; for my mother was very weak,
and it is a long way to the sea, to the Gulf of Lepanto.

On our arrival, we entered a church, in which there were
beautiful pictures in golden frames. They were pictures of angels, fair and
bright; and yet our little Anastasia looked equally beautiful, as it seemed to
me. In the centre of the floor stood a coffin filled with roses. My mother told
me it was the Lord Jesus Christ who was represented by these roses. Then the
priest announced, “Christ is risen,” and all the people greeted
each other. Each one carried a burning taper in his hand, and one was given to
me, as well as to little Anastasia. The music sounded, and the people left the
church hand-in-hand, with joy and gladness. Outside, the women were roasting
the paschal lamb. We were invited to partake; and as I sat by the fire, a boy,
older than myself, put his arms round my neck, and kissed me, and said,
“Christ is risen.” And thus it was that for the first time I met
Aphtanides.

My mother could make fishermen’s nets, for which there was a
great demand here in the bay; and we lived a long time by the side of the sea,
the beautiful sea, that had a taste like tears, and in its colors reminded me
of the stag that wept red tears; for sometimes its waters were red, and
sometimes green or blue. Aphtanides knew how to manage our boat, and I often
sat in it, with my little Anastasia, while it glided on through the water,
swift as a bird flying through the air. Then, when the sun set, how
beautifully, deeply blue, would be the tint on the mountains, one rising above
the other in the far distance, and the summit of mount Parnassus rising above
them all like a glorious crown. Its top glittered in the evening rays like
molten gold, and it seemed as if the light came from within it; for long after
the sun had sunk beneath the horizon, the mountain-top would glow in the clear,
blue sky. The white aquatic birds skimmed the surface of the water in their
flight, and all was calm and still as amid the black rocks at Delphi. I lay on
my back in the boat, Anastasia leaned against me, while the stars above us
glittered more brightly than the lamps in our church. They were the same stars,
and in the same position over me as when I used to sit in front of our hut at
Delphi, and I had almost begun to fancy I was still there, when suddenly there
was a splash in the water—Anastasia had fallen in; but in a moment
Aphtanides has sprung in after her, and was now holding her up to me. We dried
her clothes as well as we were able, and remained on the water till they were
dry; for we did not wish it to be known what a fright we had had, nor the
danger which our little adopted sister had incurred, in whose life Aphtanides
had now a part.

The summer came, and the burning heat of the sun tinted the
leaves of the trees with lines of gold. I thought of our cool mountain-home,
and the fresh water that flowed near it; my mother, too, longed for if, and one
evening we wandered towards home. How peaceful and silent it was as we walked
on through the thick, wild thyme, still fragrant, though the sun had scorched
the leaves. Not a single herdsman did we meet, not a solitary hut did we pass;
everything appeared lonely and deserted—only a shooting star showed that
in the heavens there was yet life. I know not whether the clear, blue
atmosphere gleamed with its own light, or if the radiance came from the stars;
but we could distinguish quite plainly the outline of the mountains. My mother
lighted a fire, and roasted some roots she had brought with her, and I and my
little sister slept among the bushes, without fear of the ugly
smidraki,¹ from whose throat issues
fire, or of the wolf and the jackal; for my mother sat by us, and I considered
her presence sufficient protection.

We reached our old home; but the cottage was in ruins, and
we had to build a new one. With the aid of some neighbors, chiefly women, the
walls were in a few days erected, and very soon covered with a roof of
olive-branches. My mother obtained a living by making bottle-cases of bark and
skins, and I kept the sheep belonging to the priests, who were sometimes
peasants,² while I had for my
playfellows Anastasia and the turtles.

Once our beloved Aphtanides paid us a visit. He said he had
been longing to see us so much; and he remained with us two whole happy days. A
month afterwards he came again to wish us good-bye, and brought with him a
large fish for my mother. He told us he was going in a ship to Corfu and
Patras, and could relate a great many stories, not only about the fishermen who
lived near the gulf of Lepanto, but also of kings and heroes who had once
possessed Greece, just as the Turks possess it now.

I have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually, in the course of
a few weeks, unfold its leaves till it became a rose in all its beauty; and,
before I was aware of it, I beheld it blooming in rosy loveliness. The same
thing had happened to Anastasia. Unnoticed by me, she had gradually become a
beautiful maiden, and I was now also a stout, strong youth. The wolf-skins that
covered the bed in which my mother and Anastasia slept, had been taken from
wolves which I had myself shot.

Years had gone by when, one evening, Aphtanides came in. He
had grown tall and slender as a reed, with strong limbs, and a dark, brown
skin. He kissed us all, and had so much to tell of what he had seen of the
great ocean, of the fortifications at Malta, and of the marvellous sepulchres
of Egypt, that I looked up to him with a kind of veneration. His stories were
as strange as the legends of the priests of olden times.

“How much you know!” I exclaimed, “and
what wonders you can relate?”

“I think what you once told me, the finest of
all,” he replied; “you told me of a thing that has never been out
of my thoughts—of the good old custom of ’the bond of
friendship,’—a custom I should like to follow. Brother, let you and I go
to church, as your father and Anastasia’s father once did. Your sister
Anastasia is the most beautiful and most innocent of maidens, and she shall
consecrate the deed. No people have such grand old customs as we
Greeks.”

Anastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed
Aphtanides.

At about two miles from our cottage, where the earth on the
hill is sheltered by a few scattered trees, stood the little church, with a
silver lamp hanging before the altar. I put on my best clothes, and the white
tunic fell in graceful folds over my hips. The red jacket fitted tight and
close, the tassel on my Fez cap was of silver, and in my girdle glittered a
knife and my pistols. Aphtanides was clad in the blue dress worn by the Greek
sailors; on his breast hung a silver medal with the figure of the Virgin Mary,
and his scarf was as costly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could see
that we were about to perform a solemn ceremony. When we entered the little,
unpretending church, the evening sunlight streamed through the open door on the
burning lamp, and glittered on the golden picture frames. We knelt down
together on the altar steps, and Anastasia drew near and stood beside us. A
long, white garment fell in graceful folds over her delicate form, and on her
white neck and bosom hung a chain entwined with old and new coins, forming a
kind of collar. Her black hair was fastened into a knot, and confined by a
headdress formed of gold and silver coins which had been found in an ancient
temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments than these. Her countenance
glowed, and her eyes were like two stars. We all three offered a silent prayer,
and then she said to us, “Will you be friends in life and in
death?”

“Yes,” we replied.

“Will you each remember to say, whatever may happen,
’My brother is a part of myself; his secret is my secret, my happiness is his;
self-sacrifice, patience, everything belongs to me as they do to him?’
”

And we again answered, “Yes.” Then she joined
out hands and kissed us on the forehead, and we again prayed silently. After
this a priest came through a door near the altar, and blessed us all three.
Then a song was sung by other holy men behind the altar-screen, and the bond of
eternal friendship was confirmed. When we arose, I saw my mother standing by
the church door, weeping.

How cheerful everything seemed now in our little cottage by
the Delphian springs! On the evening before his departure, Aphtanides sat
thoughtfully beside me on the slopes of the mountain. His arm was flung around
me, and mine was round his neck. We spoke of the sorrows of Greece, and of the
men of the country who could be trusted. Every thought of our souls lay clear
before us. Presently I seized his hand: “Aphtanides,” I exclaimed,
“there is one thing still that you must know,—one thing that till
now has been a secret between myself and Heaven. My whole soul is filled with
love,—with a love stronger than the love I bear to my mother and to
thee.”

“And whom do you love?” asked Aphtanides. And
his face and neck grew red as fire.

“I love Anastasia,” I replied.

Then his hand trembled in mine, and he became pale as a
corpse. I saw it, I understood the cause, and I believe my hand trembled too.
I bent towards him, I kissed his forehead, and whispered, “I have never
spoken of this to her, and perhaps she does not love me. Brother, think of
this; I have seen her daily, she has grown up beside me, and has become a part
of my soul.”

“And she shall be thine,” he exclaimed;
“thine! I may not wrong thee, nor will I do so. I also love her, but
tomorrow I depart. In a year we will see each other again, but then you will be
married; shall it not be so? I have a little gold of my own, it shall be yours.
You must and shall take it.”

We wandered silently homeward across the mountains. It was
late in the evening when we reached my mother’s door. Anastasia held the lamp
as we entered; my mother was not there. She looked at Aphtanides with a sweet
but mournful expression on her face. “To-morrow you are going to leave
us,” she said. “I am very sorry.”

“Sorry!” he exclaimed, and his voice was
troubled with a grief as deep as my own. I could not speak; but he seized her
hand and said, “Our brother yonder loves you, and is he not dear to you?
His very silence now proves his affection.”

Anastasia trembled, and burst into tears. Then I saw no one,
thought of none, but her. I threw my arms round her, and pressed my lips to
hers. As she flung her arms round my neck, the lamp fell to the ground, and we
were in darkness, dark as the heart of poor Aphtanides.

Before daybreak he rose, kissed us all, and said
“Farewell,” and went away. He had given all his money to my mother
for us. Anastasia was betrothed to me, and in a few days afterwards she became
my wife.

According to superstition among the Greeks, this is a
monster produced from the unopened entrails of slaughtered sheep, which have
been thrown away in the fields.

A peasant who can read is ofen made a priest; he is addressed
as “Most holy sir,” and the other peasants kiss the ground on which
he has stepped.

The Shepherdess and the Sweep

Have you ever seen an old wooden cupboard quite black with age, and ornamented
with carved foliage and curious figures? Well, just such a cupboard stood in a
parlor, and had been left to the family as a legacy by the great-grandmother.
It was covered from top to bottom with carved roses and tulips; the most curious
scrolls were drawn upon it, and out of them peeped little stags’ heads, with antlers.
In the middle of the cupboard door was the carved figure of a man most ridiculous
to look at. He grinned at you, for no one could call it laughing. He had goat’s
legs, little horns on his head, and a long beard; the children in the room always
called him, “Major general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat’s-legs.” It was
certainly a very difficult name to pronounce, and there are very few who ever
receive such a title, but then it seemed wonderful how he came to be carved at
all; yet there he was, always looking at the table under the looking-glass, where
stood a very pretty little shepherdess made of china. Her shoes were gilt, and
her dress had a red rose or an ornament. She wore a hat, and carried a crook,
that were both gilded, and looked very bright and pretty. Close by her side stood
a little chimney-sweep, as black as coal, and also made of china. He was, however,
quite as clean and neat as any other china figure; he only represented a black
chimney-sweep, and the china workers might just as well have made him a prince,
had they felt inclined to do so. He stood holding his ladder quite handily, and
his face was as fair and rosy as a girl’s; indeed, that was rather a mistake,
it should have had some black marks on it. He and the shepherdess had been placed
close together, side by side; and, being so placed, they became engaged to each
other, for they were very well suited, being both made of the same sort of china,
and being equally fragile. Close to them stood another figure, three times as
large as they were, and also made of china. He was an old Chinaman, who could
nod his head, and used to pretend that he was the grandfather of the shepherdess,
although he could not prove it. He however assumed authority over her, and therefore
when “Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat’s-legs” asked for the
little shepherdess to be his wife, he nodded his head to show that he consented.
“You will have a husband,” said the old Chinaman to her, “who I really believe
is made of mahogany. He will make you a lady of Major-general-field-sergeant-commander
Billy-goat’s-legs. He has the whole cupboard full of silver plate, which he keeps
locked up in secret drawers.”

“I won’t go into the dark cupboard,” said the little shepherdess. “I have heard
that he has eleven china wives there already.”

“Then you shall be the twelfth,” said the old Chinaman. “To-night as soon as
you hear a rattling in the old cupboard, you shall be married, as true as I
am a Chinaman;” and then he nodded his head and fell asleep.

Then the little shepherdess cried, and looked at her sweetheart, the china
chimney-sweep. “I must entreat you,” said she, “to go out with me into the wide
world, for we cannot stay here.”

“I will do whatever you wish,” said the little chimney-sweep; “let us go immediately:
I think I shall be able to maintain you with my profession.”

“If we were but safely down from the table!” said she; “I shall not be happy
till we are really out in the world.”

Then he comforted her, and showed her how to place her little foot on the carved
edge and gilt-leaf ornaments of the table. He brought his little ladder to help
her, and so they contrived to reach the floor. But when they looked at the old
cupboard, they saw it was all in an uproar. The carved stags pushed out their
heads, raised their antlers, and twisted their necks. The major-general sprung
up in the air; and cried out to the old Chinaman, “They are running away! they
are running away!” The two were rather frightened at this, so they jumped into
the drawer of the window-seat. Here were three or four packs of cards not quite
complete, and a doll’s theatre, which had been built up very neatly. A comedy
was being performed in it, and all the queens of diamonds, clubs, and hearts,,
and spades, sat in the first row fanning themselves with tulips, and behind
them stood all the knaves, showing that they had heads above and below as playing
cards generally have. The play was about two lovers, who were not allowed to
marry, and the shepherdess wept because it was so like her own story. “I cannot
bear it,” said she, “I must get out of the drawer;” but when they reached the
floor, and cast their eyes on the table, there was the old Chinaman awake and
shaking his whole body, till all at once down he came on the floor, “plump.”
“The old Chinaman is coming,” cried the little shepherdess in a fright, and
down she fell on one knee.

“I have thought of something,” said the chimney-sweep; “let us get into the
great pot-pourri jar which stands in the corner; there we can lie on rose-leaves
and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he comes near us.”

“No, that will never do,” said she, “because I know that the Chinaman and the
pot-pourri jar were lovers once, and there always remains behind a feeling of
good-will between those who have been so intimate as that. No, there is nothing
left for us but to go out into the wide world.”

“Have you really courage enough to go out into the wide world with me?” said
the chimney-sweep; “have you thought how large it is, and that we can never
come back here again?”

“Yes, I have,” she replied.

When the chimney-sweep saw that she was quite firm, he said, “My way is through
the stove and up the chimney. Have you courage to creep with me through the
fire-box, and the iron pipe? When we get to the chimney I shall know how to
manage very well. We shall soon climb too high for any one to reach us, and
we shall come through a hole in the top out into the wide world.” So he led
her to the door of the stove.

“It looks very dark,” said she; still she went in with him through the stove
and through the pipe, where it was as dark as pitch.

“Now we are in the chimney,” said he; “and look, there is a beautiful star
shining above it.” It was a real star shining down upon them as if it would
show them the way. So they clambered, and crept on, and a frightful steep place
it was; but the chimney-sweep helped her and supported her, till they got higher
and higher. He showed her the best places on which to set her little china foot,
so at last they reached the top of the chimney, and sat themselves down, for
they were very tired, as may be supposed. The sky, with all its stars, was over
their heads, and below were the roofs of the town. They could see for a very
long distance out into the wide world, and the poor little shepherdess leaned
her head on her chimney-sweep’s shoulder, and wept till she washed the gilt
off her sash; the world was so different to what she expected. “This is too
much,” she said; “I cannot bear it, the world is too large. Oh, I wish I were
safe back on the table. again, under the looking glass; I shall never be happy
till I am safe back again. Now I have followed you out into the wide world,
you will take me back, if you love me.”

Then the chimney-sweep tried to reason with her, and spoke of the old Chinaman,
and of the Major-general-field-sergeant-commander Billy-goat’s legs; but she
sobbed so bitterly, and kissed her little chimney-sweep till he was obliged
to do all she asked, foolish as it was. And so, with a great deal of trouble,
they climbed down the chimney, and then crept through the pipe and stove, which
were certainly not very pleasant places. Then they stood in the dark fire-box,
and listened behind the door, to hear what was going on in the room. As it was
all quiet, they peeped out. Alas! there lay the old Chinaman on the floor; he
had fallen down from the table as he attempted to run after them, and was broken
into three pieces; his back had separated entirely, and his head had rolled
into a corner of the room. The major-general stood in his old place, and appeared
lost in thought.

“This is terrible,” said the little shepherdess. “My poor old grandfather is
broken to pieces, and it is our fault. I shall never live after this;” and she
wrung her little hands.

“He can be riveted,” said the chimney-sweep; “he can be riveted. Do not be
so hasty. If they cement his back, and put a good rivet in it, he will be as
good as new, and be able to say as many disagreeable things to us as ever.”

“Do you think so?” said she; and then they climbed up to the table, and stood
in their old places.

“As we have done no good,” said the chimney-sweep, “we might as well have remained
here, instead of taking so much trouble.”

“I wish grandfather was riveted,” said the shepherdess. “Will it cost much,
I wonder?”

And she had her wish. The family had the Chinaman’s back mended, and a strong
rivet put through his neck; he looked as good as new, but he could no longer
nod his head.

“You have become proud since your fall broke you to pieces,” said Major-general-field-sergeant-commander
Billy-goat’s-legs. “You have no reason to give yourself such airs. Am I to have
her or not?”

The chimney-sweep and the little shepherdess looked piteously at the old Chinaman,
for they were afraid he might nod; but he was not able: besides, it was so tiresome
to be always telling strangers he had a rivet in the back of his neck.

And so the little china people remained together, and were glad of the grandfather’s
rivet, and continued to love each other till they were broken to pieces.

A Leaf from Heaven

High up in the clear, pure air flew an angel, with a flower plucked from the garden
of heaven. As he was kissing the flower a very little leaf fell from it and sunk
down into the soft earth in the middle of a wood. It immediately took root, sprouted,
and sent out shoots among the other plants.

“What a ridiculous little shoot!” said one. “No one will recognize it; not
even the thistle nor the stinging-nettle.”

“It must be a kind of garden plant,” said another; and so they sneered and
despised the plant as a thing from a garden.

“Where are you coming?” said the tall thistles whose leaves were all armed
with thorns. “It is stupid nonsense to allow yourself to shoot out in this way;
we are not here to support you.”

Winter came, and the plant was covered with snow, but the snow glittered over
it as if it had sunshine beneath as well as above.

When spring came, the plant appeared in full bloom: a more beautiful object
than any other plant in the forest. And now the professor of botany presented
himself, one who could explain his knowledge in black and white. He examined
and tested the plant, but it did not belong to his system of botany, nor could
he possibly find out to what class it did belong. “It must be some degenerate
species,” said he; “I do not know it, and it is not mentioned in any system.”

“Not known in any system!” repeated the thistles and the nettles.

The large trees which grew round it saw the plant and heard the remarks, but
they said not a word either good or bad, which is the wisest plan for those
who are ignorant.

There passed through the forest a poor innocent girl; her heart was pure, and
her understanding increased by her faith. Her chief inheritance had been an
old Bible, which she read and valued. From its pages she heard the voice of
God speaking to her, and telling her to remember what was said of Joseph’s brethren
when persons wished to injure her. “They imagined evil in their hearts, but
God turned it to good.” If we suffer wrongfully, if we are misunderstood or
despised, we must think of Him who was pure and holy, and who prayed for those
who nailed Him to the cross, “Father forgive them, for they know not what they
do.”

The girl stood still before the wonderful plant, for the green leaves exhaled
a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and the flowers glittered and sparkled in
the sunshine like colored flames, and the harmony of sweet sounds lingered round
them as if each concealed within itself a deep fount of melody, which thousands
of years could not exhaust. With pious gratitude the girl looked upon this glorious
work of God, and bent down over one of the branches, that she might examine
the flower and inhale the sweet perfume. Then a light broke in on her mind,
and her heart expanded. Gladly would she have plucked a flower, but she could
not overcome her reluctance to break one off. She knew it would so soon fade;
so she took only a single green leaf, carried it home, and laid it in her Bible,
where it remained ever green, fresh, and unfading. Between the pages of the
Bible it still lay when, a few weeks afterwards, that Bible was laid under the
young girl’s head in her coffin. A holy calm rested on her face, as if the earthly
remains bore the impress of the truth that she now stood in the presence of
God.

In the forest the wonderful plant still continued to bloom till it grew and
became almost a tree, and all the birds of passage bowed themselves before it.

“That plant is a foreigner, no doubt,” said the thistles and the burdocks.
“We can never conduct ourselves like that in this country.” And the black forest
snails actually spat at the flower.

Then came the swineherd; he was collecting thistles and shrubs to burn them
for the ashes. He pulled up the wonderful plant, roots and all, and placed it
in his bundle. “This will be as useful as any,” he said; so the plant was carried
away.

Not long after, the king of the country suffered from the deepest melancholy.
He was diligent and industrious, but employment did him no good. They read deep
and learned books to him, and then the lightest and most trifling that could
be found, but all to no purpose. Then they applied for advice to one of the
wise men of the world, and he sent them a message to say that there was one
remedy which would relieve and cure him, and that it was a plant of heavenly
origin which grew in the forest in the king’s own dominions. The messenger described
the flower so that is appearance could not be mistaken.

Then said the swineherd, “I am afraid I carried this plant away from the forest
in my bundle, and it has been burnt to ashes long ago. But I did not know any
better.”

“You did not know, any better! Ignorance upon ignorance indeed!”

The poor swineherd took these words to heart, for they were addressed to him;
he knew not that there were others who were equally ignorant. Not even a leaf
of the plant could be found. There was one, but it lay in the coffin of the
dead; no one knew anything about it.

Then the king, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in the wood. “Here
is where the plant stood,” he said; “it is a sacred place.” Then he ordered
that the place should be surrounded with a golden railing, and a sentry stationed
near it.

The botanical professor wrote a long treatise about the heavenly plant, and
for this he was loaded with gold, which improved the position of himself and
his family.

And this part is really the most pleasant part of the story. For the plant
had disappeared, and the king remained as melancholy and sad as ever, but the
sentry said he had always been so.

Ole-Luk-Oie, the Dream-God

There is nobody in the world who knows so many stories as Ole-Luk-Oie, or who can
relate them so nicely. In the evening, while the children are seated at the table
or in their little chairs, he comes up the stairs very softly, for he walks in
his socks, then he opens the doors without the slightest noise, and throws a small
quantity of very fine dust in their eyes, just enough to prevent them from keeping
them open, and so they do not see him. Then he creeps behind them, and blows softly
upon their necks, till their heads begin to droop. But Ole-Luk-Oie does not wish
to hurt them, for he is very fond of children, and only wants them to be quiet
that he may relate to them pretty stories, and they never are quiet until they
are in bed and asleep. As soon as they are asleep, Ole-Luk-Oie seats himself upon
the bed. He is nicely dressed; his coat is made of silken stuff; it is impossible
to say of what color, for it changes from green to red, and from red to blue as
he turns from side to side. Under each arm he carries an umbrella; one of them,
with pictures on the inside, he spreads over the good children, and then they
dream the most beautiful stories the whole night. But the other umbrella has no
pictures, and this he holds over the naughty children so that they sleep heavily,
and wake in the morning without having dreamed at all.

Now we shall hear how Ole-Luk-Oie came every night during a whole week to the
little boy named Hjalmar, and what he told him. There were seven stories, as
there are seven days in the week.

Monday

Now pay attention,” said Ole-Luk-Oie, in the evening, when Hjalmar was in
bed, “and I will decorate the room.”

Immediately all the flowers in the flower-pots became large trees, with long
branches reaching to the ceiling, and stretching along the walls, so that the
whole room was like a greenhouse. All the branches were loaded with flowers,
each flower as beautiful and as fragrant as a rose; and, had any one tasted
them, he would have found them sweeter even than jam. The fruit glittered like
gold, and there were cakes so full of plums that they were nearly bursting.
It was incomparably beautiful. At the same time sounded dismal moans from the
table-drawer in which lay Hjalmar’s school books.

“What can that be now?” said Ole-Luk-Oie, going to the table and pulling out
the drawer.

It was a slate, in such distress because of a false number in the sum, that
it had almost broken itself to pieces. The pencil pulled and tugged at its string
as if it were a little dog that wanted to help, but could not.

And then came a moan from Hjalmar’s copy-book. Oh, it was quite terrible to
hear! On each leaf stood a row of capital letters, every one having a small
letter by its side. This formed a copy; under these were other letters, which
Hjalmar had written: they fancied they looked like the copy, but they were mistaken;
for they were leaning on one side as if they intended to fall over the pencil-lines.

“See, this is the way you should hold yourselves,” said the copy. “Look here,
you should slope thus, with a graceful curve.”

“Oh, we are very willing to do so, but we cannot,” said Hjalmar’s letters;
“we are so wretchedly made.”

“You must be scratched out, then,” said Ole-Luk-Oie.

“Oh, no!” they cried, and then they stood up so gracefully it was quite a pleasure
to look at them.

“Now we must give up our stories, and exercise these letters,” said Ole-Luk-Oie;
“One, two—one, two—” So he drilled them till they stood up gracefully, and looked
as beautiful as a copy could look. But after Ole-Luk-Oie was gone, and Hjalmar
looked at them in the morning, they were as wretched and as awkward as ever.

Tuesday

As soon as Hjalmar was in bed, Ole-Luk-Oie touched, with his little magic
wand, all the furniture in the room, which immediately began to chatter, and
each article only talked of itself.

Over the chest of drawers hung a large picture in a gilt frame, representing
a landscape, with fine old trees, flowers in the grass, and a broad stream,
which flowed through the wood, past several castles, far out into the wild ocean.
Ole-Luk-Oie touched the picture with his magic wand, and immediately the birds
commenced singing, the branches of the trees rustled, and the clouds moved across
the sky, casting their shadows on the landscape beneath them. Then Ole-Luk-Oie
lifted little Hjalmar up to the frame, and placed his feet in the picture, just
on the high grass, and there he stood with the sun shining down upon him through
the branches of the trees. He ran to the water, and seated himself in a little
boat which lay there, and which was painted red and white. The sails glittered
like silver, and six swans, each with a golden circlet round its neck, and a
bright blue star on its forehead, drew the boat past the green wood, where the
trees talked of robbers and witches, and the flowers of beautiful little elves
and fairies, whose histories the butterflies had related to them. Brilliant
fish, with scales like silver and gold, swam after the boat, sometimes making
a spring and splashing the water round them, while birds, red and blue, small
and great, flew after him in two long lines. The gnats danced round them, and
the cockchafers cried “Buz, buz.” They all wanted to follow Hjalmar, and all
had some story to tell him. It was a most pleasant sail. Sometimes the forests
were thick and dark, sometimes like a beautiful garden, gay with sunshine and
flowers; then he passed great palaces of glass and of marble, and on the balconies
stood princesses, whose faces were those of little girls whom Hjalmar knew well,
and had often played with. One of them held out her hand, in which was a heart
made of sugar, more beautiful than any confectioner ever sold. As Hjalmar sailed
by, he caught hold of one side of the sugar heart, and held it fast, and the
princess held fast also, so that it broke in two pieces. Hjalmar had one piece,
and the princess the other, but Hjalmar’s was the largest. At each castle stood
little princes acting as sentinels. They presented arms, and had golden swords,
and made it rain plums and tin soldiers, so that they must have been real princes.

Hjalmar continued to sail, sometimes through woods, sometimes as it were through
large halls, and then by large cities. At last he came to the town where his
nurse lived, who had carried him in her arms when he was a very little boy,
and had always been kind to him. She nodded and beckoned to him, and then sang
the little verses she had herself composed and set to him,—

“How oft my memory turns to thee,
My own Hjalmar, ever dear!
When I could watch thy infant glee,
Or kiss away a pearly tear.
’Twas in my arms thy lisping tongue
First spoke the half-remembered word,
While o’er thy tottering steps I hung,
My fond protection to afford.
Farewell! I pray the Heavenly Power
To keep thee till thy dying hour.”

And all the birds sang the same tune, the flowers danced on their stems, and
the old trees nodded as if Ole-Luk-Oie had been telling them stories as well.

Wednesday

How the rain did pour down! Hjalmar could hear it in his sleep;. and when
Ole-Luk-Oie opened the window, the water flowed quite up to the window-sill.
It had the appearance of a large lake outside, and a beautiful ship lay close
to the house.

“Wilt thou sail with me to-night, little Hjalmar?” said Ole-Luk-Oie; “then
we shall see foreign countries, and thou shalt return here in the morning.”

All in a moment, there stood Hjalmar, in his best clothes, on the deck of the
noble ship; and immediately the weather became fine. They sailed through the
streets, round by the church, and on every side rolled the wide, great sea.
They sailed till the land disappeared, and then they saw a flock of storks,
who had left their own country, and were travelling to warmer climates. The
storks flew one behind the other, and had already been a long, long time on
the wing. One of them seemed so tired that his wings could scarcely carry him.
He was the last of the row, and was soon left very far behind. At length he
sunk lower and lower, with outstretched wings, flapping them in vain, till his
feet touched the rigging of the ship, and he slided from the sails to the deck,
and stood before them. Then a sailor-boy caught him, and put him in the hen-house,
with the fowls, the ducks, and the turkeys, while the poor stork stood quite
bewildered amongst them.

“Just look at that fellow,” said the chickens.

Then the turkey-cock puffed himself out as large as he could, and inquired
who he was; and the ducks waddled backwards, crying, “Quack, quack.”

Then the stork told them all about warm Africa, of the pyramids, and of the
ostrich, which, like a wild horse, runs across the desert. But the ducks did
not understand what he said, and quacked amongst themselves, “We are all of
the same opinion; namely, that he is stupid.”

“Yes, to be sure, he is stupid,” said the turkey-cock; and gobbled.

Then the stork remained quite silent, and thought of his home in Africa.

“Those are handsome thin legs of yours,” said the turkey-cock. “What do they
cost a yard?”

“Quack, quack, quack,” grinned the ducks; but, the stork pretended not to hear.

“You may as well laugh,” said the turkey; “for that remark was rather witty,
or perhaps it was above you. Ah, ah, is he not clever? He will be a great amusement
to us while he remains here.” And then he gobbled, and the ducks quacked, “Gobble,
gobble; Quack, quack.”

What a terrible uproar they made, while they were having such fun among themselves!

Then Hjalmar went to the hen-house; and, opening the door, called to the stork.
Then he hopped out on the deck. He had rested himself now, and he looked happy,
and seemed as if he nodded to Hjalmar, as if to thank him. Then he spread his
wings, and flew away to warmer countries, while the hens clucked, the ducks
quacked, and the turkey-cock turned quite scarlet in the head.

“To-morrow you shall be made into soup,” said Hjalmar to the fowls; and then
he awoke, and found himself lying in his little bed.

It was a wonderful journey which Ole-Luk-Oie had made him take this night.

Thursday

What do you think I have got here?” said Ole-Luk-Oie, “Do not be frightened,
and you shall see a little mouse.” And then he held out his hand to him, in
which lay a lovely little creature. “It has come to invite you to a wedding.
Two little mice are going to enter into the marriage state tonight. They reside
under the floor of your mother’s store-room, and that must be a fine dwelling-place.”

“But how can I get through the little mouse-hole in the floor?” asked Hjalmar.

“Leave me to manage that,” said Ole-Luk-Oie. “I will soon make you small enough.”
And then he touched Hjalmar with his magic wand, whereupon he became less and
less, until at last he was not longer than a little finger. “Now you can borrow
the dress of the tin soldier. I think it will just fit you. It looks well to
wear a uniform when you go into company.”

“Yes, certainly,” said Hjalmar; and in a moment he was dressed as neatly as
the neatest of all tin soldiers.

“Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mamma’s thimble,” said the
little mouse, “that I may have the pleasure of drawing you to the wedding.”

“Will you really take so much trouble, young lady?” said Hjalmar. And so in
this way he rode to the mouse’s wedding.

First they went under the floor, and then passed through a long passage, which
was scarcely high enough to allow the thimble to drive under, and the whole
passage was lit up with the phosphorescent light of rotten wood.

“Does it not smell delicious?” asked the mouse, as she drew him along. “The
wall and the floor have been smeared with bacon-rind; nothing can be nicer.”

Very soon they arrived at the bridal hall. On the right stood all the little
lady-mice, whispering and giggling, as if they were making game of each other.
To the left were the gentlemen-mice, stroking their whiskers with their fore-paws;
and in the centre of the hall could be seen the bridal pair, standing side by
side, in a hollow cheese-rind, and kissing each other, while all eyes were upon
them; for they had already been betrothed, and were soon to be married. More
and more friends kept arriving, till the mice were nearly treading each other
to death; for the bridal pair now stood in the doorway, and none could pass
in or out.

The room had been rubbed over with bacon-rind, like the passage, which was
all the refreshment offered to the guests. But for dessert they produced a pea,
on which a mouse belonging to the bridal pair had bitten the first letters of
their names. This was something quite uncommon. All the mice said it was a very
beautiful wedding, and that they had been very agreeably entertained.

After this, Hjalmar returned home. He had certainly been in grand society;
but he had been obliged to creep under a room, and to make himself small enough
to wear the uniform of a tin soldier.

Friday

T is incredible how many old people there are who would be glad to have me
at night,” said Ole-Luk-Oie, “especially those who have done something wrong.
‘Good little Ole,’ say they to me, ‘we cannot close our eyes, and we lie awake
the whole night and see all our evil deeds sitting on our beds like little imps,
and sprinkling us with hot water. Will you come and drive them away, that we
may have a good night’s rest?’ and then they sigh so deeply and say, ‘We would
gladly pay you for it. Good-night, Ole-Luk, the money lies on the window.’ But
I never do anything for gold.” “What shall we do to-night?” asked Hjalmar. “I
do not know whether you would care to go to another wedding,” he replied, “although
it is quite a different affair to the one we saw last night. Your sister’s large
doll, that is dressed like a man, and is called Herman, intends to marry the
doll Bertha. It is also the dolls’ birthday, and they will receive many presents.”

“Yes, I know that already,” said Hjalmar, “my sister always allows her dolls
to keep their birthdays or to have a wedding when they require new clothes;
that has happened already a hundred times, I am quite sure.”

“Yes, so it may; but to-night is the hundred and first wedding, and when that
has taken place it must be the last, therefore this is to be extremely beautiful.
Only look.”

Hjalmar looked at the table, and there stood the little card-board doll’s house,
with lights in all the windows, and drawn up before it were the tin soldiers
presenting arms. The bridal pair were seated on the floor, leaning against the
leg of the table, looking very thoughtful, and with good reason. Then Ole-Luk-Oie
dressed up in grandmother’s black gown married them.

As soon as the ceremony was concluded, all the furniture in the room joined
in singing a beautiful song, which had been composed by the lead pencil, and
which went to the melody of a military tattoo.

“What merry sounds are on the wind,
As marriage rites together bind
A quiet and a loving pair,
Though formed of kid, yet smooth and fair!
Hurrah! If they are deaf and blind,
We’ll sing, though weather prove unkind.”

And now came the present; but the bridal pair had nothing to eat, for love
was to be their food.

“Shall we go to a country house, or travel?” asked the bridegroom.

Then they consulted the swallow who had travelled so far, and the old hen in
the yard, who had brought up five broods of chickens.

And the swallow talked to them of warm countries, where the grapes hang in
large clusters on the vines, and the air is soft and mild, and about the mountains
glowing with colors more beautiful than we can think of.

“But they have no red cabbage like we have,” said the hen, “I was once in the
country with my chickens for a whole summer, there was a large sand-pit, in
which we could walk about and scratch as we liked. Then we got into a garden
in which grew red cabbage; oh, how nice it was, I cannot think of anything more
delicious.”

“But one cabbage stalk is exactly like another,” said the swallow; “and here
we have often bad weather.”

“Yes, but we are accustomed to it,” said the hen.

“But it is so cold here, and freezes sometimes.”

“Cold weather is good for cabbages,” said the hen; “besides we do have it warm
here sometimes. Four years ago, we had a summer that lasted more than five weeks,
and it was so hot one could scarcely breathe. And then in this country we have
no poisonous animals, and we are free from robbers. He must be wicked who does
not consider our country the finest of all lands. He ought not to be allowed
to live here.” And then the hen wept very much and said, “I have also travelled.
I once went twelve miles in a coop, and it was not pleasant travelling at all.”

“The hen is a sensible woman,” said the doll Bertha. “I don’t care for travelling
over mountains, just to go up and come down again. No, let us go to the sand-pit
in front of the gate, and then take a walk in the cabbage garden.”

And so they settled it.

Saturday

Am I to hear any more stories?” asked little Hjalmar, as soon as Ole-Luk-Oie
had sent him to sleep.

“We shall have no time this evening,” said he, spreading out his prettiest
umbrella over the child. “Look at these Chinese,” and then the whole umbrella
appeared like a large china bowl, with blue trees and pointed bridges, upon
which stood little Chinamen nodding their heads. “We must make all the world
beautiful for to-morrow morning,” said Ole-Luk-Oie, “for it will be a holiday,
it is Sunday. I must now go to the church steeple and see if the little sprites
who live there have polished the bells, so that they may sound sweetly. Then
I must go into the fields and see if the wind has blown the dust from the grass
and the leaves, and the most difficult task of all which I have to do, is to
take down all the stars and brighten them up. I have to number them first before
I put them in my apron, and also to number the places from which I take them,
so that they may go back into the right holes, or else they would not remain,
and we should have a number of falling stars, for they would all tumble down
one after the other.”

“Hark ye! Mr. Luk-Oie,” said an old portrait which hung on the wall of Hjalmar’s
bedroom. “Do you know me? I am Hjalmar’s great-grandfather. I thank you for
telling the boy stories, but you must not confuse his ideas. The stars cannot
be taken down from the sky and polished; they are spheres like our earth, which
is a good thing for them.”

“Thank you, old great-grandfather,” said Ole-Luk-Oie. “I thank you; you may
be the head of the family, as no doubt you are, but I am older than you. I am
an ancient heathen. The old Romans and Greeks named me the Dream-god. I have
visited the noblest houses, and continue to do so; still I know how to conduct
myself both to high and low, and now you may tell the stories yourself:” and
so Ole-Luk-Oie walked off, taking his umbrellas with him.

“Well, well, one is never to give an opinion, I suppose,” grumbled the portrait.
And it woke Hjalmar.

Sunday

Good evening,” said Ole-Luk-Oie.

Hjalmar nodded, and then sprang out of bed, and turned his great-grandfather’s
portrait to the wall, so that it might not interrupt them as it had done yesterday.
“Now,” said he, “you must tell me some stories about five green peas that lived
in one pod; or of the chickseed that courted the chickweed; or of the darning
needle, who acted so proudly because she fancied herself an embroidery needle.”

“You may have too much of a good thing,” said Ole-Luk-Oie. “You know that I
like best to show you something, so I will show you my brother. He is also called
Ole-Luk-Oie but he never visits any one but once, and when he does come, he
takes him away on his horse, and tells him stories as they ride along. He knows
only two stories. One of these is so wonderfully beautiful, that no one in the
world can imagine anything at all like it; but the other is just as ugly and
frightful, so that it would be impossible to describe it.” Then Ole-Luk-Oie
lifted Hjalmar up to the window. “There now, you can see my brother, the other
Ole-Luk-Oie; he is also called Death. You perceive he is not so bad as they
represent him in picture books; there he is a skeleton, but now his coat is
embroidered with silver, and he wears the splendid uniform of a hussar, and
a mantle of black velvet flies behind him, over the horse. Look, how he gallops
along.” Hjalmar saw that as this Ole-Luk-Oie rode on, he lifted up old and young,
and carried them away on his horse. Some he seated in front of him, and some
behind, but always inquired first, “How stands the mark-book?”

“Good,” they all answered.

“Yes, but let me see for myself,” he replied; and they were obliged to give
him the books. Then all those who had “Very good,” or “Exceedingly good,” came
in front of the horse, and heard the beautiful story; while those who had “Middling,”
or “Tolerably good,” in their books, were obliged to sit behind, and listen
to the frightful tale. They trembled and cried, and wanted to jump down from
the horse, but they could not get free, for they seemed fastened to the seat.

“Why, Death is a most splendid Luk-Oie,” said Hjalmar. “I am not in the least
afraid of him.”

“You need have no fear of him,” said Ole-Luk-Oie, “if you take care and keep
a good conduct book.”

“Now I call that very instructive,” murmured the great-grandfather’s portrait.
“It is useful sometimes to express an opinion;” so he was quite satisfied.

These are some of the doings and sayings of Ole-Luk-Oie. I hope he may visit
you himself this evening, and relate some more.

The Tinder-Box

A soldier came marching along the high road: “Left, right—left, right.” He had his
knapsack on his back, and a sword at his side; he had been to the wars, and was
now returning home.

As he walked on, he met a very frightful-looking old witch in the road. Her
under-lip hung quite down on her breast, and she stopped and said, “Good evening,
soldier; you have a very fine sword, and a large knapsack, and you are a real
soldier; so you shall have as much money as ever you like.”

“Thank you, old witch,” said the soldier.

“Do you see that large tree,” said the witch, pointing to a tree which stood
beside them. “Well, it is quite hollow inside, and you must climb to the top,
when you will see a hole, through which you can let yourself down into the tree
to a great depth. I will tie a rope round your body, so that I can pull you
up again when you call out to me.”

“But what am I to do, down there in the tree?” asked the soldier.

“Get money,” she replied; “for you must know that when you reach the ground
under the tree, you will find yourself in a large hall, lighted up by three
hundred lamps; you will then see three doors, which can be easily opened, for
the keys are in all the locks. On entering the first of the chambers, to which
these doors lead, you will see a large chest, standing in the middle of the
floor, and upon it a dog seated, with a pair of eyes as large as teacups. But
you need not be at all afraid of him; I will give you my blue checked apron,
which you must spread upon the floor, and then boldly seize hold of the dog,
and place him upon it. You can then open the chest, and take from it as many
pence as you please, they are only copper pence; but if you would rather have
silver money, you must go into the second chamber. Here you will find another
dog, with eyes as big as mill-wheels; but do not let that trouble you. Place
him upon my apron, and then take what money you please. If, however, you like
gold best, enter the third chamber, where there is another chest full of it.
The dog who sits on this chest is very dreadful; his eyes are as big as a tower,
but do not mind him. If he also is placed upon my apron, he cannot hurt you,
and you may take from the chest what gold you will.”

“This is not a bad story,” said the soldier; “but what am I to give you, you
old witch? for, of course, you do not mean to tell me all this for nothing.”

“No,” said the witch; “but I do not ask for a single penny. Only promise to
bring me an old tinder-box, which my grandmother left behind the last time she
went down there.”

“Very well; I promise. Now tie the rope round my body.”

“Here it is,” replied the witch; “and here is my blue checked apron.”

As soon as the rope was tied, the soldier climbed up the tree, and let himself
down through the hollow to the ground beneath; and here he found, as the witch
had told him, a large hall, in which many hundred lamps were all burning. Then
he opened the first door. “Ah!” there sat the dog, with the eyes as large as
teacups, staring at him.

“You’re a pretty fellow,” said the soldier, seizing him, and placing him on
the witch’s apron, while he filled his pockets from the chest with as many pieces
as they would hold. Then he closed the lid, seated the dog upon it again, and
walked into another chamber, And, sure enough, there sat the dog with eyes as
big as mill-wheels.

“You had better not look at me in that way,” said the soldier; “you will make
your eyes water;” and then he seated him also upon the apron, and opened the
chest. But when he saw what a quantity of silver money it contained, he very
quickly threw away all the coppers he had taken, and filled his pockets and
his knapsack with nothing but silver.

Then he went into the third room, and there the dog was really hideous; his
eyes were, truly, as big as towers, and they turned round and round in his head
like wheels.

“Good morning,” said the soldier, touching his cap, for he had never seen such
a dog in his life. But after looking at him more closely, he thought he had
been civil enough, so he placed him on the floor, and opened the chest. Good
gracious, what a quantity of gold there was! enough to buy all the sugar-sticks
of the sweet-stuff women; all the tin soldiers, whips, and rocking-horses in
the world, or even the whole town itself There was, indeed, an immense quantity.
So the soldier now threw away all the silver money he had taken, and filled
his pockets and his knapsack with gold instead; and not only his pockets and
his knapsack, but even his cap and boots, so that he could scarcely walk.

He was really rich now; so he replaced the dog on the chest, closed the door,
and called up through the tree, “Now pull me out, you old witch.”

“Have you got the tinder-box?” asked the witch.

“No; I declare I quite forgot it.” So he went back and fetched the tinderbox,
and then the witch drew him up out of the tree, and he stood again in the high
road, with his pockets, his knapsack, his cap, and his boots full of gold.

“What are you going to do with the tinder-box?” asked the soldier.

“That is nothing to you,” replied the witch; “you have the money, now give
me the tinder-box.”

“I tell you what,” said the soldier, “if you don’t tell me what you are going
to do with it, I will draw my sword and cut off your head.”

“No,” said the witch.

The soldier immediately cut off her head, and there she lay on the ground.
Then he tied up all his money in her apron. and slung it on his back like a
bundle, put the tinderbox in his pocket, and walked off to the nearest town.
It was a very nice town, and he put up at the best inn, and ordered a dinner
of all his favorite dishes, for now he was rich and had plenty of money.

The servant, who cleaned his boots, thought they certainly were a shabby pair
to be worn by such a rich gentleman, for he had not yet bought any new ones.
The next day, however, he procured some good clothes and proper boots, so that
our soldier soon became known as a fine gentleman, and the people visited him,
and told him all the wonders that were to be seen in the town, and of the king’s
beautiful daughter, the princess.

“Where can I see her?” asked the soldier.

“She is not to be seen at all,” they said; “she lives in a large copper castle,
surrounded by walls and towers. No one but the king himself can pass in or out,
for there has been a prophecy that she will marry a common soldier, and the
king cannot bear to think of such a marriage.”

“I should like very much to see her,” thought the soldier; but he could not
obtain permission to do so. However, he passed a very pleasant time; went to
the theatre, drove in the king’s garden, and gave a great deal of money to the
poor, which was very good of him; he remembered what it had been in olden times
to be without a shilling. Now he was rich, had fine clothes, and many friends,
who all declared he was a fine fellow and a real gentleman, and all this gratified
him exceedingly. But his money would not last forever; and as he spent and gave
away a great deal daily, and received none, he found himself at last with only
two shillings left. So he was obliged to leave his elegant rooms, and live in
a little garret under the roof, where he had to clean his own boots, and even
mend them with a large needle. None of his friends came to see him, there were
too many stairs to mount up. One dark evening, he had not even a penny to buy
a candle; then all at once he remembered that there was a piece of candle stuck
in the tinder-box, which he had brought from the old tree, into which the witch
had helped him.

He found the tinder-box, but no sooner had he struck a few sparks from the
flint and steel, than the door flew open and the dog with eyes as big as teacups,
whom he had seen while down in the tree, stood before him, and said, “What orders,
master?”

“Hallo,” said the soldier; “well this is a pleasant tinderbox, if it brings
me all I wish for.”

“Bring me some money,” said he to the dog.

He was gone in a moment, and presently returned, carrying a large bag of coppers
in his month. The soldier very soon discovered after this the value of the tinder-box.
If he struck the flint once, the dog who sat on the chest of copper money made
his appearance; if twice, the dog came from the chest of silver; and if three
times, the dog with eyes like towers, who watched over the gold. The soldier
had now plenty of money; he returned to his elegant rooms, and reappeared in
his fine clothes, so that his friends knew him again directly, and made as much
of him as before.

After a while he began to think it was very strange that no one could get a
look at the princess. “Every one says she is very beautiful,” thought he to
himself; “but what is the use of that if she is to be shut up in a copper castle
surrounded by so many towers. Can I by any means get to see her. Stop! where
is my tinder-box?” Then he struck a light, and in a moment the dog, with eyes
as big as teacups, stood before him.

“It is midnight,” said the soldier, “yet I should very much like to see the
princess, if only for a moment.”

The dog disappeared instantly, and before the soldier could even look round,
he returned with the princess. She was lying on the dog’s back asleep, and looked
so lovely, that every one who saw her would know she was a real princess. The
soldier could not help kissing her, true soldier as he was. Then the dog ran
back with the princess; but in the morning, while at breakfast with the king
and queen, she told them what a singular dream she had had during the night,
of a dog and a soldier, that she had ridden on the dog’s back, and been kissed
by the soldier.

“That is a very pretty story, indeed,” said the queen. So the next night one
of the old ladies of the court was set to watch by the princess’s bed, to discover
whether it really was a dream, or what else it might be.

The soldier longed very much to see the princess once more, so he sent for
the dog again in the night to fetch her, and to run with her as fast as ever
he could. But the old lady put on water boots, and ran after him as quickly
as he did, and found that he carried the princess into a large house. She thought
it would help her to remember the place if she made a large cross on the door
with a piece of chalk. Then she went home to bed, and the dog presently returned
with the princess. But when he saw that a cross had been made on the door of
the house, where the soldier lived, he took another piece of chalk and made
crosses on all the doors in the town, so that the lady-in-waiting might not
be able to find out the right door.

Early the next morning the king and queen accompanied the lady and all the
officers of the household, to see where the princess had been.

“Here it is,” said the king, when they came to the first door with a cross
on it.

“No, my dear husband, it must be that one,” said the queen, pointing to a second
door having a cross also.

“And here is one, and there is another!” they all exclaimed; for there were
crosses on all the doors in every direction.

So they felt it would be useless to search any farther. But the queen was a
very clever woman; she could do a great deal more than merely ride in a carriage.
She took her large gold scissors, cut a piece of silk into squares, and made
a neat little bag. This bag she filled with buckwheat flour, and tied it round
the princess’s neck; and then she cut a small hole in the bag, so that the flour
might be scattered on the ground as the princess went along. During the night,
the dog came again and carried the princess on his back, and ran with her to
the soldier, who loved her very much, and wished that he had been a prince,
so that he might have her for a wife. The dog did not observe how the flour
ran out of the bag all the way from the castle wall to the soldier’s house,
and even up to the window, where he had climbed with the princess. Therefore
in the morning the king and queen found out where their daughter had been, and
the soldier was taken up and put in prison. Oh, how dark and disagreeable it
was as he sat there, and the people said to him, “To-morrow you will be hanged.”
It was not very pleasant news, and besides, he had left the tinder-box at the
inn. In the morning he could see through the iron grating of the little window
how the people were hastening out of the town to see him hanged; he heard the
drums beating, and saw the soldiers marching. Every one ran out to look at them.
and a shoemaker’s boy, with a leather apron and slippers on, galloped by so
fast, that one of his slippers flew off and struck against the wall where the
soldier sat looking through the iron grating. “Hallo, you shoemaker’s boy, you
need not be in such a hurry,” cried the soldier to him. “There will be nothing
to see till I come; but if you will run to the house where I have been living,
and bring me my tinder-box, you shall have four shillings, but you must put
your best foot foremost.”

The shoemaker’s boy liked the idea of getting the four shillings, so he ran
very fast and fetched the tinder-box, and gave it to the soldier. And now we
shall see what happened. Outside the town a large gibbet had been erected, round
which stood the soldiers and several thousands of people. The king and the queen
sat on splendid thrones opposite to the judges and the whole council. The soldier
already stood on the ladder; but as they were about to place the rope around
his neck, he said that an innocent request was often granted to a poor criminal
before he suffered death. He wished very much to smoke a pipe, as it would be
the last pipe he should ever smoke in the world. The king could not refuse this
request, so the soldier took his tinder-box, and struck fire, once, twice, thrice,—
and there in a moment stood all the dogs;—the one with eyes as big as teacups,
the one with eyes as large as mill-wheels, and the third, whose eyes were like
towers. “Help me now, that I may not be hanged,” cried the soldier.

And the dogs fell upon the judges and all the councillors; seized one by the
legs, and another by the nose, and tossed them many feet high in the air, so
that they fell down and were dashed to pieces.

“I will not be touched,” said the king. But the largest dog seized him, as
well as the queen, and threw them after the others. Then the soldiers and all
the people were afraid, and cried, “Good soldier, you shall be our king, and
you shall marry the beautiful princess.”

So they placed the soldier in the king’s carriage, and the three dogs ran on
in front and cried “Hurrah!” and the little boys whistled through their fingers,
and the soldiers presented arms. The princess came out of the copper castle,
and became queen, which was very pleasing to her. The wedding festivities lasted
a whole week, and the dogs sat at the table, and stared with all their eyes.

The Storm Shakes the Shield

In the old days, when grandpapa was quite a little boy, and ran about in little
red breeches and a red coat, and a feather in his cap—for that’s the costume the
little boys wore in his time when they were dressed in their best—many things
were very different from what they are now. There was often a good deal of show
in the streets—show that we don’t see nowadays, because it has been abolished
as too old-fashioned. Still, it is very interesting to hear grandfather tell about
it.

It must really have been a gorgeous sight to behold, in those days, when the
shoemaker brought over the shield, when the court-house was changed. The silken
flag waved to and fro, on the shield itself a double eagle was displayed, and
a big boot; the youngest lads carried the “welcome,” and the chest of the workmen’s
guild, and their shirt-sleeves were adorned with red and white ribbons; the
elder ones carried drawn swords, each with a lemon stuck on its point. There
was a full band of music, and the most splendid of all the instruments was the
“bird,” as grandfather called the big stick with the crescent on the top, and
all manner of dingle-dangles hanging to it—a perfect Turkish clatter of music.
The stick was lifted high in the air, and swung up and down till it jingled
again, and quite dazzled one’s eyes when the sun shone on all its glory of gold,
and silver, and brass.

In front of the procession ran the Harlequin, dressed in clothes made of all
kinds of colored patches artfully sewn together, with a black face, and bells
on his head like a sledge horse. He beat the people with his bat, which made
a great clattering without hurting them, and the people would crowd together
and fall back, only to advance again the next moment. Little boys and girls
fell over their own toes into the gutter, old women dispensed digs with their
elbows, and looked sour, and took snuff. One laughed, another chatted; the people
thronged the windows and door-steps, and even all the roofs. The sun shone;
and although they had a little rain too, that was good for the farmer; and when
they got wetted thoroughly, they only thought what a blessing it was for the
country.

And what stories grandpapa could tell! As a little boy he had seen all these
fine doings in their greatest pomp. The oldest of the policemen used to make
a speech from the platform on which the shield was hung up, and the speech was
in verse, as if it had been made by a poet, as, indeed it had; for three people
had concocted it together, and they had first drunk a good bowl of punch, so
that the speech might turn out well.

And the people gave a cheer for the speech, but they shouted much louder for
the Harlequin, when he appeared in front of the platform, and made a grimace
at them.

The fools played the fool most admirably, and drank mead out of spirit-glasses,
which they then flung among the crowd, by whom they were caught up. Grandfather
was the possessor of one of these glasses, which had been given him by a working
mason, who had managed to catch it. Such a scene was really very pleasant; and
the shield on the new court-house was hung with flowers and green wreaths.

“One never forgets a feast like that, however old one may grow,” said grandfather.
Nor did he forget it, though he saw many other grand spectacles in his time,
and could tell about them too; but it was most pleasant of all to hear him tell
about the shield that was brought in the town from the old to the new court-house.

Once, when he was a little boy, grandpapa had gone with his parents to see
this festivity. He had never yet been in the metropolis of the country. There
were so many people in the streets, that he thought that the shield was being
carried. There were many shields to be seen; a hundred rooms might have been
filled with pictures, if they had been hung up inside and outside. At the tailor’s
were pictures of all kinds of clothing, to show that he could stitch up people
from the coarsest to the finest; at the tobacco manufacturer’s were pictures
of the most charming little boys, smoking cigars, just as they do in reality;
there were signs with painted butter, and herring, clerical collars, and coffins,
and inscriptions and announcements into the bargain. A person could walk up
and down for a whole day through the streets, and tire himself out with looking
at the pictures; and then he would know all about what people lived in the houses,
for they had hung out their shields or signs; and, as grandfather said, it was
a very instructive thing, in a great town, to know at once who the inhabitants
were.

And this is what happened with these shields, when grandpapa came to the town.
He told it me himself, and he hadn’t “a rogue on his back,” as mother used to
tell me he had when he wanted to make me believe something outrageous, for now
he looked quite trustworthy.

The first night after he came to the town had been signalized by the most terrible
gale ever recorded in the newspapers—a gale such as none of the inhabitants
had ever before experienced. The air was dark with flying tiles; old wood-work
crashed and fell; and a wheelbarrow ran up the streets all alone, only to get
out of the way. There was a groaning in the air, and a howling and a shrieking,
and altogether it was a terrible storm. The water in the canal rose over the
banks, for it did not know where to run. The storm swept over the town, carrying
plenty of chimneys with it, and more than one proud weathercock on a church
tower had to bow, and has never got over it from that time.

There was a kind of sentry-house, where dwelt the venerable old superintendent
of the fire brigade, who always arrived with the last engine. The storm would
not leave this little sentry-house alone, but must needs tear it from its fastenings,
and roll it down the street; and, wonderfully enough, it stopped opposite to
the door of the dirty journeyman plasterer, who had saved three lives at the
last fire, but the sentry-house thought nothing of that.

The barber’s shield, the great brazen dish, was carried away, and hurled straight
into the embrasure of the councillor of justice; and the whole neighborhood
said this looked almost like malice, inasmuch as they, and nearly all the friends
of the councillor’s wife, used to call that lady “the Razor” for she was so
sharp that she knew more about other people’s business than they knew about
it themselves.

A shield with a dried salt fish painted on it flew exactly in front of the
door of a house where dwelt a man who wrote a newspaper. That was a very poor
joke perpetrated by the gale, which seemed to have forgotten that a man who
writes in a paper is not the kind of person to understand any liberty taken
with him; for he is a king in his own newspaper, and likewise in his own opinion.

The weathercock flew to the opposite house, where he perched, looking the picture
of malice—so the neighbors said.

The cooper’s tub stuck itself up under the head of “ladies’ costumes.”

The eating-house keeper’s bill of fare, which had hung at his door in a heavy
frame, was posted by the storm over the entrance to the theatre, where nobody
went. “It was a ridiculous list—horse-radish, soup, and stuffed cabbage.” And
now people came in plenty.

The fox’s skin, the honorable sign of the furrier, was found fastened to the
bell-pull of a young man who always went to early lecture, and looked like a
furled umbrella. He said he was striving after truth, and was considered by
his aunt “a model and an example.”

The inscription “Institution for Superior Education” was found near the billiard
club, which place of resort was further adorned with the words, “Children brought
up by hand.” Now, this was not at all witty; but, you see, the storm had done
it, and no one has any control over that.

It was a terrible night, and in the morning—only think!—nearly all the shields
had changed places. In some places the inscriptions were so malicious, that
grandfather would not speak of them at all; but I saw that he was chuckling
secretly, and there may have been some inaccuracy in his description, after
all.

The poor people in the town, and still more the strangers, were continually
making mistakes in the people they wanted to see; nor was this to be avoided,
when they went according to the shields that were hung up. Thus, for instance,
some who wanted to go to a very grave assembly of elderly men, where important
affairs were to be discussed, found themselves in a noisy boys’ school, where
all the company were leaping over the chairs and tables.

There were also people who made a mistake between the church and the theatre,
and that was terrible indeed!

Such a storm we have never witnessed in our day; for that only happened in
grandpapa’s time, when he was quite a little boy. Perhaps we shall never experience
a storm of the kind, but our grandchildren may; and we can only hope and pray
that all may stay at home while the storm is moving the shields.

The Emperor’s New Suit

Many, many years ago lived an emperor, who thought so much of new clothes that
he spent all his money in order to obtain them; his only ambition was to be always
well dressed. He did not care for his soldiers, and the theatre did not amuse
him; the only thing, in fact, he thought anything of was to drive out and show
a new suit of clothes. He had a coat for every hour of the day; and as one would
say of a king “He is in his cabinet,” so one could say of him, “The emperor is
in his dressing-room.”

The great city where he resided was very gay; every day many strangers from
all parts of the globe arrived. One day two swindlers came to this city; they
made people believe that they were weavers, and declared they could manufacture
the finest cloth to be imagined. Their colours and patterns, they said, were
not only exceptionally beautiful, but the clothes made of their material possessed
the wonderful quality of being invisible to any man who was unfit for his office
or unpardonably stupid.

“That must be wonderful cloth,” thought the emperor. “If I were to be dressed
in a suit made of this cloth I should be able to find out which men in my empire
were unfit for their places, and I could distinguish the clever from the stupid.
I must have this cloth woven for me without delay.” And he gave a large sum
of money to the swindlers, in advance, that they should set to work without
any loss of time. They set up two looms, and pretended to be very hard at work,
but they did nothing whatever on the looms. They asked for the finest silk and
the most precious gold-cloth; all they got they did away with, and worked at
the empty looms till late at night.

“I should very much like to know how they are getting on with the cloth,” thought
the emperor. But he felt rather uneasy when he remembered that he who was not
fit for his office could not see it. Personally, he was of opinion that he had
nothing to fear, yet he thought it advisable to send somebody else first to
see how matters stood. Everybody in the town knew what a remarkable quality
the stuff possessed, and all were anxious to see how bad or stupid their neighbours
were.

“I shall send my honest old minister to the weavers,” thought the emperor.
“He can judge best how the stuff looks, for he is intelligent, and nobody understands
his office better than he.”

The good old minister went into the room where the swindlers sat before the
empty looms. “Heaven preserve us!” he thought, and opened his eyes wide, “I
cannot see anything at all,” but he did not say so. Both swindlers requested
him to come near, and asked him if he did not admire the exquisite pattern and
the beautiful colours, pointing to the empty looms. The poor old minister tried
his very best, but he could see nothing, for there was nothing to be seen. “Oh
dear,” he thought, “can I be so stupid? I should never have thought so, and
nobody must know it! Is it possible that I am not fit for my office? No, no,
I cannot say that I was unable to see the cloth.”

“Now, have you got nothing to say?” said one of the swindlers, while he pretended
to be busily weaving.

“Oh, it is very pretty, exceedingly beautiful,” replied the old minister looking
through his glasses. “What a beautiful pattern, what brilliant colours! I shall
tell the emperor that I like the cloth very much.”

“We are pleased to hear that,” said the two weavers, and described to him the
colours and explained the curious pattern. The old minister listened attentively,
that he might relate to the emperor what they said; and so he did.

Now the swindlers asked for more money, silk and gold-cloth, which they required
for weaving. They kept everything for themselves, and not a thread came near
the loom, but they continued, as hitherto, to work at the empty looms.

Soon afterwards the emperor sent another honest courtier to the weavers to
see how they were getting on, and if the cloth was nearly finished. Like the
old minister, he looked and looked but could see nothing, as there was nothing
to be seen.

“Is it not a beautiful piece of cloth?” asked the two swindlers, showing and
explaining the magnificent pattern, which, however, did not exist.

“I am not stupid,” said the man. “It is therefore my good appointment for which
I am not fit. It is very strange, but I must not let any one know it;” and he
praised the cloth, which he did not see, and expressed his joy at the beautiful
colours and the fine pattern. “It is very excellent,” he said to the emperor.

Everybody in the whole town talked about the precious cloth. At last the emperor
wished to see it himself, while it was still on the loom. With a number of courtiers,
including the two who had already been there, he went to the two clever swindlers,
who now worked as hard as they could, but without using any thread.

“Is it not magnificent?” said the two old statesmen who had been there before.
“Your Majesty must admire the colours and the pattern.” And then they pointed
to the empty looms, for they imagined the others could see the cloth.

“What is this?” thought the emperor, “I do not see anything at all. That is
terrible! Am I stupid? Am I unfit to be emperor? That would indeed be the most
dreadful thing that could happen to me.”

“Really,” he said, turning to the weavers, “your cloth has our most gracious
approval;” and nodding contentedly he looked at the empty loom, for he did not
like to say that he saw nothing. All his attendants, who were with him, looked
and looked, and although they could not see anything more than the others, they
said, like the emperor, “It is very beautiful.” And all advised him to wear
the new magnificent clothes at a great procession which was soon to take place.
“It is magnificent, beautiful, excellent,” one heard them say; everybody seemed
to be delighted, and the emperor appointed the two swindlers “Imperial Court
weavers.”

The whole night previous to the day on which the procession was to take place,
the swindlers pretended to work, and burned more than sixteen candles. People
should see that they were busy to finish the emperor’s new suit. They pretended
to take the cloth from the loom, and worked about in the air with big scissors,
and sewed with needles without thread, and said at last: “The emperor’s new
suit is ready now.”

The emperor and all his barons then came to the hall; the swindlers held their
arms up as if they held something in their hands and said: “These are the trousers!”
“This is the coat!” and “Here is the cloak!” and so on. “They are all as light
as a cobweb, and one must feel as if one had nothing at all upon the body; but
that is just the beauty of them.”

“Indeed!” said all the courtiers; but they could not see anything, for there
was nothing to be seen.

“Does it please your Majesty now to graciously undress,” said the swindlers,
“that we may assist your Majesty in putting on the new suit before the large
looking-glass?”

The emperor undressed, and the swindlers pretended to put the new suit upon
him, one piece after another; and the emperor looked at himself in the glass
from every side.

“How well they look! How well they fit!” said all. “What a beautiful pattern!
What fine colours! That is a magnificent suit of clothes!”

The master of the ceremonies announced that the bearers of the canopy, which
was to be carried in the procession, were ready.

“I am ready,” said the emperor. “Does not my suit fit me marvellously?” Then
he turned once more to the looking-glass, that people should think he admired
his garments.

The chamberlains, who were to carry the train, stretched their hands to the
ground as if they lifted up a train, and pretended to hold something in their
hands; they did not like people to know that they could not see anything.

The emperor marched in the procession under the beautiful canopy, and all who
saw him in the street and out of the windows exclaimed: “Indeed, the emperor’s
new suit is incomparable! What a long train he has! How well it fits him!” Nobody
wished to let others know he saw nothing, for then he would have been unfit
for his office or too stupid. Never emperor’s clothes were more admired.

“But he has nothing on at all,” said a little child at last. “Good heavens!
listen to the voice of an innocent child,” said the father, and one whispered
to the other what the child had said. “But he has nothing on at all,” cried
at last the whole people. That made a deep impression upon the emperor, for
it seemed to him that they were right; but he thought to himself, “Now I must
bear up to the end.” And the chamberlains walked with still greater dignity,
as if they carried the train which did not exist.

The Dumb Book

In the high-road which led through a wood stood a solitary farm-house; the road,
in fact, ran right through its yard. The sun was shining and all the windows were
open; within the house people were very busy. In the yard, in an arbour formed
by lilac bushes in full bloom, stood an open coffin; thither they had carried
a dead man, who was to be buried that very afternoon. Nobody shed a tear over
him; his face was covered over with a white cloth, under his head they had placed
a large thick book, the leaves of which consisted of folded sheets of blotting-paper,
and withered flowers lay between them; it was the herbarium which he had gathered
in various places and was to be buried with him, according to his own wish. Every
one of the flowers in it was connected with some chapter of his life.

“Who is the dead man?” we asked.

“The old student,” was the reply. “They say that he was once an energetic young
man, that he studied the dead languages, and sang and even composed many songs;
then something had happened to him, and in consequence of this he gave himself
up to drink, body and mind. When at last he had ruined his health, they brought
him into the country, where someone paid for his board and residence. He was
gentle as a child as long as the sullen mood did not come over him; but when
it came he was fierce, became as strong as a giant, and ran about in the wood
like a chased deer. But when we succeeded in bringing him home, and prevailed
upon him to open the book with the dried-up plants in it, he would sometimes
sit for a whole day looking at this or that plant, while frequently the tears
rolled over his cheeks. God knows what was in his mind; but he requested us
to put the book into his coffin, and now he lies there. In a little while the
lid will be placed upon the coffin, and he will have sweet rest in the grave!”

The cloth which covered his face was lifted up; the dead man’s face expressed
peace—a sunbeam fell upon it. A swallow flew with the swiftness of an arrow
into the arbour, turning in its flight, and twittered over the dead man’s head.

What a strange feeling it is—surely we all know it—to look through old letters
of our young days; a different life rises up out of the past, as it were, with
all its hopes and sorrows. How many of the people with whom in those days we
used to be on intimate terms appear to us as if dead, and yet they are still
alive—only we have not thought of them for such a long time, whom we imagined
we should retain in our memories for ever, and share every joy and sorrow with
them.

The withered oak leaf in the book here recalled the friend, the schoolfellow,
who was to be his friend for life. He fixed the leaf to the student’s cap in
the green wood, when they vowed eternal friendship. Where does he dwell now?
The leaf is kept, but the friendship does no longer exist. Here is a foreign
hothouse plant, too tender for the gardens of the North. It is almost as if
its leaves still smelt sweet! She gave it to him out of her own garden—a nobleman’s
daughter.

Here is a water-lily that he had plucked himself, and watered with salt tears—a
lily of sweet water. And here is a nettle: what may its leaves tell us? What
might he have thought when he plucked and kept it? Here is a little snowdrop
out of the solitary wood; here is an evergreen from the flower-pot at the tavern;
and here is a simple blade of grass.

The lilac bends its fresh fragrant flowers over the dead man’s head; the swallow
passes again—“twit, twit;” now the men come with hammer and nails, the lid is
placed over the dead man, while his head rests on the dumb book—so long cherished,
now closed for ever!

The Portuguese Duck

A duck once arrived from Portugal, but there were some who said she came from Spain, which is almost the same thing. At all events, she was called the “Portuguese,” and she laid eggs, was killed, and cooked, and there was an end of her. But the ducklings which crept forth from the eggs were also called “Portuguese,” and about
that there may be some question. But of all the family one only remained in the
duckyard, which may be called a farmyard, as the chickens were admitted, and the
cock strutted about in a very hostile manner. “He annoys me with his loud crowing,”
said the Portuguese duck; “but, still, he’s a handsome bird, there’s no denying
that, although he’s not a drake. He ought to moderate his voice, like those little
birds who are singing in the lime-trees over there in our neighbor’s garden, but
that is an art only acquired in polite society. How sweetly they sing there; it
is quite a pleasure to listen to them! I call it Portuguese singing. If I had
only such a little singing-bird, I’d be kind and good as a mother to him, for
it’s in my nature, in my Portuguese blood.”

While she was speaking, one of the little singing-birds came tumbling head
over heels from the roof into the yard. The cat was after him, but he had escaped
from her with a broken wing, and so came tumbling into the yard. “That’s just
like the cat, she’s a villain,” said the Portuguese duck. “I remember her ways
when I had children of my own. How can such a creature be allowed to live, and
wander about upon the roofs. I don’t think they allow such things in Portugal.”
She pitied the little singing-bird, and so did all the other ducks who were
not Portuguese.

“Poor little creature!” they said, one after another, as they came up. “We
can’t sing, certainly; but we have a sounding-board, or something of the kind,
within us; we can feel that, though we don’t talk about it.”

“But I can talk,” said the Portuguese duck; “and I’ll do something for the
little fellow; it’s my duty;” and she stepped into the water-trough, and beat
her wings upon the water so strongly that the bird was nearly drowned by a shower-bath;
but the duck meant it kindly. “That is a good deed,” she said; “I hope the others
will take example by it.”

“Tweet, tweet!” said the little bird, for one of his wings being broken, he
found it difficult to shake himself; but he quite understood that the bath was
meant kindly, and he said, “You are very kind-hearted, madam;” but he did not
wish for a second bath.

“I have never thought about my heart,” replied the Portuguese duck, “but I
know that I love all my fellow-creatures, except the cat, and nobody can expect
me to love her, for she ate up two of my ducklings. But pray make yourself at
home; it is easy to make one’s self comfortable. I am myself from a foreign
country, as you may see by my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these
parts; he’s not of my race; but I am not proud on that account. If any one here
can understand you, I may say positively I am that person.”

“She’s quite full of ‘Portulak,’” said a little common duck, who was witty.
All the common ducks considered the word “Portulak” a good joke, for it sounded
like Portugal. They nudged each other, and said, “Quack! that was witty!”

Then the other ducks began to notice the little bird. “The Portuguese had certainly
a great flow of language,” they said to the little bird. “For our part we don’t
care to fill our beaks with such long words, but we sympathize with you quite
as much. If we don’t do anything else, we can walk about with you everywhere,
and we think that is the best thing we can do.”

“You have a lovely voice,” said one of the eldest ducks; “it must be great
satisfaction to you to be able to give so much pleasure as you do. I am certainly
no judge of your singing so I keep my beak shut, which is better than talking
nonsense, as others do.”

“Don’t plague him so,” interposed the Portuguese duck; “he requires rest and
nursing. My little singing-bird do you wish me to prepare another bath for you?”

“Oh, no! no! pray let me dry,” implored the little bird.

“The water-cure is the only remedy for me, when I am not well,” said the Portuguese.
“Amusement, too, is very beneficial. The fowls from the neighborhood will soon
be here to pay you a visit. There are two Cochin Chinese amongst them; they
wear feathers on their legs, and are well educated. They have been brought from
a great distance, and consequently I treat them with greater respect than I
do the others.”

Then the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to-day to keep from
being rude. “You are a real songster,” he said, “you do as much with your little
voice as it is possible to do; but there requires more noise and shrillness
in any one who wishes it to be known who he is.”

The two Chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the singing-bird.
His feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so that he seemed to them quite
like a tiny Chinese fowl. “He’s charming,” they said to each other, and began
a conversation with him in whispers, using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect:
“We are of the same race as yourself,” they said. “The ducks, even the Portuguese,
are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed. You do not know us yet,—very
few know us, or give themselves the trouble to make our acquaintance, not even
any of the fowls, though we are born to occupy a higher grade in society than
most of them. But that does not disturb us, we quietly go on in our own way
among the rest, whose ideas are certainly not ours; for we look at the bright
side of things, and only speak what is good, although that is sometimes very
difficult to find where none exists. Except ourselves and the cock there is
not one in the yard who can be called talented or polite. It cannot even be
said of the ducks, and we warn you, little bird, not to trust that one yonder,
with the short tail feathers, for she is cunning; that curiously marked one,
with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a mischief-maker, and never lets any
one have the last word, though she is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder
speaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles. If we have nothing
good to tell, we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the only one who has had
any education, and with whom we can associate, but she is passionate, and talks
too much about ‘Portugal.’”

“I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,” whispered one duck
to another; “they are always doing it, and it annoys me. We never speak to them.”

Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird was a sparrow.
“Well, I don’t understand the difference,” he said; “it appears to me all the
same. He’s only a plaything, and if people will have playthings, why let them,
I say.”

“Don’t take any notice of what he says,” whispered the Portuguese; “he’s very
well in matters of business, and with him business is placed before everything.
But now I shall lie down and have a little rest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves
that we may be nice and fat when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions
and apples.” So she laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she
had a very comfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep.
The little singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing, and
at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The sun shone warm
and bright, and he found out that it was a very good place. But the fowls of
the neighborhood were all awake, and, to tell the truth, they had paid a visit
to the duckyard, simply and solely to find food for themselves. The Chinese
were the first to leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.

The witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady was getting
quite a “doting ducky,” All the other ducks laughed at this. “Doting ducky,”
they whispered. “Oh, that’s too ‘witty!’” And then they repeated the former
joke about “Portulak,” and declared it was most amusing. Then they all lay down
to have a nap.

They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly something was thrown
into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a bang, that the whole
company started up and clapped their wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed
over to the other side: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.

“Tweet,” he cried; “you trod very hard upon me, madam.”

“Well, then, why do you lie in my way?” she retorted, “you must not be so touchy.
I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry ‘tweet.’”

“Don’t be angry,” said the little bird; “the ‘tweet’ slipped out of my beak
unawares.”

The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she could,
and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay down again, and the little
bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing,—

“Chirp and twitter,
The dew-drops glitter,
In the hours of sunny spring,
I’ll sing my best,
Till I go to rest,
With my head behind my wing.”
“Now I want rest after my dinner,” said the Portuguese; “you must conform to
the rules of the house while you are here. I want to sleep now.”

The little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly. When madam awoke
afterwards, there he stood before her with a little corn he had found, and laid
it at her feet; but as she had not slept well, she was naturally in a bad temper.
“Give that to a chicken,” she said, “and don’t be always standing in my way.”

“Why are you angry with me?” replied the little singing-bird, “what have I
done?”

“Done!” repeated the Portuguese duck, “your mode of expressing yourself is
not very polite. I must call your attention to that fact.”

“It was sunshine here yesterday,” said the little bird, “but to-day it is cloudy
and the air is close.”

“You know very little about the weather, I fancy,” she retorted, “the day is
not over yet. Don’t stand there, looking so stupid.”

“But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell into
the yard yesterday.”

“Impertinent creature!” exclaimed the Portuguese duck: “would you compare me
with the cat—that beast of prey? There’s not a drop of malicious blood in me.
I’ve taken your part, and now I’ll teach you better manners.” So saying, she
made a bite at the little singing-bird’s head, and he fell dead on the ground.
“Now whatever is the meaning of this?” she said; “could he not bear even such
a little peck as I gave him? Then certainly he was not made for this world.
I’ve been like a mother to him, I know that, for I’ve a good heart.”

Then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in, and crowed with
steam-engine power.

“You’ll kill me with your crowing,” she cried, “it’s all your fault. He’s lost
his life, and I’m very near losing mine.”

“There’s not much of him lying there,” observed the cock.

“Speak of him with respect,” said the Portuguese duck, “for he had manners
and education, and he could sing. He was affectionate and gentle, and that is
as rare a quality in animals as in those who call themselves human beings.”

Then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird. Ducks have strong
passions, whether they feel envy or pity. There was nothing to envy here, so
they all showed a great deal of pity, even the two Chinese. “We shall never
have another singing-bird again amongst us; he was almost a Chinese,” they whispered,
and then they wept with such a noisy, clucking sound, that all the other fowls
clucked too, but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards. “We have
hearts of our own,” they said, “nobody can deny that.”

“Hearts!” repeated the Portuguese, “indeed you have, almost as tender as the
ducks in Portugal.”

“Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger,” said the drake,
“that’s the most important business. If one of our toys is broken, why we have
plenty more.”

The Butterfly

There was once a butterfly who wished for a bride, and, as may be supposed, he
wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers. He glanced, with a
very critical eye, at all the flower-beds, and found that the flowers were seated
quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit before they are
engaged; but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if his search
would become very wearisome. The butterfly did not like to take too much trouble,
so he flew off on a visit to the daisies. The French call this flower “Marguerite,”
and they say that the little daisy can prophesy. Lovers pluck off the leaves,
and as they pluck each leaf, they ask a question about their lovers; thus: “Does
he or she love me?—Ardently? Distractedly? Very much? A little? Not at all?” and
so on. Every one speaks these words in his own language. The butterfly came also
to Marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a kiss
on each of them, for he thought there was always more to be done by kindness.

“Darling Marguerite daisy,” he said to her, “you are the wisest woman of all
the flowers. Pray tell me which of the flowers I shall choose for my wife. Which
will be my bride? When I know, I will fly directly to her, and propose.”

But Marguerite did not answer him; she was offended that he should call her
a woman when she was only a girl; and there is a great difference. He asked
her a second time, and then a third; but she remained dumb, and answered not
a word. Then he would wait no longer, but flew away, to commence his wooing
at once. It was in the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in
full bloom.

“They are very pretty,” thought the butterfly; “charming little lasses; but
they are rather formal.”

Then, as the young lads often do, he looked out for the elder girls. He next
flew to the anemones; these were rather sour to his taste. The violet, a little
too sentimental. The lime-blossoms, too small, and besides, there was such a
large family of them. The apple-blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed
to-day, but might fall off to-morrow, with the first wind that blew; and he
thought that a marriage with one of them might last too short a time. The pea-blossom
pleased him most of all; she was white and red, graceful and slender, and belonged
to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, and can yet be useful
in the kitchen. He was just about to make her an offer, when, close by the maiden,
he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.

“Who is that?” he asked.

“That is my sister,” replied the pea-blossom.

“Oh, indeed; and you will be like her some day,” said he; and he flew away
directly, for he felt quite shocked.

A honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so many
girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions. No; he did not like
her. But which one did he like?

Spring went by, and summer drew towards its close; autumn came; but he had
not decided. The flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all
in vain; they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth. For the heart asks for
fragrance, even when it is no longer young; and there is very little of that
to be found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums; therefore the butterfly
turned to the mint on the ground. You know, this plant has no blossom; but it
is sweetness all over,—full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of
a flower in every leaf.

“I will take her,” said the butterfly; and he made her an offer. But the mint
stood silent and stiff, as she listened to him. At last she said,—

“Friendship, if you please; nothing more. I am old, and you are old, but we
may live for each other just the same; as to marrying—no; don’t let us appear
ridiculous at our age.”

And so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all. He had been too long
choosing, which is always a bad plan. And the butterfly became what is called
an old bachelor.

It was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather. The cold wind blew
over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again. It was not
the weather for flying about in summer clothes; but fortunately the butterfly
was not out in it. He had got a shelter by chance. It was in a room heated by
a stove, and as warm as summer. He could exist here, he said, well enough.

“But it is not enough merely to exist,” said he, “I need freedom, sunshine,
and a little flower for a companion.”

Then he flew against the window-pane, and was seen and admired by those in
the room, who caught him, and stuck him on a pin, in a box of curiosities. They
could not do more for him.

“Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,” said the butterfly. “It is
not very pleasant, certainly; I should imagine it is something like being married;
for here I am stuck fast.” And with this thought he consoled himself a little.

“That seems very poor consolation,” said one of the plants in the room, that
grew in a pot.

“Ah,” thought the butterfly, “one can’t very well trust these plants in pots;
they have too much to do with mankind.”

Little Tuk

Yes, they called him Little Tuk, but it was
not his real name; he had called himself so before he could speak plainly, and
he meant it for Charles. It was all very well for those who knew him, but not
for strangers.

Little Tuk was left at home to take care of his little
sister, Gustava, who was much younger than himself, and he had to learn his
lessons at the same time, and the two things could not very well be performed
together. The poor boy sat there with his sister on his lap, and sung to her
all the songs he knew, and now and then he looked into his geography lesson
that lay open before him. By the next morning he had to learn by heart all the
towns in Zealand, and all that could be described of them.

His mother came home at last, and took little Gustava in her
arms. Then Tuk ran to the window, and read so eagerly that he nearly read his
eyes out; for it had become darker and darker every minute, and his mother had
no money to buy a light.

“There goes the old washerwoman up the lane,”
said the mother, as she looked out of the window; “the poor woman can
hardly drag herself along, and now she had to drag a pail of water from the
well. Be a good boy, Tuk, and run across and help the old woman, won’t
you?”

So Tuk ran across quickly, and helped her, but when he came
back into the room it was quite dark, and there was not a word said about a
light, so he was obliged to go to bed on his little truckle bedstead, and there
he lay and thought of his geography lesson, and of Zealand, and of all the
master had told him. He ought really to have read it over again, but he could
not for want of light. So he put the geography book under his pillow, for he
had heard that this was a great help towards learning a lesson, but not always
to be depended upon. He still lay thinking and thinking, when all at once it
seemed as if some one kissed him on his eyes and mouth. He slept and yet he did
not sleep; and it appeared as if the old washerwoman looked at him with kind
eyes and said, “It would be a great pity if you did not know your lesson
to-morrow morning; you helped me, and now I will help you, and Providence will
always keep those who help themselves;” and at the same time the book
under Tuk’s pillow began to move about. “Cluck, cluck, cluck,”
cried a hen as she crept towards him. “I am a hen from
Kjøge,”¹ and then she told
him how many inhabitants the town contained, and about a battle that had been
fought there, which really was not worth speaking of.

“Crack, crack,” down fell something. It was a
wooden bird, the parrot which is used as a target as
Præstø.² He said there were
as many inhabitants in that town as he had nails in his body. He was very
proud, and said, “Thorwalsden lived close to me,³ and here I am now, quite comfortable.”

But now little Tuk was no longer in bed; all in a moment he
found himself on horseback. Gallop, gallop, away he went, seated in front of a
richly-attired knight, with a waving plume, who held him on the saddle, and so
they rode through the wood by the old town of Wordingburg, which was very large
and busy. The king’s castle was surrounded by lofty towers, and radiant light
streamed from all the windows. Within there were songs and dancing; King
Waldemar and the young gayly-dressed ladies of the court were dancing together.
Morning dawned, and as the sun rose, the whole city and the king’s castle sank
suddenly down together. One tower after another fell, till at last only one
remained standing on the hill where the castle had formerly been.⁴

The town now appeared small and poor, and the school-boys
read in their books, which they carried under their arms, that it contained two
thousand inhabitants; but this was a mere boast, for it did not contain so
many.

And again little Tuk lay in his bed, scarcely knowing
whether he was dreaming or not, for some one stood by him.

“Tuk! little Tuk!” said a voice. It was a very
little person who spoke. He was dressed as a sailor, and looked small enough to
be a middy, but he was not one. “I bring you many greetings from
Corsøe.⁵ It is a rising town,
full of life. It has steamships and mail-coaches. In times past they used to
call it ugly, but that is no longer true. I lie on the sea-shore,” said
Corsøe; “I have high-roads and pleasure-gardens; I have given birth
to a poet who was witty and entertaining, which they are not all. I once wanted
to fit out a ship to sail round the world, but I did not accomplish it, though
most likely I might have done so. But I am fragrant with perfume, for close to
my gates most lovely roses bloom.”

Then before the eyes of little Tuk appeared a confusion of
colors, red and green; but it cleared off, and he could distinguish a cliff
close to the bay, the slopes of which were quite overgrown with verdure, and on
its summit stood a fine old church with pointed towers. Springs of water flowed
out of the cliff in thick waterspouts, so that there was a continual splashing.
Close by sat an old king with a golden crown on his white head. This was King
Hroar of the Springs⁶ and near the
springs stood the town of Roeskilde, as it is called. Then all the kings and
queens of Denmark went up the ascent to the old church, hand in hand, with
golden crowns on their heads, while the organ played and the fountains sent
forth jets of water.

Little Tuk saw and heard it all. “Don’t forget the
names of these towns,” said King Hroar.

All at once everything vanished; but where! It seemed to him
like turning over the leaves of a book. And now there stood before him an old
peasant woman, who had come from Sorø⁷ where the grass grows in the market-place. She had
a green linen apron thrown over her head and shoulders, and it was quite wet,
as if it had been raining heavily. “Yes, that it has,” said she,
and then, just as she was going to tell him a great many pretty stories from
Holberg’s comedies, and about Waldemar and Absalom, she suddenly shrunk up
together, and wagged her head as if she were a frog about to spring.
“Croak,” she cried; “it is always wet, and as quiet as death
in Sorø.” Then little Tuk saw she was changed into a frog.
“Croak,” and again she was an old woman. “One must dress
according to the weather,” said she. “It is wet, and my town is
just like a bottle. By the cork we must go in, and by the cork we must come out
again. In olden times I had beautiful fish, and now I have fresh, rosy-cheeked
boys in the bottom of the bottle, and they learn wisdom, Hebrew and
Greek.”

“Croak.” How it sounded like the cry of the
frogs on the moor, or like the creaking of great boots when some one is
marching,—always the same tone, so monotonous and wearing, that little
Tuk at length fell fast asleep, and then the sound could not annoy him. But
even in this sleep came a dream or something like it. His little sister
Gustava, with her blue eyes, and fair curly hair, had grown up a beautiful
maiden all at once, and without having wings she could fly. And they flew
together over Zealand, over green forests and blue lakes.

“Hark, so you hear the cock crow, little Tuk.
‘Cock-a-doodle-doo.’ The fowls are flying out of Kjøge. You
shall have a large farm-yard. You shall never suffer hunger or want. The bird
of good omen shall be yours, and you shall become a rich and happy man; your
house shall rise up like King Waldemar’s towers, and shall be richly adorned
with marble statues, like those at Præstø. Understand me well; your name shall
travel with fame round the world like the ship that was to sail from
Corsøe, and at Roeskilde,—Don’t forget the names of the towns, as
King Hroar said,—you shall speak well and clearly little Tuk, and when at
last you lie in your grave you shall sleep peacefully, as—”

“As if I lay in Sorø,” said little Tuk
awaking. It was bright daylight, and he could not remember his dream, but that
was not necessary, for we are not to know what will happen to us in the future.
Then he sprang out of bed quickly, and read over his lesson in the book, and
knew it all at once quite correctly. The old washerwoman put her head in at the
door, and nodded to him quite kindly, and said, “Many thanks, you good
child, for your help yesterday. I hope all your beautiful dreams will come
true.”

Little Tuk did not at all know what he had dreamt, but One
above did.

Kjøge, a little town in Kjøge Bay. Lifting up
children by placing the hands on each side of their heads, is called
“showing them Kjøge hens.”

Præstø, a still smaller town.

About a hundred paces from Præstø lies the
estate of Nysø, where Thorswaldsen usually resided while in Denmark, and
where he executed many memorable works.

Wordingburg under King Waldemar was a place of great
importance; now it is a very insignificant town: only a lonely tower and the
remains of a well show where the castle once stood.

Corsøe, on the Great Belt, used to be called the most
tiresome town in Denmark before the establishment of steamers. Travellars had
to wait for a favorable wind. The title “tiresome” was ingeniously
added to the Danish escutcheon by a witticism of Vaudeville Heibergs. The poet
Baddesen was born here.

Roeskilde (from Roesquelle, rose-spring, falsely called
Rothschild), once the capital of Denmark. The town took its name from King
Hroar, and from the numerous springs in the neighborhood. In its beautiful
cathedral most of the kings and queens of Denmark are buried. In Roeskilde the
Danish States used to assemble.

Sorø, a very quite little town in a beautiful
situation, surrounded by forests and lakes. Holberg, the Molière of
Denmark, founded a noble academy here. The poets Hanck and Jugeman were
professors here. Letztern lives there still.

Little Claus and Big Claus

In a village there once lived two men who had the same name. They were both called
Claus. One of them had four horses, but the other had only one; so to distinguish
them, people called the owner of the four horses, “Great Claus,” and he who had
only one, “Little Claus.” Now we shall hear what happened to them, for this is
a true story.

Through the whole week, Little Claus was obliged to plough for Great Claus,
and lend him his one horse; and once a week, on a Sunday, Great Claus lent him
all his four horses. Then how Little Claus would smack his whip over all five
horses, they were as good as his own on that one day. The sun shone brightly,
and the church bells were ringing merrily as the people passed by, dressed in
their best clothes, with their prayer-books under their arms. They were going
to hear the clergyman preach. They looked at Little Claus ploughing with his
five horses, and he was so proud that he smacked his whip, and said, “Gee-up,
my five horses.”

“You must not say that,” said Big Claus; “for only one of them belongs to you.”
But Little Claus soon forgot what he ought to say, and when any one passed he
would call out, “Gee-up, my five horses!”

“Now I must beg you not to say that again,” said Big Claus; “for if you do,
I shall hit your horse on the head, so that he will drop dead on the spot, and
there will be an end of him.”

“I promise you I will not say it any more,” said the other; but as soon as
people came by, nodding to him, and wishing him “Good day,” he became so pleased,
and thought how grand it looked to have five horses ploughing in his field,
that he cried out again, “Gee-up, all my horses!”

“I’ll gee-up your horses for you,” said Big Claus; and seizing a hammer, he
struck the one horse of Little Claus on the head, and he fell dead instantly.

“Oh, now I have no horse at all,” said Little Claus, weeping. But after a while
he took off the dead horse’s skin, and hung the hide to dry in the wind. Then
he put the dry skin into a bag, and, placing it over his shoulder, went out
into the next town to sell the horse’s skin. He had a very long way to go, and
had to pass through a dark, gloomy forest. Presently a storm arose, and he lost
his way, and before he discovered the right path, evening came on, and it was
still a long way to the town, and too far to return home before night. Near
the road stood a large farmhouse. The shutters outside the windows were closed,
but lights shone through the crevices at the top. “I might get permission to
stay here for the night,” thought Little Claus; so he went up to the door and
knocked. The farmer’s wife opened the door; but when she heard what he wanted,
she told him to go away, as her husband would not allow her to admit strangers.
“Then I shall be obliged to lie out here,” said Little Claus to himself, as
the farmer’s wife shut the door in his face. Near to the farmhouse stood a large
haystack, and between it and the house was a small shed, with a thatched roof.
“I can lie up there,” said Little Claus, as he saw the roof; “it will make a
famous bed, but I hope the stork will not fly down and bite my legs;” for on
it stood a living stork, whose nest was in the roof. So Little Claus climbed
to the roof of the shed, and while he turned himself to get comfortable, he
discovered that the wooden shutters, which were closed, did not reach to the
tops of the windows of the farmhouse, so that he could see into a room, in which
a large table was laid out with wine, roast meat, and a splendid fish. The farmer’s
wife and the sexton were sitting at the table together; and she filled his glass,
and helped him plenteously to fish, which appeared to be his favorite dish.
“If I could only get some, too,” thought Little Claus; and then, as he stretched
his neck towards the window he spied a large, beautiful pie,—indeed they had
a glorious feast before them.

At this moment he heard some one riding down the road, towards the farmhouse.
It was the farmer returning home. He was a good man, but still he had a very
strange prejudice,—he could not bear the sight of a sexton. If one appeared
before him, he would put himself in a terrible rage. In consequence of this
dislike, the sexton had gone to visit the farmer’s wife during her husband’s
absence from home, and the good woman had placed before him the best she had
in the house to eat. When she heard the farmer coming she was frightened, and
begged the sexton to hide himself in a large empty chest that stood in the room.
He did so, for he knew her husband could not endure the sight of a sexton. The
woman then quickly put away the wine, and hid all the rest of the nice things
in the oven; for if her husband had seen them he would have asked what they
were brought out for.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Little Claus from the top of the shed, as he saw all the
good things disappear.

“Is any one up there?” asked the farmer, looking up and discovering Little
Claus. “Why are you lying up there? Come down, and come into the house with
me.” So Little Claus came down and told the farmer how he had lost his way and
begged for a night’s lodging.

“All right,” said the farmer; “but we must have something to eat first.”

The woman received them both very kindly, laid the cloth on a large table,
and placed before them a dish of porridge. The farmer was very hungry, and ate
his porridge with a good appetite, but Little Claus could not help thinking
of the nice roast meat, fish and pies, which he knew were in the oven. Under
the table, at his feet, lay the sack containing the horse’s skin, which he intended
to sell at the next town. Now Little Claus did not relish the porridge at all,
so he trod with his foot on the sack under the table, and the dry skin squeaked
quite loud. “Hush!” said Little Claus to his sack, at the same time treading
upon it again, till it squeaked louder than before.

“Hallo! what have you got in your sack!” asked the farmer.

“Oh, it is a conjuror,” said Little Claus; “and he says we need not eat porridge,
for he has conjured the oven full of roast meat, fish, and pie.”

“Wonderful!” cried the farmer, starting up and opening the oven door; and there
lay all the nice things hidden by the farmer’s wife, but which he supposed had
been conjured there by the wizard under the table. The woman dared not say anything;
so she placed the things before them, and they both ate of the fish, the meat,
and the pastry.

Then Little Claus trod again upon his sack, and it squeaked as before. “What
does he say now?” asked the farmer.

“He says,” replied Little Claus, “that there are three bottles of wine for
us, standing in the corner, by the oven.”

So the woman was obliged to bring out the wine also, which she had hidden,
and the farmer drank it till he became quite merry. He would have liked such
a conjuror as Little Claus carried in his sack. “Could he conjure up the evil
one?” asked the farmer. “I should like to see him now, while I am so merry.”

“Oh, yes!” replied Little Claus, “my conjuror can do anything I ask him,—can
you not?” he asked, treading at the same time on the sack till it squeaked.
“Do you hear? he answers ’Yes,’ but he fears that we shall not like to look
at him.”

“Oh, I am not afraid. What will he be like?”

“Well, he is very much like a sexton.”

“Ha!” said the farmer, “then he must be ugly. Do you know I cannot endure the
sight of a sexton. However, that doesn’t matter, I shall know who it is; so
I shall not mind. Now then, I have got up my courage, but don’t let him come
too near me.”

“Stop, I must ask the conjuror,” said Little Claus; so he trod on the bag,
and stooped his ear down to listen.

“What does he say?”

“He says that you must go and open that large chest which stands in the corner,
and you will see the evil one crouching down inside; but you must hold the lid
firmly, that he may not slip out.”

“Will you come and help me hold it?” said the farmer, going towards the chest
in which his wife had hidden the sexton, who now lay inside, very much frightened.
The farmer opened the lid a very little way, and peeped in.

“Oh,” cried he, springing backwards, “I saw him, and he is exactly like our
sexton. How dreadful it is!” So after that he was obliged to drink again, and
they sat and drank till far into the night.

“You must sell your conjuror to me,” said the farmer; “ask as much as you like,
I will pay it; indeed I would give you directly a whole bushel of gold.”

“No, indeed, I cannot,” said Little Claus; “only think how much profit I could
make out of this conjuror.”

“But I should like to have him,” said the fanner, still continuing his entreaties.

“Well,” said Little Claus at length, “you have been so good as to give me a
night’s lodging, I will not refuse you; you shall have the conjuror for a bushel
of money, but I will have quite full measure.”

“So you shall,” said the farmer; “but you must take away the chest as well.
I would not have it in the house another hour; there is no knowing if he may
not be still there.”

So Little Claus gave the farmer the sack containing the dried horse’s skin,
and received in exchange a bushel of money—full measure. The farmer also gave
him a wheelbarrow on which to carry away the chest and the gold.

“Farewell,” said Little Claus, as he went off with his money and the great
chest, in which the sexton lay still concealed. On one side of the forest was
a broad, deep river, the water flowed so rapidly that very few were able to
swim against the stream. A new bridge had lately been built across it, and in
the middle of this bridge Little Claus stopped, and said, loud enough to be
heard by the sexton, “Now what shall I do with this stupid chest; it is as heavy
as if it were full of stones: I shall be tired if I roll it any farther, so
I may as well throw it in the river; if it swims after me to my house, well
and good, and if not, it will not much matter.”

So he seized the chest in his hand and lifted it up a little, as if he were
going to throw it into the water.

“No, leave it alone,” cried the sexton from within the chest; “let me out first.”

“Oh,” exclaimed Little Claus, pretending to be frightened, “he is in there
still, is he? I must throw him into the river, that he may be drowned.”

“Oh, no; oh, no,” cried the sexton; “I will give you a whole bushel full of
money if you will let me go.”

“Why, that is another matter,” said Little Claus, opening the chest. The sexton
crept out, pushed the empty chest into the water, and went to his house, then
he measured out a whole bushel full of gold for Little Claus, who had already
received one from the farmer, so that now he had a barrow full.

“I have been well paid for my horse,” said he to himself when he reached home,
entered his own room, and emptied all his money into a heap on the floor. “How
vexed Great Claus will be when he finds out how rich I have become all through
my one horse; but I shall not tell him exactly how it all happened.” Then he
sent a boy to Great Claus to borrow a bushel measure.

“What can he want it for?” thought Great Claus; so he smeared the bottom of
the measure with tar, that some of whatever was put into it might stick there
and remain. And so it happened; for when the measure returned, three new silver
florins were sticking to it.

“What does this mean?” said Great Claus; so he ran off directly to Little Claus,
and asked, “Where did you get so much money?”

“Oh, for my horse’s skin, I sold it yesterday.”

“It was certainly well paid for then,” said Great Claus; and he ran home to
his house, seized a hatchet, and knocked all his four horses on the head, flayed
off their skins, and took them to the town to sell. “Skins, skins, who’ll buy
skins?” he cried, as he went through the streets. All the shoemakers and tanners
came running, and asked how much he wanted for them.

“A bushel of money, for each,” replied Great Claus.

“Are you mad?” they all cried; “do you think we have money to spend by the
bushel?”

“Skins, skins,” he cried again, “who’ll buy skins?” but to all who inquired
the price, his answer was, “a bushel of money.”

“He is making fools of us,” said they all; then the shoemakers took their straps,
and the tanners their leather aprons, and began to beat Great Claus.

“Skins, skins!” they cried, mocking him; “yes, we’ll mark your skin for you,
till it is black and blue.”

“Out of the town with him,” said they. And Great Claus was obliged to run as
fast as he could, he had never before been so thoroughly beaten.

“Ah,” said he, as he came to his house; “Little Claus shall pay me for this;
I will beat him to death.”

Meanwhile the old grandmother of Little Claus died. She had been cross, unkind,
and really spiteful to him; but he was very sorry, and took the dead woman and
laid her in his warm bed to see if he could bring her to life again. There he
determined that she should lie the whole night, while he seated himself in a
chair in a corner of the room as he had often done before. During the night,
as he sat there, the door opened, and in came Great Claus with a hatchet. He
knew well where Little Claus’s bed stood; so he went right up to it, and struck
the old grandmother on the head. thinking it must be Little Claus.

“There,” cried he, “now you cannot make a fool of me again;” and then he went
home.

“That is a very wicked man,” thought Little Claus; “he meant to kill me. It
is a good thing for my old grandmother that she was already dead, or he would
have taken her life.” Then he dressed his old grandmother in her best clothes,
borrowed a horse of his neighbor, and harnessed it to a cart. Then he placed
the old woman on the back seat, so that she might not fall out as he drove,
and rode away through the wood. By sunrise they reached a large inn, where Little
Claus stopped and went to get something to eat. The landlord was a rich man,
and a good man too; but as passionate as if he had been made of pepper and snuff.

“Good morning,” said he to Little Claus; “you are come betimes to-day.”

“Yes,” said Little Claus; “I am going to the town with my old grandmother;
she is sitting at the back of the wagon, but I cannot bring her into the room.
Will you take her a glass of mead? but you must speak very loud, for she cannot
hear well.”

“Yes, certainly I will,” replied the landlord; and, pouring out a glass of
mead, he carried it out to the dead grandmother, who sat upright in the cart.
“Here is a glass of mead from your grandson,” said the landlord. The dead woman
did not answer a word, but sat quite still. “Do you not hear?” cried the landlord
as loud as he could; “here is a glass of mead from your grandson.”

Again and again he bawled it out, but as she did not stir he flew into a passion,
and threw the glass of mead in her face; it struck her on the nose, and she
fell backwards out of the cart, for she was only seated there, not tied in.

“Hallo!” cried Little Claus, rushing out of the door, and seizing hold of the
landlord by the throat; “you have killed my grandmother; see, here is a great
hole in her forehead.”

“Oh, how unfortunate,” said the landlord, wringing his hands. “This all comes
of my fiery temper. Dear Little Claus, I will give you a bushel of money; I
will bury your grandmother as if she were my own; only keep silent, or else
they will cut off my head, and that would be disagreeable.”

So it happened that Little Claus received another bushel of money, and the
landlord buried his old grandmother as if she had been his own. When Little
Claus reached home again, he immediately sent a boy to Great Claus, requesting
him to lend him a bushel measure. “How is this?” thought Great Claus; “did I
not kill him? I must go and see for myself.” So he went to Little Claus, and
took the bushel measure with him. “How did you get all this money?” asked Great
Claus, staring with wide open eyes at his neighbor’s treasures.

“You killed my grandmother instead of me,” said Little Claus; “so I have sold
her for a bushel of money.”

“That is a good price at all events,” said Great Claus. So he went home, took
a hatchet, and killed his old grandmother with one blow. Then he placed her
on a cart, and drove into the town to the apothecary, and asked him if he would
buy a dead body.

“Whose is it, and where did you get it?” asked the apothecary.

“It is my grandmother,” he replied; “I killed her with a blow, that I might
get a bushel of money for her.”

“Heaven preserve us!” cried the apothecary, “you are out of your mind. Don’t
say such things, or you will lose your head.” And then he talked to him seriously
about the wicked deed he had done, and told him that such a wicked man would
surely be punished. Great Claus got so frightened that he rushed out of the
surgery, jumped into the cart, whipped up his horses, and drove home quickly.
The apothecary and all the people thought him mad, and let him drive where he
liked.

“You shall pay for this,” said Great Claus, as soon as he got into the highroad,
“that you shall, Little Claus.” So as soon as he reached home he took the largest
sack he could find and went over to Little Claus. “You have played me another
trick,” said he. “First, I killed all my horses, and then my old grandmother,
and it is all your fault; but you shall not make a fool of me any more.” So
he laid hold of Little Claus round the body, and pushed him into the sack, which
he took on his shoulders, saying, “Now I’m going to drown you in the river.

He had a long way to go before he reached the river, and Little Claus was not
a very light weight to carry. The road led by the church, and as they passed
he could hear the organ playing and the people singing beautifully. Great Claus
put down the sack close to the church-door, and thought he might as well go
in and hear a psalm before he went any farther. Little Claus could not possibly
get out of the sack, and all the people were in church; so in he went.

“Oh dear, oh dear,” sighed Little Claus in the sack, as he turned and twisted
about; but he found he could not loosen the string with which it was tied. Presently
an old cattle driver, with snowy hair, passed by, carrying a large staff in
his hand, with which he drove a large herd of cows and oxen before him. They
stumbled against the sack in which lay Little Claus, and turned it over. “Oh
dear,” sighed Little Claus, “I am very young, yet I am soon going to heaven.”

“And I, poor fellow,” said the drover, “I who am so old already, cannot get
there.”

“Open the sack,” cried Little Claus; “creep into it instead of me, and you
will soon be there.”

“With all my heart,” replied the drover, opening the sack, from which sprung
Little Claus as quickly as possible. “Will you take care of my cattle?” said
the old man, as he crept into the bag.

“Yes,” said Little Claus, and he tied up the sack, and then walked off with
all the cows and oxen.

When Great Claus came out of church, he took up the sack, and placed it on
his shoulders. It appeared to have become lighter, for the old drover was not
half so heavy as Little Claus.

“How light he seems now,” said he. “Ah, it is because I have been to a church.”
So he walked on to the river, which was deep and broad, and threw the sack containing
the old drover into the water, believing it to be Little Claus. “There you may
lie!” he exclaimed; “you will play me no more tricks now.” Then he turned to
go home, but when he came to a place where two roads crossed, there was Little
Claus driving the cattle. “How is this?” said Great Claus. “Did I not drown
you just now?”

“Yes,” said Little Claus; “you threw me into the river about half an hour ago.”

“But wherever did you get all these fine beasts?” asked Great Claus.

“These beasts are sea-cattle,” replied Little Claus. “I’ll tell you the whole
story, and thank you for drowning me; I am above you now, I am really very rich.
I was frightened, to be sure, while I lay tied up in the sack, and the wind
whistled in my ears when you threw me into the river from the bridge, and I
sank to the bottom immediately; but I did not hurt myself, for I fell upon beautifully
soft grass which grows down there; and in a moment, the sack opened, and the
sweetest little maiden came towards me. She had snow-white robes, and a wreath
of green leaves on her wet hair. She took me by the hand, and said, ’So you
are come, Little Claus, and here are some cattle for you to begin with. About
a mile farther on the road, there is another herd for you.’ Then I saw that
the river formed a great highway for the people who live in the sea. They were
walking and driving here and there from the sea to the land at the, spot where
the river terminates. The bed of the river was covered with the loveliest flowers
and sweet fresh grass. The fish swam past me as rapidly as the birds do here
in the air. How handsome all the people were, and what fine cattle were grazing
on the hills and in the valleys!”

“But why did you come up again,” said Great Claus, “if it was all so beautiful
down there? I should not have done so?”

“Well,” said Little Claus, “it was good policy on my part; you heard me say
just now that I was told by the sea-maiden to go a mile farther on the road,
and I should find a whole herd of cattle. By the road she meant the river, for
she could not travel any other way; but I knew the winding of the river, and
how it bends, sometimes to the right and sometimes to the left, and it seemed
a long way, so I chose a shorter one; and, by coming up to the land, and then
driving across the fields back again to the river, I shall save half a mile,
and get all my cattle more quickly.”

“What a lucky fellow you are!” exclaimed Great Claus. “Do you think I should
get any sea-cattle if I went down to the bottom of the river?”

“Yes, I think so,” said Little Claus; “but I cannot carry you there in a sack,
you are too heavy. However if you will go there first, and then creep into a
sack, I will throw you in with the greatest pleasure.”

“Thank you,” said Great Claus; “but remember, if I do not get any sea-cattle
down there I shall come up again and give you a good thrashing.”

“No, now, don’t be too fierce about it!” said Little Claus, as they walked
on towards the river. When they approached it, the cattle, who were very thirsty,
saw the stream, and ran down to drink.

“See what a hurry they are in,” said Little Claus, “they are longing to get
down again,”

“Come, help me, make haste,” said Great Claus; “or you’ll get beaten.” So he
crept into a large sack, which had been lying across the back of one of the
oxen.

“Put in a stone,” said Great Claus, “or I may not sink.”

“Oh, there’s not much fear of that,” he replied; still he put a large stone
into the bag, and then tied it tightly, and gave it a push.

“Plump!” In went Great Claus, and immediately sank to the bottom of the river.

“I’m afraid he will not find any cattle,” said Little Claus, and then he drove
his own beasts homewards.

The Flax

The flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers as delicate as the
wings of a moth, or even more so. The sun shone, and the showers watered it; and
this was just as good for the flax as it is for little children to be washed and
then kissed by their mother. They look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.

“People say that I look exceedingly well,” said the flax, “and that I am so
fine and long that I shall make a beautiful piece of linen. How fortunate I
am; it makes me so happy, it is such a pleasant thing to know that something
can be made of me. How the sunshine cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing
is the rain; my happiness overpowers me, no one in the world can feel happier
than I am.”

“Ah, yes, no doubt,” said the fern, “but you do not know the world yet as well
as I do, for my sticks are knotty;” and then it sung quite mournfully—

“Snip, snap, snurre,
Basse lurre:
The song is ended.”
“No, it is not ended,” said the flax. “To-morrow the sun will shine, or the
rain descend. I feel that I am growing. I feel that I am in full blossom. I
am the happiest of all creatures.”

Well, one day some people came, who took hold of the flax, and pulled it up
by the roots; this was painful; then it was laid in water as if they intended
to drown it; and, after that, placed near a fire as if it were to be roasted;
all this was very shocking. “We cannot expect to be happy always,” said the
flax; “by experiencing evil as well as good, we become wise.” And certainly
there was plenty of evil in store for the flax. It was steeped, and roasted,
and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it. At last
it was put on the spinning wheel. “Whirr, whirr,” went the wheel so quickly
that the flax could not collect its thoughts. “Well, I have been very happy,”
he thought in the midst of his pain, “and must be contented with the past;”
and contented he remained till he was put on the loom, and became a beautiful
piece of white linen. All the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making
this one piece. “Well, this is quite wonderful; I could not have believed that
I should be so favored by fortune. The fern was not wrong with its song of

‘Snip, snap, snurre,
Basse lurre.’
But the song is not ended yet, I am sure; it is only just beginning. How wonderful
it is, that after all I have suffered, I am made something of at last; I am
the luckiest person in the world—so strong and fine; and how white, and what
a length! This is something different to being a mere plant and bearing flowers.
Then I had no attention, nor any water unless it rained; now, I am watched and
taken care of. Every morning the maid turns me over, and I have a shower-bath
from the watering-pot every evening. Yes, and the clergyman’s wife noticed me,
and said I was the best piece of linen in the whole parish. I cannot be happier
than I am now.”
After some time, the linen was taken into the house, placed under the scissors,
and cut and torn into pieces, and then pricked with needles. This certainly
was not pleasant; but at last it was made into twelve garments of that kind
which people do not like to name, and yet everybody should wear one. “See, now,
then,” said the flax; “I have become something of importance. This was my destiny;
it is quite a blessing. Now I shall be of some use in the world, as everyone
ought to be; it is the only way to be happy. I am now divided into twelve pieces,
and yet we are all one and the same in the whole dozen. It is most extraordinary
good fortune.”

Years passed away, and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold
together. “It must end very soon,” said the pieces to each other; “we would
gladly have held together a little longer, but it is useless to expect impossibilities.”
And at length they fell into rags and tatters, and thought it was all over with
them, for they were torn to shreds, and steeped in water, and made into a pulp,
and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves
beautiful white paper. “Well, now, this is a surprise; a glorious surprise too,”
said the paper. “I am now finer than ever, and I shall be written upon, and
who can tell what fine things I may have written upon me. This is wonderful
luck!” And sure enough the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon
it, and only once was there a blot, which was very fortunate. Then people heard
the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that
was written had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing was contained
in the words on this paper.

“I never imagined anything like this,” said the paper, “when I was only a little
blue flower, growing in the fields. How could I fancy that I should ever be
the means of bringing knowledge and joy to man? I cannot understand it myself,
and yet it is really so. Heaven knows that I have done nothing myself, but what
I was obliged to do with my weak powers for my own preservation; and yet I have
been promoted from one joy and honor to another. Each time I think that the
song is ended; and then something higher and better begins for me. I suppose
now I shall be sent on my travels about the world, so that people may read me.
It cannot be otherwise; indeed, it is more than probable; for I have more splendid
thoughts written upon me, than I had pretty flowers in olden times. I am happier
than ever.”

But the paper did not go on its travels; it was sent to the printer, and all
the words written upon it were set up in type, to make a book, or rather, many
hundreds of books; for so many more persons could derive pleasure and profit
from a printed book, than from the written paper; and if the paper had been
sent around the world, it would have been worn out before it had got half through
its journey.

“This is certainly the wisest plan,” said the written paper; “I really did
not think of that. I shall remain at home, and be held in honor, like some old
grandfather, as I really am to all these new books. They will do some good.
I could not have wandered about as they do. Yet he who wrote all this has looked
at me, as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface. I am the most honored
of all.”

Then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers, and thrown into a tub
that stood in the washhouse.

“After work, it is well to rest,” said the paper, “and a very good opportunity
to collect one’s thoughts. Now I am able, for the first time, to think of my
real condition; and to know one’s self is true progress. What will be done with
me now, I wonder? No doubt I shall still go forward. I have always progressed
hitherto, as I know quite well.”

Now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out, and laid
on the hearth to be burnt. People said it could not be sold at the shop, to
wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon. The children in
the house stood round the stove; for they wanted to see the paper burn, because
it flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, so many red sparks
could be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.
They called it seeing the children come out of school, and the last spark was
the schoolmaster. They often thought the last spark had come; and one would
cry, “There goes the schoolmaster;” but the next moment another spark would
appear, shining so beautifully. How they would like to know where the sparks
all went to! Perhaps we shall find out some day, but we don’t know now.

The whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire, and was soon alight.
“Ugh,” cried the paper, as it burst into a bright flame; “ugh.” It was certainly
not very pleasant to be burning; but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the
flames mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise
its little blue flower, and they glistened as the white linen never could have
glistened. All the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the
words and thoughts turned to fire.

“Now I am mounting straight up to the sun,” said a voice in the flames; and
it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words; and the flames darted up through
the chimney, and went out at the top. Then a number of tiny beings, as many
in number as the flowers on the flax had been, and invisible to mortal eyes,
floated above them. They were even lighter and more delicate than the flowers
from which they were born; and as the flames were extinguished, and nothing
remained of the paper but black ashes, these little beings danced upon it; and
whenever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.

“The children are all out of school, and the schoolmaster was the last of all,”
said the children. It was good fun, and they sang over the dead ashes,—

“Snip, snap, snurre,
Basse lure:
The song is ended.”
But the little invisible beings said, “The song is never ended; the most beautiful
is yet to come.”

But the children could neither hear nor understand this, nor should they; for
children must not know everything.

The Last Dream of the Old Oak

In the forest, high up on the steep shore, and not far from the open seacoast,
stood a very old oak-tree. It was just three hundred and sixty-five years old,
but that long time was to the tree as the same number of days might be to us;
we wake by day and sleep by night, and then we have our dreams. It is different
with the tree; it is obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year,
and does not get any sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest; its
night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn. On many a warm summer,
the Ephemera, the flies that exist for only a day, had fluttered about the old
oak, enjoyed life and felt happy and if, for a moment, one of the tiny creatures
rested on one of his large fresh leaves, the tree would always say, “Poor little
creature! your whole life consists only of a single day. How very short. It must
be quite melancholy.”

“Melancholy! what do you mean?” the little creature would always reply. “Everything
around me is so wonderfully bright and warm, and beautiful, that it makes me
joyous.”

“But only for one day, and then it is all over.”

“Over!” repeated the fly; “what is the meaning of all over? Are you all over
too?”

“No; I shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole
seasons long; indeed it is so long that you could never reckon it out.”

“No? then I don’t understand you. You may have thousands of my days, but I
have thousands of moments in which I can be merry and happy. Does all the beauty
of the world cease when you die?”

“No,” replied the tree; “it will certainly last much longer,— infinitely longer
than I can even think of.” “Well, then,” said the little fly, “we have the same
time to live; only we reckon differently.” And the little creature danced and
floated in the air, rejoicing in her delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing
in the balmy breezes, laden with the fragrance of clover-fields and wild roses,
elder-blossoms and honeysuckle, from the garden hedges, wild thyme, primroses,
and mint, and the scent of all these was so strong that the perfume almost intoxicated
the little fly. The long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet
delights, that when the sun sank low it felt tired of all its happiness and
enjoyment. Its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly it glided
down upon the soft waving blades of grass, nodded its little head as well as
it could nod, and slept peacefully and sweetly. The fly was dead.

“Poor little Ephemera!” said the oak; “what a terribly short life!” And so,
on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same questions asked, and the
same answers given. The same thing was continued through many generations of
Ephemera; all of them felt equally merry and equally happy.

The oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of summer, and
the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night drew nigh—winter was coming.
Already the storms were singing, “Good-night, good-night.” Here fell a leaf
and there fell a leaf. “We will rock you and lull you. Go to sleep, go to sleep.
We will sing you to sleep, and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs
good; they will even crackle with pleasure. Sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it
is your three-hundred-and-sixty-fifth night. Correctly speaking, you are but
a youngster in the world. Sleep sweetly, the clouds will drop snow upon you,
which will be quite a cover-lid, warm and sheltering to your feet. Sweet sleep
to you, and pleasant dreams.” And there stood the oak, stripped of all its leaves,
left to rest during the whole of a long winter, and to dream many dreams of
events that had happened in its life, as in the dreams of men. The great tree
had once been small; indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn. According to
human computation, it was now in the fourth century of its existence. It was
the largest and best tree in the forest. Its summit towered above all the other
trees, and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a landmark to
the sailors. It had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly for it. In its topmost
branches the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo carried out his usual
vocal performances, and his well-known notes echoed amid the boughs; and in
autumn, when the leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage
would come and rest upon the branches before taking their flight across the
sea. But now it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every one could
see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth from the trunk.
Crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and talked of the hard times
which were beginning, and how difficult it was in winter to obtain food.

It was just about holy Christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream. The tree
had, doubtless, a kind of feeling that the festive time had arrived, and in
his dream fancied he heard the bells ringing from all the churches round, and
yet it seemed to him to be a beautiful summer’s day, mild and warm. His mighty
summits was crowned with spreading fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played
among the leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and
blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies danced around
him, as if the world had been created merely for them to dance and be merry
in. All that had happened to the tree during every year of his life seemed to
pass before him, as in a festive procession. He saw the knights of olden times
and noble ladies ride by through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes
waving in their hats, and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded,
and the dogs barked. He saw hostile warriors, in colored dresses and glittering
armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents, and anon striking them.
The watchfires again blazed, and men sang and slept under the hospitable shelter
of the tree. He saw lovers meet in quiet happiness near him in the moonshine,
and carve the initials of their names in the grayish-green bark on his trunk.
Once, but long years had intervened since then, guitars and Eolian harps had
been hung on his boughs by merry travellers; now they seemed to hang there again,
and he could hear their marvellous tones. The wood-pigeons cooed as if to explain
the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer
days he had yet to live. Then it seemed as if new life was thrilling through
every fibre of root and stem and leaf, rising even to the highest branches.
The tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while through the root beneath
the earth ran the warm vigor of life. As he grew higher and still higher, with
increased strength, his topmost boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion
to his growth, so was his self-satisfaction increased, and with it arose a joyous
longing to grow higher and higher, to reach even to the warm, bright sun itself.
Already had his topmost branches pierced the clouds, which floated beneath them
like troops of birds of passage, or large white swans; every leaf seemed gifted
with sight, as if it possessed eyes to see. The stars became visible in broad
daylight, large and sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes. They recalled to
the memory the well-known look in the eyes of a child, or in the eyes of lovers
who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak. These were wonderful and
happy moments for the old tree, full of peace and joy; and yet, amidst all this
happiness, the tree felt a yearning, longing desire that all the other trees,
bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath him, might be able also to rise higher, as
he had done, and to see all this splendor, and experience the same happiness.
The grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in the midst of his enjoyment,
while all the rest, both great and small, were not with him. And this feeling
of yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as warmly and
fervently as if they had been the fibres of a human heart. The summit of the
tree waved to and fro, and bent downwards as if in his silent longing he sought
for something. Then there came to him the fragrance of thyme, followed by the
more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets; and he fancied he heard the
note of the cuckoo. At length his longing was satisfied. Up through the clouds
came the green summits of the forest trees, and beneath him, the oak saw them
rising, and growing higher and higher. Bush and herb shot upward, and some even
tore themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly. The birch-tree was the
quickest of all. Like a lightning flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag
line, the branches spreading around it like green gauze and banners. Every native
of the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while
the birds ascended with the melody of song. On a blade of grass, that fluttered
in the air like a long, green ribbon, sat a grasshopper, cleaning his wings
with his legs. May beetles hummed, the bees murmured, the birds sang, each in
his own way; the air was filled with the sounds of song and gladness.

“But where is the little blue flower that grows by the water?” asked the oak,
“and the purple bell-flower, and the daisy?” You see the oak wanted to have
them all with him.

“Here we are, we are here,” sounded in voice and song.

“But the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that? and the lilies-of-the-valley,
which last year covered the earth with their bloom? and the wild apple-tree
with its lovely blossoms, and all the glory of the wood, which has flourished
year after year? even what may have but now sprouted forth could be with us
here.”

“We are here, we are here,” sounded voices higher in the air, as if they had
flown there beforehand.

“Why this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed,” said the oak in a joyful
tone. “I have them all here, both great and small; not one has been forgotten.
Can such happiness be imagined?” It seemed almost impossible.

“In heaven with the Eternal God, it can be imagined, and it is possible,” sounded
the reply through the air.

And the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that his roots
were loosening themselves from the earth.

“It is right so, it is best,” said the tree, “no fetters hold me now. I can
fly up to the very highest point in light and glory. And all I love are with
me, both small and great. All—all are here.”

Such was the dream of the old oak: and while he dreamed, a mighty storm came
rushing over land and sea, at the holy Christmas time. The sea rolled in great
billows towards the shore. There was a cracking and crushing heard in the tree.
The root was torn from the ground just at the moment when in his dream he fancied
it was being loosened from the earth. He fell—his three hundred and sixty-five
years were passed as the single day of the Ephemera. On the morning of Christmas-day,
when the sun rose, the storm had ceased. From all the churches sounded the festive
bells, and from every hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into
the blue sky, like the smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the Druids’
altars. The sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood
the tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy
and festivity. “The tree is down! The old oak,—our landmark on the coast!” exclaimed
the sailors. “It must have fallen in the storm of last night. Who can replace
it? Alas! no one.” This was a funeral oration over the old tree; short, but
well-meant. There it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded
the notes of a song from the ship—a song of Christmas joy, and of the redemption
of the soul of man, and of eternal life through Christ’s atoning blood.

“Sing aloud on the happy morn,
All is fulfilled, for Christ is born;
With songs of joy let us loudly sing,
‘Hallelujahs to Christ our King.’”

Thus sounded the old Christmas carol, and every one on board the ship felt
his thoughts elevated, through the song and the prayer, even as the old tree
had felt lifted up in its last, its beautiful dream on that Christmas morn.

The Last Pearl

We are in a rich, happy house, where the master, the servants, the friends of
the family are full of joy and felicity. For on this day a son and heir has been
born, and mother and child are doing well. The lamp in the bed-chamber had been
partly shaded, and the windows were covered with heavy curtains of some costly
silken material. The carpet was thick and soft, like a covering of moss. Everything
invited to slumber, everything had a charming look of repose; and so the nurse
had discovered, for she slept; and well she might sleep, while everything around
her told of happiness and blessing. The guardian angel of the house leaned against
the head of the bed; while over the child was spread, as it were, a net of shining
stars, and each star was a pearl of happiness. All the good stars of life had
brought their gifts to the newly born; here sparkled health, wealth, fortune,
and love; in short, there seemed to be everything for which man could wish on
earth.

“Everything has been bestowed here,” said the guardian angel.

“No, not everything,” said a voice near him—the voice of the good angel of
the child; “one fairy has not yet brought her gift, but she will, even if years
should elapse, she will bring her gift; it is the last pearl that is wanting.”

“Wanting!” cried the guardian angel; “nothing must be wanting here; and if
it is so, let us fetch it; let us seek the powerful fairy; let us go to her.”

“She will come, she will come some day unsought!”

“Her pearl must not be missing; it must be there, that the crown, when worn,
may be complete. Where is she to be found? Where does she dwell?” said the guardian
angel. “Tell me, and I will procure the pearl.”

“Will you do that?” replied the good angel of the child. “Then I will lead
you to her directly, wherever she may be. She has no abiding place; she rules
in the palace of the emperor, sometimes she enters the peasant’s humble cot;
she passes no one without leaving a trace of her presence. She brings her gift
with her, whether it is a world or a bauble. To this child she must come. You
think that to wait for this time would be long and useless. Well, then, let
us go for this pearl—the only one lacking amidst all this wealth.”

Then hand-in-hand they floated away to the spot where the fairy was now lingering.
It was in a large house with dark windows and empty rooms, in which a peculiar
stillness reigned. A whole row of windows stood open, so that the rude wind
could enter at its pleasure, and the long white curtains waved to and fro in
the current of air. In the centre of one of the rooms stood an open coffin,
in which lay the body of a woman, still in the bloom of youth and very beautiful.
Fresh roses were scattered over her. The delicate folded hands and the noble
face glorified in death by the solemn, earnest look, which spoke of an entrance
into a better world, were alone visible. Around the coffin stood the husband
and children, a whole troop, the youngest in the father’s arms. They were come
to take a last farewell look of their mother. The husband kissed her hand, which
now lay like a withered leaf, but which a short time before had been diligently
employed in deeds of love for them all. Tears of sorrow rolled down their cheeks,
and fell in heavy drops on the floor, but not a word was spoken. The silence
which reigned here expressed a world of grief. With silent steps, still sobbing,
they left the room. A burning light remained in the room, and a long, red wick
rose far above the flame, which fluttered in the draught of air. Strange men
came in and placed the lid of the coffin over the dead, and drove the nails
firmly in; while the blows of the hammer resounded through the house, and echoed
in the hearts that were bleeding.

“Whither art thou leading me?” asked the guardian angel. “Here dwells no fairy
whose pearl could be counted amongst the best gifts of life.”

“Yes, she is here; here in this sacred hour,” replied the angel, pointing to
a corner of the room; and there,—where in her life-time, the mother had taken
her seat amidst flowers and pictures: in that spot, where she, like the blessed
fairy of the house, had welcomed husband, children, and friends, and, like a
sunbeam, had spread joy and cheerfulness around her, the centre and heart of
them all,—there, in that very spot, sat a strange woman, clothed in long, flowing
garments, and occupying the place of the dead wife and mother. It was the fairy,
and her name was “Sorrow.” A hot tear rolled into her lap, and formed itself
into a pearl, glowing with all the colors of the rainbow. The angel seized it:
the, pearl glittered like a star with seven-fold radiance. The pearl of Sorrow,
the last, which must not be wanting, increases the lustre, and explains the
meaning of all the other pearls.

“Do you see the shimmer of the rainbow, which unites earth to heaven?” So has
there been a bridge built between this world and the next. Through the night
of the grave we gaze upwards beyond the stars to the end of all things. Then
we glance at the pearl of Sorrow, in which are concealed the wings which shall
carry us away to eternal happiness.

Two Maidens

Have you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our pavers call a maiden, a thing with
which they ram down the paving-stones in the roads. A maiden of this kind is made
altogether of wood, broad below, and girt round with iron rings. At the top she
is narrow, and has a stick passed across through her waist, and this stick forms
the arms of the maiden.

In the shed stood two Maidens of this kind. They had their place among shovels,
hand-carts, wheelbarrows, and measuring-tapes; and to all this company the news
had come that the Maidens were no longer to be called “maidens,” but “hand-rammers,”
which word was the newest and the only correct designation among the pavers
for the thing we all know from the old times by the name of “the maiden.”

Now, there are among us human creatures certain individuals who are known as
“emancipated women,” as, for instance, principals of institutions, dancers who
stand professionally on one leg, milliners, and sick-nurses; and with this class
of emancipated women the two Maidens in the shed associated themselves. They
were “maidens” among the paver folk, and determined not to give up this honorable
appellation, and let themselves be miscalled “rammers.”

“Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a thing, and we won’t be called
things—that’s insulting us.”

“My lover would be ready to give up his engagement,” said the youngest, who
was betrothed to a paver’s hammer; and the hammer is the thing which drives
great piles into the earth, like a machine, and therefore does on a large scale
what ten maidens effect in a similar way. “He wants to marry me as a maiden,
but whether he would have me were I a hand-rammer is a question, so I won’t
have my name changed.”

“And I,” said the elder one, “would rather have both my arms broken off.”

But the Wheelbarrow was of a different opinion; and the Wheelbarrow was looked
upon as of some consequence, for he considered himself a quarter of a coach,
because he went about upon one wheel.

“I must submit to your notice,” he said, “that the name ‘maiden’ is common
enough, and not nearly so refined as ‘hand-rammer,’ or ‘stamper,’ which latter
has also been proposed, and through which you would be introduced into the category
of seals; and only think of the great stamp of state, which impresses the royal
seal that gives effect to the laws! No, in your case I would surrender my maiden
name.”

“No, certainly not!” exclaimed the elder. “I am too old for that.”

“I presume you have never heard of what is called ‘European necessity?’” observed
the honest Measuring Tape. “One must be able to adapt one’s self to time and
circumstances, and if there is a law that the ‘maiden’ is to be called ‘hand-rammer,’
why, she must be called ‘hand-rammer,’ and no pouting will avail, for everything
has its measure.”

“No; if there must be a change,” said the younger, “I should prefer to be called
‘Missy,’ for that reminds one a little of maidens.”

“But I would rather be chopped to chips,” said the elder.

At last they all went to work. The Maidens rode—that is, they were put in a
wheelbarrow, and that was a distinction; but still they were called “hand-rammers.”

“Mai—!” they said, as they were bumped upon the pavement. “Mai—!” and they
were very nearly pronouncing the whole word “maiden;” but they broke off short,
and swallowed the last syllable; for after mature deliberation they considered
it beneath their dignity to protest. But they always called each other “maiden,”
and praised the good old days in which everything had been called by its right
name, and those who were maidens were called maidens. And they remained as they
were; for the hammer really broke off his engagement with the younger one, for
nothing would suit him but he must have a maiden for his bride.

The Snow Queen

Story the First,
Which Describes a Looking-Glass and the Broken Fragments.

Yuo must attend to the commencement of this story, for when we get to the end
we shall know more than we do now about a very wicked hobgoblin; he was one
of the very worst, for he was a real demon. One day, when he was in a merry
mood, he made a looking-glass which had the power of making everything good
or beautiful that was reflected in it almost shrink to nothing, while everything
that was worthless and bad looked increased in size and worse than ever. The
most lovely landscapes appeared like boiled spinach, and the people became hideous,
and looked as if they stood on their heads and had no bodies. Their countenances
were so distorted that no one could recognize them, and even one freckle on
the face appeared to spread over the whole of the nose and mouth. The demon
said this was very amusing. When a good or pious thought passed through the
mind of any one it was misrepresented in the glass; and then how the demon laughed
at his cunning invention. All who went to the demon’s school—for he kept a school—talked
everywhere of the wonders they had seen, and declared that people could now,
for the first time, see what the world and mankind were really like. They carried
the glass about everywhere, till at last there was not a land nor a people who
had not been looked at through this distorted mirror. They wanted even to fly
with it up to heaven to see the angels, but the higher they flew the more slippery
the glass became, and they could scarcely hold it, till at last it slipped from
their hands, fell to the earth, and was broken into millions of pieces. But
now the looking-glass caused more unhappiness than ever, for some of the fragments
were not so large as a grain of sand, and they flew about the world into every
country. When one of these tiny atoms flew into a person’s eye, it stuck there
unknown to him, and from that moment he saw everything through a distorted medium,
or could see only the worst side of what he looked at, for even the smallest
fragment retained the same power which had belonged to the whole mirror. Some
few persons even got a fragment of the looking-glass in their hearts, and this
was very terrible, for their hearts became cold like a lump of ice. A few of
the pieces were so large that they could be used as window-panes; it would have
been a sad thing to look at our friends through them. Other pieces were made
into spectacles; this was dreadful for those who wore them, for they could see
nothing either rightly or justly. At all this the wicked demon laughed till
his sides shook—it tickled him so to see the mischief he had done. There were
still a number of these little fragments of glass floating about in the air,
and now you shall hear what happened with one of them.

Second Story:
A Little Boy and a Little Girl

In a large town, full of houses and people, there is not room for everybody
to have even a little garden, therefore they are obliged to be satisfied with
a few flowers in flower-pots. In one of these large towns lived two poor children
who had a garden something larger and better than a few flower-pots. They were
not brother and sister, but they loved each other almost as much as if they
had been. Their parents lived opposite to each other in two garrets, where the
roofs of neighboring houses projected out towards each other and the water-pipe
ran between them. In each house was a little window, so that any one could step
across the gutter from one window to the other. The parents of these children
had each a large wooden box in which they cultivated kitchen herbs for their
own use, and a little rose-bush in each box, which grew splendidly. Now after
a while the parents decided to place these two boxes across the water-pipe,
so that they reached from one window to the other and looked like two banks
of flowers. Sweet-peas drooped over the boxes, and the rose-bushes shot forth
long branches, which were trained round the windows and clustered together almost
like a triumphal arch of leaves and flowers. The boxes were very high, and the
children knew they must not climb upon them, without permission, but they were
often, however, allowed to step out together and sit upon their little stools
under the rose-bushes, or play quietly. In winter all this pleasure came to
an end, for the windows were sometimes quite frozen over. But then they would
warm copper pennies on the stove, and hold the warm pennies against the frozen
pane; there would be very soon a little round hole through which they could
peep, and the soft bright eyes of the little boy and girl would beam through
the hole at each window as they looked at each other. Their names were Kay and
Gerda. In summer they could be together with one jump from the window, but in
winter they had to go up and down the long staircase, and out through the snow
before they could meet.

“See there are the white bees swarming,” said Kay’s old grandmother one day
when it was snowing.

“Have they a queen bee?” asked the little boy, for he knew that the real bees
had a queen.

“To be sure they have,” said the grandmother. “She is flying there where the
swarm is thickest. She is the largest of them all, and never remains on the
earth, but flies up to the dark clouds. Often at midnight she flies through
the streets of the town, and looks in at the windows, then the ice freezes on
the panes into wonderful shapes, that look like flowers and castles.”

“Yes, I have seen them,” said both the children, and they knew it must be true.

“Can the Snow Queen come in here?” asked the little girl.

“Only let her come,” said the boy, “I’ll set her on the stove and then she’ll
melt.”

Then the grandmother smoothed his hair and told him some more tales. One evening,
when little Kay was at home, half undressed, he climbed on a chair by the window
and peeped out through the little hole. A few flakes of snow were falling, and
one of them, rather larger than the rest, alighted on the edge of one of the
flower boxes. This snow-flake grew larger and larger, till at last it became
the figure of a woman, dressed in garments of white gauze, which looked like
millions of starry snow-flakes linked together. She was fair and beautiful,
but made of ice—shining and glittering ice. Still she was alive and her eyes
sparkled like bright stars, but there was neither peace nor rest in their glance.
She nodded towards the window and waved her hand. The little boy was frightened
and sprang from the chair; at the same moment it seemed as if a large bird flew
by the window. On the following day there was a clear frost, and very soon came
the spring. The sun shone; the young green leaves burst forth; the swallows
built their nests; windows were opened, and the children sat once more in the
garden on the roof, high above all the other rooms. How beautiful the roses
blossomed this summer. The little girl had learnt a hymn in which roses were
spoken of, and then she thought of their own roses, and she sang the hymn to
the little boy, and he sang too:—

“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
Then the little ones held each other by the hand, and kissed the roses, and
looked at the bright sunshine, and spoke to it as if the Christ-child were there.
Those were splendid summer days. How beautiful and fresh it was out among the
rose-bushes, which seemed as if they would never leave off blooming. One day
Kay and Gerda sat looking at a book full of pictures of animals and birds, and
then just as the clock in the church tower struck twelve, Kay said, “Oh, something
has struck my heart!” and soon after, “There is something in my eye.”

The little girl put her arm round his neck, and looked into his eye, but she
could see nothing.

“I think it is gone,” he said. But it was not gone; it was one of those bits
of the looking-glass—that magic mirror, of which we have spoken—the ugly glass
which made everything great and good appear small and ugly, while all that was
wicked and bad became more visible, and every little fault could be plainly
seen. Poor little Kay had also received a small grain in his heart, which very
quickly turned to a lump of ice. He felt no more pain, but the glass was there
still. “Why do you cry?” said he at last; “it makes you look ugly. There is
nothing the matter with me now. Oh, see!” he cried suddenly, “that rose is worm-eaten,
and this one is quite crooked. After all they are ugly roses, just like the
box in which they stand,” and then he kicked the boxes with his foot, and pulled
off the two roses.

“Kay, what are you doing?” cried the little girl; and then, when he saw how
frightened she was, he tore off another rose, and jumped through his own window
away from little Gerda.

When she afterwards brought out the picture book, he said, “It was only fit
for babies in long clothes,” and when grandmother told any stories, he would
interrupt her with “but;” or, when he could manage it, he would get behind her
chair, put on a pair of spectacles, and imitate her very cleverly, to make people
laugh. By-and-by he began to mimic the speech and gait of persons in the street.
All that was peculiar or disagreeable in a person he would imitate directly,
and people said, “That boy will be very clever; he has a remarkable genius.”
But it was the piece of glass in his eye, and the coldness in his heart, that
made him act like this. He would even tease little Gerda, who loved him with
all her heart. His games, too, were quite different; they were not so childish.
One winter’s day, when it snowed, he brought out a burning-glass, then he held
out the tail of his blue coat, and let the snow-flakes fall upon it. “Look in
this glass, Gerda,” said he; and she saw how every flake of snow was magnified,
and looked like a beautiful flower or a glittering star. “Is it not clever?”
said Kay, “and much more interesting than looking at real flowers. There is
not a single fault in it, and the snow-flakes are quite perfect till they begin
to melt.”

Soon after Kay made his appearance in large thick gloves, and with his sledge
at his back. He called up stairs to Gerda, “I’ve got to leave to go into the
great square, where the other boys play and ride.” And away he went.

In the great square, the boldest among the boys would often tie their sledges
to the country people’s carts, and go with them a good way. This was capital.
But while they were all amusing themselves, and Kay with them, a great sledge
came by; it was painted white, and in it sat some one wrapped in a rough white
fur, and wearing a white cap. The sledge drove twice round the square, and Kay
fastened his own little sledge to it, so that when it went away, he followed
with it. It went faster and faster right through the next street, and then the
person who drove turned round and nodded pleasantly to Kay, just as if they
were acquainted with each other, but whenever Kay wished to loosen his little
sledge the driver nodded again, so Kay sat still, and they drove out through
the town gate. Then the snow began to fall so heavily that the little boy could
not see a hand’s breadth before him, but still they drove on; then he suddenly
loosened the cord so that the large sled might go on without him, but it was
of no use, his little carriage held fast, and away they went like the wind.
Then he called out loudly, but nobody heard him, while the snow beat upon him,
and the sledge flew onwards. Every now and then it gave a jump as if it were
going over hedges and ditches. The boy was frightened, and tried to say a prayer,
but he could remember nothing but the multiplication table.

The snow-flakes became larger and larger, till they appeared like great white
chickens. All at once they sprang on one side, the great sledge stopped, and
the person who had driven it rose up. The fur and the cap, which were made entirely
of snow, fell off, and he saw a lady, tall and white, it was the Snow Queen.

“We have driven well,” said she, “but why do you tremble? here, creep into
my warm fur.” Then she seated him beside her in the sledge, and as she wrapped
the fur round him he felt as if he were sinking into a snow drift.

“Are you still cold,” she asked, as she kissed him on the forehead. The kiss
was colder than ice; it went quite through to his heart, which was already almost
a lump of ice; he felt as if he were going to die, but only for a moment; he
soon seemed quite well again, and did not notice the cold around him.

“My sledge! don’t forget my sledge,” was his first thought, and then he looked
and saw that it was bound fast to one of the white chickens, which flew behind
him with the sledge at its back. The Snow Queen kissed little Kay again, and
by this time he had forgotten little Gerda, his grandmother, and all at home.

“Now you must have no more kisses,” she said, “or I should kiss you to death.”

Kay looked at her, and saw that she was so beautiful, he could not imagine
a more lovely and intelligent face; she did not now seem to be made of ice,
as when he had seen her through his window, and she had nodded to him. In his
eyes she was perfect, and she did not feel at all afraid. He told her he could
do mental arithmetic, as far as fractions, and that he knew the number of square
miles and the number of inhabitants in the country. And she always smiled so
that he thought he did not know enough yet, and she looked round the vast expanse
as she flew higher and higher with him upon a black cloud, while the storm blew
and howled as if it were singing old songs. They flew over woods and lakes,
over sea and land; below them roared the wild wind; the wolves howled and the
snow crackled; over them flew the black screaming crows, and above all shone
the moon, clear and bright,—and so Kay passed through the long winter’s night,
and by day he slept at the feet of the Snow Queen.

Third Story:
The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure

But how fared little Gerda during Kay’s absence? What had become of him, no
one knew, nor could any one give the slightest information, excepting the boys,
who said that he had tied his sledge to another very large one, which had driven
through the street, and out at the town gate. Nobody knew where it went; many
tears were shed for him, and little Gerda wept bitterly for a long time. She
said she knew he must be dead; that he was drowned in the river which flowed
close by the school. Oh, indeed those long winter days were very dreary. But
at last spring came, with warm sunshine. “Kay is dead and gone,” said little
Gerda.

“I don’t believe it,” said the sunshine.

“He is dead and gone,” she said to the sparrows.

“We don’t believe it,” they replied; and at last little Gerda began to doubt
it herself. “I will put on my new red shoes,” she said one morning, “those that
Kay has never seen, and then I will go down to the river, and ask for him.”
It was quite early when she kissed her old grandmother, who was still asleep;
then she put on her red shoes, and went quite alone out of the town gates toward
the river. “Is it true that you have taken my little playmate away from me?”
said she to the river. “I will give you my red shoes if you will give him back
to me.” And it seemed as if the waves nodded to her in a strange manner. Then
she took off her red shoes, which she liked better than anything else, and threw
them both into the river, but they fell near the bank, and the little waves
carried them back to the land, just as if the river would not take from her
what she loved best, because they could not give her back little Kay. But she
thought the shoes had not been thrown out far enough. Then she crept into a
boat that lay among the reeds, and threw the shoes again from the farther end
of the boat into the water, but it was not fastened. And her movement sent it
gliding away from the land. When she saw this she hastened to reach the end
of the boat, but before she could so it was more than a yard from the bank,
and drifting away faster than ever. Then little Gerda was very much frightened,
and began to cry, but no one heard her except the sparrows, and they could not
carry her to land, but they flew along by the shore, and sang, as if to comfort
her, “Here we are! Here we are!” The boat floated with the stream; little Gerda
sat quite still with only her stockings on her feet; the red shoes floated after
her, but she could not reach them because the boat kept so much in advance.
The banks on each side of the river were very pretty. There were beautiful flowers,
old trees, sloping fields, in which cows and sheep were grazing, but not a man
to be seen. Perhaps the river will carry me to little Kay, thought Gerda, and
then she became more cheerful, and raised her head, and looked at the beautiful
green banks; and so the boat sailed on for hours. At length she came to a large
cherry orchard, in which stood a small red house with strange red and blue windows.
It had also a thatched roof, and outside were two wooden soldiers, that presented
arms to her as she sailed past. Gerda called out to them, for she thought they
were alive, but of course they did not answer; and as the boat drifted nearer
to the shore, she saw what they really were. Then Gerda called still louder,
and there came a very old woman out of the house, leaning on a crutch. She wore
a large hat to shade her from the sun, and on it were painted all sorts of pretty
flowers. “You poor little child,” said the old woman, “how did you manage to
come all this distance into the wide world on such a rapid rolling stream?”
And then the old woman walked in the water, seized the boat with her crutch,
drew it to land, and lifted Gerda out. And Gerda was glad to feel herself on
dry ground, although she was rather afraid of the strange old woman. “Come and
tell me who you are,” said she, “and how came you here.”

Then Gerda told her everything, while the old woman shook her head, and said,
“Hem-hem;” and when she had finished, Gerda asked if she had not seen little
Kay, and the old woman told her he had not passed by that way, but he very likely
would come. So she told Gerda not to be sorrowful, but to taste the cherries
and look at the flowers; they were better than any picture-book, for each of
them could tell a story. Then she took Gerda by the hand and led her into the
little house, and the old woman closed the door. The windows were very high,
and as the panes were red, blue, and yellow, the daylight shone through them
in all sorts of singular colors. On the table stood beautiful cherries, and
Gerda had permission to eat as many as she would. While she was eating them
the old woman combed out her long flaxen ringlets with a golden comb, and the
glossy curls hung down on each side of the little round pleasant face, which
looked fresh and blooming as a rose. “I have long been wishing for a dear little
maiden like you,” said the old woman, “and now you must stay with me, and see
how happily we shall live together.” And while she went on combing little Gerda’s
hair, she thought less and less about her adopted brother Kay, for the old woman
could conjure, although she was not a wicked witch; she conjured only a little
for her own amusement, and now, because she wanted to keep Gerda. Therefore
she went into the garden, and stretched out her crutch towards all the rose-trees,
beautiful though they were; and they immediately sunk into the dark earth, so
that no one could tell where they had once stood. The old woman was afraid that
if little Gerda saw roses she would think of those at home, and then remember
little Kay, and run away. Then she took Gerda into the flower-garden. How fragrant
and beautiful it was! Every flower that could be thought of for every season
of the year was here in full bloom; no picture-book could have more beautiful
colors. Gerda jumped for joy, and played till the sun went down behind the tall
cherry-trees; then she slept in an elegant bed with red silk pillows, embroidered
with colored violets; and then she dreamed as pleasantly as a queen on her wedding
day. The next day, and for many days after, Gerda played with the flowers in
the warm sunshine. She knew every flower, and yet, although there were so many
of them, it seemed as if one were missing, but which it was she could not tell.
One day, however, as she sat looking at the old woman’s hat with the painted
flowers on it, she saw that the prettiest of them all was a rose. The old woman
had forgotten to take it from her hat when she made all the roses sink into
the earth. But it is difficult to keep the thoughts together in everything;
one little mistake upsets all our arrangements.

“What, are there no roses here?” cried Gerda; and she ran out into the garden,
and examined all the beds, and searched and searched. There was not one to be
found. Then she sat down and wept, and her tears fell just on the place where
one of the rose-trees had sunk down. The warm tears moistened the earth, and
the rose-tree sprouted up at once, as blooming as when it had sunk; and Gerda
embraced it and kissed the roses, and thought of the beautiful roses at home,
and, with them, of little Kay.

“Oh, how I have been detained!” said the little maiden, “I wanted to seek for
little Kay. Do you know where he is?” she asked the roses; “do you think he
is dead?”

And the roses answered, “No, he is not dead. We have been in the ground where
all the dead lie; but Kay is not there.”

“Thank you,” said little Gerda, and then she went to the other flowers, and
looked into their little cups, and asked, “Do you know where little Kay is?”
But each flower, as it stood in the sunshine, dreamed only of its own little
fairy tale of history. Not one knew anything of Kay. Gerda heard many stories
from the flowers, as she asked them one after another about him.

And what, said the tiger-lily? “Hark, do you hear the drum?— ‘turn, turn,’—there
are only two notes, always, ‘turn, turn.’ Listen to the women’s song of mourning!
Hear the cry of the priest! In her long red robe stands the Hindoo widow by
the funeral pile. The flames rise around her as she places herself on the dead
body of her husband; but the Hindoo woman is thinking of the living one in that
circle; of him, her son, who lighted those flames. Those shining eyes trouble
her heart more painfully than the flames which will soon consume her body to
ashes. Can the fire of the heart be extinguished in the flames of the funeral
pile?”

“I don’t understand that at all,” said little Gerda.

“That is my story,” said the tiger-lily.

What, says the convolvulus? “Near yonder narrow road stands an old knight’s
castle; thick ivy creeps over the old ruined walls, leaf over leaf, even to
the balcony, in which stands a beautiful maiden. She bends over the balustrades,
and looks up the road. No rose on its stem is fresher than she; no apple-blossom,
wafted by the wind, floats more lightly than she moves. Her rich silk rustles
as she bends over and exclaims, ‘Will he not come?’

“Is it Kay you mean?” asked Gerda.

“I am only speaking of a story of my dream,” replied the flower.

What, said the little snow-drop? “Between two trees a rope is hanging; there
is a piece of board upon it; it is a swing. Two pretty little girls, in dresses
white as snow, and with long green ribbons fluttering from their hats, are sitting
upon it swinging. Their brother who is taller than they are, stands in the swing;
he has one arm round the rope, to steady himself; in one hand he holds a little
bowl, and in the other a clay pipe; he is blowing bubbles. As the swing goes
on, the bubbles fly upward, reflecting the most beautiful varying colors. The
last still hangs from the bowl of the pipe, and sways in the wind. On goes the
swing; and then a little black dog comes running up. He is almost as light as
the bubble, and he raises himself on his hind legs, and wants to be taken into
the swing; but it does not stop, and the dog falls; then he barks and gets angry.
The children stoop towards him, and the bubble bursts. A swinging plank, a light
sparkling foam picture,—that is my story.”

“It may be all very pretty what you are telling me,” said little Gerda, “but
you speak so mournfully, and you do not mention little Kay at all.”

What do the hyacinths say? “There were three beautiful sisters, fair and delicate.
The dress of one was red, of the second blue, and of the third pure white. Hand
in hand they danced in the bright moonlight, by the calm lake; but they were
human beings, not fairy elves. The sweet fragrance attracted them, and they
disappeared in the wood; here the fragrance became stronger. Three coffins,
in which lay the three beautiful maidens, glided from the thickest part of the
forest across the lake. The fire-flies flew lightly over them, like little floating
torches. Do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead? The scent of the flower
says that they are corpses. The evening bell tolls their knell.”

“You make me quite sorrowful,” said little Gerda; “your perfume is so strong,
you make me think of the dead maidens. Ah! is little Kay really dead then? The
roses have been in the earth, and they say no.”

“Cling, clang,” tolled the hyacinth bells. “We are not tolling for little Kay;
we do not know him. We sing our song, the only one we know.”

Then Gerda went to the buttercups that were glittering amongst the bright green
leaves.

“You are little bright suns,” said Gerda; “tell me if you know where I can
find my play-fellow.”

And the buttercups sparkled gayly, and looked again at Gerda. What song could
the buttercups sing? It was not about Kay.

“The bright warm sun shone on a little court, on the first warm day of spring.
His bright beams rested on the white walls of the neighboring house; and close
by bloomed the first yellow flower of the season, glittering like gold in the
sun’s warm ray. An old woman sat in her arm chair at the house door, and her
granddaughter, a poor and pretty servant-maid came to see her for a short visit.
When she kissed her grandmother there was gold everywhere: the gold of the heart
in that holy kiss; it was a golden morning; there was gold in the beaming sunlight,
gold in the leaves of the lowly flower, and on the lips of the maiden. There,
that is my story,” said the buttercup.

“My poor old grandmother!” sighed Gerda; “she is longing to see me, and grieving
for me as she did for little Kay; but I shall soon go home now, and take little
Kay with me. It is no use asking the flowers; they know only their own songs,
and can give me no information.”

And then she tucked up her little dress, that she might run faster, but the
narcissus caught her by the leg as she was jumping over it; so she stopped and
looked at the tall yellow flower, and said, “Perhaps you may know something.”

Then she stooped down quite close to the flower, and listened; and what did
he say?

“I can see myself, I can see myself,” said the narcissus. “Oh, how sweet is
my perfume! Up in a little room with a bow window, stands a little dancing girl,
half undressed; she stands sometimes on one leg, and sometimes on both, and
looks as if she would tread the whole world under her feet. She is nothing but
a delusion. She is pouring water out of a tea-pot on a piece of stuff which
she holds in her hand; it is her bodice. ‘Cleanliness is a good thing,’ she
says. Her white dress hangs on a peg; it has also been washed in the tea-pot,
and dried on the roof. She puts it on, and ties a saffron-colored handkerchief
round her neck, which makes the dress look whiter. See how she stretches out
her legs, as if she were showing off on a stem. I can see myself, I can see
myself.”

“What do I care for all that,” said Gerda, “you need not tell me such stuff.”
And then she ran to the other end of the garden. The door was fastened, but
she pressed against the rusty latch, and it gave way. The door sprang open,
and little Gerda ran out with bare feet into the wide world. She looked back
three times, but no one seemed to be following her. At last she could run no
longer, so she sat down to rest on a great stone, and when she looked round
she saw that the summer was over, and autumn very far advanced. She had known
nothing of this in the beautiful garden, where the sun shone and the flowers
grew all the year round.

“Oh, how I have wasted my time?” said little Gerda; “it is autumn. I must not
rest any longer,” and she rose up to go on. But her little feet were wounded
and sore, and everything around her looked so cold and bleak. The long willow-leaves
were quite yellow. The dew-drops fell like water, leaf after leaf dropped from
the trees, the sloe-thorn alone still bore fruit, but the sloes were sour, and
set the teeth on edge. Oh, how dark and weary the whole world appeared!

Fourth Story:
The Prince and Princess

Gerda was obliged to rest again, and just opposite the place where she sat,
she saw a great crow come hopping across the snow toward her. He stood looking
at her for some time, and then he wagged his head and said, “Caw, caw; good-day,
good-day.” He pronounced the words as plainly as he could, because he meant
to be kind to the little girl; and then he asked her where she was going all
alone in the wide world.

The word alone Gerda understood very well, and knew how much it expressed.
So then she told the crow the whole story of her life and adventures, and asked
him if he had seen little Kay.

The crow nodded his head very gravely, and said, “Perhaps I have—it may be.”

“No! Do you think you have?” cried little Gerda, and she kissed the crow, and
hugged him almost to death with joy.

“Gently, gently,” said the crow. “I believe I know. I think it may be little
Kay; but he has certainly forgotten you by this time for the princess.”

“Does he live with a princess?” asked Gerda.

“Yes, listen,” replied the crow, “but it is so difficult to speak your language.
If you understand the crows’ language1 then I can explain it better. Do you?”

“No, I have never learnt it,” said Gerda, “but my grandmother understands it,
and used to speak it to me. I wish I had learnt it.”

“It does not matter,” answered the crow; “I will explain as well as I can,
although it will be very badly done;” and he told her what he had heard. “In
this kingdom where we now are,” said he, “there lives a princess, who is so
wonderfully clever that she has read all the newspapers in the world, and forgotten
them too, although she is so clever. A short time ago, as she was sitting on
her throne, which people say is not such an agreeable seat as is often supposed,
she began to sing a song which commences in these words:

‘Why should I not be married?’
‘Why not indeed?’ said she, and so she determined to marry if she could find
a husband who knew what to say when he was spoken to, and not one who could
only look grand, for that was so tiresome. Then she assembled all her court
ladies together at the beat of the drum, and when they heard of her intentions
they were very much pleased. ‘We are so glad to hear it,’ said they, ‘we were
talking about it ourselves the other day.’ You may believe that every word I
tell you is true,” said the crow, “for I have a tame sweetheart who goes freely
about the palace, and she told me all this.”

Of course his sweetheart was a crow, for “birds of a feather flock together,”
and one crow always chooses another crow.

“Newspapers were published immediately, with a border of hearts, and the initials
of the princess among them. They gave notice that every young man who was handsome
was free to visit the castle and speak with the princess; and those who could
reply loud enough to be heard when spoken to, were to make themselves quite
at home at the palace; but the one who spoke best would be chosen as a husband
for the princess. Yes, yes, you may believe me, it is all as true as I sit here,”
said the crow. “The people came in crowds. There was a great deal of crushing
and running about, but no one succeeded either on the first or second day. They
could all speak very well while they were outside in the streets, but when they
entered the palace gates, and saw the guards in silver uniforms, and the footmen
in their golden livery on the staircase, and the great halls lighted up, they
became quite confused. And when they stood before the throne on which the princess
sat, they could do nothing but repeat the last words she had said; and she had
no particular wish to hear her own words over again. It was just as if they
had all taken something to make them sleepy while they were in the palace, for
they did not recover themselves nor speak till they got back again into the
street. There was quite a long line of them reaching from the town-gate to the
palace. I went myself to see them,” said the crow. “They were hungry and thirsty,
for at the palace they did not get even a glass of water. Some of the wisest
had taken a few slices of bread and butter with them, but they did not share
it with their neighbors; they thought if they went in to the princess looking
hungry, there would be a better chance for themselves.”

“But Kay! tell me about little Kay!” said Gerda, “was he amongst the crowd?”

“Stop a bit, we are just coming to him. It was on the third day, there came
marching cheerfully along to the palace a little personage, without horses or
carriage, his eyes sparkling like yours; he had beautiful long hair, but his
clothes were very poor.”

“That was Kay!” said Gerda joyfully. “Oh, then I have found him;” and she clapped
her hands.

“He had a little knapsack on his back,” added the crow.

“No, it must have been his sledge,” said Gerda; “for he went away with it.”

“It may have been so,” said the crow; “I did not look at it very closely. But
I know from my tame sweetheart that he passed through the palace gates, saw
the guards in their silver uniform, and the servants in their liveries of gold
on the stairs, but he was not in the least embarrassed. ‘It must be very tiresome
to stand on the stairs,’ he said. ‘I prefer to go in.’ The rooms were blazing
with light. Councillors and ambassadors walked about with bare feet, carrying
golden vessels; it was enough to make any one feel serious. His boots creaked
loudly as he walked, and yet he was not at all uneasy.”

“It must be Kay,” said Gerda, “I know he had new boots on, I have heard them
creak in grandmother’s room.”

“They really did creak,” said the crow, “yet he went boldly up to the princess
herself, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spinning wheel, and all the
ladies of the court were present with their maids, and all the cavaliers with
their servants; and each of the maids had another maid to wait upon her, and
the cavaliers’ servants had their own servants, as well as a page each. They
all stood in circles round the princess, and the nearer they stood to the door,
the prouder they looked. The servants’ pages, who always wore slippers, could
hardly be looked at, they held themselves up so proudly by the door.”

“It must be quite awful,” said little Gerda, “but did Kay win the princess?”

“If I had not been a crow,” said he, “I would have married her myself, although
I am engaged. He spoke just as well as I do, when I speak the crows’ language,
so I heard from my tame sweetheart. He was quite free and agreeable and said
he had not come to woo the princess, but to hear her wisdom; and he was as pleased
with her as she was with him.”

“Oh, certainly that was Kay,” said Gerda, “he was so clever; he could work
mental arithmetic and fractions. Oh, will you take me to the palace?”

“It is very easy to ask that,” replied the crow, “but how are we to manage
it? However, I will speak about it to my tame sweetheart, and ask her advice;
for I must tell you it will be very difficult to gain permission for a little
girl like you to enter the palace.”

“Oh, yes; but I shall gain permission easily,” said Gerda, “for when Kay hears
that I am here, he will come out and fetch me in immediately.”

“Wait for me here by the palings,” said the crow, wagging his head as he flew
away.

It was late in the evening before the crow returned. “Caw, caw,” he said, “she
sends you greeting, and here is a little roll which she took from the kitchen
for you; there is plenty of bread there, and she thinks you must be hungry.
It is not possible for you to enter the palace by the front entrance. The guards
in silver uniform and the servants in gold livery would not allow it. But do
not cry, we will manage to get you in; my sweetheart knows a little back-staircase
that leads to the sleeping apartments, and she knows where to find the key.”

Then they went into the garden through the great avenue, where the leaves were
falling one after another, and they could see the light in the palace being
put out in the same manner. And the crow led little Gerda to the back door,
which stood ajar. Oh! how little Gerda’s heart beat with anxiety and longing;
it was just as if she were going to do something wrong, and yet she only wanted
to know where little Kay was. “It must be he,” she thought, “with those clear
eyes, and that long hair.” She could fancy she saw him smiling at her, as he
used to at home, when they sat among the roses. He would certainly be glad to
see her, and to hear what a long distance she had come for his sake, and to
know how sorry they had been at home because he did not come back. Oh what joy
and yet fear she felt! They were now on the stairs, and in a small closet at
the top a lamp was burning. In the middle of the floor stood the tame crow,
turning her head from side to side, and gazing at Gerda, who curtseyed as her
grandmother had taught her to do.

“My betrothed has spoken so very highly of you, my little lady,” said the tame
crow, “your life-history, Vita, as it may be called, is very touching. If you
will take the lamp I will walk before you. We will go straight along this way,
then we shall meet no one.”

“It seems to me as if somebody were behind us,” said Gerda, as something rushed
by her like a shadow on the wall, and then horses with flying manes and thin
legs, hunters, ladies and gentlemen on horseback, glided by her, like shadows
on the wall.

“They are only dreams,” said the crow, “they are coming to fetch the thoughts
of the great people out hunting.”

“All the better, for we shall be able to look at them in their beds more safely.
I hope that when you rise to honor and favor, you will show a grateful heart.”

“You may be quite sure of that,” said the crow from the forest.

They now came into the first hall, the walls of which were hung with rose-colored
satin, embroidered with artificial flowers. Here the dreams again flitted by
them but so quickly that Gerda could not distinguish the royal persons. Each
hall appeared more splendid than the last, it was enought to bewilder any one.
At length they reached a bedroom. The ceiling was like a great palm-tree, with
glass leaves of the most costly crystal, and over the centre of the floor two
beds, each resembling a lily, hung from a stem of gold. One, in which the princess
lay, was white, the other was red; and in this Gerda had to seek for little
Kay. She pushed one of the red leaves aside, and saw a little brown neck. Oh,
that must be Kay! She called his name out quite loud, and held the lamp over
him. The dreams rushed back into the room on horseback. He woke, and turned
his head round, it was not little Kay! The prince was only like him in the neck,
still he was young and pretty. Then the princess peeped out of her white-lily
bed, and asked what was the matter. Then little Gerda wept and told her story,
and all that the crows had done to help her.

“You poor child,” said the prince and princess; then they praised the crows,
and said they were not angry for what they had done, but that it must not happen
again, and this time they should be rewarded.

“Would you like to have your freedom?” asked the princess, “or would you prefer
to be raised to the position of court crows, with all that is left in the kitchen
for yourselves?”

Then both the crows bowed, and begged to have a fixed appointment, for they
thought of their old age, and said it would be so comfortable to feel that they
had provision for their old days, as they called it. And then the prince got
out of his bed, and gave it up to Gerda,—he could do no more; and she lay down.
She folded her little hands, and thought, “How good everyone is to me, men and
animals too;” then she closed her eyes and fell into a sweet sleep. All the
dreams came flying back again to her, and they looked like angels, and one of
them drew a little sledge, on which sat Kay, and nodded to her. But all this
was only a dream, and vanished as soon as she awoke.

The following day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet, and
they invited her to stay at the palace for a few days, and enjoy herself, but
she only begged for a pair of boots, and a little carriage, and a horse to draw
it, so that she might go into the wide world to seek for Kay. And she obtained,
not only boots, but also a muff, and she was neatly dressed; and when she was
ready to go, there, at the door, she found a coach made of pure gold, with the
coat-of-arms of the prince and princess shining upon it like a star, and the
coachman, footman, and outriders all wearing golden crowns on their heads. The
prince and princess themselves helped her into the coach, and wished her success.
The forest crow, who was now married, accompanied her for the first three miles;
he sat by Gerda’s side, as he could not bear riding backwards. The tame crow
stood in the door-way flapping her wings. She could not go with them, because
she had been suffering from headache ever since the new appointment, no doubt
from eating too much. The coach was well stored with sweet cakes, and under
the seat were fruit and gingerbread nuts. “Farewell, farewell,” cried the prince
and princess, and little Gerda wept, and the crow wept; and then, after a few
miles, the crow also said “Farewell,” and this was the saddest parting. However,
he flew to a tree, and stood flapping his black wings as long as he could see
the coach, which glittered in the bright sunshine.

Fifth Story:
Little Robber-Girl

The coach drove on through a thick forest, where it lighted up the way like
a torch, and dazzled the eyes of some robbers, who could not bear to let it
pass them unmolested.

“It is gold! it is gold!” cried they, rushing forward, and seizing the horses.
Then they struck the little jockeys, the coachman, and the footman dead, and
pulled little Gerda out of the carriage.

“She is fat and pretty, and she has been fed with the kernels of nuts,” said
the old robber-woman, who had a long beard and eyebrows that hung over her eyes.
“She is as good as a little lamb; how nice she will taste!” and as she said
this, she drew forth a shining knife, that glittered horribly. “Oh!” screamed
the old woman the same moment; for her own daughter, who held her back, had
bitten her in the ear. She was a wild and naughty girl, and the mother called
her an ugly thing, and had not time to kill Gerda.

“She shall play with me,” said the little robber-girl; “she shall give me her
muff and her pretty dress, and sleep with me in my bed.” And then she bit her
mother again, and made her spring in the air, and jump about; and all the robbers
laughed, and said, “See how she is dancing with her young cub.”

“I will have a ride in the coach,” said the little robber-girl; and she would
have her own way; for she was so self-willed and obstinate.

She and Gerda seated themselves in the coach, and drove away, over stumps and
stones, into the depths of the forest. The little robber-girl was about the
same size as Gerda, but stronger; she had broader shoulders and a darker skin;
her eyes were quite black, and she had a mournful look. She clasped little Gerda
round the waist, and said,—

“They shall not kill you as long as you don’t make us vexed with you. I suppose
you are a princess.”

“No,” said Gerda; and then she told her all her history, and how fond she was
of little Kay.

The robber-girl looked earnestly at her, nodded her head slightly, and said,
“They sha’nt kill you, even if I do get angry with you; for I will do it myself.”
And then she wiped Gerda’s eyes, and stuck her own hands in the beautiful muff
which was so soft and warm.

The coach stopped in the courtyard of a robber’s castle, the walls of which
were cracked from top to bottom. Ravens and crows flew in and out of the holes
and crevices, while great bulldogs, either of which looked as if it could swallow
a man, were jumping about; but they were not allowed to bark. In the large and
smoky hall a bright fire was burning on the stone floor. There was no chimney;
so the smoke went up to the ceiling, and found a way out for itself. Soup was
boiling in a large cauldron, and hares and rabbits were roasting on the spit.

“You shall sleep with me and all my little animals to-night,” said the robber-girl,
after they had had something to eat and drink. So she took Gerda to a corner
of the hall, where some straw and carpets were laid down. Above them, on laths
and perches, were more than a hundred pigeons, who all seemed to be asleep,
although they moved slightly when the two little girls came near them. “These
all belong to me,” said the robber-girl; and she seized the nearest to her,
held it by the feet, and shook it till it flapped its wings. “Kiss it,” cried
she, flapping it in Gerda’s face. “There sit the wood-pigeons,” continued she,
pointing to a number of laths and a cage which had been fixed into the walls,
near one of the openings. “Both rascals would fly away directly, if they were
not closely locked up. And here is my old sweetheart ‘Ba;’” and she dragged
out a reindeer by the horn; he wore a bright copper ring round his neck, and
was tied up. “We are obliged to hold him tight too, or else he would run away
from us also. I tickle his neck every evening with my sharp knife, which frightens
him very much.” And then the robber-girl drew a long knife from a chink in the
wall, and let it slide gently over the reindeer’s neck. The poor animal began
to kick, and the little robber-girl laughed, and pulled down Gerda into bed
with her.

“Will you have that knife with you while you are asleep?” asked Gerda, looking
at it in great fright.

“I always sleep with the knife by me,” said the robber-girl. “No one knows
what may happen. But now tell me again all about little Kay, and why you went
out into the world.”

Then Gerda repeated her story over again, while the wood-pigeons in the cage
over her cooed, and the other pigeons slept. The little robber-girl put one
arm across Gerda’s neck, and held the knife in the other, and was soon fast
asleep and snoring. But Gerda could not close her eyes at all; she knew not
whether she was to live or die. The robbers sat round the fire, singing and
drinking, and the old woman stumbled about. It was a terrible sight for a little
girl to witness.

Then the wood-pigeons said, “Coo, coo; we have seen little Kay. A white fowl
carried his sledge, and he sat in the carriage of the Snow Queen, which drove
through the wood while we were lying in our nest. She blew upon us, and all
the young ones died excepting us two. Coo, coo.”

“What are you saying up there?” cried Gerda. “Where was the Snow Queen going?
Do you know anything about it?”

“She was most likely travelling to Lapland, where there is always snow and
ice. Ask the reindeer that is fastened up there with a rope.”

“Yes, there is always snow and ice,” said the reindeer; “and it is a glorious
place; you can leap and run about freely on the sparkling ice plains. The Snow
Queen has her summer tent there, but her strong castle is at the North Pole,
on an island called Spitzbergen.”

“Oh, Kay, little Kay!” sighed Gerda.

“Lie still,” said the robber-girl, “or I shall run my knife into your body.”

In the morning Gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons had said; and the little
robber-girl looked quite serious, and nodded her head, and said, “That is all
talk, that is all talk. Do you know where Lapland is?” she asked the reindeer.

“Who should know better than I do?” said the animal, while his eyes sparkled.
“I was born and brought up there, and used to run about the snow-covered plains.”

“Now listen,” said the robber-girl; “all our men are gone away,— only mother
is here, and here she will stay; but at noon she always drinks out of a great
bottle, and afterwards sleeps for a little while; and then, I’ll do something
for you.” Then she jumped out of bed, clasped her mother round the neck, and
pulled her by the beard, crying, “My own little nanny goat, good morning.” Then
her mother filliped her nose till it was quite red; yet she did it all for love.

When the mother had drunk out of the bottle, and was gone to sleep, the little
robber-maiden went to the reindeer, and said, “I should like very much to tickle
your neck a few times more with my knife, for it makes you look so funny; but
never mind,—I will untie your cord, and set you free, so that you may run away
to Lapland; but you must make good use of your legs, and carry this little maiden
to the castle of the Snow Queen, where her play-fellow is. You have heard what
she told me, for she spoke loud enough, and you were listening.”

Then the reindeer jumped for joy; and the little robber-girl lifted Gerda on
his back, and had the forethought to tie her on, and even to give her her own
little cushion to sit on.

“Here are your fur boots for you,” said she; “for it will be very cold; but
I must keep the muff; it is so pretty. However, you shall not be frozen for
the want of it; here are my mother’s large warm mittens; they will reach up
to your elbows. Let me put them on. There, now your hands look just like my
mother’s.”

But Gerda wept for joy.

“I don’t like to see you fret,” said the little robber-girl; “you ought to
look quite happy now; and here are two loaves and a ham, so that you need not
starve.” These were fastened on the reindeer, and then the little robber-maiden
opened the door, coaxed in all the great dogs, and then cut the string with
which the reindeer was fastened, with her sharp knife, and said, “Now run, but
mind you take good care of the little girl.” And then Gerda stretched out her
hand, with the great mitten on it, towards the little robber-girl, and said,
“Farewell,” and away flew the reindeer, over stumps and stones, through the
great forest, over marshes and plains, as quickly as he could. The wolves howled,
and the ravens screamed; while up in the sky quivered red lights like flames
of fire. “There are my old northern lights,” said the reindeer; “see how they
flash.” And he ran on day and night still faster and faster, but the loaves
and the ham were all eaten by the time they reached Lapland.

Sixth Story:
The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman

They stopped at a little hut; it was very mean looking; the roof sloped nearly
down to the ground, and the door was so low that the family had to creep in
on their hands and knees, when they went in and out. There was no one at home
but an old Lapland woman, who was cooking fish by the light of a train-oil lamp.
The reindeer told her all about Gerda’s story, after having first told his own,
which seemed to him the most important, but Gerda was so pinched with the cold
that she could not speak. “Oh, you poor things,” said the Lapland woman, “you
have a long way to go yet. You must travel more than a hundred miles farther,
to Finland. The Snow Queen lives there now, and she burns Bengal lights every
evening. I will write a few words on a dried stock-fish, for I have no paper,
and you can take it from me to the Finland woman who lives there; she can give
you better information than I can.” So when Gerda was warmed, and had taken
something to eat and drink, the woman wrote a few words on the dried fish, and
told Gerda to take great care of it. Then she tied her again on the reindeer,
and he set off at full speed. Flash, flash, went the beautiful blue northern
lights in the air the whole night long. And at length they reached Finland,
and knocked at the chimney of the Finland woman’s hut, for it had no door above
the ground. They crept in, but it was so terribly hot inside that that woman
wore scarcely any clothes; she was small and very dirty looking. She loosened
little Gerda’s dress, and took off the fur boots and the mittens, or Gerda would
have been unable to bear the heat; and then she placed a piece of ice on the
reindeer’s head, and read what was written on the dried fish. After she had
read it three times, she knew it by heart, so she popped the fish into the soup
saucepan, as she knew it was good to eat, and she never wasted anything. The
reindeer told his own story first, and then little Gerda’s, and the Finlander
twinkled with her clever eyes, but she said nothing. “You are so clever,” said
the reindeer; “I know you can tie all the winds of the world with a piece of
twine. If a sailor unties one knot, he has a fair wind; when he unties the second,
it blows hard; but if the third and fourth are loosened, then comes a storm,
which will root up whole forests. Cannot you give this little maiden something
which will make her as strong as twelve men, to overcome the Snow Queen?”

“The Power of twelve men!” said the Finland woman; “that would be of very little
use.” But she went to a shelf and took down and unrolled a large skin, on which
were inscribed wonderful characters, and she read till the perspiration ran
down from her forehead. But the reindeer begged so hard for little Gerda, and
Gerda looked at the Finland woman with such beseeching tearful eyes, that her
own eyes began to twinkle again; so she drew the reindeer into a corner, and
whispered to him while she laid a fresh piece of ice on his head, “Little Kay
is really with the Snow Queen, but he finds everything there so much to his
taste and his liking, that he believes it is the finest place in the world;
but this is because he has a piece of broken glass in his heart, and a little
piece of glass in his eye. These must be taken out, or he will never be a human
being again, and the Snow Queen will retain her power over him.”

“But can you not give little Gerda something to help her to conquer this power?”

“I can give her no greater power than she has already,” said the woman; “don’t
you see how strong that is? How men and animals are obliged to serve her, and
how well she has got through the world, barefooted as she is. She cannot receive
any power from me greater than she now has, which consists in her own purity
and innocence of heart. If she cannot herself obtain access to the Snow Queen,
and remove the glass fragments from little Kay, we can do nothing to help her.
Two miles from here the Snow Queen’s garden begins; you can carry the little
girl so far, and set her down by the large bush which stands in the snow, covered
with red berries. Do not stay gossiping, but come back here as quickly as you
can.” Then the Finland woman lifted little Gerda upon the reindeer, and he ran
away with her as quickly as he could.

“Oh, I have forgotten my boots and my mittens,” cried little Gerda, as soon
as she felt the cutting cold, but the reindeer dared not stop, so he ran on
till he reached the bush with the red berries; here he set Gerda down, and he
kissed her, and the great bright tears trickled over the animal’s cheeks; then
he left her and ran back as fast as he could.

There stood poor Gerda, without shoes, without gloves, in the midst of cold,
dreary, ice-bound Finland. She ran forwards as quickly as she could, when a
whole regiment of snow-flakes came round her; they did not, however, fall from
the sky, which was quite clear and glittering with the northern lights. The
snow-flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came to her, the larger
they appeared. Gerda remembered how large and beautiful they looked through
the burning-glass. But these were really larger, and much more terrible, for
they were alive, and were the guards of the Snow Queen, and had the strangest
shapes. Some were like great porcupines, others like twisted serpents with their
heads stretching out, and some few were like little fat bears with their hair
bristled; but all were dazzlingly white, and all were living snow-flakes. Then
little Gerda repeated the Lord’s Prayer, and the cold was so great that she
could see her own breath come out of her mouth like steam as she uttered the
words. The steam appeared to increase, as she continued her prayer, till it
took the shape of little angels who grew larger the moment they touched the
earth. They all wore helmets on their heads, and carried spears and shields.
Their number continued to increase more and more; and by the time Gerda had
finished her prayers, a whole legion stood round her. They thrust their spears
into the terrible snow-flakes, so that they shivered into a hundred pieces,
and little Gerda could go forward with courage and safety. The angels stroked
her hands and feet, so that she felt the cold less, and she hastened on to the
Snow Queen’s castle.

But now we must see what Kay is doing. In truth he thought not of little Gerda,
and never supposed she could be standing in the front of the palace.

Seventh Story:
Of the Palace of the Snow Queen and What Happened There At Last

The walls of the palace were formed of drifted snow, and the windows and doors
of the cutting winds. There were more than a hundred rooms in it, all as if
they had been formed with snow blown together. The largest of them extended
for several miles; they were all lighted up by the vivid light of the aurora,
and they were so large and empty, so icy cold and glittering! There were no
amusements here, not even a little bear’s ball, when the storm might have been
the music, and the bears could have danced on their hind legs, and shown their
good manners. There were no pleasant games of snap-dragon, or touch, or even
a gossip over the tea-table, for the young-lady foxes. Empty, vast, and cold
were the halls of the Snow Queen. The flickering flame of the northern lights
could be plainly seen, whether they rose high or low in the heavens, from every
part of the castle. In the midst of its empty, endless hall of snow was a frozen
lake, broken on its surface into a thousand forms; each piece resembled another,
from being in itself perfect as a work of art, and in the centre of this lake
sat the Snow Queen, when she was at home. She called the lake “The Mirror of
Reason,” and said that it was the best, and indeed the only one in the world.

Little Kay was quite blue with cold, indeed almost black, but he did not feel
it; for the Snow Queen had kissed away the icy shiverings, and his heart was
already a lump of ice. He dragged some sharp, flat pieces of ice to and fro,
and placed them together in all kinds of positions, as if he wished to make
something out of them; just as we try to form various figures with little tablets
of wood which we call “a Chinese puzzle.” Kay’s fingers were very artistic;
it was the icy game of reason at which he played, and in his eyes the figures
were very remarkable, and of the highest importance; this opinion was owing
to the piece of glass still sticking in his eye. He composed many complete figures,
forming different words, but there was one word he never could manage to form,
although he wished it very much. It was the word “Eternity.” The Snow Queen
had said to him, “When you can find out this, you shall be your own master,
and I will give you the whole world and a new pair of skates.” But he could
not accomplish it.

“Now I must hasten away to warmer countries,” said the Snow Queen. “I will
go and look into the black craters of the tops of the burning mountains, Etna
and Vesuvius, as they are called,—I shall make them look white, which will be
good for them, and for the lemons and the grapes.” And away flew the Snow Queen,
leaving little Kay quite alone in the great hall which was so many miles in
length; so he sat and looked at his pieces of ice, and was thinking so deeply,
and sat so still, that any one might have supposed he was frozen.

Just at this moment it happened that little Gerda came through the great door
of the castle. Cutting winds were raging around her, but she offered up a prayer
and the winds sank down as if they were going to sleep; and she went on till
she came to the large empty hall, and caught sight of Kay; she knew him directly;
she flew to him and threw her arms round his neck, and held him fast, while
she exclaimed, “Kay, dear little Kay, I have found you at last.”

But he sat quite still, stiff and cold.

Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his breast, and penetrated
into his heart, and thawed the lump of ice, and washed away the little piece
of glass which had stuck there. Then he looked at her, and she sang—

“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”
Then Kay burst into tears, and he wept so that the splinter of glass swam out
of his eye. Then he recognized Gerda, and said, joyfully, “Gerda, dear little
Gerda, where have you been all this time, and where have I been?” And he looked
all around him, and said, “How cold it is, and how large and empty it all looks,”
and he clung to Gerda, and she laughed and wept for joy. It was so pleasing
to see them that the pieces of ice even danced about; and when they were tired
and went to lie down, they formed themselves into the letters of the word which
the Snow Queen had said he must find out before he could be his own master,
and have the whole world and a pair of new skates. Then Gerda kissed his cheeks,
and they became blooming; and she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own;
she kissed his hands and his feet, and then he became quite healthy and cheerful.
The Snow Queen might come home now when she pleased, for there stood his certainty
of freedom, in the word she wanted, written in shining letters of ice.

Then they took each other by the hand, and went forth from the great palace
of ice. They spoke of the grandmother, and of the roses on the roof, and as
they went on the winds were at rest, and the sun burst forth. When they arrived
at the bush with red berries, there stood the reindeer waiting for them, and
he had brought another young reindeer with him, whose udders were full, and
the children drank her warm milk and kissed her on the mouth. Then they carried
Kay and Gerda first to the Finland woman, where they warmed themselves thoroughly
in the hot room, and she gave them directions about their journey home. Next
they went to the Lapland woman, who had made some new clothes for them, and
put their sleighs in order. Both the reindeer ran by their side, and followed
them as far as the boundaries of the country, where the first green leaves were
budding. And here they took leave of the two reindeer and the Lapland woman,
and all said—Farewell. Then the birds began to twitter, and the forest too was
full of green young leaves; and out of it came a beautiful horse, which Gerda
remembered, for it was one which had drawn the golden coach. A young girl was
riding upon it, with a shining red cap on her head, and pistols in her belt.
It was the little robber-maiden, who had got tired of staying at home; she was
going first to the north, and if that did not suit her, she meant to try some
other part of the world. She knew Gerda directly, and Gerda remembered her:
it was a joyful meeting.

“You are a fine fellow to go gadding about in this way,” said she to little
Kay, “I should like to know whether you deserve that any one should go to the
end of the world to find you.”

But Gerda patted her cheeks, and asked after the prince and princess.

“They are gone to foreign countries,” said the robber-girl.

“And the crow?” asked Gerda.

“Oh, the crow is dead,” she replied; “his tame sweetheart is now a widow, and
wears a bit of black worsted round her leg. She mourns very pitifully, but it
is all stuff. But now tell me how you managed to get him back.”

Then Gerda and Kay told her all about it.

“Snip, snap, snare! it’s all right at last,” said the robber-girl.

Then she took both their hands, and promised that if ever she should pass through
the town, she would call and pay them a visit. And then she rode away into the
wide world. But Gerda and Kay went hand-in-hand towards home; and as they advanced,
spring appeared more lovely with its green verdure and its beautiful flowers.
Very soon they recognized the large town where they lived, and the tall steeples
of the churches, in which the sweet bells were ringing a merry peal as they
entered it, and found their way to their grandmother’s door. They went upstairs
into the little room, where all looked just as it used to do. The old clock
was going “tick, tick,” and the hands pointed to the time of day, but as they
passed through the door into the room they perceived that they were both grown
up, and become a man and woman. The roses out on the roof were in full bloom,
and peeped in at the window; and there stood the little chairs, on which they
had sat when children; and Kay and Gerda seated themselves each on their own
chair, and held each other by the hand, while the cold empty grandeur of the
Snow Queen’s palace vanished from their memories like a painful dream. The grandmother
sat in God’s bright sunshine, and she read aloud from the Bible, “Except ye
become as little children, ye shall in no wise enter into the kingdom of God.”
And Kay and Gerda looked into each other’s eyes, and all at once understood
the words of the old song,

“Roses bloom and cease to be,
But we shall the Christ-child see.”

And they both sat there, grown up, yet children at heart; and it was summer,—warm,
beautiful summer.

The Saucy Boy

Once upon a time there was an old poet, one of those right good old poets.

One evening, as he was sitting at home, there was a terrible storm going on
outside; the rain was pouring down, but the old poet sat comfortably in his
chimney-corner, where the fire was burning and the apples were roasting.

“There will not be a dry thread left on the poor people who are out in this
weather,” he said.

“Oh, open the door! I am so cold and wet through,” called a little child outside.
It was crying and knocking at the door, whilst the rain was pouring down and
the wind was rattling all the windows.

“Poor creature!” said the poet, and got up and opened the door. Before him
stood a little boy; he was naked, and the water flowed from his long fair locks.
He was shivering with cold; if he had not been let in, he would certainly have
perished in the storm.

“Poor little thing!” said the poet, and took him by the hand. “Come to me;
I will soon warm you. You shall have some wine and an apple, for you are such
a pretty boy.”

And he was, too. His eyes sparkled like two bright stars, and although the
water flowed down from his fair locks, they still curled quite beautifully.

He looked like a little angel, but was pale with cold, and trembling all over.
In his hand he held a splendid bow, but it had been entirely spoilt by the rain,
and the colours of the pretty arrows had run into one another by getting wet.

The old man sat down by the fire, and taking the little boy on his knee, wrung
the water out of his locks and warmed his hands in his own.

He then made him some hot spiced wine, which quickly revived him; so that with
reddening cheeks, he sprang upon the floor and danced around the old man.

“You are a merry boy,” said the latter. “What is your name?”

“My name is Cupid,” he answered. “Don’t you know me? There lies my bow. I shoot
with that, you know. Look, the weather is getting fine again—the moon is shining.”

“But your bow is spoilt,” said the old poet.

“That would be unfortunate,” said the little boy, taking it up and looking
at it. “Oh, it’s quite dry and isn’t damaged at all. The string is quite tight;
I’ll try it.” So, drawing it back, he took an arrow, aimed, and shot the good
old poet right in the heart. “Do you see now that my bow was not spoilt?” he
said, and, loudly laughing, ran away. What a naughty boy to shoot the old poet
like that, who had taken him into his warm room, had been so good to him, and
had given him the nicest wine and the best apple!

The good old man lay upon the floor crying; he was really shot in the heart.
“Oh!” he cried, “what a naughty boy this Cupid is! I shall tell all the good
children about this, so that they take care never to play with him, lest he
hurt them.”

And all good children, both girls and boys, whom he told about this, were on
their guard against wicked Cupid; but he deceives them all the same, for he
is very deep. When the students come out of class, he walks beside them with
a book under his arm, and wearing a black coat. They cannot recognize him. And
then, if they take him by the arm, believing him to be a student too, he sticks
an arrow into their chest. And when the girls go to church to be confirmed,
he is amongst them too. In fact, he is always after people. He sits in the large
chandelier in the theatre and blazes away, so that people think it is a lamp;
but they soon find out their mistake. He walks about in the castle garden and
on the promenades. Yes, once he shot your father and your mother in the heart
too. Just ask them, and you will hear what they say. Oh! he is a bad boy, this
Cupid, and you must never have anything to do with him, for he is after every
one. Just think, he even shot an arrow at old grandmother; but that was a long
time ago. The wound has long been healed, but such things are never forgotten.

Now you know what a bad boy this wicked Cupid is.

The Little Mermaid

Far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower,
and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable
could fathom it: many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach
from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above. There dwell the Sea
King and his subjects. We must not imagine that there is nothing at the bottom
of the sea but bare yellow sand. No, indeed; the most singular flowers and plants
grow there; the leaves and stems of which are so pliant, that the slightest agitation
of the water causes them to stir as if they had life. Fishes, both large and small,
glide between the branches, as birds fly among the trees here upon land. In the
deepest spot of all, stands the castle of the Sea King. Its walls are built of
coral, and the long, gothic windows are of the clearest amber. The roof is formed
of shells, that open and close as the water flows over them. Their appearance
is very beautiful, for in each lies a glittering pearl, which would be fit for
the diadem of a queen.

The Sea King had been a widower for many years, and his aged mother kept house
for him. She was a very wise woman, and exceedingly proud of her high birth;
on that account she wore twelve oysters on her tail; while others, also of high
rank, were only allowed to wear six. She was, however, deserving of very great
praise, especially for her care of the little sea-princesses, her grand-daughters.
They were six beautiful children; but the youngest was the prettiest of them
all; her skin was as clear and delicate as a rose-leaf, and her eyes as blue
as the deepest sea; but, like all the others, she had no feet, and her body
ended in a fish’s tail. All day long they played in the great halls of the castle,
or among the living flowers that grew out of the walls. The large amber windows
were open, and the fish swam in, just as the swallows fly into our houses when
we open the windows, excepting that the fishes swam up to the princesses, ate
out of their hands, and allowed themselves to be stroked. Outside the castle
there was a beautiful garden, in which grew bright red and dark blue flowers,
and blossoms like flames of fire; the fruit glittered like gold, and the leaves
and stems waved to and fro continually. The earth itself was the finest sand,
but blue as the flame of burning sulphur. Over everything lay a peculiar blue
radiance, as if it were surrounded by the air from above, through which the
blue sky shone, instead of the dark depths of the sea. In calm weather the sun
could be seen, looking like a purple flower, with the light streaming from the
calyx. Each of the young princesses had a little plot of ground in the garden,
where she might dig and plant as she pleased. One arranged her flower-bed into
the form of a whale; another thought it better to make hers like the figure
of a little mermaid; but that of the youngest was round like the sun, and contained
flowers as red as his rays at sunset. She was a strange child, quiet and thoughtful;
and while her sisters would be delighted with the wonderful things which they
obtained from the wrecks of vessels, she cared for nothing but her pretty red
flowers, like the sun, excepting a beautiful marble statue. It was the representation
of a handsome boy, carved out of pure white stone, which had fallen to the bottom
of the sea from a wreck. She planted by the statue a rose-colored weeping willow.
It grew splendidly, and very soon hung its fresh branches over the statue, almost
down to the blue sands. The shadow had a violet tint, and waved to and fro like
the branches; it seemed as if the crown of the tree and the root were at play,
and trying to kiss each other. Nothing gave her so much pleasure as to hear
about the world above the sea. She made her old grandmother tell her all she
knew of the ships and of the towns, the people and the animals. To her it seemed
most wonderful and beautiful to hear that the flowers of the land should have
fragrance, and not those below the sea; that the trees of the forest should
be green; and that the fishes among the trees could sing so sweetly, that it
was quite a pleasure to hear them. Her grandmother called the little birds fishes,
or she would not have understood her; for she had never seen birds.

“When you have reached your fifteenth year,” said the grand-mother, “you will
have permission to rise up out of the sea, to sit on the rocks in the moonlight,
while the great ships are sailing by; and then you will see both forests and
towns.”

In the following year, one of the sisters would be fifteen: but as each was
a year younger than the other, the youngest would have to wait five years before
her turn came to rise up from the bottom of the ocean, and see the earth as
we do. However, each promised to tell the others what she saw on her first visit,
and what she thought the most beautiful; for their grandmother could not tell
them enough; there were so many things on which they wanted information. None
of them longed so much for her turn to come as the youngest, she who had the
longest time to wait, and who was so quiet and thoughtful. Many nights she stood
by the open window, looking up through the dark blue water, and watching the
fish as they splashed about with their fins and tails. She could see the moon
and stars shining faintly; but through the water they looked larger than they
do to our eyes. When something like a black cloud passed between her and them,
she knew that it was either a whale swimming over her head, or a ship full of
human beings, who never imagined that a pretty little mermaid was standing beneath
them, holding out her white hands towards the keel of their ship.

As soon as the eldest was fifteen, she was allowed to rise to the surface of
the ocean. When she came back, she had hundreds of things to talk about; but
the most beautiful, she said, was to lie in the moonlight, on a sandbank, in
the quiet sea, near the coast, and to gaze on a large town nearby, where the
lights were twinkling like hundreds of stars; to listen to the sounds of the
music, the noise of carriages, and the voices of human beings, and then to hear
the merry bells peal out from the church steeples; and because she could not
go near to all those wonderful things, she longed for them more than ever. Oh,
did not the youngest sister listen eagerly to all these descriptions? and afterwards,
when she stood at the open window looking up through the dark blue water, she
thought of the great city, with all its bustle and noise, and even fancied she
could hear the sound of the church bells, down in the depths of the sea.

In another year the second sister received permission to rise to the surface
of the water, and to swim about where she pleased. She rose just as the sun
was setting, and this, she said, was the most beautiful sight of all. The whole
sky looked like gold, while violet and rose-colored clouds, which she could
not describe, floated over her; and, still more rapidly than the clouds, flew
a large flock of wild swans towards the setting sun, looking like a long white
veil across the sea. She also swam towards the sun; but it sunk into the waves,
and the rosy tints faded from the clouds and from the sea.

The third sister’s turn followed; she was the boldest of them all, and she
swam up a broad river that emptied itself into the sea. On the banks she saw
green hills covered with beautiful vines; palaces and castles peeped out from
amid the proud trees of the forest; she heard the birds singing, and the rays
of the sun were so powerful that she was obliged often to dive down under the
water to cool her burning face. In a narrow creek she found a whole troop of
little human children, quite naked, and sporting about in the water; she wanted
to play with them, but they fled in a great fright; and then a little black
animal came to the water; it was a dog, but she did not know that, for she had
never before seen one. This animal barked at her so terribly that she became
frightened, and rushed back to the open sea. But she said she should never forget
the beautiful forest, the green hills, and the pretty little children who could
swim in the water, although they had not fish’s tails.

The fourth sister was more timid; she remained in the midst of the sea, but
she said it was quite as beautiful there as nearer the land. She could see for
so many miles around her, and the sky above looked like a bell of glass. She
had seen the ships, but at such a great distance that they looked like sea-gulls.
The dolphins sported in the waves, and the great whales spouted water from their
nostrils till it seemed as if a hundred fountains were playing in every direction.

The fifth sister’s birthday occurred in the winter; so when her turn came,
she saw what the others had not seen the first time they went up. The sea looked
quite green, and large icebergs were floating about, each like a pearl, she
said, but larger and loftier than the churches built by men. They were of the
most singular shapes, and glittered like diamonds. She had seated herself upon
one of the largest, and let the wind play with her long hair, and she remarked
that all the ships sailed by rapidly, and steered as far away as they could
from the iceberg, as if they were afraid of it. Towards evening, as the sun
went down, dark clouds covered the sky, the thunder rolled and the lightning
flashed, and the red light glowed on the icebergs as they rocked and tossed
on the heaving sea. On all the ships the sails were reefed with fear and trembling,
while she sat calmly on the floating iceberg, watching the blue lightning, as
it darted its forked flashes into the sea.

When first the sisters had permission to rise to the surface, they were each
delighted with the new and beautiful sights they saw; but now, as grown-up girls,
they could go when they pleased, and they had become indifferent about it. They
wished themselves back again in the water, and after a month had passed they
said it was much more beautiful down below, and pleasanter to be at home. Yet
often, in the evening hours, the five sisters would twine their arms round each
other, and rise to the surface, in a row. They had more beautiful voices than
any human being could have; and before the approach of a storm, and when they
expected a ship would be lost, they swam before the vessel, and sang sweetly
of the delights to be found in the depths of the sea, and begging the sailors
not to fear if they sank to the bottom. But the sailors could not understand
the song, they took it for the howling of the storm. And these things were never
to be beautiful for them; for if the ship sank, the men were drowned, and their
dead bodies alone reached the palace of the Sea King.

When the sisters rose, arm-in-arm, through the water in this way, their youngest
sister would stand quite alone, looking after them, ready to cry, only that
the mermaids have no tears, and therefore they suffer more. “Oh, were I but
fifteen years old,” said she: “I know that I shall love the world up there,
and all the people who live in it.”

At last she reached her fifteenth year. “Well, now, you are grown up,” said
the old dowager, her grandmother; “so you must let me adorn you like your other
sisters;” and she placed a wreath of white lilies in her hair, and every flower
leaf was half a pearl. Then the old lady ordered eight great oysters to attach
themselves to the tail of the princess to show her high rank.

“But they hurt me so,” said the little mermaid.

“Pride must suffer pain,” replied the old lady. Oh, how gladly she would have
shaken off all this grandeur, and laid aside the heavy wreath! The red flowers
in her own garden would have suited her much better, but she could not help
herself: so she said, “Farewell,” and rose as lightly as a bubble to the surface
of the water. The sun had just set as she raised her head above the waves; but
the clouds were tinted with crimson and gold, and through the glimmering twilight
beamed the evening star in all its beauty. The sea was calm, and the air mild
and fresh. A large ship, with three masts, lay becalmed on the water, with only
one sail set; for not a breeze stiffed, and the sailors sat idle on deck or
amongst the rigging. There was music and song on board; and, as darkness came
on, a hundred colored lanterns were lighted, as if the flags of all nations
waved in the air. The little mermaid swam close to the cabin windows; and now
and then, as the waves lifted her up, she could look in through clear glass
window-panes, and see a number of well-dressed people within. Among them was
a young prince, the most beautiful of all, with large black eyes; he was sixteen
years of age, and his birthday was being kept with much rejoicing. The sailors
were dancing on deck, but when the prince came out of the cabin, more than a
hundred rockets rose in the air, making it as bright as day. The little mermaid
was so startled that she dived under water; and when she again stretched out
her head, it appeared as if all the stars of heaven were falling around her,
she had never seen such fireworks before. Great suns spurted fire about, splendid
fireflies flew into the blue air, and everything was reflected in the clear,
calm sea beneath. The ship itself was so brightly illuminated that all the people,
and even the smallest rope, could be distinctly and plainly seen. And how handsome
the young prince looked, as he pressed the hands of all present and smiled at
them, while the music resounded through the clear night air.

It was very late; yet the little mermaid could not take her eyes from the ship,
or from the beautiful prince. The colored lanterns had been extinguished, no
more rockets rose in the air, and the cannon had ceased firing; but the sea
became restless, and a moaning, grumbling sound could be heard beneath the waves:
still the little mermaid remained by the cabin window, rocking up and down on
the water, which enabled her to look in. After a while, the sails were quickly
unfurled, and the noble ship continued her passage; but soon the waves rose
higher, heavy clouds darkened the sky, and lightning appeared in the distance.
A dreadful storm was approaching; once more the sails were reefed, and the great
ship pursued her flying course over the raging sea. The waves rose mountains
high, as if they would have overtopped the mast; but the ship dived like a swan
between them, and then rose again on their lofty, foaming crests. To the little
mermaid this appeared pleasant sport; not so to the sailors. At length the ship
groaned and creaked; the thick planks gave way under the lashing of the sea
as it broke over the deck; the mainmast snapped asunder like a reed; the ship
lay over on her side; and the water rushed in. The little mermaid now perceived
that the crew were in danger; even she herself was obliged to be careful to
avoid the beams and planks of the wreck which lay scattered on the water. At
one moment it was so pitch dark that she could not see a single object, but
a flash of lightning revealed the whole scene; she could see every one who had
been on board excepting the prince; when the ship parted, she had seen him sink
into the deep waves, and she was glad, for she thought he would now be with
her; and then she remembered that human beings could not live in the water,
so that when he got down to her father’s palace he would be quite dead. But
he must not die. So she swam about among the beams and planks which strewed
the surface of the sea, forgetting that they could crush her to pieces. Then
she dived deeply under the dark waters, rising and falling with the waves, till
at length she managed to reach the young prince, who was fast losing the power
of swimming in that stormy sea. His limbs were failing him, his beautiful eyes
were closed, and he would have died had not the little mermaid come to his assistance.
She held his head above the water, and let the waves drift them where they would.

In the morning the storm had ceased; but of the ship not a single fragment
could be seen. The sun rose up red and glowing from the water, and its beams
brought back the hue of health to the prince’s cheeks; but his eyes remained
closed. The mermaid kissed his high, smooth forehead, and stroked back his wet
hair; he seemed to her like the marble statue in her little garden, and she
kissed him again, and wished that he might live. Presently they came in sight
of land; she saw lofty blue mountains, on which the white snow rested as if
a flock of swans were lying upon them. Near the coast were beautiful green forests,
and close by stood a large building, whether a church or a convent she could
not tell. Orange and citron trees grew in the garden, and before the door stood
lofty palms. The sea here formed a little bay, in which the water was quite
still, but very deep; so she swam with the handsome prince to the beach, which
was covered with fine, white sand, and there she laid him in the warm sunshine,
taking care to raise his head higher than his body. Then bells sounded in the
large white building, and a number of young girls came into the garden. The
little mermaid swam out farther from the shore and placed herself between some
high rocks that rose out of the water; then she covered her head and neck with
the foam of the sea so that her little face might not be seen, and watched to
see what would become of the poor prince. She did not wait long before she saw
a young girl approach the spot where he lay. She seemed frightened at first,
but only for a moment; then she fetched a number of people, and the mermaid
saw that the prince came to life again, and smiled upon those who stood round
him. But to her he sent no smile; he knew not that she had saved him. This made
her very unhappy, and when he was led away into the great building, she dived
down sorrowfully into the water, and returned to her father’s castle. She had
always been silent and thoughtful, and now she was more so than ever. Her sisters
asked her what she had seen during her first visit to the surface of the water;
but she would tell them nothing. Many an evening and morning did she rise to
the place where she had left the prince. She saw the fruits in the garden ripen
till they were gathered, the snow on the tops of the mountains melt away; but
she never saw the prince, and therefore she returned home, always more sorrowful
than before. It was her only comfort to sit in her own little garden, and fling
her arm round the beautiful marble statue which was like the prince; but she
gave up tending her flowers, and they grew in wild confusion over the paths,
twining their long leaves and stems round the branches of the trees, so that
the whole place became dark and gloomy. At length she could bear it no longer,
and told one of her sisters all about it. Then the others heard the secret,
and very soon it became known to two mermaids whose intimate friend happened
to know who the prince was. She had also seen the festival on board ship, and
she told them where the prince came from, and where his palace stood.

“Come, little sister,” said the other princesses; then they entwined their
arms and rose up in a long row to the surface of the water, close by the spot
where they knew the prince’s palace stood. It was built of bright yellow shining
stone, with long flights of marble steps, one of which reached quite down to
the sea. Splendid gilded cupolas rose over the roof, and between the pillars
that surrounded the whole building stood life-like statues of marble. Through
the clear crystal of the lofty windows could be seen noble rooms, with costly
silk curtains and hangings of tapestry; while the walls were covered with beautiful
paintings which were a pleasure to look at. In the centre of the largest saloon
a fountain threw its sparkling jets high up into the glass cupola of the ceiling,
through which the sun shone down upon the water and upon the beautiful plants
growing round the basin of the fountain. Now that she knew where he lived, she
spent many an evening and many a night on the water near the palace. She would
swim much nearer the shore than any of the others ventured to do; indeed once
she went quite up the narrow channel under the marble balcony, which threw a
broad shadow on the water. Here she would sit and watch the young prince, who
thought himself quite alone in the bright moonlight. She saw him many times
of an evening sailing in a pleasant boat, with music playing and flags waving.
She peeped out from among the green rushes, and if the wind caught her long
silvery-white veil, those who saw it believed it to be a swan, spreading out
its wings. On many a night, too, when the fishermen, with their torches, were
out at sea, she heard them relate so many good things about the doings of the
young prince, that she was glad she had saved his life when he had been tossed
about half-dead on the waves. And she remembered that his head had rested on
her bosom, and how heartily she had kissed him; but he knew nothing of all this,
and could not even dream of her. She grew more and more fond of human beings,
and wished more and more to be able to wander about with those whose world seemed
to be so much larger than her own. They could fly over the sea in ships, and
mount the high hills which were far above the clouds; and the lands they possessed,
their woods and their fields, stretched far away beyond the reach of her sight.
There was so much that she wished to know, and her sisters were unable to answer
all her questions. Then she applied to her old grandmother, who knew all about
the upper world, which she very rightly called the lands above the sea.

“If human beings are not drowned,” asked the little mermaid, “can they live
forever? do they never die as we do here in the sea?”

“Yes,” replied the old lady, “they must also die, and their term of life is
even shorter than ours. We sometimes live to three hundred years, but when we
cease to exist here we only become the foam on the surface of the water, and
we have not even a grave down here of those we love. We have not immortal souls,
we shall never live again; but, like the green sea-weed, when once it has been
cut off, we can never flourish more. Human beings, on the contrary, have a soul
which lives forever, lives after the body has been turned to dust. It rises
up through the clear, pure air beyond the glittering stars. As we rise out of
the water, and behold all the land of the earth, so do they rise to unknown
and glorious regions which we shall never see.”

“Why have not we an immortal soul?” asked the little mermaid mournfully; “I
would give gladly all the hundreds of years that I have to live, to be a human
being only for one day, and to have the hope of knowing the happiness of that
glorious world above the stars.”

“You must not think of that,” said the old woman; “we feel ourselves to be
much happier and much better off than human beings.”

“So I shall die,” said the little mermaid, “and as the foam of the sea I shall
be driven about never again to hear the music of the waves, or to see the pretty
flowers nor the red sun. Is there anything I can do to win an immortal soul?”

“No,” said the old woman, “unless a man were to love you so much that you were
more to him than his father or mother; and if all his thoughts and all his love
were fixed upon you, and the priest placed his right hand in yours, and he promised
to be true to you here and hereafter, then his soul would glide into your body
and you would obtain a share in the future happiness of mankind. He would give
a soul to you and retain his own as well; but this can never happen. Your fish’s
tail, which amongst us is considered so beautiful, is thought on earth to be
quite ugly; they do not know any better, and they think it necessary to have
two stout props, which they call legs, in order to be handsome.”

Then the little mermaid sighed, and looked sorrowfully at her fish’s tail.
“Let us be happy,” said the old lady, “and dart and spring about during the
three hundred years that we have to live, which is really quite long enough;
after that we can rest ourselves all the better. This evening we are going to
have a court ball.”

It is one of those splendid sights which we can never see on earth. The walls
and the ceiling of the large ball-room were of thick, but transparent crystal.
May hundreds of colossal shells, some of a deep red, others of a grass green,
stood on each side in rows, with blue fire in them, which lighted up the whole
saloon, and shone through the walls, so that the sea was also illuminated. Innumerable
fishes, great and small, swam past the crystal walls; on some of them the scales
glowed with a purple brilliancy, and on others they shone like silver and gold.
Through the halls flowed a broad stream, and in it danced the mermen and the
mermaids to the music of their own sweet singing. No one on earth has such a
lovely voice as theirs. The little mermaid sang more sweetly than them all.
The whole court applauded her with hands and tails; and for a moment her heart
felt quite gay, for she knew she had the loveliest voice of any on earth or
in the sea. But she soon thought again of the world above her, for she could
not forget the charming prince, nor her sorrow that she had not an immortal
soul like his; therefore she crept away silently out of her father’s palace,
and while everything within was gladness and song, she sat in her own little
garden sorrowful and alone. Then she heard the bugle sounding through the water,
and thought—“He is certainly sailing above, he on whom my wishes depend, and
in whose hands I should like to place the happiness of my life. I will venture
all for him, and to win an immortal soul, while my sisters are dancing in my
father’s palace, I will go to the sea witch, of whom I have always been so much
afraid, but she can give me counsel and help.”

And then the little mermaid went out from her garden, and took the road to
the foaming whirlpools, behind which the sorceress lived. She had never been
that way before: neither flowers nor grass grew there; nothing but bare, gray,
sandy ground stretched out to the whirlpool, where the water, like foaming mill-wheels,
whirled round everything that it seized, and cast it into the fathomless deep.
Through the midst of these crushing whirlpools the little mermaid was obliged
to pass, to reach the dominions of the sea witch; and also for a long distance
the only road lay right across a quantity of warm, bubbling mire, called by
the witch her turfmoor. Beyond this stood her house, in the centre of a strange
forest, in which all the trees and flowers were polypi, half animals and half
plants; they looked like serpents with a hundred heads growing out of the ground.
The branches were long slimy arms, with fingers like flexible worms, moving
limb after limb from the root to the top. All that could be reached in the sea
they seized upon, and held fast, so that it never escaped from their clutches.
The little mermaid was so alarmed at what she saw, that she stood still, and
her heart beat with fear, and she was very nearly turning back; but she thought
of the prince, and of the human soul for which she longed, and her courage returned.
She fastened her long flowing hair round her head, so that the polypi might
not seize hold of it. She laid her hands together across her bosom, and then
she darted forward as a fish shoots through the water, between the supple arms
and fingers of the ugly polypi, which were stretched out on each side of her.
She saw that each held in its grasp something it had seized with its numerous
little arms, as if they were iron bands. The white skeletons of human beings
who had perished at sea, and had sunk down into the deep waters, skeletons of
land animals, oars, rudders, and chests of ships were lying tightly grasped
by their clinging arms; even a little mermaid, whom they had caught and strangled;
and this seemed the most shocking of all to the little princess.

She now came to a space of marshy ground in the wood, where large, fat water-snakes
were rolling in the mire, and showing their ugly, drab-colored bodies. In the
midst of this spot stood a house, built with the bones of shipwrecked human
beings. There sat the sea witch, allowing a toad to eat from her mouth, just
as people sometimes feed a canary with a piece of sugar. She called the ugly
water-snakes her little chickens, and allowed them to crawl all over her bosom.

“I know what you want,” said the sea witch; “it is very stupid of you, but
you shall have your way, and it will bring you to sorrow, my pretty princess.
You want to get rid of your fish’s tail, and to have two supports instead of
it, like human beings on earth, so that the young prince may fall in love with
you, and that you may have an immortal soul.” And then the witch laughed so
loud and disgustingly, that the toad and the snakes fell to the ground, and
lay there wriggling about. “You are but just in time,” said the witch; “for
after sunrise to-morrow I should not be able to help you till the end of another
year. I will prepare a draught for you, with which you must swim to land tomorrow
before sunrise, and sit down on the shore and drink it. Your tail will then
disappear, and shrink up into what mankind calls legs, and you will feel great
pain, as if a sword were passing through you. But all who see you will say that
you are the prettiest little human being they ever saw. You will still have
the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will ever tread so
lightly; but at every step you take it will feel as if you were treading upon
sharp knives, and that the blood must flow. If you will bear all this, I will
help you.”

“Yes, I will,” said the little princess in a trembling voice, as she thought
of the prince and the immortal soul.

“But think again,” said the witch; “for when once your shape has become like
a human being, you can no more be a mermaid. You will never return through the
water to your sisters, or to your father’s palace again; and if you do not win
the love of the prince, so that he is willing to forget his father and mother
for your sake, and to love you with his whole soul, and allow the priest to
join your hands that you may be man and wife, then you will never have an immortal
soul. The first morning after he marries another your heart will break, and
you will become foam on the crest of the waves.”

“I will do it,” said the little mermaid, and she became pale as death.

“But I must be paid also,” said the witch, “and it is not a trifle that I ask.
You have the sweetest voice of any who dwell here in the depths of the sea,
and you believe that you will be able to charm the prince with it also, but
this voice you must give to me; the best thing you possess will I have for the
price of my draught. My own blood must be mixed with it, that it may be as sharp
as a two-edged sword.”

“But if you take away my voice,” said the little mermaid, “what is left for
me?”

“Your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive eyes; surely
with these you can enchain a man’s heart. Well, have you lost your courage?
Put out your little tongue that I may cut it off as my payment; then you shall
have the powerful draught.”

“It shall be,” said the little mermaid.

Then the witch placed her cauldron on the fire, to prepare the magic draught.

“Cleanliness is a good thing,” said she, scouring the vessel with snakes, which
she had tied together in a large knot; then she pricked herself in the breast,
and let the black blood drop into it. The steam that rose formed itself into
such horrible shapes that no one could look at them without fear. Every moment
the witch threw something else into the vessel, and when it began to boil, the
sound was like the weeping of a crocodile. When at last the magic draught was
ready, it looked like the clearest water. “There it is for you,” said the witch.
Then she cut off the mermaid’s tongue, so that she became dumb, and would never
again speak or sing. “If the polypi should seize hold of you as you return through
the wood,” said the witch, “throw over them a few drops of the potion, and their
fingers will be torn into a thousand pieces.” But the little mermaid had no
occasion to do this, for the polypi sprang back in terror when they caught sight
of the glittering draught, which shone in her hand like a twinkling star.

So she passed quickly through the wood and the marsh, and between the rushing
whirlpools. She saw that in her father’s palace the torches in the ballroom
were extinguished, and all within asleep; but she did not venture to go in to
them, for now she was dumb and going to leave them forever, she felt as if her
heart would break. She stole into the garden, took a flower from the flower-beds
of each of her sisters, kissed her hand a thousand times towards the palace,
and then rose up through the dark blue waters. The sun had not risen when she
came in sight of the prince’s palace, and approached the beautiful marble steps,
but the moon shone clear and bright. Then the little mermaid drank the magic
draught, and it seemed as if a two-edged sword went through her delicate body:
she fell into a swoon, and lay like one dead. When the sun arose and shone over
the sea, she recovered, and felt a sharp pain; but just before her stood the
handsome young prince. He fixed his coal-black eyes upon her so earnestly that
she cast down her own, and then became aware that her fish’s tail was gone,
and that she had as pretty a pair of white legs and tiny feet as any little
maiden could have; but she had no clothes, so she wrapped herself in her long,
thick hair. The prince asked her who she was, and where she came from, and she
looked at him mildly and sorrowfully with her deep blue eyes; but she could
not speak. Every step she took was as the witch had said it would be, she felt
as if treading upon the points of needles or sharp knives; but she bore it willingly,
and stepped as lightly by the prince’s side as a soap-bubble, so that he and
all who saw her wondered at her graceful-swaying movements. She was very soon
arrayed in costly robes of silk and muslin, and was the most beautiful creature
in the palace; but she was dumb, and could neither speak nor sing.

Beautiful female slaves, dressed in silk and gold, stepped forward and sang
before the prince and his royal parents: one sang better than all the others,
and the prince clapped his hands and smiled at her. This was great sorrow to
the little mermaid; she knew how much more sweetly she herself could sing once,
and she thought, “Oh if he could only know that! I have given away my voice
forever, to be with him.”

The slaves next performed some pretty fairy-like dances, to the sound of beautiful
music. Then the little mermaid raised her lovely white arms, stood on the tips
of her toes, and glided over the floor, and danced as no one yet had been able
to dance. At each moment her beauty became more revealed, and her expressive
eyes appealed more directly to the heart than the songs of the slaves. Every
one was enchanted, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling;
and she danced again quite readily, to please him, though each time her foot
touched the floor it seemed as if she trod on sharp knives.

The prince said she should remain with him always, and she received permission
to sleep at his door, on a velvet cushion. He had a page’s dress made for her,
that she might accompany him on horseback. They rode together through the sweet-scented
woods, where the green boughs touched their shoulders, and the little birds
sang among the fresh leaves. She climbed with the prince to the tops of high
mountains; and although her tender feet bled so that even her steps were marked,
she only laughed, and followed him till they could see the clouds beneath them
looking like a flock of birds travelling to distant lands. While at the prince’s
palace, and when all the household were asleep, she would go and sit on the
broad marble steps; for it eased her burning feet to bathe them in the cold
sea-water; and then she thought of all those below in the deep.

Once during the night her sisters came up arm-in-arm, singing sorrowfully,
as they floated on the water. She beckoned to them, and then they recognized
her, and told her how she had grieved them. After that, they came to the same
place every night; and once she saw in the distance her old grandmother, who
had not been to the surface of the sea for many years, and the old Sea King,
her father, with his crown on his head. They stretched out their hands towards
her, but they did not venture so near the land as her sisters did.

As the days passed, she loved the prince more fondly, and he loved her as he
would love a little child, but it never came into his head to make her his wife;
yet, unless he married her, she could not receive an immortal soul; and, on
the morning after his marriage with another, she would dissolve into the foam
of the sea.

“Do you not love me the best of them all?” the eyes of the little mermaid seemed
to say, when he took her in his arms, and kissed her fair forehead.

“Yes, you are dear to me,” said the prince; “for you have the best heart, and
you are the most devoted to me; you are like a young maiden whom I once saw,
but whom I shall never meet again. I was in a ship that was wrecked, and the
waves cast me ashore near a holy temple, where several young maidens performed
the service. The youngest of them found me on the shore, and saved my life.
I saw her but twice, and she is the only one in the world whom I could love;
but you are like her, and you have almost driven her image out of my mind. She
belongs to the holy temple, and my good fortune has sent you to me instead of
her; and we will never part.”

“Ah, he knows not that it was I who saved his life,” thought the little mermaid.
“I carried him over the sea to the wood where the temple stands: I sat beneath
the foam, and watched till the human beings came to help him. I saw the pretty
maiden that he loves better than he loves me;” and the mermaid sighed deeply,
but she could not shed tears. “He says the maiden belongs to the holy temple,
therefore she will never return to the world. They will meet no more: while
I am by his side, and see him every day. I will take care of him, and love him,
and give up my life for his sake.”

Very soon it was said that the prince must marry, and that the beautiful daughter
of a neighboring king would be his wife, for a fine ship was being fitted out.
Although the prince gave out that he merely intended to pay a visit to the king,
it was generally supposed that he really went to see his daughter. A great company
were to go with him. The little mermaid smiled, and shook her head. She knew
the prince’s thoughts better than any of the others.

“I must travel,” he had said to her; “I must see this beautiful princess; my
parents desire it; but they will not oblige me to bring her home as my bride.
I cannot love her; she is not like the beautiful maiden in the temple, whom
you resemble. If I were forced to choose a bride, I would rather choose you,
my dumb foundling, with those expressive eyes.” And then he kissed her rosy
mouth, played with her long waving hair, and laid his head on her heart, while
she dreamed of human happiness and an immortal soul. “You are not afraid of
the sea, my dumb child,” said he, as they stood on the deck of the noble ship
which was to carry them to the country of the neighboring king. And then he
told her of storm and of calm, of strange fishes in the deep beneath them, and
of what the divers had seen there; and she smiled at his descriptions, for she
knew better than any one what wonders were at the bottom of the sea.

In the moonlight, when all on board were asleep, excepting the man at the helm,
who was steering, she sat on the deck, gazing down through the clear water.
She thought she could distinguish her father’s castle, and upon it her aged
grandmother, with the silver crown on her head, looking through the rushing
tide at the keel of the vessel. Then her sisters came up on the waves, and gazed
at her mournfully, wringing their white hands. She beckoned to them, and smiled,
and wanted to tell them how happy and well off she was; but the cabin-boy approached,
and when her sisters dived down he thought it was only the foam of the sea which
he saw.

The next morning the ship sailed into the harbor of a beautiful town belonging
to the king whom the prince was going to visit. The church bells were ringing,
and from the high towers sounded a flourish of trumpets; and soldiers, with
flying colors and glittering bayonets, lined the rocks through which they passed.
Every day was a festival; balls and entertainments followed one another.

But the princess had not yet appeared. People said that she was being brought
up and educated in a religious house, where she was learning every royal virtue.
At last she came. Then the little mermaid, who was very anxious to see whether
she was really beautiful, was obliged to acknowledge that she had never seen
a more perfect vision of beauty. Her skin was delicately fair, and beneath her
long dark eye-lashes her laughing blue eyes shone with truth and purity.

“It was you,” said the prince, “who saved my life when I lay dead on the beach,”
and he folded his blushing bride in his arms. “Oh, I am too happy,” said he
to the little mermaid; “my fondest hopes are all fulfilled. You will rejoice
at my happiness; for your devotion to me is great and sincere.”

The little mermaid kissed his hand, and felt as if her heart were already broken.
His wedding morning would bring death to her, and she would change into the
foam of the sea. All the church bells rung, and the heralds rode about the town
proclaiming the betrothal. Perfumed oil was burning in costly silver lamps on
every altar. The priests waved the censers, while the bride and bridegroom joined
their hands and received the blessing of the bishop. The little mermaid, dressed
in silk and gold, held up the bride’s train; but her ears heard nothing of the
festive music, and her eyes saw not the holy ceremony; she thought of the night
of death which was coming to her, and of all she had lost in the world. On the
same evening the bride and bridegroom went on board ship; cannons were roaring,
flags waving, and in the centre of the ship a costly tent of purple and gold
had been erected. It contained elegant couches, for the reception of the bridal
pair during the night. The ship, with swelling sails and a favorable wind, glided
away smoothly and lightly over the calm sea. When it grew dark a number of colored
lamps were lit, and the sailors danced merrily on the deck. The little mermaid
could not help thinking of her first rising out of the sea, when she had seen
similar festivities and joys; and she joined in the dance, poised herself in
the air as a swallow when he pursues his prey, and all present cheered her with
wonder. She had never danced so elegantly before. Her tender feet felt as if
cut with sharp knives, but she cared not for it; a sharper pang had pierced
through her heart. She knew this was the last evening she should ever see the
prince, for whom she had forsaken her kindred and her home; she had given up
her beautiful voice, and suffered unheard-of pain daily for him, while he knew
nothing of it. This was the last evening that she would breathe the same air
with him, or gaze on the starry sky and the deep sea; an eternal night, without
a thought or a dream, awaited her: she had no soul and now she could never win
one. All was joy and gayety on board ship till long after midnight; she laughed
and danced with the rest, while the thoughts of death were in her heart. The
prince kissed his beautiful bride, while she played with his raven hair, till
they went arm-in-arm to rest in the splendid tent. Then all became still on
board the ship; the helmsman, alone awake, stood at the helm. The little mermaid
leaned her white arms on the edge of the vessel, and looked towards the east
for the first blush of morning, for that first ray of dawn that would bring
her death. She saw her sisters rising out of the flood: they were as pale as
herself; but their long beautiful hair waved no more in the wind, and had been
cut off.

“We have given our hair to the witch,” said they, “to obtain help for you,
that you may not die to-night. She has given us a knife: here it is, see it
is very sharp. Before the sun rises you must plunge it into the heart of the
prince; when the warm blood falls upon your feet they will grow together again,
and form into a fish’s tail, and you will be once more a mermaid, and return
to us to live out your three hundred years before you die and change into the
salt sea foam. Haste, then; he or you must die before sunrise. Our old grandmother
moans so for you, that her white hair is falling off from sorrow, as ours fell
under the witch’s scissors. Kill the prince and come back; hasten: do you not
see the first red streaks in the sky? In a few minutes the sun will rise, and
you must die.” And then they sighed deeply and mournfully, and sank down beneath
the waves.

The little mermaid drew back the crimson curtain of the tent, and beheld the
fair bride with her head resting on the prince’s breast. She bent down and kissed
his fair brow, then looked at the sky on which the rosy dawn grew brighter and
brighter; then she glanced at the sharp knife, and again fixed her eyes on the
prince, who whispered the name of his bride in his dreams. She was in his thoughts,
and the knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid: then she flung it
far away from her into the waves; the water turned red where it fell, and the
drops that spurted up looked like blood. She cast one more lingering, half-fainting
glance at the prince, and then threw herself from the ship into the sea, and
thought her body was dissolving into foam. The sun rose above the waves, and
his warm rays fell on the cold foam of the little mermaid, who did not feel
as if she were dying. She saw the bright sun, and all around her floated hundreds
of transparent beautiful beings; she could see through them the white sails
of the ship, and the red clouds in the sky; their speech was melodious, but
too ethereal to be heard by mortal ears, as they were also unseen by mortal
eyes. The little mermaid perceived that she had a body like theirs, and that
she continued to rise higher and higher out of the foam. “Where am I?” asked
she, and her voice sounded ethereal, as the voice of those who were with her;
no earthly music could imitate it.

“Among the daughters of the air,” answered one of them. “A mermaid has not
an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the love of a human
being. On the power of another hangs her eternal destiny. But the daughters
of the air, although they do not possess an immortal soul, can, by their good
deeds, procure one for themselves. We fly to warm countries, and cool the sultry
air that destroys mankind with the pestilence. We carry the perfume of the flowers
to spread health and restoration. After we have striven for three hundred years
to all the good in our power, we receive an immortal soul and take part in the
happiness of mankind. You, poor little mermaid, have tried with your whole heart
to do as we are doing; you have suffered and endured and raised yourself to
the spirit-world by your good deeds; and now, by striving for three hundred
years in the same way, you may obtain an immortal soul.”

The little mermaid lifted her glorified eyes towards the sun, and felt them,
for the first time, filling with tears. On the ship, in which she had left the
prince, there were life and noise; she saw him and his beautiful bride searching
for her; sorrowfully they gazed at the pearly foam, as if they knew she had
thrown herself into the waves. Unseen she kissed the forehead of her bride,
and fanned the prince, and then mounted with the other children of the air to
a rosy cloud that floated through the aether.

“After three hundred years, thus shall we float into the kingdom of heaven,”
said she. “And we may even get there sooner,” whispered one of her companions.
“Unseen we can enter the houses of men, where there are children, and for every
day on which we find a good child, who is the joy of his parents and deserves
their love, our time of probation is shortened. The child does not know, when
we fly through the room, that we smile with joy at his good conduct, for we
can count one year less of our three hundred years. But when we see a naughty
or a wicked child, we shed tears of sorrow, and for every tear a day is added
to our time of trial!”

The Daisy

Now listen! In the country, close by the high road, stood a farmhouse; perhaps
you have passed by and seen it yourself. There was a little flower garden with
painted wooden palings in front of it; close by was a ditch, on its fresh green
bank grew a little daisy; the sun shone as warmly and brightly upon it as on the
magnificent garden flowers, and therefore it thrived well. One morning it had
quite opened, and its little snow-white petals stood round the yellow centre,
like the rays of the sun. It did not mind that nobody saw it in the grass, and
that it was a poor despised flower; on the contrary, it was quite happy, and turned
towards the sun, looking upward and listening to the song of the lark high up
in the air.

The little daisy was as happy as if the day had been a great holiday, but it
was only Monday. All the children were at school, and while they were sitting
on the forms and learning their lessons, it sat on its thin green stalk and
learnt from the sun and from its surroundings how kind God is, and it rejoiced
that the song of the little lark expressed so sweetly and distinctly its own
feelings. With a sort of reverence the daisy looked up to the bird that could
fly and sing, but it did not feel envious. “I can see and hear,” it thought;
“the sun shines upon me, and the forest kisses me. How rich I am!”

In the garden close by grew many large and magnificent flowers, and, strange
to say, the less fragrance they had the haughtier and prouder they were. The
peonies puffed themselves up in order to be larger than the roses, but size
is not everything! The tulips had the finest colours, and they knew it well,
too, for they were standing bolt upright like candles, that one might see them
the better. In their pride they did not see the little daisy, which looked over
to them and thought, “How rich and beautiful they are! I am sure the pretty
bird will fly down and call upon them. Thank God, that I stand so near and can
at least see all the splendour.” And while the daisy was still thinking, the
lark came flying down, crying “Tweet,” but not to the peonies and tulips—no,
into the grass to the poor daisy. Its joy was so great that it did not know
what to think. The little bird hopped round it and sang, “How beautifully soft
the grass is, and what a lovely little flower with its golden heart and silver
dress is growing here.” The yellow centre in the daisy did indeed look like
gold, while the little petals shone as brightly as silver.

How happy the daisy was! No one has the least idea. The bird kissed it with
its beak, sang to it, and then rose again up to the blue sky. It was certainly
more than a quarter of an hour before the daisy recovered its senses. Half ashamed,
yet glad at heart, it looked over to the other flowers in the garden; surely
they had witnessed its pleasure and the honour that had been done to it; they
understood its joy. But the tulips stood more stiffly than ever, their faces
were pointed and red, because they were vexed. The peonies were sulky; it was
well that they could not speak, otherwise they would have given the daisy a
good lecture. The little flower could very well see that they were ill at ease,
and pitied them sincerely.

Shortly after this a girl came into the garden, with a large sharp knife. She
went to the tulips and began cutting them off, one after another. “Ugh!” sighed
the daisy, “that is terrible; now they are done for.”

The girl carried the tulips away. The daisy was glad that it was outside, and
only a small flower—it felt very grateful. At sunset it folded its petals, and
fell asleep, and dreamt all night of the sun and the little bird.

On the following morning, when the flower once more stretched forth its tender
petals, like little arms, towards the air and light, the daisy recognised the
bird’s voice, but what it sang sounded so sad. Indeed the poor bird had good
reason to be sad, for it had been caught and put into a cage close by the open
window. It sang of the happy days when it could merrily fly about, of fresh
green corn in the fields, and of the time when it could soar almost up to the
clouds. The poor lark was most unhappy as a prisoner in a cage. The little daisy
would have liked so much to help it, but what could be done? Indeed, that was
very difficult for such a small flower to find out. It entirely forgot how beautiful
everything around it was, how warmly the sun was shining, and how splendidly
white its own petals were. It could only think of the poor captive bird, for
which it could do nothing. Then two little boys came out of the garden; one
of them had a large sharp knife, like that with which the girl had cut the tulips.
They came straight towards the little daisy, which could not understand what
they wanted.

“Here is a fine piece of turf for the lark,” said one of the boys, and began
to cut out a square round the daisy, so that it remained in the centre of the
grass.

“Pluck the flower off” said the other boy, and the daisy trembled for fear,
for to be pulled off meant death to it; and it wished so much to live, as it
was to go with the square of turf into the poor captive lark’s cage.

“No let it stay,” said the other boy, “it looks so pretty.”

And so it stayed, and was brought into the lark’s cage. The poor bird was lamenting
its lost liberty, and beating its wings against the wires; and the little daisy
could not speak or utter a consoling word, much as it would have liked to do
so. So the forenoon passed.

“I have no water,” said the captive lark, “they have all gone out, and forgotten
to give me anything to drink. My throat is dry and burning. I feel as if I had
fire and ice within me, and the air is so oppressive. Alas! I must die, and
part with the warm sunshine, the fresh green meadows, and all the beauty that
God has created.” And it thrust its beak into the piece of grass, to refresh
itself a little. Then it noticed the little daisy, and nodded to it, and kissed
it with its beak and said: “You must also fade in here, poor little flower.
You and the piece of grass are all they have given me in exchange for the whole
world, which I enjoyed outside. Each little blade of grass shall be a green
tree for me, each of your white petals a fragrant flower. Alas! you only remind
me of what I have lost.”

“I wish I could console the poor lark,” thought the daisy. It could not move
one of its leaves, but the fragrance of its delicate petals streamed forth,
and was much stronger than such flowers usually have: the bird noticed it, although
it was dying with thirst, and in its pain tore up the green blades of grass,
but did not touch the flower.

The evening came, and nobody appeared to bring the poor bird a drop of water;
it opened its beautiful wings, and fluttered about in its anguish; a faint and
mournful “Tweet, tweet,” was all it could utter, then it bent its little head
towards the flower, and its heart broke for want and longing. The flower could
not, as on the previous evening, fold up its petals and sleep; it dropped sorrowfully.
The boys only came the next morning; when they saw the dead bird, they began
to cry bitterly, dug a nice grave for it, and adorned it with flowers. The bird’s
body was placed in a pretty red box; they wished to bury it with royal honours.
While it was alive and sang they forgot it, and let it suffer want in the cage;
now, they cried over it and covered it with flowers. The piece of turf, with
the little daisy in it, was thrown out on the dusty highway. Nobody thought
of the flower which had felt so much for the bird and had so greatly desired
to comfort it.

A Rose from Homer’s Grave

All the songs of the east speak of the love of the nightingale for the rose in
the silent starlight night. The winged songster serenades the fragrant flowers.

Not far from Smyrna, where the merchant drives his loaded camels, proudly arching
their long necks as they journey beneath the lofty pines over holy ground, I
saw a hedge of roses. The turtle-dove flew among the branches of the tall trees,
and as the sunbeams fell upon her wings, they glistened as if they were mother-of-pearl.
On the rose-bush grew a flower, more beautiful than them all, and to her the
nightingale sung of his woes; but the rose remained silent, not even a dewdrop
lay like a tear of sympathy on her leaves. At last she bowed her head over a
heap of stones, and said, “Here rests the greatest singer in the world; over
his tomb will I spread my fragrance, and on it I will let my leaves fall when
the storm scatters them. He who sung of Troy became earth, and from that earth
I have sprung. I, a rose from the grave of Homer, am too lofty to bloom for
a nightingale.” Then the nightingale sung himself to death. A camel-driver came
by, with his loaded camels and his black slaves; his little son found the dead
bird, and buried the lovely songster in the grave of the great Homer, while
the rose trembled in the wind.

The evening came, and the rose wrapped her leaves more closely round her, and
dreamed: and this was her dream.

It was a fair sunshiny day; a crowd of strangers drew near who had undertaken
a pilgrimage to the grave of Homer. Among the strangers was a minstrel from
the north, the home of the clouds and the brilliant lights of the aurora borealis.
He plucked the rose and placed it in a book, and carried it away into a distant
part of the world, his fatherland. The rose faded with grief, and lay between
the leaves of the book, which he opened in his own home, saying, “Here is a
rose from the grave of Homer.”

Then the flower awoke from her dream, and trembled in the wind. A drop of dew
fell from the leaves upon the singer’s grave. The sun rose, and the flower bloomed
more beautiful than ever. The day was hot, and she was still in her own warm
Asia. Then footsteps approached, strangers, such as the rose had seen in her
dream, came by, and among them was a poet from the north; he plucked the rose,
pressed a kiss upon her fresh mouth, and carried her away to the home of the
clouds and the northern lights. Like a mummy, the flower now rests in his “Iliad,”
and, as in her dream, she hears him say, as he opens the book, “Here is a rose
from the grave of Homer.”

Children’s Prattle

The Garden of Paradise

There was once a king’s son, no one had so many beautiful books as he. In them
he could read of everything that had ever happened in this world, and he could
see it all pictured in fine illustrations. He could find out about every race
of people and every country, but there was not a single word about where to find
the Garden of Paradise, and this, just this, was the very thing that he thought
most about.

When he was still very young and was about to start his schooling, his grandmother
had told him that each flower in the Garden of Paradise was made of the sweetest
cake, and that the pistils were bottles full of finest wine. On one sort of
flower, she told, history was written, on another geography, or multiplication
tables, so that one only had to eat cake to know one’s lesson, and the more
one ate, the more history, geography, or arithmetic one would know.

At the time he believed her, but when the boy grew older and more learned and
much wiser, he knew that the glories of the Garden of Paradise must be of a
very different sort.

"Oh, why did Eve have to pick fruit from the tree of knowledge, and why
did Adam eat what was forbidden him? Now if it had only been I, that would never
have happened, and sin would never have come into the world." He said it
then, and when he was seventeen he said it still. The Garden of Paradise was
always in his thoughts.

He went walking in the woods one day. He walked alone, for this was his favorite
amusement. Evening came on, the clouds gathered, and the rain poured down as
if the sky were all one big floodgate from which the water plunged. It was as
dark as it would be at night in the deepest well. He kept slipping on the wet
grass, and tripping over the stones that stuck out of the rocky soil. Everything
was soaking wet, and at length the poor Prince didn’t have a dry stitch to his
back. He had to scramble over great boulders where the water trickled from the
wet moss. He had almost fainted, when he heard a strange puffing and saw a huge
cave ahead of him. It was brightly lit, for inside the cave burned a fire so
large that it could have roasted a stag. And this was actually being done. A
magnificent deer, antlers and all, had been stuck on a spit, and was being slowly
turned between the rough-hewn trunks of two pine trees. An elderly woman, so
burly and strong that she might have been taken for a man in disguise, sat by
the fire and threw log after log upon it.

"You can come nearer," she said. "Sit down by the fire and let
your clothes dry."

"There’s an awful draft here," the Prince remarked, as he seated
himself on the ground.

"It will be still worse when my sons get home," the woman told him.
"You are in the cave of the winds, and my sons are the four winds of the
world. Do I make myself clear?"

"Where are your sons?" the Prince asked.

"Such a stupid question is hard to answer," the woman told him. "My
sons go their own ways, playing ball with the clouds in that great hall. "And
she pointed up toward the sky.

"Really!" said the Prince. "I notice that you have a rather
forceful way of speaking, and are not as gentle as the women I usually see around
me."

"I suppose they have nothing better to do. I have to be harsh to control
those sons of mine. I manage to do it, for all that they are an obstinate lot.
See the four sacks that hang there on the wall! They dread those as much as
you used to dread the switch that was kept behind the mirror for you. I can
fold the boys right up, let me tell you, and pop them straight into the bag.
We don’t mince matters. There they stay. They aren’t allowed to roam around
again until I see fit to let them. But here comes one of them."

It was the North Wind who came hurtling in, with a cold blast of snowflakes
that swirled about him and great hailstones that rattled on the floor. He was
wearing a bear-skin coat and trousers; a seal-skin cap was pulled over his ears;
long icicles hung from his beard; and hailstone after hailstone fell from the
collar of his coat.

"Don’t go right up to the fire so quickly," the Prince warned him.
"Your face and hands might get frostbite."

"Frostbite!" the North Wind laughed his loudest. "Frostbite!
Why, frost is my chief delight. But what sort of ‘longleg’ are you? How do you
come to be in the cave of the winds?"

"He is here as my guest," the old woman intervened. "And if
that explanation doesn’t suit you, into the sack you go. Do I make myself clear?"

She made herself clear enough. The North Wind now talked of whence he had come,
and where he had traveled for almost a month.

"I come from the Arctic Sea," he told them. "I have been on
Bear Island with the Russian walrus hunters. I lay beside the helm, and slept
as they sailed from the North Cape. When I awoke from time to time the storm
bird circled about my knees. There’s an odd bird for you! He gives a quick flap
of his wings, and then holds them perfectly still and rushes along at full speed."

"Don’t be so long-winded," his mother told him. "So you came
to Bear Island?"

"It’s a wonderful place! There’s a dancing floor for you, as flat as a
platter! The surface of the island is all half-melted snow, little patches of
moss, and outcropping rocks. Scattered about are the bones of whales and polar
bears, colored a moldy green, and looking like the arms and legs of some giant.

"You’d have thought that the sun never shone there. I blew the fog away
a bit, so that the house could be seen. It was a hut built of wreckage and covered
with walrus skins, the fleshy side turned outward, and smeared with reds and
greens. A love polar bear sat growling on the roof of it.

"I went to the shore and looked at bird nests, and when I saw the featherless
nestlings shrieking, with their beaks wide open, I blew down into their thousand
throats. That taught them to shut their mouths. Further along, great walruses
were wallowing about like monstrous maggots, with pigs’ heads, and tusks a yard
long."

"How well you do tell a story, my son," the old woman said. "My
mouth waters when I hear you!"

"The hunt began. The harpoon was hurled into the walrus’s breast, and
a streaming blood stream spurted across the ice like a fountain. This reminded
me of my own sport. I blew my sailing ships, those towering icebergs, against
the boats until their timbers cracked. Ho! how the crew whistled and shouted.
But I outwhistled them all. Overboard on the ice they had to throw their dead
walruses, their tackle, and even their sea chests. I shrouded them in snow,
and let them drift south with their broken boats and their booty alongside,
for a taste of the open sea. They won’t ever come back to Bear Island."
"That was a wicked thing to do," said the mother of the winds.

"I’ll let others tell of my good deeds," he said. "But here
comes my brother from the west. I like him best of all. He has a seafaring air
about him, and carries a refreshing touch of coolness wherever he goes."

"Is that little Zephyr?" the Prince asked.

"Of course it’s Zephyr," the old woman replied, "but he’s not
little. He was a nice boy once, but that was years ago."

He looked like a savage, except that he wore a broad-rimmed hat to shield his
face. In his hand he carried a mahogany bludgeon, cut in the mahogany forests
of America. Nothing less would do!

"Where have you come from?" his mother asked.

"I come from the forest wilderness," he said, "where the thorny
vines make a fence between every tree, where the water snake lurks in the wet
grass, and where people seem unnecessary."

"What were you doing there?"

"I gazed into the deepest of rivers, and saw how it rushed through the
rapids and threw up a cloud of spray large enough to hold the rainbow. I saw
a wild buffalo wading in the river, but it swept him away. He swam with a flock
of wild ducks, that flew up when the river went over a waterfall. But the buffalo
had to plunge down it. That amused me so much that I blew up a storm, which
broke age-old trees into splinters."

"Haven’t you done anything else?" the old woman asked him.

"I turned somersaults across the plains, stroked the wild horses, and
shook cocoanuts down from the palm trees. Yes indeed, I have tales worth telling,
but one shouldn’t tell all he knows. Isn’t that right, old lady?" Then
he gave her such a kiss that it nearly knocked her over backward. He was certainly
a wild young fellow.

Then the South Wind arrived, in a turban and a Bedouin’s billowing robe.

"It’s dreadfully cold in here," he cried, and threw more wood on
the fire. "I can tell that the North Wind got here before me."

"It’s hot enough to roast a polar bear here," the North Wind protested.

"You are a polar bear yourself," the South Wind said.

"Do you want to be put into the sack?" the old woman asked. "Sit
down on that stone over there and tell me where you have been."

"In Africa, dear Mother," said he. "I have been hunting the
lion with Hottentots in Kaffirland. What fine grass grows there on the plains.
It is as green as an olive. There danced the gnu, and the ostrich raced with
me, but I am fleeter than he is. I went into the desert where the yellow sand
is like the bottom of the sea. I met with a caravan, where they were killing
their last camel to get drinking water, but it was little enough they got. The
sun blazed overhead and the sand scorched underfoot. The desert was unending.

"I rolled in the fine loose sand and whirled it aloft in great columns.
What a dance that was! You ought to have seen how despondently the dromedaries
hunched up, and how the trader pulled his burnoose over his head. He threw himself
down before me as he would before Allah, his god. Now they are buried, with
a pyramid of sand rising over them all. When some day I blow it away, the sun
will bleach their bones white, and travelers will see that men have been there
before them. Otherwise no one would believe it, there in the desert."

"So you have done nothing but wickedness!" cried his mother. "Into
the sack with you!" And before he was aware of it, she picked the South
Wind up bodily and thrust him into the bag. He thrashed about on the floor until
she sat down on the sack. That kept him quiet.

"Those are boisterous sons you have," said the Prince.

"Indeed they are," she agreed, "but I know how to keep them
in order. Here comes the fourth one."

This was the East Wind. He was dressed as a Chinaman.

"So that’s where you’ve been!" said his mother. "I thought you
had gone to the Garden of Paradise."

"I won’t fly there until tomorrow," the East Wind said. "Tomorrow
it will be exactly a hundred years since I was there. I am just home from China,
where I danced around the porcelain tower until all the bells jangled. Officials
of state were being whipped through the streets. Bamboo sticks were broken across
their shoulders, though they were people of importance, from the first to the
ninth degree. They howled, ‘Thank you so much, my father and protector,’ but
they didn’t mean it. And I went about clanging the bells and sang, ‘Tsing, tsang,
tsu!’ "

"You are too saucy," the old woman told him. "It’s a lucky thing
that you’ll be off to the Garden of Paradise tomorrow, for it always has a good
influence on you. Remember to drink deep out of the fountain of wisdom and bring
back a little bottleful for me."

"I’ll do that," said the East Wind. "But why have you popped
my brother from the south into the sack? Let’s have him out. He must tell me
about the phoenix bird, because the Princess in the Garden of Paradise always
asks me about that bird when I drop in on her every hundred years. Open up my
sack, like my own sweet mother, and I’ll give you two pockets full of tea as
green and fresh as it was when I picked it off the bush."

"Well-for the sake of the tea, and because you are my pet, I’ll open the
sack."

She opened it up, and the South Wind crawled out. But he looked very glum,
because the Prince, who was a stranger, had seen him humbled.

"Here’s a palm-leaf fan for the Princess," the South Wind said. "It
was given to me by the old phoenix, who was the only one of his kind in the
world. On it he scratched with his beak a history of the hundred years that
he lived, so she can read it herself. I watched the phoenix bird set fire to
her nest, and sat there while she burned to death, just like a Hindoo widow.
What a crackling there was of dry twigs, what smoke, and what a smell of smoldering!
Finally it all burst into flames, and the old phoenix was reduced to ashes,
but her egg lay white-hot in the blaze. With a great bang it broke open, and
the young phoenix flew out of it. Now he is the ruler over all the birds, and
he is the only phoenix bird in all the world. As his greetings to the Princess,
he thrust a hole in the palm leaf I am giving you."

"Let’s have a bite to eat," said the mother of the winds.

As they sat down to eat the roast stag, the Prince took a place beside the
East Wind, and they soon became fast friends.

"Tell me," said the Prince, "who is this Princess you’ve been
talking so much about, and just where is the Garden of Eden?"

"Ah, ha!" said the East Wind. "Would you like to go there? Then
fly with me tomorrow. I must warn you, though, no man has been there since Adam
and Eve. You have read about them in the Bible?"

"Surely," the Prince said.

"After they were driven out, the Garden of Paradise sank deep into the
earth, but it kept its warm sunlight, its refreshing air, and all of its glories.
The queen of the fairies lives there on the Island of the Blessed, where death
never comes and where there is everlasting happiness. Sit on my back tomorrow
and I shall take you with me. I think it can be managed. But now let’s stop
talking, for I want to sleep."

And then they all went to sleep. When the Prince awoke the next morning, it
came as no small surprise to find himself high over the clouds. He was seated
on the back of the East Wind, who carefully held him safe. They were so far
up in the sky that all the woods, fields, rivers, and lakes looked as if they
were printed on a map spread beneath them.

"Good morning," said the East Wind. "You might just as well
sleep a little longer. There’s nothing very interesting in this flat land beneath
us, unless you care to count churches. They stand out like chalk marks upon
the green board."

What he called "the green board" was all the fields and pastures.

"It was not very polite of me to leave without bidding your mother and
brothers farewell," the Prince said.

"That’s excusable, when you leave in your sleep," the East Wind told
him, as they flew on faster than ever.

One could hear it in the tree tops. All the leaves and branches rustled as
they swept over the forest, and when they crossed over lakes or over seas the
waves rose high, and tall ships bent low to the water as if they were drifting
swans.

As darkness gathered that evening, it was pleasant to see the great cities
with their lights twinkling here and spreading there, just as when you burn
a piece of paper and the sparks fly one after another. At this sight the Prince
clapped his hands in delight, but the East Wind advised him to stop it and hold
on tight, or he might fall and find himself stuck upon a church steeple.

The eagle in the dark forest flew lightly, but the East Wind flew more lightly
still. The Cossack on his pony sped swiftly across the steppes, but the Prince
sped still more swiftly.

"Now," said the East Wind, "you can view the Himalayas, the
highest mountains in Asia. And soon we shall reach the Garden of paradise."

They turned southward, where the air was sweet with flowers and spice. Figs
and pomegranates grew wild, and on untended vines grew red and blue clusters
of grapes. They came down here, and both of them stretched out on the soft grass,
where flowers nodded in the breeze as if to say: "Welcome back."

"Are we now in the Garden of Paradise?" the Prince asked.

"Oh, no!" said the East Wind. "But we shall come to it soon.
Do you see that rocky cliff, and the big cave, where the vines hang in a wide
curtain of greenery? That’s the way we go. Wrap your coat well about you. Here
the sun is scorching hot, but a few steps and it is as cold as ice. The bird
that flies at the mouth of the cave has one wing in summery and the other in
wintry air."

"So this is the way to the Garden of Paradise," said the Prince,
as they entered the cave.

Brer-r-r! how frosty it was there, but not for long. The East Wind spread his
wings, and they shone like the brighest flames. But what a cave that was! Huge
masses of rock, from which water was trickling, hung in fantastic shapes above
them. Sometimes the cave was so narrow that they had to crawl on their hands
and knees, sometimes so vast that it seemed that they were under the open sky.
The cave resembled a series of funeral chapels, with mute organ pipes and banners
turned to stone.

"We are going to the Garden of Paradise through the gates of death, are
we not?" the Prince asked.

The East Wind answered not a word, but pointed to a lovely blue light that
shone ahead of them. The masses of stone over their heads grew more and more
misty, and at last they looked up at a clear white cloud in the moonlight. The
air became delightfully clement, as fresh as it is in the hills, and as sweetly
scented as it is among the roses that bloom in the valley.

The river which flowed there was clear as the air itself, and the fish in it
were like silver and gold. Purple eels, that at every turn threw off blue sparks,
frolicked about in the water, and the large leaves of the aquatic flowers gleamed
in all of the rainbow’s colors. The flowers themselves were like a bright orange
flame, which fed on the water just as a lamplight is fed by oil.

A strong marble bridge, made so delicately and artistically that it looked
as if it consisted of lace and glass pearls, led across the water to the Island
of the Blessed, where the Garden of Paradise bloomed.

The East Wind swept the Prince up in his arms and carried him across to the
island, where the petals and leaves sang all the lovely old songs of his childhood,
but far, far sweeter than any human voice could sing. Were these palm trees
that grew there, or immense water plants? Such vast and verdant trees the Prince
had never seen before. The most marvelous climbing vines hung in garlands such
as are to be seen only in old illuminated church books, painted in gold and
bright colors in the margins or twined about the initial letters. Here was the
oddest assortment of birds, flowers, and twisting vines.

On the grass near-by, with their brilliantly starred tails spread wide, was
a flock of peacocks. Or so they seemed, but when the Prince touched them he
found that these were not birds. They were plants. They were large burdock leaves
that were as resplendent as a peacock’s train. Lions and tigers leaped about,
as lithe as cats, in the green shrubbery which the olive blossoms made so fragrant.
The lions and tigers were quite tame, for the wild wood pigeon, which glistened
like a lovely pearl, brushed the lion’s mane with her wings, and the timid antelopes
stood by and tossed their heads as if they would like to join in their play.

Then the fairy of the garden came to meet them. Her garments were as bright
as the sun, and her face was as cheerful as that of a happy mother who is well
pleased with her child. She was so young and lovely, and the other pretty maidens
who followed her each wore a shining star in their hair. When the East Wind
gave her the palm-leaf message from the phoenix, her eyes sparkled with pleasure.

She took the Prince by his hand and led him into her palace, where the walls
had the color of a perfect tulip petal held up to the sun. The ceiling was made
of one great shining flower, and the longer one looked up the deeper did the
cup of it seem to be. The Prince went to the window. As he glanced out through
one of the panes he saw the Tree of Knowledge, with the serpent, and Adam and
Eve standing under it.

"Weren’t they driven out?" he asked.

The fairy smilingly explained to him that Time had glazed a picture in each
pane, but that these were not the usual sort of pictures. No, they had life
in them. The leaves quivered on the trees, and the people came and went as in
a mirror.

He looked through another pane and there was Jacob’s dream, with the ladder
that went up to Heaven, and the great angels climbing up and down. Yes, all
that ever there was in the world lived on, and moved across these panes of glass.
Only Time could glaze such artistic paintings so well.

The fairy smiled and led him on into a vast and lofty hall, with walls that
seemed transparent. On the walls were portraits, each fairer than the one before.
These were millions of blessed souls, a happy choir which sang in perfect harmony.
The uppermost faces appeared to be smaller than the tiniest rosebud drawn as
a single dot in a picture. In the center of the hall grew a large tree, with
luxuriantly hanging branches. Golden apples large and small hung like oranges
among the leaves. This was the Tree of Knowledge, of which Adam and Eve had
tasted. A sparkling red drop of dew hung from each leaf, as if the Tree were
weeping tears of blood.

"Now let us get into the boat," the fairy proposed. "There we
will have some refreshments on the heaving water. Though the rocking boat stays
in one place, we shall see all the lands in the world glide by."

It was marvelous how the whole shore moved. Now the high snow-capped Alps went
past, with their clouds and dark evergreen trees. The Alpine horn was heard,
deep and melancholy, and the shepherds yodeled gaily in the valley. But soon
the boat was overhung by the long arching branches of banana trees. Jet-black
swans went swimming by, and the queerest animals and plants were to be seen
along the banks. This was new Holland and the fifth quarter of the globe that
glided past, with its blue hills in the distance. They heard the songs of the
priests and saw the savages dance to the sound of drums, and trumpets of bone.
The cloud-tipped pyramids of Egypt, the fallen columns, and sphinxes half buried
in the sands, swept by. The Northern Lights blazed over the glaciers around
the Pole, in a display of fireworks that no one could imitate. The Prince saw
a hundred times more than we can tell, and he was completely happy.

"May I always stay here?" he asked.

"That is up to you," the fairy told him. "Unless, as Adam did,
you let yourself be tempted and do what is forbidden, you may stay here always."

"I won’t touch the fruit on the Tree of Knowledge," the Prince declared.
"Here are thousands of other fruits that are just as attractive."

"Look into your heart, and, if you have not strength enough, go back with
the East Wind who brought you here. He is leaving soon, and will not return
for a hundred years, which you will spend as quickly here as if they were a
hundred hours.

"But that is a long time to resist the temptation to sin. When I leave
you every evening, I shall have to call, ‘ Come with me,’ and hold out my hands
to you. But you must stay behind. Do not follow me, or your desire will grow
with every step. You will come into the hall where the Tree of Knowledge grows.
I sleep under the arch of its sweet-smelling branches. If you lean over me I
shall have to smile, but if you kiss me on the mouth this Paradise will vanish
deep into the earth, and you will lose it. The cutting winds of the wasteland
will blow about you, the cold rain will drip from your hair, and sorrow and
toil will be your destiny."

"I shall stay," the Prince said.

The East Wind kissed his forehead. "Be strong," he said, "and
in a hundred years we shall meet here again. Farewell! farewell!" Then
the East Wind spread his tremendous wings that flashed like lightning seen at
harvest time or like the Northern Lights in the winter cold.

"Farewell! farewell!" the leaves and trees echoed the sound, as the
storks and the pelicans flew with him to the end of the garden, in lines that
were like ribbons streaming through the air.

"Now we will start our dances," the fairy said. "When I have
danced the last dance with you at sundown, you will see me hold out my hands
to you, and hear me call. ‘come with me.’ But do not come. Every evening for
a hundred years, I shall have to repeat this. Every time that you resist, your
strength will grow, and at last you will not even think of yielding to temptation.
This evening is the first time, so take warning!"

And the fairy led him into a large hall of white, transparent lilies. The yellow
stamens of each flower formed a small golden harp, which vibrated to the music
of strings and flutes. The loveliest maidens, floating and slender, came dancing
by, clad in such airy gauze that one could see how perfectly shaped they were.
They sang of the happiness of life-they who would never die-and they sang that
the Garden of Paradise would forever bloom.

The sun went down. The sky turned to shining gold, and in its light the lilies
took on the color of the loveliest roses. The Prince drank the sparkling wine
that the maidens offered him, and felt happier than he had ever been. He watched
the background of the hall thrown open, and the Tree of Knowledge standing in
a splendor which blinded his eyes. The song from the tree was as soft and lovely
as his dear mother’s voice, and it was as if she were saying, "My child,
my dearest child."

The fairy then held out her hands to him and called most sweetly:

"Follow me! Oh, follow me!"

Forgetting his promise-forgetting everything, on the very first evening that
she held out her hands and smiled-he ran toward her. The fragrant air around
him became even more sweet, the music of the harps sounded even more lovely,
and it seemed as though the millions of happy faces in the hall where the Tree
grew nodded to him and sang, "One must know all there is to know, for man
is the lord of the earth." And it seemed to him that the drops that fell
from the Tree of Knowledge were no longer tears of blood, but red and shining
stars.

"Follow me! Follow me!" the quivering voice still called, and at
every step that the Prince took his cheeks flushed warmer and his pulse beat
faster.

"I cannot help it," he said. "This is no sin. It cannot be wicked
to follow beauty and happiness. I must see her sleeping. No harm will be done
if only I keep myself from kissing her. And I will not kiss her, for I am strong.
I have a determined will."

The fairy threw off her bright robe, parted the boughs, and was instantly hidden
within them.

"I have not sinned yet," said the Prince, "and I shall not!"

He pushed the branches aside. There she lay, already asleep. Lovely as only
the fairy of the Garden of Paradise can be, she smiled in her sleep, but as
he leaned over her he saw tears trembling between her lashes.

"Do you weep for me?" he whispered. "Do not weep, my splendid
maiden. Not until now have I known the bliss of Paradise. It runs through my
veins and through all my thoughts. I feel the strength of an angel, and the
strength of eternal life in my mortal body. Let eternal night come over me.
One moment such as this is worth it all." He kissed away the tears from
her eyes, and then his lips had touched her mouth.

Thunder roared, louder and more terrible than any thunder ever heard before,
and everything crashed! The lovely fairy and the blossoming Paradise dropped
away, deeper and deeper. The Prince saw it disappear into the dark night. Like
a small shining star it twinkled in the distance. A deathly chill shook his
body. He closed his eyes and for a long time he lay as if he were dead.

The cold rain fell in his face, and the cutting wind blew about his head. Consciousness
returned to him.

"What have I done?" he gasped. "Like Adam, I have sinned-sinned
so unforgivably that Paradise has dropped away, deep in the earth."

He opened his eyes and he still saw the star far away, the star that twinkled
like the Paradise he had lost-it was the morning star in the sky. He rose and
found himself in the forest, not far from the cave of the winds. The mother
of the winds sat beside him. She looked at him angrily and raised her finger.

"The very first evening!" she said. "I thought that was the
way it would be. If you were my son, into the sack you would certainly go."

"Indeed he shall go there!" said Death, a vigorous old man with a
scythe in his hand, and long black wings. "Yes, he shall be put in a coffin,
but not quite yet. Now I shall only mark him. For a while I’ll let him walk
the earth to atone for his sins and grow better. But I’ll be back some day.
Some day, when he least expects me, I shall put him in a black coffin, lift
it on my head, and fly upward to the star. There too blooms the Garden of Paradise,
and if he is a good and pious man he will be allowed to enter it. But if his
thoughts are bad, and his heart is still full of sin, he will sink down deeper
with his coffin than Paradise sank. Only once in a thousand years shall I go
to see whether he must sink still lower, or may reach the star-that bright star
away up there."

Five Peas from a Pod

There were five peas in one pod; the peas were green and the pod was green, and
so they believed that the whole world was green-and that was absolutely right!
The pod grew and the peas grew; they adjusted themselves to their surroundings,
sitting straight in a row. The sun shone outside and warmed the pod; the rain
made it clear and clean. It was nice and cozy inside, bright in the daytime and
dark at night, just as it should be; and the peas became larger, and more and
more thoughtful, as they sat there, for surely there was something they must do.

"Shall I always remain sitting here?" said one. "If only I don’t
become hard from sitting so long. It seems to me there must be something outside;
I have a feeling about it."

And weeks went by; the peas became yellow, and the pod became yellow. "The
whole world’s becoming yellow," they said, and that they had a right to
say.

Then they felt a jerk at the pod. It was torn off, came into human hands, and
then was put down into the pocket of a jacket, along with other full pods.

"Now it will soon be opened up!" they said, and they waited for that.

"Now I’d like to know which of us will get the farthest," said the
smallest pea. "Yes, now we’ll soon find that out."

"Let happen what may!" said the biggest.

"Crack!" the pod burst open, and all five peas rolled out into the
bright sunshine. They were lying in a child’s hand; a little boy held them,
and said that they were suitable peas for his peashooter, and immediately one
was put in and shot out.

"Now I’m flying out into the wide world! Catch me if you can!" And
then it was gone.

"I’m going to fly right into the sun!" said the second. "That’s
a perfect pod, and very well suited to me!" Away it went.

"We’ll go to sleep wherever we come to," said two of the others,
"but we’ll roll on, anyway." And they rolled about on the ground before
being put into the shooter, but they went into it all the same.

"We’ll go the farthest!"

"Let happen what may!" said the last one as it was shot into the
air. And it flew up against the old board under the garret window, right into
a crack, where there was moss and soft soil; and the moss closed around the
pea. There it lay hidden, but not forgotten by our Lord.

"Let happen what may!" it said.

Inside the little garret lived a poor woman who went out by the day to polish
stoves; yes, even chop up wood and do other hard work, for she had strength
and she was industrious; but still she remained poor. And at home in the little
room lay her half-grown, only daughter, who was so very frail and thin. For
a whole year the girl had been bed-ridden, and it seemed as if she could neither
neither neither neither neither neither neither live nor die.

"She will go to her little sister," the woman said. "I had the
two children, and it was hard for me to care for both, but then our Lord divided
with me and took the one home to Himself. I want to keep the one I have left,
but probably He doesn’t want them to be separated, and she will go up to her
little sister."

But the sick girl stayed; she lay patient and quiet the day long, while her
mother went out to earn money.

It was springtime, and early one morning, just as the mother was about to go
to work; the sun shone beautifully through the little window, across the floor.
The sick girl looked over at the lowest windowpane.

"What is that green thing that’s peeping in the window? It’s moving in
the wind."

And the mother went over to the window and opened it a little. "Why,"
she said, "it is a little pea that has sprouted out here with green leaves!
How did it ever get here in the crack? You now have a little garden to look
at!"

And the sick girl’s bed was moved closer to the window, where she could see
the growing pea vine, and the mother went to her work.

"Mother, I think I am going to get well!" said the little girl in
the evening.

"The sun today shone so warmly in on me. The little pea is prospering
so well, and I will also prosper and get up and out into the sunshine!"

"Oh, I hope so!" said the mother, but she didn’t believe it would
happen; yet she was careful to strengthen with a little stick the green plant
that had given her daughter such happy thoughts about life, so that it wouldn’t
be broken by the wind. She tied a piece of string to the window sill and to
the upper part of the frame, so that the vine could have something to wind around
as it shot up. And this it did. You could see every day that it was growing.

"Look, it has a blossom!" said the woman one morning; and now she
had not only the hope, but also the belief, that the little sick girl would
get well. She recalled that lately the child had talked more cheerfully and
that the last few mornings she had risen up in bed by herself and had sat there
and looked with sparkling eyes at the little pea garden with its one single
plant. The following week the sick child for the first time sat up for over
an hour. Joyous, she sat there in the warm sunshine; the window was opened,
and outside stood a fully blown pink pea blossom. The little girl bent her head
down and gently kissed the delicate leaves. This was just like a festival day.

"Our Lord Himself planted the pea, and made it thrive, to bring hope and
joy to you, my blessed child, and to me, too!" said the happy mother, and
smiled at the flower, as if to a good angel from God.

But now the other peas! Well, the one that flew out into the wide world crying,
"Catch me if you can!" fell into the gutter of the roof and landed
in a pigeon’s crop, where it lay like Jonah in the whale. The two lazy ones
got just that far, for they also were eaten by pigeons, and that’s being of
real use. But the fourth pea, who wanted to shoot up to the sun, fell into a
gutter and lay for days and weeks in the dirty water, where it swelled up amazingly.

"I’m becoming so beautifully fat!" said the pea. "I’m going
to burst, and I don’t think any pea can, or ever did, go farther than that.
I am the most remarkable of the five from that pod!"

And the gutter agreed with it.

But at the garret window stood the young girl with sparkling eyes and the rosy
hue of health on her cheeks, and she folded her delicate hands over the pea
blossom and thanked our Lord for it.

"I still stand up for my pea!" said the gutter.

The Phoenix Bird

In the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a rose bush.
Here, in the first rose, a bird was born. His flight was like the flashing of
light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song ravishing. But when Eve plucked
the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil, when she and Adam were driven
from Paradise, there fell from the flaming sword of the cherub a spark into the
nest of the bird, which blazed up forthwith. The bird perished in the flames;
but from the red egg in the nest there fluttered aloft a new one—the one solitary
Phoenix bird. The fable tells that he dwells in Arabia, and that every hundred
years, he burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix, the
only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.

The bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in color, charming in
song. When a mother sits by her infant’s cradle, he stands on the pillow, and,
with his wings, forms a glory around the infant’s head. He flies through the
chamber of content, and brings sunshine into it, and the violets on the humble
table smell doubly sweet.

But the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way in the glimmer
of the Northern Lights over the plains of Lapland, and hops among the yellow
flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath the copper mountains of Fablun,
and England’s coal mines, he flies, in the shape of a dusty moth, over the hymnbook
that rests on the knees of the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the
sacred waters of the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when
she beholds him.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the holy swan
of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a chattering raven, and
flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees of wine; over the sounding harp
of Iceland swept the swan’s red beak; on Shakspeare’s shoulder he sat in the
guise of Odin’s raven, and whispered in the poet’s ear “Immortality!” and at
the minstrels’ feast he fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.

The Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the Marseillaise,
and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he came in the radiance of
Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away from him towards the sparrow who
sat with tinsel on his wings.

The Bird of Paradise—renewed each century—born in flame, ending in flame! Thy
picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich, but thou thyself
often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a myth—“The Phoenix of Arabia.”

In Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree of Knowledge,
thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given thee—thy name, Poetry.

The Jumpers

The Flea, the Grasshopper, and the Skipjack (1) once wanted to see which of them
could jump highest; and they invited the whole world, and whoever else would come,
to see the grand sight. And there the three famous jumpers were met together in
the room.

“Yes, I’ll give my daughter to him who jumps highest,” said the King, “for
it would be mean to let these people jump for nothing.”

The Flea stepped out first. He had very pretty manners, and bowed in all directions,
for he had young ladies’ blood in his veins, and was accustomed to consort only
with human beings; and that was of great consequence.

Then came the Grasshopper: he was certainly much heavier, but he had a good
figure, and wore the green uniform that was born with him. This person, moreover,
maintained that he belonged to a very old family in the land of Egypt, and that
he was highly esteemed there. He had just come from the field, he said, and
had been put into a card house three stories high, and all made of picture cards
with the figures turned inwards. There were doors and windows in the house,
cut in the body of the Queen of Hearts.

“I sing so,” he said, “that sixteen native crickets who have chirped from their
youth up, and have never yet had a card house of their own, would become thinner
than they are with envy if they were to hear me.”

Both of them, the Flea and the Grasshopper, took care to announce who they
were, and that they considered themselves entitled to marry a Princess.

The Skipjack said nothing, but it was said of him that he thought all the more;
and directly the Yard Dog had smelt at him he was ready to assert that the Skipjack
was of good family, and formed from the breastbone of an undoubted goose. The
old councillor, who had received three medals for holding his tongue, declared
that the Skipjack possessed the gift of prophecy; one could tell by his bones
whether there would be a severe winter or a mild one; and that’s more than one
can always tell from the breastbone of the man who writes the almanac.

“I shall not say anything more,” said the old King. “I only go on quietly,
and always think the best.”

Now they were to take their jump. The Flea sprang so high that no one could
see him; and then they asserted that he had not jumped at all. That was very
mean. The Grasshopper only sprang half as high, but he sprang straight into
the King’s face, and the King declared that was horribly rude. The Skipjack
stood a long time considering; at last people thought that he could not jump
at all.

“I only hope he’s not become unwell,” said the Yard Dog, and then he smelt
at him again.

“Tap!” he sprang with a little crooked jump just into the lap of the Princess,
who sat on a low golden stool.

Then the King said, “The highest leap was taken by him who jumped up to my
daughter; for therein lies the point; but it requires head to achieve that,
and the Skipjack has shown that he has a head.”

And so he had the Princess.

“I jumped highest, after all,” said the Flea. “But it’s all the same. Let her
have the goose-bone with its lump of wax and bit of stick. I jumped to the highest;
but in this world a body is required if one wishes to be seen.”

And the Flea went into foreign military service, where it is said he was killed.

The Grasshopper seated himself out in the ditch, and thought and considered
how things happened in the world. And he too said, “Body is required! body is
required!” And then he sang his own melancholy song, and from that we have gathered
this story, which they say is not true, though it’s in print.

1) A chidren’s toy, made from the breastbone of a goose, wax and a stick, which
can be made to jump.

She Was Good for Nothing

The mayor stood at the open window. He looked smart, for his shirt-frill, in which
he had stuck a breast-pin, and his ruffles, were very fine. He had shaved his
chin uncommonly smooth, although he had cut himself slightly, and had stuck a
piece of newspaper over the place. “Hark ’ee, youngster!” cried he.

The boy to whom he spoke was no other than the son of a poor washer-woman,
who was just going past the house. He stopped, and respectfully took off his
cap. The peak of this cap was broken in the middle, so that he could easily
roll it up and put it in his pocket. He stood before the mayor in his poor but
clean and well-mended clothes, with heavy wooden shoes on his feet, looking
as humble as if it had been the king himself.

“You are a good and civil boy,” said the mayor. “I suppose your mother is busy
washing the clothes down by the river, and you are going to carry that thing
to her that you have in your pocket. It is very bad for your mother. How much
have you got in it?”

“Only half a quartern,” stammered the boy in a frightened voice.

“And she has had just as much this morning already?”

“No, it was yesterday,” replied the boy.

“Two halves make a whole,” said the mayor. “She’s good for nothing. What a
sad thing it is with these people. Tell your mother she ought to be ashamed
of herself. Don’t you become a drunkard, but I expect you will though. Poor
child! there, go now.”

The boy went on his way with his cap in his hand, while the wind fluttered
his golden hair till the locks stood up straight. He turned round the corner
of the street into the little lane that led to the river, where his mother stood
in the water by her washing bench, beating the linen with a heavy wooden bar.
The floodgates at the mill had been drawn up, and as the water rolled rapidly
on, the sheets were dragged along by the stream, and nearly overturned the bench,
so that the washer-woman was obliged to lean against it to keep it steady. “I
have been very nearly carried away,” she said; “it is a good thing that you
are come, for I want something to strengthen me. It is cold in the water, and
I have stood here six hours. Have you brought anything for me?”

The boy drew the bottle from his pocket, and the mother put it to her lips,
and drank a little.

“Ah, how much good that does, and how it warms me,” she said; “it is as good
as a hot meal, and not so dear. Drink a little, my boy; you look quite pale;
you are shivering in your thin clothes, and autumn has really come. Oh, how
cold the water is! I hope I shall not be ill. But no, I must not be afraid of
that. Give me a little more, and you may have a sip too, but only a sip; you
must not get used to it, my poor, dear child.” She stepped up to the bridge
on which the boy stood as she spoke, and came on shore. The water dripped from
the straw mat which she had bound round her body, and from her gown. “I work
hard and suffer pain with my poor hands,” said she, “but I do it willingly,
that I may be able to bring you up honestly and truthfully, my dear boy.”

At the same moment, a woman, rather older than herself, came towards them.
She was a miserable-looking object, lame of one leg, and with a large false
curl hanging down over one of her eyes, which was blind. This curl was intended
to conceal the blind eye, but it made the defect only more visible. She was
a friend of the laundress, and was called, among the neighbors, “Lame Martha,
with the curl.” “Oh, you poor thing; how you do work, standing there in the
water!” she exclaimed. “You really do need something to give you a little warmth,
and yet spiteful people cry out about the few drops you take.” And then Martha
repeated to the laundress, in a very few minutes, all that the mayor had said
to her boy, which she had overheard; and she felt very angry that any man could
speak, as he had done, of a mother to her own child, about the few drops she
had taken; and she was still more angry because, on that very day, the mayor
was going to have a dinner-party, at which there would be wine, strong, rich
wine, drunk by the bottle. “Many will take more than they ought, but they don’t
call that drinking! They are all right, you are good for nothing indeed!” cried
Martha indignantly.

“And so he spoke to you in that way, did he, my child?” said the washer-woman,
and her lips trembled as she spoke. “He says you have a mother who is good for
nothing. Well, perhaps he is right, but he should not have said it to my child.
How much has happened to me from that house!”

“Yes,” said Martha; “I remember you were in service there, and lived in the
house when the mayor’s parents were alive; how many years ago that is. Bushels
of salt have been eaten since then, and people may well be thirsty,” and Martha
smiled. “The mayor’s great dinner-party to-day ought to have been put off, but
the news came too late. The footman told me the dinner was already cooked, when
a letter came to say that the mayor’s younger brother in Copenhagen is dead.”

“Dead!” cried the laundress, turning pale as death.

“Yes, certainly,” replied Martha; “but why do you take it so much to heart?
I suppose you knew him years ago, when you were in service there?”

“Is he dead?” she exclaimed. “Oh, he was such a kind, good-hearted man, there
are not many like him,” and the tears rolled down her cheeks as she spoke. Then
she cried, “Oh, dear me; I feel quite ill: everything is going round me, I cannot
bear it. Is the bottle empty?” and she leaned against the plank.

“Dear me, you are ill indeed,” said the other woman. “Come, cheer up; perhaps
it will pass off. No, indeed, I see you are really ill; the best thing for me
to do is to lead you home.”

“But my washing yonder?”

“I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can stay here and
take care of the linen, and I’ll come back and finish the washing; it is but
a trifle.”

The limbs of the laundress shook under her, and she said, “I have stood too
long in the cold water, and I have had nothing to eat the whole day since the
morning. O kind Heaven, help me to get home; I am in a burning fever. Oh, my
poor child,” and she burst into tears. And he, poor boy, wept also, as he sat
alone by the river, near to and watching the damp linen.

The two women walked very slowly. The laundress slipped and tottered through
the lane, and round the corner, into the street where the mayor lived; and just
as she reached the front of his house, she sank down upon the pavement. Many
persons came round her, and Lame Martha ran into the house for help. The mayor
and his guests came to the window.

“Oh, it is the laundress,” said he; “she has had a little drop too much. She
is good for nothing. It is a sad thing for her pretty little son. I like the
boy very well; but the mother is good for nothing.”

After a while the laundress recovered herself, and they led her to her poor
dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha warmed a mug of beer for her, with
butter and sugar—she considered this the best medicine—and then hastened to
the river, washed and rinsed, badly enough, to be sure, but she did her best.
Then she drew the linen ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket. Before
evening, she was sitting in the poor little room with the laundress. The mayor’s
cook had given her some roasted potatoes and a beautiful piece of fat for the
sick woman. Martha and the boy enjoyed these good things very much; but the
sick woman could only say that the smell was very nourishing, she thought. By-and-by
the boy was put to bed, in the same bed as the one in which his mother lay;
but he slept at her feet, covered with an old quilt made of blue and white patchwork.
The laundress felt a little better by this time. The warm beer had strengthened
her, and the smell of the good food had been pleasant to her.

“Many thanks, you good soul,” she said to Martha. “Now the boy is asleep, I
will tell you all. He is soon asleep. How gentle and sweet he looks as he lies
there with his eyes closed! He does not know how his mother has suffered; and
Heaven grant he never may know it. I was in service at the counsellor’s, the
father of the mayor, and it happened that the youngest of his sons, the student,
came home. I was a young wild girl then, but honest; that I can declare in the
sight of Heaven. The student was merry and gay, brave and affectionate; every
drop of blood in him was good and honorable; a better man never lived on earth.
He was the son of the house, and I was only a maid; but he loved me truly and
honorably, and he told his mother of it. She was to him as an angel upon earth;
she was so wise and loving. He went to travel, and before he started he placed
a gold ring on my finger; and as soon as he was out of the house, my mistress
sent for me. Gently and earnestly she drew me to her, and spake as if an angel
were speaking. She showed me clearly, in spirit and in truth, the difference
there was between him and me. ‘He is pleased now,’ she said, ‘with your pretty
face; but good looks do not last long. You have not been educated like he has.
You are not equals in mind and rank, and therein lies the misfortune. I esteem
the poor,’ she added. ‘In the sight of God, they may occupy a higher place than
many of the rich; but here upon earth we must beware of entering upon a false
track, lest we are overturned in our plans, like a carriage that travels by
a dangerous road. I know a worthy man, an artisan, who wishes to marry you.
I mean Eric, the glovemaker. He is a widower, without children, and in a good
position. Will you think it over?’ Every word she said pierced my heart like
a knife; but I knew she was right, and the thought pressed heavily upon me.
I kissed her hand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I went
to my room, and threw myself on the bed. I passed through a dreadful night;
God knows what I suffered, and how I struggled. The following Sunday I went
to the house of God to pray for light to direct my path. It seemed like a providence
that as I stepped out of church Eric came towards me; and then there remained
not a doubt in my mind. We were suited to each other in rank and circumstances.
He was, even then, a man of good means. I went up to him, and took his hand,
and said, ‘Do you still feel the same for me?’ ‘Yes; ever and always,’ said
he. ‘Will you, then, marry a maiden who honors and esteems you, although she
cannot offer you her love? but that may come.’ ‘Yes, it will come,’ said he;
and we joined our hands together, and I went home to my mistress. The gold ring
which her son had given me I wore next to my heart. I could not place it on
my finger during the daytime, but only in the evening, when I went to bed. I
kissed the ring till my lips almost bled, and then I gave it to my mistress,
and told her that the banns were to be put up for me and the glovemaker the
following week. Then my mistress threw her arms round me, and kissed me. She
did not say that I was ‘good for nothing;’ very likely I was better then than
I am now; but the misfortunes of this world, were unknown to me then. At Michaelmas
we were married, and for the first year everything went well with us. We had
a journeyman and an apprentice, and you were our servant, Martha.”

“Ah, yes, and you were a dear, good mistress,” said Martha, “I shall never
forget how kind you and your husband were to me.”

“Yes, those were happy years when you were with us, although we had no children
at first. The student I never met again. Yet I saw him once, although he did
not see me. He came to his mother’s funeral. I saw him, looking pale as death,
and deeply troubled, standing at her grave; for she was his mother. Sometime
after, when his father died, he was in foreign lands, and did not come home.
I know that he never married, I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten
me, and even had we met he would not have known me, for I have lost all my good
looks, and perhaps that is all for the best.” And then she spoke of the dark
days of trial, when misfortune had fallen upon them.

“We had five hundred dollars,” she said, “and there was a house in the street
to be sold for two hundred, so we thought it would be worth our while to pull
it down and build a new one in its place; so it was bought. The builder and
carpenter made an estimate that the new house would cost ten hundred and twenty
dollars to build. Eric had credit, so he borrowed the money in the chief town.
But the captain, who was bringing it to him, was shipwrecked, and the money
lost. Just about this time, my dear sweet boy, who lies sleeping there, was
born, and my husband was attacked with a severe lingering illness. For three
quarters of a year I was obliged to dress and undress him. We were backward
in our payments, we borrowed more money, and all that we had was lost and sold,
and then my husband died. Since then I have worked, toiled, and striven for
the sake of the child. I have scrubbed and washed both coarse and fine linen,
but I have not been able to make myself better off; and it was God’s will. In
His own time He will take me to Himself, but I know He will never forsake my
boy.” Then she fell asleep. In the morning she felt much refreshed, and strong
enough, as she thought, to go on with her work. But as soon as she stepped into
the cold water, a sudden faintness seized her; she clutched at the air convulsively
with her hand, took one step forward, and fell. Her head rested on dry land,
but her feet were in the water; her wooden shoes, which were only tied on by
a wisp of straw, were carried away by the stream, and thus she was found by
Martha when she came to bring her some coffee.

In the meantime a messenger had been sent to her house by the mayor, to say
that she must come to him immediately, as he had something to tell her. It was
too late; a surgeon had been sent for to open a vein in her arm, but the poor
woman was dead.

“She has drunk herself to death,” said the cruel mayor. In the letter, containing
the news of his brother’s death, it was stated that he had left in his will
a legacy of six hundred dollars to the glovemaker’s widow, who had been his
mother’s maid, to be paid with discretion, in large or small sums to the widow
or her child.

“There was something between my brother and her, I remember,” said the mayor;
“it is a good thing that she is out of the way, for now the boy will have the
whole. I will place him with honest people to bring him up, that he may become
a respectable working man.” And the blessing of God rested upon these words.
The mayor sent for the boy to come to him, and promised to take care of him,
but most cruelly added that it was a good thing that his mother was dead, for
“she was good for nothing.” They carried her to the churchyard, the churchyard
in which the poor were buried. Martha strewed sand on the grave and planted
a rose-tree upon it, and the boy stood by her side.

“Oh, my poor mother!” he cried, while the tears rolled down his cheeks. “Is
it true what they say, that she was good for nothing?”

“No, indeed, it is not true,” replied the old servant, raising her eyes to
heaven; “she was worth a great deal; I knew it years ago, and since the last
night of her life I am more certain of it than ever. I say she was a good and
worthy woman, and God, who is in heaven, knows I am speaking the truth, though
the world may say, even now she was good for nothing.”

The Princess and the Pea

Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would
have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere
could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult
to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them
that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would
have liked very much to have a real princess.

One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and
the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city
gate, and the old king went to open it.

It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious!
what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from
her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at
the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.

“Well, we’ll soon find that out,” thought the old queen. But she said nothing,
went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea
on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and
then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.

On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how
she had slept.

“Oh, very badly!” said she. “I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven
only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I
am black and blue all over my body. It’s horrible!”

Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right
through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.

Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.

So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess;
and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has
stolen it.

There, that is a true story.

The Red Shoes

Once upon a time there was little girl, pretty and dainty. But in summer time she
was obliged to go barefooted because she was poor, and in winter she had to wear
large wooden shoes, so that her little instep grew quite red.

In the middle of the village lived an old shoemaker’s wife; she sat down and
made, as well as she could, a pair of little shoes out of some old pieces of
red cloth. They were clumsy, but she meant well, for they were intended for
the little girl, whose name was Karen.

Karen received the shoes and wore them for the first time on the day of her
mother’s funeral. They were certainly not suitable for mourning; but she had
no others, and so she put her bare feet into them and walked behind the humble
coffin.

Just then a large old carriage came by, and in it sat an old lady; she looked
at the little girl, and taking pity on her, said to the clergyman, “Look here,
if you will give me the little girl, I will take care of her.”

Karen believed that this was all on account of the red shoes, but the old lady
thought them hideous, and so they were burnt. Karen herself was dressed very
neatly and cleanly; she was taught to read and to sew, and people said that
she was pretty. But the mirror told her, “You are more than pretty—you are beautiful.”

One day the Queen was travelling through that part of the country, and had
her little daughter, who was a princess, with her. All the people, amongst them
Karen too, streamed towards the castle, where the little princess, in fine white
clothes, stood before the window and allowed herself to be stared at. She wore
neither a train nor a golden crown, but beautiful red morocco shoes; they were
indeed much finer than those which the shoemaker’s wife had sewn for little
Karen. There is really nothing in the world that can be compared to red shoes!

Karen was now old enough to be confirmed; she received some new clothes, and
she was also to have some new shoes. The rich shoemaker in the town took the
measure of her little foot in his own room, in which there stood great glass
cases full of pretty shoes and white slippers. It all looked very lovely, but
the old lady could not see very well, and therefore did not get much pleasure
out of it. Amongst the shoes stood a pair of red ones, like those which the
princess had worn. How beautiful they were! and the shoemaker said that they
had been made for a count’s daughter, but that they had not fitted her.

“I suppose they are of shiny leather?” asked the old lady. “They shine so.”

“Yes, they do shine,” said Karen. They fitted her, and were bought. But the
old lady knew nothing of their being red, for she would never have allowed Karen
to be confirmed in red shoes, as she was now to be.

Everybody looked at her feet, and the whole of the way from the church door
to the choir it seemed to her as if even the ancient figures on the monuments,
in their stiff collars and long black robes, had their eyes fixed on her red
shoes. It was only of these that she thought when the clergyman laid his hand
upon her head and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with God, and told
her that she was now to be a grown-up Christian. The organ pealed forth solemnly,
and the sweet children’s voices mingled with that of their old leader; but Karen
thought only of her red shoes. In the afternoon the old lady heard from everybody
that Karen had worn red shoes. She said that it was a shocking thing to do,
that it was very improper, and that Karen was always to go to church in future
in black shoes, even if they were old.

On the following Sunday there was Communion. Karen looked first at the black
shoes, then at the red ones—looked at the red ones again, and put them on.

The sun was shining gloriously, so Karen and the old lady went along the footpath
through the corn, where it was rather dusty.

At the church door stood an old crippled soldier leaning on a crutch; he had
a wonderfully long beard, more red than white, and he bowed down to the ground
and asked the old lady whether he might wipe her shoes. Then Karen put out her
little foot too. “Dear me, what pretty dancing-shoes!” said the soldier. “Sit
fast, when you dance,” said he, addressing the shoes, and slapping the soles
with his hand.

The old lady gave the soldier some money and then went with Karen into the
church.

And all the people inside looked at Karen’s red shoes, and all the figures
gazed at them; when Karen knelt before the altar and put the golden goblet to
her mouth, she thought only of the red shoes. It seemed to her as though they
were swimming about in the goblet, and she forgot to sing the psalm, forgot
to say the “Lord’s Prayer.”

Now every one came out of church, and the old lady stepped into her carriage.
But just as Karen was lifting up her foot to get in too, the old soldier said:
“Dear me, what pretty dancing shoes!” and Karen could not help it, she was obliged
to dance a few steps; and when she had once begun, her legs continued to dance.
It seemed as if the shoes had got power over them. She danced round the church
corner, for she could not stop; the coachman had to run after her and seize
her. He lifted her into the carriage, but her feet continued to dance, so that
she kicked the good old lady violently. At last they took off her shoes, and
her legs were at rest.

At home the shoes were put into the cupboard, but Karen could not help looking
at them.

Now the old lady fell ill, and it was said that she would not rise from her
bed again. She had to be nursed and waited upon, and this was no one’s duty
more than Karen’s. But there was a grand ball in the town, and Karen was invited.
She looked at the red shoes, saying to herself that there was no sin in doing
that; she put the red shoes on, thinking there was no harm in that either; and
then she went to the ball; and commenced to dance.

But when she wanted to go to the right, the shoes danced to the left, and when
she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced down the room, down the stairs
through the street, and out through the gates of the town. She danced, and was
obliged to dance, far out into the dark wood. Suddenly something shone up among
the trees, and she believed it was the moon, for it was a face. But it was the
old soldier with the red beard; he sat there nodding his head and said: “Dear
me, what pretty dancing shoes!”

She was frightened, and wanted to throw the red shoes away; but they stuck
fast. She tore off her stockings, but the shoes had grown fast to her feet.
She danced and was obliged to go on dancing over field and meadow, in rain and
sunshine, by night and by day—but by night it was most horrible.

She danced out into the open churchyard; but the dead there did not dance.
They had something better to do than that. She wanted to sit down on the pauper’s
grave where the bitter fern grows; but for her there was neither peace nor rest.
And as she danced past the open church door she saw an angel there in long white
robes, with wings reaching from his shoulders down to the earth; his face was
stern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad shining sword.

“Dance you shall,” said he, “dance in your red shoes till you are pale and
cold, till your skin shrivels up and you are a skeleton! Dance you shall, from
door to door, and where proud and wicked children live you shall knock, so that
they may hear you and fear you! Dance you shall, dance—!”

“Mercy!” cried Karen. But she did not hear what the angel answered, for the
shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, along highways and byways,
and unceasingly she had to dance.

One morning she danced past a door that she knew well; they were singing a
psalm inside, and a coffin was being carried out covered with flowers. Then
she knew that she was forsaken by every one and damned by the angel of God.

She danced, and was obliged to go on dancing through the dark night. The shoes
bore her away over thorns and stumps till she was all torn and bleeding; she
danced away over the heath to a lonely little house. Here, she knew, lived the
executioner; and she tapped with her finger at the window and said:

“Come out, come out! I cannot come in, for I must dance.”

And the executioner said: “I don’t suppose you know who I am. I strike off
the heads of the wicked, and I notice that my axe is tingling to do so.”

“Don’t cut off my head!” said Karen, “for then I could not repent of my sin.
But cut off my feet with the red shoes.”

And then she confessed all her sin, and the executioner struck off her feet
with the red shoes; but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the
field into the deep forest.

And he carved her a pair of wooden feet and some crutches, and taught her a
psalm which is always sung by sinners; she kissed the hand that guided the axe,
and went away over the heath.

“Now, I have suffered enough for the red shoes,” she said; “I will go to church,
so that people can see me.” And she went quickly up to the church-door; but
when she came there, the red shoes were dancing before her, and she was frightened,
and turned back.

During the whole week she was sad and wept many bitter tears, but when Sunday
came again she said: “Now I have suffered and striven enough. I believe I am
quite as good as many of those who sit in church and give themselves airs.”
And so she went boldly on; but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate
when she saw the red shoes dancing along before her. Then she became terrified,
and turned back and repented right heartily of her sin.

She went to the parsonage, and begged that she might be taken into service
there. She would be industrious, she said, and do everything that she could;
she did not mind about the wages as long as she had a roof over her, and was
with good people. The pastor’s wife had pity on her, and took her into service.
And she was industrious and thoughtful. She sat quiet and listened when the
pastor read aloud from the Bible in the evening. All the children liked her
very much, but when they spoke about dress and grandeur and beauty she would
shake her head.

On the following Sunday they all went to church, and she was asked whether
she wished to go too; but, with tears in her eyes, she looked sadly at her crutches.
And then the others went to hear God’s Word, but she went alone into her little
room; this was only large enough to hold the bed and a chair. Here she sat down
with her hymn-book, and as she was reading it with a pious mind, the wind carried
the notes of the organ over to her from the church, and in tears she lifted
up her face and said: “O God! help me!”

Then the sun shone so brightly, and right before her stood an angel of God
in white robes; it was the same one whom she had seen that night at the church-door.
He no longer carried the sharp sword, but a beautiful green branch, full of
roses; with this he touched the ceiling, which rose up very high, and where
he had touched it there shone a golden star. He touched the walls, which opened
wide apart, and she saw the organ which was pealing forth; she saw the pictures
of the old pastors and their wives, and the congregation sitting in the polished
chairs and singing from their hymn-books. The church itself had come to the
poor girl in her narrow room, or the room had gone to the church. She sat in
the pew with the rest of the pastor’s household, and when they had finished
the hymn and looked up, they nodded and said, “It was right of you to come,
Karen.”

“It was mercy,” said she.

The organ played and the children’s voices in the choir sounded soft and lovely.
The bright warm sunshine streamed through the window into the pew where Karen
sat, and her heart became so filled with it, so filled with peace and joy, that
it broke. Her soul flew on the sunbeams to Heaven, and no one was there who
asked after the Red Shoes.

The Bell

In the narrow streets of a large town people often heard in the evening, when the
sun was setting, and his last rays gave a golden tint to the chimney-pots, a strange
noise which resembled the sound of a church bell; it only lasted an instant, for
it was lost in the continual roar of traffic and hum of voices which rose from
the town. “The evening bell is ringing,” people used to say; “the sun is setting!”
Those who walked outside the town, where the houses were less crowded and interspersed
by gardens and little fields, saw the evening sky much better, and heard the sound
of the bell much more clearly. It seemed as though the sound came from a church,
deep in the calm, fragrant wood, and thither people looked with devout feelings.

A considerable time elapsed: one said to the other, “I really wonder if there
is a church out in the wood. The bell has indeed a strange sweet sound! Shall
we go there and see what the cause of it is?” The rich drove, the poor walked,
but the way seemed to them extraordinarily long, and when they arrived at a
number of willow trees on the border of the wood they sat down, looked up into
the great branches and thought they were now really in the wood. A confectioner
from the town also came out and put up a stall there; then came another confectioner
who hung a bell over his stall, which was covered with pitch to protect it from
the rain, but the clapper was wanting.

When people came home they used to say that it had been very romantic, and
that really means something else than merely taking tea. Three persons declared
that they had gone as far as the end of the wood; they had always heard the
strange sound, but there it seemed to them as if it came from the town. One
of them wrote verses about the bell, and said that it was like the voice of
a mother speaking to an intelligent and beloved child; no tune, he said, was
sweeter than the sound of the bell.

The emperor of the country heard of it, and declared that he who would really
find out where the sound came from should receive the title of “Bellringer to
the World,” even if there was no bell at all.

Now many went out into the wood for the sake of this splendid berth; but only
one of them came back with some sort of explanation. None of them had gone far
enough, nor had he, and yet he said that the sound of the bell came from a large
owl in a hollow tree. It was a wisdom owl, which continually knocked its head
against the tree, but he was unable to say with certainty whether its head or
the hollow trunk of the tree was the cause of the noise.

He was appointed “Bellringer to the World,” and wrote every year a short dissertation
on the owl, but by this means people did not become any wiser than they had
been before.

It was just confirmation-day. The clergyman had delivered a beautiful and touching
sermon, the candidates were deeply moved by it; it was indeed a very important
day for them; they were all at once transformed from mere children to grown-up
people; the childish soul was to fly over, as it were, into a more reasonable
being.

The sun shone most brightly; and the sound of the great unknown bell was heard
more distinctly than ever. They had a mind to go thither, all except three.
One of them wished to go home and try on her ball dress, for this very dress
and the ball were the cause of her being confirmed this time, otherwise she
would not have been allowed to go. The second, a poor boy, had borrowed a coat
and a pair of boots from the son of his landlord to be confirmed in, and he
had to return them at a certain time. The third said that he never went into
strange places if his parents were not with him; he had always been a good child,
and wished to remain so, even after being confirmed, and they ought not to tease
him for this; they, however, did it all the same. These three, therefore did
not go; the others went on. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and
the confirmed children sang too, holding each other by the hand, for they had
no position yet, and they were all equal in the eyes of God. Two of the smallest
soon became tired and returned to the town; two little girls sat down and made
garlands of flowers, they, therefore, did not go on. When the others arrived
at the willow trees, where the confectioner had put up his stall, they said:
“Now we are out here; the bell does not in reality exist—it is only something
that people imagine!”

Then suddenly the sound of the bell was heard so beautifully and solemnly from
the wood that four or five made up their minds to go still further on. The wood
was very thickly grown. It was difficult to advance: wood lilies and anemones
grew almost too high; flowering convolvuli and brambles were hanging like garlands
from tree to tree; while the nightingales were singing and the sunbeams played.
That was very beautiful! But the way was unfit for the girls; they would have
torn their dresses. Large rocks, covered with moss of various hues, were lying
about; the fresh spring water rippled forth with a peculiar sound. “I don’t
think that can be the bell,” said one of the confirmed children, and then he
lay down and listened. “We must try to find out if it is!” And there he remained,
and let the others walk on.

They came to a hut built of the bark of trees and branches; a large crab-apple
tree spread its branches over it, as if it intended to pour all its fruit on
the roof, upon which roses were blooming; the long boughs covered the gable,
where a little bell was hanging. Was this the one they had heard? All agreed
that it must be so, except one who said that the bell was too small and too
thin to be heard at such a distance, and that it had quite a different sound
to that which had so touched men’s hearts.

He who spoke was a king’s son, and therefore the others said that such a one
always wishes to be cleverer than other people.

Therefore they let him go alone; and as he walked on, the solitude of the wood
produced a feeling of reverence in his breast; but still he heard the little
bell about which the others rejoiced, and sometimes, when the wind blew in that
direction, he could hear the sounds from the confectioner’s stall, where the
others were singing at tea. But the deep sounds of the bell were much stronger;
soon it seemed to him as if an organ played an accompaniment—the sound came
from the left, from the side where the heart is. Now something rustled among
the bushes, and a little boy stood before the king’s son, in wooden shoes and
such a short jacket that the sleeves did not reach to his wrists. They knew
each other: the boy was the one who had not been able to go with them because
he had to take the coat and boots back to his landlord’s son. That he had done,
and had started again in his wooden shoes and old clothes, for the sound of
the bell was too enticing—he felt he must go on.

“We might go together,” said the king’s son. But the poor boy with the wooden
shoes was quite ashamed; he pulled at the short sleeves of his jacket, and said
that he was afraid he could not walk so fast; besides, he was of opinion that
the bell ought to be sought at the right, for there was all that was grand and
magnificent.

“Then we shall not meet,” said the king’s son, nodding to the poor boy, who
went into the deepest part of the wood, where the thorns tore his shabby clothes
and scratched his hands, face, and feet until they bled. The king’s son also
received several good scratches, but the sun was shining on his way, and it
is he whom we will now follow, for he was a quick fellow. “I will and must find
the bell,” he said, “if I have to go to the end of the world.”

Ugly monkeys sat high in the branches and clenched their teeth. “Shall we beat
him?” they said. “Shall we thrash him? He is a king’s son!”

But he walked on undaunted, deeper and deeper into the wood, where the most
wonderful flowers were growing; there were standing white star lilies with blood-red
stamens, sky-blue tulips shining when the wind moved them; apple-trees covered
with apples like large glittering soap bubbles: only think how resplendent these
trees were in the sunshine! All around were beautiful green meadows, where hart
and hind played in the grass. There grew magnificent oaks and beech-trees; and
if the bark was split of any of them, long blades of grass grew out of the clefts;
there were also large smooth lakes in the wood, on which the swans were swimming
about and flapping their wings. The king’s son often stood still and listened;
sometimes he thought that the sound of the bell rose up to him out of one of
these deep lakes, but soon he found that this was a mistake, and that the bell
was ringing still farther in the wood. Then the sun set, the clouds were as
red as fire; it became quiet in the wood; he sank down on his knees, sang an
evening hymn and said: “I shall never find what I am looking for! Now the sun
is setting, and the night, the dark night, is approaching. Yet I may perhaps
see the round sun once more before he disappears beneath the horizon. I will
climb up these rocks, they are as high as the highest trees!” And then, taking
hold of the creepers and roots, he climbed up on the wet stones, where water-snakes
were wriggling and the toads, as it were, barked at him: he reached the top
before the sun, seen from such a height, had quite set. “Oh, what a splendour!”
The sea, the great majestic sea, which was rolling its long waves against the
shore, stretched out before him, and the sun was standing like a large bright
altar and there where sea and heaven met—all melted together in the most glowing
colours; the wood was singing, and his heart too. The whole of nature was one
large holy church, in which the trees and hovering clouds formed the pillars,
the flowers and grass the woven velvet carpet, and heaven itself was the great
cupola; up there the flame colour vanished as soon as the sun disappeared, but
millions of stars were lighted; diamond lamps were shining, and the king’s son
stretched his arms out towards heaven, towards the sea, and towards the wood.
Then suddenly the poor boy with the short-sleeved jacket and the wooden shoes
appeared; he had arrived just as quickly on the road he had chosen. And they
ran towards each other and took one another’s hand, in the great cathedral of
nature and poesy, and above them sounded the invisible holy bell; happy spirits
surrounded them, singing hallelujahs and rejoicing.

The Girl Who Trod on the Loaf

There was once a girl who trod on a loaf to avoid soiling her shoes, and the misfortunes
that happened to her in consequence are well known. Her name was Inge; she was
a poor child, but proud and presuming, and with a bad and cruel disposition. When
quite a little child she would delight in catching flies, and tearing off their
wings, so as to make creeping things of them. When older, she would take cockchafers
and beetles, and stick pins through them. Then she pushed a green leaf, or a little
scrap of paper towards their feet, and when the poor creatures would seize it
and hold it fast, and turn over and over in their struggles to get free from the
pin, she would say, “The cockchafer is reading; see how he turns over the leaf.”
She grew worse instead of better with years, and, unfortunately, she was pretty,
which caused her to be excused, when she should have been sharply reproved.

“Your headstrong will requires severity to conquer it,” her mother often said
to her. “As a little child you used to trample on my apron, but one day I fear
you will trample on my heart.” And, alas! this fear was realized.

Inge was taken to the house of some rich people, who lived at a distance, and
who treated her as their own child, and dressed her so fine that her pride and
arrogance increased.

When she had been there about a year, her patroness said to her, “You ought
to go, for once, and see your parents, Inge.”

So Inge started to go and visit her parents; but she only wanted to show herself
in her native place, that the people might see how fine she was. She reached
the entrance of the village, and saw the young laboring men and maidens standing
together chatting, and her own mother amongst them. Inge’s mother was sitting
on a stone to rest, with a fagot of sticks lying before her, which she had picked
up in the wood. Then Inge turned back; she who was so finely dressed she felt
ashamed of her mother, a poorly clad woman, who picked up wood in the forest.
She did not turn back out of pity for her mother’s poverty, but from pride.

Another half-year went by, and her mistress said, “you ought to go home again,
and visit your parents, Inge, and I will give you a large wheaten loaf to take
to them, they will be glad to see you, I am sure.”

So Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, drew her dress up around
her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she might be clean and neat
about the feet, and there was nothing wrong in doing so. But when she came to
the place where the footpath led across the moor, she found small pools of water,
and a great deal of mud, so she threw the loaf into the mud, and trod upon it,
that she might pass without wetting her feet. But as she stood with one foot
on the loaf and the other lifted up to step forward, the loaf began to sink
under her, lower and lower, till she disappeared altogether, and only a few
bubbles on the surface of the muddy pool remained to show where she had sunk.
And this is the story.

But where did Inge go? She sank into the ground, and went down to the Marsh
Woman, who is always brewing there.

The Marsh Woman is related to the elf maidens, who are well-known, for songs
are sung and pictures painted about them. But of the Marsh Woman nothing is
known, excepting that when a mist arises from the meadows, in summer time, it
is because she is brewing beneath them. To the Marsh Woman’s brewery Inge sunk
down to a place which no one can endure for long. A heap of mud is a palace
compared with the Marsh Woman’s brewery; and as Inge fell she shuddered in every
limb, and soon became cold and stiff as marble. Her foot was still fastened
to the loaf, which bowed her down as a golden ear of corn bends the stem.

An evil spirit soon took possession of Inge, and carried her to a still worse
place, in which she saw crowds of unhappy people, waiting in a state of agony
for the gates of mercy to be opened to them, and in every heart was a miserable
and eternal feeling of unrest. It would take too much time to describe the various
tortures these people suffered, but Inge’s punishment consisted in standing
there as a statue, with her foot fastened to the loaf. She could move her eyes
about, and see all the misery around her, but she could not turn her head; and
when she saw the people looking at her she thought they were admiring her pretty
face and fine clothes, for she was still vain and proud. But she had forgotten
how soiled her clothes had become while in the Marsh Woman’s brewery, and that
they were covered with mud; a snake had also fastened itself in her hair, and
hung down her back, while from each fold in her dress a great toad peeped out
and croaked like an asthmatic poodle. Worse than all was the terrible hunger
that tormented her, and she could not stoop to break off a piece of the loaf
on which she stood. No; her back was too stiff, and her whole body like a pillar
of stone. And then came creeping over her face and eyes flies without wings;
she winked and blinked, but they could not fly away, for their wings had been
pulled off; this, added to the hunger she felt, was horrible torture.

“If this lasts much longer,” she said, “I shall not be able to bear it.” But
it did last, and she had to bear it, without being able to help herself.

A tear, followed by many scalding tears, fell upon her head, and rolled over
her face and neck, down to the loaf on which she stood. Who could be weeping
for Inge? She had a mother in the world still, and the tears of sorrow which
a mother sheds for her child will always find their way to the child’s heart,
but they often increase the torment instead of being a relief. And Inge could
hear all that was said about her in the world she had left, and every one seemed
cruel to her. The sin she had committed in treading on the loaf was known on
earth, for she had been seen by the cowherd from the hill, when she was crossing
the marsh and had disappeared.

When her mother wept and exclaimed, “Ah, Inge! what grief thou hast caused
thy mother” she would say, “Oh that I had never been born! My mother’s tears
are useless now.”

And then the words of the kind people who had adopted her came to her ears,
when they said, “Inge was a sinful girl, who did not value the gifts of God,
but trampled them under her feet.”

“Ah,” thought Inge, “they should have punished me, and driven all my naughty
tempers out of me.”

A song was made about “The girl who trod on a loaf to keep her shoes from being
soiled,” and this song was sung everywhere. The story of her sin was also told
to the little children, and they called her “wicked Inge,” and said she was
so naughty that she ought to be punished. Inge heard all this, and her heart
became hardened and full of bitterness.

But one day, while hunger and grief were gnawing in her hollow frame, she heard
a little, innocent child, while listening to the tale of the vain, haughty Inge,
burst into tears and exclaim, “But will she never come up again?”

And she heard the reply, “No, she will never come up again.”

“But if she were to say she was sorry, and ask pardon, and promise never to
do so again?” asked the little one.

“Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon,” was the answer.

“Oh, I wish she would!” said the child, who was quite unhappy about it. “I
should be so glad. I would give up my doll and all my playthings, if she could
only come here again. Poor Inge! it is so dreadful for her.”

These pitying words penetrated to Inge’s inmost heart, and seemed to do her
good. It was the first time any one had said, “Poor Inge!” without saying something
about her faults. A little innocent child was weeping, and praying for mercy
for her. It made her feel quite strange, and she would gladly have wept herself,
and it added to her torment to find she could not do so. And while she thus
suffered in a place where nothing changed, years passed away on earth, and she
heard her name less frequently mentioned. But one day a sigh reached her ear,
and the words, “Inge! Inge! what a grief thou hast been to me! I said it would
be so.” It was the last sigh of her dying mother.

After this, Inge heard her kind mistress say, “Ah, poor Inge! shall I ever
see thee again? Perhaps I may, for we know not what may happen in the future.”
But Inge knew right well that her mistress would never come to that dreadful
place.

Time-passed—a long bitter time—then Inge heard her name pronounced once more,
and saw what seemed two bright stars shining above her. They were two gentle
eyes closing on earth. Many years had passed since the little girl had lamented
and wept about “poor Inge.” That child was now an old woman, whom God was taking
to Himself. In the last hour of existence the events of a whole life often appear
before us; and this hour the old woman remembered how, when a child, she had
shed tears over the story of Inge, and she prayed for her now. As the eyes of
the old woman closed to earth, the eyes of the soul opened upon the hidden things
of eternity, and then she, in whose last thoughts Inge had been so vividly present,
saw how deeply the poor girl had sunk. She burst into tears at the sight, and
in heaven, as she had done when a little child on earth, she wept and prayed
for poor Inge. Her tears and her prayers echoed through the dark void that surrounded
the tormented captive soul, and the unexpected mercy was obtained for it through
an angel’s tears. As in thought Inge seemed to act over again every sin she
had committed on earth, she trembled, and tears she had never yet been able
to weep rushed to her eyes. It seemed impossible that the gates of mercy could
ever be opened to her; but while she acknowledged this in deep penitence, a
beam of radiant light shot suddenly into the depths upon her. More powerful
than the sunbeam that dissolves the man of snow which the children have raised,
more quickly than the snowflake melts and becomes a drop of water on the warm
lips of a child, was the stony form of Inge changed, and as a little bird she
soared, with the speed of lightning, upward to the world of mortals. A bird
that felt timid and shy to all things around it, that seemed to shrink with
shame from meeting any living creature, and hurriedly sought to conceal itself
in a dark corner of an old ruined wall; there it sat cowering and unable to
utter a sound, for it was voiceless. Yet how quickly the little bird discovered
the beauty of everything around it. The sweet, fresh air; the soft radiance
of the moon, as its light spread over the earth; the fragrance which exhaled
from bush and tree, made it feel happy as it sat there clothed in its fresh,
bright plumage. All creation seemed to speak of beneficence and love. The bird
wanted to give utterance to thoughts that stirred in his breast, as the cuckoo
and the nightingale in the spring, but it could not. Yet in heaven can be heard
the song of praise, even from a worm; and the notes trembling in the breast
of the bird were as audible to Heaven even as the psalms of David before they
had fashioned themselves into words and song.

Christmas-time drew near, and a peasant who dwelt close by the old wall stuck
up a pole with some ears of corn fastened to the top, that the birds of heaven
might have feast, and rejoice in the happy, blessed time. And on Christmas morning
the sun arose and shone upon the ears of corn, which were quickly surrounded
by a number of twittering birds. Then, from a hole in the wall, gushed forth
in song the swelling thoughts of the bird as he issued from his hiding place
to perform his first good deed on earth,—and in heaven it was well known who
that bird was.

The winter was very hard; the ponds were covered with ice, and there was very
little food for either the beasts of the field or the birds of the air. Our
little bird flew away into the public roads, and found here and there, in the
ruts of the sledges, a grain of corn, and at the halting places some crumbs.
Of these he ate only a few, but he called around him the other birds and the
hungry sparrows, that they too might have food. He flew into the towns, and
looked about, and wherever a kind hand had strewed bread on the window-sill
for the birds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all the rest to
the rest of the other birds. In the course of the winter the bird had in this
way collected many crumbs and given them to other birds, till they equalled
the weight of the loaf on which Inge had trod to keep her shoes clean; and when
the last bread-crumb had been found and given, the gray wings of the bird became
white, and spread themselves out for flight.

“See, yonder is a sea-gull!” cried the children, when they saw the white bird,
as it dived into the sea, and rose again into the clear sunlight, white and
glittering. But no one could tell whither it went then although some declared
it flew straight to the sun.

The Little Match-Seller

It was terribly cold and nearly dark on the last evening of the old year, and the
snow was falling fast. In the cold and the darkness, a poor little girl, with
bare head and naked feet, roamed through the streets. It is true she had on a
pair of slippers when she left home, but they were not of much use. They were
very large, so large, indeed, that they had belonged to her mother, and the poor
little creature had lost them in running across the street to avoid two carriages
that were rolling along at a terrible rate. One of the slippers she could not
find, and a boy seized upon the other and ran away with it, saying that he could
use it as a cradle, when he had children of his own. So the little girl went on
with her little naked feet, which were quite red and blue with the cold. In an
old apron she carried a number of matches, and had a bundle of them in her hands.
No one had bought anything of her the whole day, nor had anyone given her even
a penny. Shivering with cold and hunger, she crept along; poor little child, she
looked the picture of misery. The snowflakes fell on her long, fair hair, which
hung in curls on her shoulders, but she regarded them not.

Lights were shining from every window, and there was a savory smell of roast
goose, for it was New-year’s eve—yes, she remembered that. In a corner, between
two houses, one of which projected beyond the other, she sank down and huddled
herself together. She had drawn her little feet under her, but she could not
keep off the cold; and she dared not go home, for she had sold no matches, and
could not take home even a penny of money. Her father would certainly beat her;
besides, it was almost as cold at home as here, for they had only the roof to
cover them, through which the wind howled, although the largest holes had been
stopped up with straw and rags. Her little hands were almost frozen with the
cold. Ah! perhaps a burning match might be some good, if she could draw it from
the bundle and strike it against the wall, just to warm her fingers. She drew
one out—“scratch!” how it sputtered as it burnt! It gave a warm, bright light,
like a little candle, as she held her hand over it. It was really a wonderful
light. It seemed to the little girl that she was sitting by a large iron stove,
with polished brass feet and a brass ornament. How the fire burned! and seemed
so beautifully warm that the child stretched out her feet as if to warm them,
when, lo! the flame of the match went out, the stove vanished, and she had only
the remains of the half-burnt match in her hand.

She rubbed another match on the wall. It burst into a flame, and where its
light fell upon the wall it became as transparent as a veil, and she could see
into the room. The table was covered with a snowy white table-cloth, on which
stood a splendid dinner service, and a steaming roast goose, stuffed with apples
and dried plums. And what was still more wonderful, the goose jumped down from
the dish and waddled across the floor, with a knife and fork in its breast,
to the little girl. Then the match went out, and there remained nothing but
the thick, damp, cold wall before her.

She lighted another match, and then she found herself sitting under a beautiful
Christmas-tree. It was larger and more beautifully decorated than the one which
she had seen through the glass door at the rich merchant’s. Thousands of tapers
were burning upon the green branches, and colored pictures, like those she had
seen in the show-windows, looked down upon it all. The little one stretched
out her hand towards them, and the match went out.

The Christmas lights rose higher and higher, till they looked to her like the
stars in the sky. Then she saw a star fall, leaving behind it a bright streak
of fire. “Someone is dying,” thought the little girl, for her old grandmother,
the only one who had ever loved her, and who was now dead, had told her that
when a star falls, a soul was going up to God.

She again rubbed a match on the wall, and the light shone round her; in the
brightness stood her old grandmother, clear and shining, yet mild and loving
in her appearance. “Grandmother,” cried the little one, “O take me with you;
I know you will go away when the match burns out; you will vanish like the warm
stove, the roast goose, and the large, glorious Christmas-tree.” And she made
haste to light the whole bundle of matches, for she wished to keep her grandmother
there. And the matches glowed with a light that was brighter than the noon-day,
and her grandmother had never appeared so large or so beautiful. She took the
little girl in her arms, and they both flew upwards in brightness and joy far
above the earth, where there was neither cold nor hunger nor pain, for they
were with God.

In the dawn of morning there lay the poor little one, with pale cheeks and
smiling mouth, leaning against the wall; she had been frozen to death on the
last evening of the year; and the New-year’s sun rose and shone upon a little
corpse! The child still sat, in the stiffness of death, holding the matches
in her hand, one bundle of which was burnt. “She tried to warm herself,” said
some. No one imagined what beautiful things she had seen, nor into what glory
she had entered with her grandmother, on New-year’s day.

The Farm-Yard Cock and the Weather-Cock

There were two cocks—one on the dung-hill, the other on the roof. They were both
arrogant, but which of the two rendered most service? Tell us your opinion—we’ll
keep to ours just the same though.

The poultry yard was divided by some planks from another yard in which there
was a dung-hill, and on the dung-hill lay and grew a large cucumber which was
conscious of being a hot-bed plant.

“One is born to that,” said the cucumber to itself. “Not all can be born cucumbers;
there must be other things, too. The hens, the ducks, and all the animals in
the next yard are creatures too. Now I have a great opinion of the yard cock
on the plank; he is certainly of much more importance than the weather-cock
who is placed so high and can’t even creak, much less crow. The latter has neither
hens nor chicks, and only thinks of himself and perspires verdigris. No, the
yard cock is really a cock! His step is a dance! His crowing is music, and wherever
he goes one knows what a trumpeter is like! If he would only come in here! Even
if he ate me up stump, stalk, and all, and I had to dissolve in his body, it
would be a happy death,” said the cucumber.

In the night there was a terrible storm. The hens, chicks, and even the cock
sought shelter; the wind tore down the planks between the two yards with a crash;
the tiles came tumbling down, but the weather-cock sat firm. He did not even
turn round, for he could not; and yet he was young and freshly cast, but prudent
and sedate. He had been born old, and did not at all resemble the birds flying
in the air—the sparrows, and the swallows; no, he despised them, these mean
little piping birds, these common whistlers. He admitted that the pigeons, large
and white and shining like mother-o’-pearl, looked like a kind of weather-cock;
but they were fat and stupid, and all their thoughts and endeavours were directed
to filling themselves with food, and besides, they were tiresome things to converse
with. The birds of passage had also paid the weather-cock a visit and told him
of foreign countries, of airy caravans and robber stories that made one’s hair
stand on end. All this was new and interesting; that is, for the first time,
but afterwards, as the weather-cock found out, they repeated themselves and
always told the same stories, and that’s very tedious, and there was no one
with whom one could associate, for one and all were stale and small-minded.

“The world is no good!” he said. “Everything in it is so stupid.”

The weather-cock was puffed up, and that quality would have made him interesting
in the eyes of the cucumber if it had known it, but it had eyes only for the
yard cock, who was now in the yard with it.

The wind had blown the planks, but the storm was over.

“What do you think of that crowing?” said the yard cock to the hens and chickens.
“It was a little rough—it wanted elegance.”

And the hens and chickens came up on the dung-hill, and the cock strutted about
like a lord.

“Garden plant!” he said to the cucumber, and in that one word his deep learning
showed itself, and it forgot that he was pecking at her and eating it up. “A
happy death!”

The hens and the chickens came, for where one runs the others run too; they
clucked, and chirped, and looked at the cock, and were proud that he was of
their kind.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo!” he crowed, “the chickens will grow up into great hens
at once, if I cry it out in the poultry-yard of the world!”

And hens and chicks clucked and chirped, and the cock announced a great piece
of news.

“A cock can lay an egg! And do you know what’s in that egg? A basilisk. No
one can stand the sight of such a thing; people know that, and now you know
it too—you know what is in me, and what a champion of all cocks I am!”

With that the yard cock flapped his wings, made his comb swell up, and crowed
again; and they all shuddered, the hens and the little chicks—but they were
very proud that one of their number was such a champion of all cocks. They clucked
and chirped till the weather-cock heard; he heard it; but he did not stir.

“Everything is very stupid,” the weather-cock said to himself. “The yard cock
lays no eggs, and I am too lazy to do so; if I liked, I could lay a wind-egg.
But the world is not worth even a wind-egg. Everything is so stupid! I don’t
want to sit here any longer.”

With that the weather-cock broke off; but he did not kill the yard cock, although
the hens said that had been his intention. And what is the moral? “Better to
crow than to be puffed up and break off!”

The Buckwheat

Very often, after a violent thunder-storm, a field of buckwheat appears blackened
and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over it. The country people say that
this appearance is caused by lightning; but I will tell you what the sparrow says,
and the sparrow heard it from an old willow-tree which grew near a field of buckwheat,
and is there still. It is a large venerable tree, though a little crippled by
age. The trunk has been split, and out of the crevice grass and brambles grow.
The tree bends for-ward slightly, and the branches hang quite down to the ground
just like green hair. Corn grows in the surrounding fields, not only rye and barley,
but oats,—pretty oats that, when ripe, look like a number of little golden canary-birds
sitting on a bough. The corn has a smiling look and the heaviest and richest ears
bend their heads low as if in pious humility. Once there was also a field of buckwheat,
and this field was exactly opposite to old willow-tree. The buckwheat did not
bend like the other grain, but erected its head proudly and stiffly on the stem.
“I am as valuable as any other corn,” said he, “and I am much handsomer; my flowers
are as beautiful as the bloom of the apple blossom, and it is a pleasure to look
at us. Do you know of anything prettier than we are, you old willow-tree?”

And the willow-tree nodded his head, as if he would say, “Indeed I do.”

But the buckwheat spread itself out with pride, and said, “Stupid tree; he
is so old that grass grows out of his body.”

There arose a very terrible storm. All the field-flowers folded their leaves
together, or bowed their little heads, while the storm passed over them, but
the buckwheat stood erect in its pride. “Bend your head as we do,” said the
flowers.

“I have no occasion to do so,” replied the buckwheat.

“Bend your head as we do,” cried the ears of corn; “the angel of the storm
is coming; his wings spread from the sky above to the earth beneath. He will
strike you down before you can cry for mercy.”

“But I will not bend my head,” said the buckwheat.

“Close your flowers and bend your leaves,” said the old willow-tree. “Do not
look at the lightning when the cloud bursts; even men cannot do that. In a flash
of lightning heaven opens, and we can look in; but the sight will strike even
human beings blind. What then must happen to us, who only grow out of the earth,
and are so inferior to them, if we venture to do so?”

“Inferior, indeed!” said the buckwheat. “Now I intend to have a peep into heaven.”
Proudly and boldly he looked up, while the lightning flashed across the sky
as if the whole world were in flames.

When the dreadful storm had passed, the flowers and the corn raised their drooping
heads in the pure still air, refreshed by the rain, but the buckwheat lay like
a weed in the field, burnt to blackness by the lightning. The branches of the
old willow-tree rustled in the wind, and large water-drops fell from his green
leaves as if the old willow were weeping. Then the sparrows asked why he was
weeping, when all around him seemed so cheerful. “See,” they said, “how the
sun shines, and the clouds float in the blue sky. Do you not smell the sweet
perfume from flower and bush? Wherefore do you weep, old willow-tree?” Then
the willow told them of the haughty pride of the buckwheat, and of the punishment
which followed in consequence.

This is the story told me by the sparrows one evening when I begged them to
relate some tale to me.

Jack the Dullard

Far in the interior of the country lay an old baronial hall, and in it lived an
old proprietor, who had two sons, which two young men thought themselves too clever
by half. They wanted to go out and woo the King’s daughter; for the maiden in
question had publicly announced that she would choose for her husband that youth
who could arrange his words best.

So these two geniuses prepared themselves a full week for the wooing—this was
the longest time that could be granted them; but it was enough, for they had
had much preparatory information, and everybody knows how useful that is. One
of them knew the whole Latin dictionary by heart, and three whole years of the
daily paper of the little town into the bargain, and so well, indeed, that he
could repeat it all either backwards or forwards, just as he chose. The other
was deeply read in the corporation laws, and knew by heart what every corporation
ought to know; and accordingly he thought he could talk of affairs of state,
and put his spoke in the wheel in the council. And he knew one thing more: he
could embroider suspenders with roses and other flowers, and with arabesques,
for he was a tasty, light-fingered fellow.

“I shall win the Princess!” So cried both of them. Therefore their old papa
gave to each of them a handsome horse. The youth who knew the dictionary and
newspaper by heart had a black horse, and he who knew all about the corporation
laws received a milk-white steed. Then they rubbed the corners of their mouths
with fish-oil, so that they might become very smooth and glib. All the servants
stood below in the courtyard, and looked on while they mounted their horses;
and just by chance the third son came up. For the proprietor had really three
sons, though nobody counted the third with his brothers, because he was not
so learned as they, and indeed he was generally known as “Jack the Dullard.”

“Hallo!” said Jack the Dullard, “where are you going? I declare you have put
on your Sunday clothes!”

“We’re going to the King’s court, as suitors to the King’s daughter. Don’t
you know the announcement that has been made all through the country?” And they
told him all about it.

“My word! I’ll be in it too!” cried Jack the Dullard; and his two brothers
burst out laughing at him, and rode away.

“Father, dear,” said Jack, “I must have a horse too. I do feel so desperately
inclined to marry! If she accepts me, she accepts me; and if she won’t have
me, I’ll have her; but she shall be mine!”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” replied the old gentleman. “You shall have no horse
from me. You don’t know how to speak—you can’t arrange your words. Your brothers
are very different fellows from you.”

“Well,” quoth Jack the Dullard, “If I can’t have a horse, I’ll take the Billy-goat,
who belongs to me, and he can carry me very well!”

And so said, so done. He mounted the Billy-goat, pressed his heels into its
sides, and galloped down the high street like a hurricane.

“Hei, houp! that was a ride! Here I come!” shouted Jack the Dullard, and he
sang till his voice echoed far and wide.

But his brothers rode slowly on in advance of him. They spoke not a word, for
they were thinking about the fine extempore speeches they would have to bring
out, and these had to be cleverly prepared beforehand.

“Hallo!” shouted Jack the Dullard. “Here am I! Look what I have found on the
high road.” And he showed them what it was, and it was a dead crow.

“Dullard!” exclaimed the brothers, “what are you going to do with that?”

“With the crow? why, I am going to give it to the Princess.”

“Yes, do so,” said they; and they laughed, and rode on.

“Hallo, here I am again! just see what I have found now: you don’t find that
on the high road every day!”

And the brothers turned round to see what he could have found now.

“Dullard!” they cried, “that is only an old wooden shoe, and the upper part
is missing into the bargain; are you going to give that also to the Princess?”

“Most certainly I shall,” replied Jack the Dullard; and again the brothers
laughed and rode on, and thus they got far in advance of him; but—

“Hallo—hop rara!” and there was Jack the Dullard again. “It is getting better
and better,” he cried. “Hurrah! it is quite famous.”

“Why, what have you found this time?” inquired the brothers.

“Oh,” said Jack the Dullard, “I can hardly tell you. How glad the Princess
will be!”

“Bah!” said the brothers; “that is nothing but clay out of the ditch.”

“Yes, certainly it is,” said Jack the Dullard; “and clay of the finest sort.
See, it is so wet, it runs through one’s fingers.” And he filled his pocket
with the clay.

But his brothers galloped on till the sparks flew, and consequently they arrived
a full hour earlier at the town gate than could Jack. Now at the gate each suitor
was provided with a number, and all were placed in rows immediately on their
arrival, six in each row, and so closely packed together that they could not
move their arms; and that was a prudent arrangement, for they would certainly
have come to blows, had they been able, merely because one of them stood before
the other.

All the inhabitants of the country round about stood in great crowds around
the castle, almost under the very windows, to see the Princess receive the suitors;
and as each stepped into the hall, his power of speech seemed to desert him,
like the light of a candle that is blown out. Then the Princess would say, “He
is of no use! Away with him out of the hall!”

At last the turn came for that brother who knew the dictionary by heart; but
he did not know it now; he had absolutely forgotten it altogether; and the boards
seemed to re-echo with his footsteps, and the ceiling of the hall was made of
looking-glass, so that he saw himself standing on his head; and at the window
stood three clerks and a head clerk, and every one of them was writing down
every single word that was uttered, so that it might be printed in the newspapers,
and sold for a penny at the street corners. It was a terrible ordeal, and they
had, moreover, made such a fire in the stove, that the room seemed quite red
hot.

“It is dreadfully hot here!” observed the first brother.

“Yes,” replied the Princess, “my father is going to roast young pullets today.”

“Baa!” there he stood like a baa-lamb. He had not been prepared for a speech
of this kind, and had not a word to say, though he intended to say something
witty. “Baa!”

“He is of no use!” said the Princess. “Away with him!”

And he was obliged to go accordingly. And now the second brother came in.

“It is terribly warm here!” he observed.

“Yes, we’re roasting pullets to-day,” replied the Princess.

“What—what were you—were you pleased to ob—” stammered he—and all the clerks
wrote down, “pleased to ob—”

“He is of no use!” said the Princess. “Away with him!”

Now came the turn of Jack the Dullard. He rode into the hall on his goat.

“Well, it’s most abominably hot here.”

“Yes, because I’m roasting young pullets,” replied the Princess.

“Ah, that’s lucky!” exclaimed Jack the Dullard, “for I suppose you’ll let me
roast my crow at the same time?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” said the Princess. “But have you anything you
can roast it in? for I have neither pot nor pan.”

“Certainly I have!” said Jack. “Here’s a cooking utensil with a tin handle.”

And he brought out the old wooden shoe, and put the crow into it.

“Well, that is a famous dish!” said the Princess. “But what shall we do for
sauce?”

“Oh, I have that in my pocket,” said Jack; “I have so much of it that I can
afford to throw some away;” and he poured some of the clay out of his pocket.

“I like that!” said the Princess. “You can give an answer, and you have something
to say for yourself, and so you shall be my husband. But are you aware that
every word we speak is being taken down, and will be published in the paper
to-morrow? Look yonder, and you will see in every window three clerks and a
head clerk; and the old head clerk is the worst of all, for he can’t understand
anything.”

But she only said this to frighten Jack the Dullard; and the clerks gave a
great crow of delight, and each one spurted a blot out of his pen on to the
floor.

“Oh, those are the gentlemen, are they?” said Jack; “then I will give the best
I have to the head clerk.” And he turned out his pockets, and flung the wet
clay full in the head clerk’s face.

“That was very cleverly done,” observed the Princess. “I could not have done
that; but I shall learn in time.”

And accordingly Jack the Dullard was made a king, and received a crown and
a wife, and sat upon a throne. And this report we have wet from the press of
the head clerk and the corporation of printers— but they are not to be depended
upon in the least.

The Ugly Duckling

It was lovely summer weather in the country, and the golden corn, the green oats,
and the haystacks piled up in the meadows looked beautiful. The stork walking
about on his long red legs chattered in the Egyptian language, which he had learnt
from his mother. The corn-fields and meadows were surrounded by large forests,
in the midst of which were deep pools. It was, indeed, delightful to walk about
in the country. In a sunny spot stood a pleasant old farm-house close by a deep
river, and from the house down to the water side grew great burdock leaves, so
high, that under the tallest of them a little child could stand upright. The spot
was as wild as the centre of a thick wood. In this snug retreat sat a duck on
her nest, watching for her young brood to hatch; she was beginning to get tired
of her task, for the little ones were a long time coming out of their shells,
and she seldom had any visitors. The other ducks liked much better to swim about
in the river than to climb the slippery banks, and sit under a burdock leaf, to
have a gossip with her. At length one shell cracked, and then another, and from
each egg came a living creature that lifted its head and cried, “Peep, peep.”
“Quack, quack,” said the mother, and then they all quacked as well as they could,
and looked about them on every side at the large green leaves. Their mother allowed
them to look as much as they liked, because green is good for the eyes. “How large
the world is,” said the young ducks, when they found how much more room they now
had than while they were inside the egg-shell. “Do you imagine this is the whole
world?” asked the mother; “Wait till you have seen the garden; it stretches far
beyond that to the parson’s field, but I have never ventured to such a distance.
Are you all out?” she continued, rising; “No, I declare, the largest egg lies
there still. I wonder how long this is to last, I am quite tired of it;” and she
seated herself again on the nest.

“Well, how are you getting on?” asked an old duck, who paid her a visit.

“One egg is not hatched yet,” said the duck, “it will not break. But just look
at all the others, are they not the prettiest little ducklings you ever saw?
They are the image of their father, who is so unkind, he never comes to see.”

“Let me see the egg that will not break,” said the duck; “I have no doubt it
is a turkey’s egg. I was persuaded to hatch some once, and after all my care
and trouble with the young ones, they were afraid of the water. I quacked and
clucked, but all to no purpose. I could not get them to venture in. Let me look
at the egg. Yes, that is a turkey’s egg; take my advice, leave it where it is
and teach the other children to swim.”

“I think I will sit on it a little while longer,” said the duck; “as I have
sat so long already, a few days will be nothing.”

“Please yourself,” said the old duck, and she went away.

At last the large egg broke, and a young one crept forth crying, “Peep, peep.”
It was very large and ugly. The duck stared at it and exclaimed, “It is very
large and not at all like the others. I wonder if it really is a turkey. We
shall soon find it out, however when we go to the water. It must go in, if I
have to push it myself.”

On the next day the weather was delightful, and the sun shone brightly on the
green burdock leaves, so the mother duck took her young brood down to the water,
and jumped in with a splash. “Quack, quack,” cried she, and one after another
the little ducklings jumped in. The water closed over their heads, but they
came up again in an instant, and swam about quite prettily with their legs paddling
under them as easily as possible, and the ugly duckling was also in the water
swimming with them.

“Oh,” said the mother, “that is not a turkey; how well he uses his legs, and
how upright he holds himself! He is my own child, and he is not so very ugly
after all if you look at him properly. Quack, quack! come with me now, I will
take you into grand society, and introduce you to the farmyard, but you must
keep close to me or you may be trodden upon; and, above all, beware of the cat.”

When they reached the farmyard, there was a great disturbance, two families
were fighting for an eel’s head, which, after all, was carried off by the cat.
“See, children, that is the way of the world,” said the mother duck, whetting
her beak, for she would have liked the eel’s head herself. “Come, now, use your
legs, and let me see how well you can behave. You must bow your heads prettily
to that old duck yonder; she is the highest born of them all, and has Spanish
blood, therefore, she is well off. Don’t you see she has a red flag tied to
her leg, which is something very grand, and a great honor for a duck; it shows
that every one is anxious not to lose her, as she can be recognized both by
man and beast. Come, now, don’t turn your toes, a well-bred duckling spreads
his feet wide apart, just like his father and mother, in this way; now bend
your neck, and say ‘quack.’”

The ducklings did as they were bid, but the other duck stared, and said, “Look,
here comes another brood, as if there were not enough of us already! and what
a queer looking object one of them is; we don’t want him here,” and then one
flew out and bit him in the neck.

“Let him alone,” said the mother; “he is not doing any harm.”

“Yes, but he is so big and ugly,” said the spiteful duck “and therefore he
must be turned out.”

“The others are very pretty children,” said the old duck, with the rag on her
leg, “all but that one; I wish his mother could improve him a little.”

“That is impossible, your grace,” replied the mother; “he is not pretty; but
he has a very good disposition, and swims as well or even better than the others.
I think he will grow up pretty, and perhaps be smaller; he has remained too
long in the egg, and therefore his figure is not properly formed;” and then
she stroked his neck and smoothed the feathers, saying, “It is a drake, and
therefore not of so much consequence. I think he will grow up strong, and able
to take care of himself.”

“The other ducklings are graceful enough,” said the old duck. “Now make yourself
at home, and if you can find an eel’s head, you can bring it to me.”

And so they made themselves comfortable; but the poor duckling, who had crept
out of his shell last of all, and looked so ugly, was bitten and pushed and
made fun of, not only by the ducks, but by all the poultry. “He is too big,”
they all said, and the turkey cock, who had been born into the world with spurs,
and fancied himself really an emperor, puffed himself out like a vessel in full
sail, and flew at the duckling, and became quite red in the head with passion,
so that the poor little thing did not know where to go, and was quite miserable
because he was so ugly and laughed at by the whole farmyard. So it went on from
day to day till it got worse and worse. The poor duckling was driven about by
every one; even his brothers and sisters were unkind to him, and would say,
“Ah, you ugly creature, I wish the cat would get you,” and his mother said she
wished he had never been born. The ducks pecked him, the chickens beat him,
and the girl who fed the poultry kicked him with her feet. So at last he ran
away, frightening the little birds in the hedge as he flew over the palings.

“They are afraid of me because I am ugly,” he said. So he closed his eyes,
and flew still farther, until he came out on a large moor, inhabited by wild
ducks. Here he remained the whole night, feeling very tired and sorrowful.

In the morning, when the wild ducks rose in the air, they stared at their new
comrade. “What sort of a duck are you?” they all said, coming round him.

He bowed to them, and was as polite as he could be, but he did not reply to
their question. “You are exceedingly ugly,” said the wild ducks, “but that will
not matter if you do not want to marry one of our family.”

Poor thing! he had no thoughts of marriage; all he wanted was permission to
lie among the rushes, and drink some of the water on the moor. After he had
been on the moor two days, there came two wild geese, or rather goslings, for
they had not been out of the egg long, and were very saucy. “Listen, friend,”
said one of them to the duckling, “you are so ugly, that we like you very well.
Will you go with us, and become a bird of passage? Not far from here is another
moor, in which there are some pretty wild geese, all unmarried. It is a chance
for you to get a wife; you may be lucky, ugly as you are.”

“Pop, pop,” sounded in the air, and the two wild geese fell dead among the
rushes, and the water was tinged with blood. “Pop, pop,” echoed far and wide
in the distance, and whole flocks of wild geese rose up from the rushes. The
sound continued from every direction, for the sportsmen surrounded the moor,
and some were even seated on branches of trees, overlooking the rushes. The
blue smoke from the guns rose like clouds over the dark trees, and as it floated
away across the water, a number of sporting dogs bounded in among the rushes,
which bent beneath them wherever they went. How they terrified the poor duckling!
He turned away his head to hide it under his wing, and at the same moment a
large terrible dog passed quite near him. His jaws were open, his tongue hung
from his mouth, and his eyes glared fearfully. He thrust his nose close to the
duckling, showing his sharp teeth, and then, “splash, splash,” he went into
the water without touching him, “Oh,” sighed the duckling, “how thankful I am
for being so ugly; even a dog will not bite me.” And so he lay quite still,
while the shot rattled through the rushes, and gun after gun was fired over
him. It was late in the day before all became quiet, but even then the poor
young thing did not dare to move. He waited quietly for several hours, and then,
after looking carefully around him, hastened away from the moor as fast as he
could. He ran over field and meadow till a storm arose, and he could hardly
struggle against it. Towards evening, he reached a poor little cottage that
seemed ready to fall, and only remained standing because it could not decide
on which side to fall first. The storm continued so violent, that the duckling
could go no farther; he sat down by the cottage, and then he noticed that the
door was not quite closed in consequence of one of the hinges having given way.
There was therefore a narrow opening near the bottom large enough for him to
slip through, which he did very quietly, and got a shelter for the night. A
woman, a tom cat, and a hen lived in this cottage. The tom cat, whom the mistress
called, “My little son,” was a great favorite; he could raise his back, and
purr, and could even throw out sparks from his fur if it were stroked the wrong
way. The hen had very short legs, so she was called “Chickie short legs.” She
laid good eggs, and her mistress loved her as if she had been her own child.
In the morning, the strange visitor was discovered, and the tom cat began to
purr, and the hen to cluck.

“What is that noise about?” said the old woman, looking round the room, but
her sight was not very good; therefore, when she saw the duckling she thought
it must be a fat duck, that had strayed from home. “Oh what a prize!” she exclaimed,
“I hope it is not a drake, for then I shall have some duck’s eggs. I must wait
and see.” So the duckling was allowed to remain on trial for three weeks, but
there were no eggs. Now the tom cat was the master of the house, and the hen
was mistress, and they always said, “We and the world,” for they believed themselves
to be half the world, and the better half too. The duckling thought that others
might hold a different opinion on the subject, but the hen would not listen
to such doubts. “Can you lay eggs?” she asked. “No.” “Then have the goodness
to hold your tongue.” “Can you raise your back, or purr, or throw out sparks?”
said the tom cat. “No.” “Then you have no right to express an opinion when sensible
people are speaking.” So the duckling sat in a corner, feeling very low spirited,
till the sunshine and the fresh air came into the room through the open door,
and then he began to feel such a great longing for a swim on the water, that
he could not help telling the hen.

“What an absurd idea,” said the hen. “You have nothing else to do, therefore
you have foolish fancies. If you could purr or lay eggs, they would pass away.”

“But it is so delightful to swim about on the water,” said the duckling, “and
so refreshing to feel it close over your head, while you dive down to the bottom.”

“Delightful, indeed!” said the hen, “why you must be crazy! Ask the cat, he
is the cleverest animal I know, ask him how he would like to swim about on the
water, or to dive under it, for I will not speak of my own opinion; ask our
mistress, the old woman—there is no one in the world more clever than she is.
Do you think she would like to swim, or to let the water close over her head?”

“You don’t understand me,” said the duckling.

“We don’t understand you? Who can understand you, I wonder? Do you consider
yourself more clever than the cat, or the old woman? I will say nothing of myself.
Don’t imagine such nonsense, child, and thank your good fortune that you have
been received here. Are you not in a warm room, and in society from which you
may learn something. But you are a chatterer, and your company is not very agreeable.
Believe me, I speak only for your own good. I may tell you unpleasant truths,
but that is a proof of my friendship. I advise you, therefore, to lay eggs,
and learn to purr as quickly as possible.”

“I believe I must go out into the world again,” said the duckling.

“Yes, do,” said the hen. So the duckling left the cottage, and soon found water
on which it could swim and dive, but was avoided by all other animals, because
of its ugly appearance. Autumn came, and the leaves in the forest turned to
orange and gold. then, as winter approached, the wind caught them as they fell
and whirled them in the cold air. The clouds, heavy with hail and snow-flakes,
hung low in the sky, and the raven stood on the ferns crying, “Croak, croak.”
It made one shiver with cold to look at him. All this was very sad for the poor
little duckling. One evening, just as the sun set amid radiant clouds, there
came a large flock of beautiful birds out of the bushes. The duckling had never
seen any like them before. They were swans, and they curved their graceful necks,
while their soft plumage shown with dazzling whiteness. They uttered a singular
cry, as they spread their glorious wings and flew away from those cold regions
to warmer countries across the sea. As they mounted higher and higher in the
air, the ugly little duckling felt quite a strange sensation as he watched them.
He whirled himself in the water like a wheel, stretched out his neck towards
them, and uttered a cry so strange that it frightened himself. Could he ever
forget those beautiful, happy birds; and when at last they were out of his sight,
he dived under the water, and rose again almost beside himself with excitement.
He knew not the names of these birds, nor where they had flown, but he felt
towards them as he had never felt for any other bird in the world. He was not
envious of these beautiful creatures, but wished to be as lovely as they. Poor
ugly creature, how gladly he would have lived even with the ducks had they only
given him encouragement. The winter grew colder and colder; he was obliged to
swim about on the water to keep it from freezing, but every night the space
on which he swam became smaller and smaller. At length it froze so hard that
the ice in the water crackled as he moved, and the duckling had to paddle with
his legs as well as he could, to keep the space from closing up. He became exhausted
at last, and lay still and helpless, frozen fast in the ice.

Early in the morning, a peasant, who was passing by, saw what had happened.
He broke the ice in pieces with his wooden shoe, and carried the duckling home
to his wife. The warmth revived the poor little creature; but when the children
wanted to play with him, the duckling thought they would do him some harm; so
he started up in terror, fluttered into the milk-pan, and splashed the milk
about the room. Then the woman clapped her hands, which frightened him still
more. He flew first into the butter-cask, then into the meal-tub, and out again.
What a condition he was in! The woman screamed, and struck at him with the tongs;
the children laughed and screamed, and tumbled over each other, in their efforts
to catch him; but luckily he escaped. The door stood open; the poor creature
could just manage to slip out among the bushes, and lie down quite exhausted
in the newly fallen snow.

It would be very sad, were I to relate all the misery and privations which
the poor little duckling endured during the hard winter; but when it had passed,
he found himself lying one morning in a moor, amongst the rushes. He felt the
warm sun shining, and heard the lark singing, and saw that all around was beautiful
spring. Then the young bird felt that his wings were strong, as he flapped them
against his sides, and rose high into the air. They bore him onwards, until
he found himself in a large garden, before he well knew how it had happened.
The apple-trees were in full blossom, and the fragrant elders bent their long
green branches down to the stream which wound round a smooth lawn. Everything
looked beautiful, in the freshness of early spring. From a thicket close by
came three beautiful white swans, rustling their feathers, and swimming lightly
over the smooth water. The duckling remembered the lovely birds, and felt more
strangely unhappy than ever.

“I will fly to those royal birds,” he exclaimed, “and they will kill me, because
I am so ugly, and dare to approach them; but it does not matter: better be killed
by them than pecked by the ducks, beaten by the hens, pushed about by the maiden
who feeds the poultry, or starved with hunger in the winter.”

Then he flew to the water, and swam towards the beautiful swans. The moment
they espied the stranger, they rushed to meet him with outstretched wings.

“Kill me,” said the poor bird; and he bent his head down to the surface of
the water, and awaited death.

But what did he see in the clear stream below? His own image; no longer a dark,
gray bird, ugly and disagreeable to look at, but a graceful and beautiful swan.
To be born in a duck’s nest, in a farmyard, is of no consequence to a bird,
if it is hatched from a swan’s egg. He now felt glad at having suffered sorrow
and trouble, because it enabled him to enjoy so much better all the pleasure
and happiness around him; for the great swans swam round the new-comer, and
stroked his neck with their beaks, as a welcome.

Into the garden presently came some little children, and threw bread and cake
into the water.

“See,” cried the youngest, “there is a new one;” and the rest were delighted,
and ran to their father and mother, dancing and clapping their hands, and shouting
joyously, “There is another swan come; a new one has arrived.”

Then they threw more bread and cake into the water, and said, “The new one
is the most beautiful of all; he is so young and pretty.” And the old swans
bowed their heads before him.

Then he felt quite ashamed, and hid his head under his wing; for he did not
know what to do, he was so happy, and yet not at all proud. He had been persecuted
and despised for his ugliness, and now he heard them say he was the most beautiful
of all the birds. Even the elder-tree bent down its bows into the water before
him, and the sun shone warm and bright. Then he rustled his feathers, curved
his slender neck, and cried joyfully, from the depths of his heart, “I never
dreamed of such happiness as this, while I was an ugly duckling.”

The Shirt-Collar

There was once a fine gentleman who possessed among other things a boot-jack and
a hair-brush; but he had also the finest shirt-collar in the world, and of this
collar we are about to hear a story. The collar had become so old that he began
to think about getting married; and one day he happened to find himself in the
same washing-tub as a garter. “Upon my word,” said the shirt-collar, “I have never
seen anything so slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I venture to
ask your name?”

“I shall not tell you,” replied the garter.

“Where do you reside when you are at home?” asked the shirt-collar. But the
garter was naturally shy, and did not know how to answer such a question.

“I presume you are a girdle,” said the shirt-collar, “a sort of under girdle.
I see that you are useful, as well as ornamental, my little lady.”

“You must not speak to me,” said the garter; “I do not think I have given you
any encouragement to do so.”

“Oh, when any one is as beautiful as you are,” said the shirt-collar, “is not
that encouragement enough?”

“Get away; don’t come so near me,” said the garter, “you appear to me quite
like a man.”

“I am a fine gentleman certainly,” said the shirt-collar, “I possess a boot-jack
and a hair-brush.” This was not true, for these things belonged to his master;
but he was a boaster.

“Don’t come so near me,” said the garter; “I am not accustomed to it.”

“Affectation!” said the shirt-collar.

Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung over a chair in
the sunshine, and then laid on the ironing-board. And now came the glowing iron.
“Mistress widow,” said the shirt-collar, “little mistress widow, I feel quite
warm. I am changing, I am losing all my creases. You are burning a hole in me.
Ugh! I propose to you.”

“You old rag,” said the flat-iron, driving proudly over the collar, for she
fancied herself a steam-engine, which rolls over the railway and draws carriages.
“You old rag!” said she.

The edges of the shirt-collar were a little frayed, so the scissors were brought
to cut them smooth. “Oh!” exclaimed the shirt-collar, “what a first-rate dancer
you would make; you can stretch out your leg so well. I never saw anything so
charming; I am sure no human being could do the same.”

“I should think not,” replied the scissors.

“You ought to be a countess,” said the shirt collar; “but all I possess consists
of a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a comb. I wish I had an estate for your
sake.”

“What! is he going to propose to me?” said the scissors, and she became so
angry that she cut too sharply into the shirt collar, and it was obliged to
be thrown by as useless.

“I shall be obliged to propose to the hair-brush,” thought the shirt collar;
so he remarked one day, “It is wonderful what beautiful hair you have, my little
lady. Have you never thought of being engaged?”

“You might know I should think of it,” answered the hair brush; “I am engaged
to the boot-jack.”

“Engaged!” cried the shirt collar, “now there is no one left to propose to;”
and then he pretended to despise all love-making.

A long time passed, and the shirt collar was taken in a bag to the paper-mill.
Here was a large company of rags, the fine ones lying by themselves, separated
from the coarser, as it ought to be. They had all many things to relate, especially
the shirt collar, who was a terrible boaster. “I have had an immense number
of love affairs,” said the shirt collar, “no one left me any peace. It is true
I was a very fine gentleman; quite stuck up. I had a boot-jack and a brush that
I never used. You should have seen me then, when I was turned down. I shall
never forget my first love; she was a girdle, so charming, and fine, and soft,
and she threw herself into a washing tub for my sake. There was a widow too,
who was warmly in love with me, but I left her alone, and she became quite black.
The next was a first-rate dancer; she gave me the wound from which I still suffer,
she was so passionate. Even my own hair-brush was in love with me, and lost
all her hair through neglected love. Yes, I have had great experience of this
kind, but my greatest grief was for the garter—the girdle I meant to say—that
jumped into the wash-tub. I have a great deal on my conscience, and it is really
time I should be turned into white paper.”

And the shirt collar came to this at last. All the rags were made into white
paper, and the shirt collar became the very identical piece of paper which we
now see, and on which this story is printed. It happened as a punishment to
him, for having boasted so shockingly of things which were not true. And this
is a warning to us, to be careful how we act, for we may some day find ourselves
in the rag-bag, to be turned into white paper, on which our whole history may
be written, even its most secret actions. And it would not be pleasant to have
to run about the world in the form of a piece of paper, telling everything we
have done, like the boasting shirt collar.

The Elfin Hill

A few large lizards were running nimbly about in the clefts of an old tree; they
could understand one another very well, for they spoke the lizard language.

“What a buzzing and a rumbling there is in the elfin hill,” said one of the
lizards; “I have not been able to close my eyes for two nights on account of
the noise; I might just as well have had the toothache, for that always keeps
me awake.”

“There is something going on within there,” said the other lizard; “they propped
up the top of the hill with four red posts, till cock-crow this morning, so
that it is thoroughly aired, and the elfin girls have learnt new dances; there
is something.”

“I spoke about it to an earth-worm of my acquaintance,” said a third lizard;
“the earth-worm had just come from the elfin hill, where he has been groping
about in the earth day and night. He has heard a great deal; although he cannot
see, poor miserable creature, yet he understands very well how to wriggle and
lurk about. They expect friends in the elfin hill, grand company, too; but who
they are the earth-worm would not say, or, perhaps, he really did not know.
All the will-o’-the-wisps are ordered to be there to hold a torch dance, as
it is called. The silver and gold which is plentiful in the hill will be polished
and placed out in the moonlight.”

“Who can the strangers be?” asked the lizards; “what can the matter be? Hark,
what a buzzing and humming there is!”

Just at this moment the elfin hill opened, and an old elfin maiden, hollow
behind,1 came tripping out; she was the old elf king’s housekeeper, and a distant
relative of the family; therefore she wore an amber heart on the middle of her
forehead. Her feet moved very fast, “trip, trip;” good gracious, how she could
trip right down to the sea to the night-raven.2

“You are invited to the elf hill for this evening,” said she; “but will you
do me a great favor and undertake the invitations? you ought to do something,
for you have no housekeeping to attend to as I have. We are going to have some
very grand people, conjurors, who have always something to say; and therefore
the old elf king wishes to make a great display.”

“Who is to be invited?” asked the raven.

“All the world may come to the great ball, even human beings, if they can only
talk in their sleep, or do something after our fashion. But for the feast the
company must be carefully selected; we can only admit persons of high rank;
I have had a dispute myself with the elf king, as he thought we could not admit
ghosts. The merman and his daughter must be invited first, although it may not
be agreeable to them to remain so long on dry land, but they shall have a wet
stone to sit on, or perhaps something better; so I think they will not refuse
this time. We must have all the old demons of the first class, with tails, and
the hobgoblins and imps; and then I think we ought not to leave out the death-horse,3
or the grave-pig, or even the church dwarf, although they do belong to the clergy,
and are not reckoned among our people; but that is merely their office, they
are nearly related to us, and visit us very frequently.”

“Croak,” said the night-raven as he flew away with the invitations.

The elfin maidens we’re already dancing on the elf hill, and they danced in
shawls woven from moonshine and mist, which look very pretty to those who like
such things. The large hall within the elf hill was splendidly decorated; the
floor had been washed with moonshine, and the walls had been rubbed with magic
ointment, so that they glowed like tulip-leaves in the light. In the kitchen
were frogs roasting on the spit, and dishes preparing of snail skins, with children’s
fingers in them, salad of mushroom seed, hemlock, noses and marrow of mice,
beer from the marsh woman’s brewery, and sparkling salt-petre wine from the
grave cellars. These were all substantial food. Rusty nails and church-window
glass formed the dessert. The old elf king had his gold crown polished up with
powdered slate-pencil; it was like that used by the first form, and very difficult
for an elf king to obtain. In the bedrooms, curtains were hung up and fastened
with the slime of snails; there was, indeed, a buzzing and humming everywhere.

“Now we must fumigate the place with burnt horse-hair and pig’s bristles, and
then I think I shall have done my part,” said the elf man-servant.

“Father, dear,” said the youngest daughter, “may I now hear who our high-born
visitors are?”

“Well, I suppose I must tell you now,” he replied; “two of my daughters must
prepare themselves to be married, for the marriages certainly will take place.
The old goblin from Norway, who lives in the ancient Dovre mountains, and who
possesses many castles built of rock and freestone, besides a gold mine, which
is better than all, so it is thought, is coming with his two sons, who are both
seeking a wife. The old goblin is a true-hearted, honest, old Norwegian graybeard;
cheerful and straightforward. I knew him formerly, when we used to drink together
to our good fellowship: he came here once to fetch his wife, she is dead now.
She was the daughter of the king of the chalk-hills at Moen. They say he took
his wife from chalk; I shall be delighted to see him again. It is said that
the boys are ill-bred, forward lads, but perhaps that is not quite correct,
and they will become better as they grow older. Let me see that you know how
to teach them good manners.”

“And when are they coming?” asked the daughter.

“That depends upon wind and weather,” said the elf king; “they travel economically.
They will come when there is the chance of a ship. I wanted them to come over
to Sweden, but the old man was not inclined to take my advice. He does not go
forward with the times, and that I do not like.”

Two will-o’-the-wisps came jumping in, one quicker than the other, so of course,
one arrived first. “They are coming! they are coming!” he cried.

“Give me my crown,” said the elf king, “and let me stand in the moonshine.”

The daughters drew on their shawls and bowed down to the ground. There stood
the old goblin from the Dovre mountains, with his crown of hardened ice and
polished fir-cones. Besides this, he wore a bear-skin, and great, warm boots,
while his sons went with their throats bare and wore no braces, for they were
strong men.

“Is that a hill?” said the youngest of the boys, pointing to the elf hill,
“we should call it a hole in Norway.”

“Boys,” said the old man, “a hole goes in, and a hill stands out; have you
no eyes in your heads?”

Another thing they wondered at was, that they were able without trouble to
understand the language.

“Take care,” said the old man, “or people will think you have not been well
brought up.”

Then they entered the elfin hill, where the select and grand company were assembled,
and so quickly had they appeared that they seemed to have been blown together.
But for each guest the neatest and pleasantest arrangement had been made. The
sea folks sat at table in great water-tubs, and they said it was just like being
at home. All behaved themselves properly excepting the two young northern goblins;
they put their legs on the table and thought they were all right.

“Feet off the table-cloth!” said the old goblin. They obeyed, but not immediately.
Then they tickled the ladies who waited at table, with the fir-cones, which
they carried in their pockets. They took off their boots, that they might be
more at ease, and gave them to the ladies to hold. But their father, the old
goblin, was very different; he talked pleasantly about the stately Norwegian
rocks, and told fine tales of the waterfalls which dashed over them with a clattering
noise like thunder or the sound of an organ, spreading their white foam on every
side. He told of the salmon that leaps in the rushing waters, while the water-god
plays on his golden harp. He spoke of the bright winter nights, when the sledge
bells are ringing, and the boys run with burning torches across the smooth ice,
which is so transparent that they can see the fishes dart forward beneath their
feet. He described everything so clearly, that those who listened could see
it all; they could see the saw-mills going, the men-servants and the maidens
singing songs, and dancing a rattling dance,—when all at once the old goblin
gave the old elfin maiden a kiss, such a tremendous kiss, and yet they were
almost strangers to each other.

Then the elfin girls had to dance, first in the usual way, and then with stamping
feet, which they performed very well; then followed the artistic and solo dance.
Dear me, how they did throw their legs about! No one could tell where the dance
begun, or where it ended, nor indeed which were legs and which were arms, for
they were all flying about together, like the shavings in a saw-pit! And then
they spun round so quickly that the death-horse and the grave-pig became sick
and giddy, and were obliged to leave the table.

“Stop!” cried the old goblin, “is that the only house-keeping they can perform?
Can they do anything more than dance and throw about their legs, and make a
whirlwind?”

“You shall soon see what they can do,” said the elf king. And then he called
his youngest daughter to him. She was slender and fair as moonlight, and the
most graceful of all the sisters. She took a white chip in her mouth, and vanished
instantly; this was her accomplishment. But the old goblin said he should not
like his wife to have such an accomplishment, and thought his boys would have
the same objection. Another daughter could make a figure like herself follow
her, as if she had a shadow, which none of the goblin folk ever had. The third
was of quite a different sort; she had learnt in the brew-house of the moor
witch how to lard elfin puddings with glow-worms.

“She will make a good housewife,” said the old goblin, and then saluted her
with his eyes instead of drinking her health; for he did not drink much.

Now came the fourth daughter, with a large harp to play upon; and when she
struck the first chord, every one lifted up the left leg (for the goblins are
left-legged), and at the second chord they found they must all do just what
she wanted.

“That is a dangerous woman,” said the old goblin; and the two sons walked out
of the hill; they had had enough of it. “And what can the next daughter do?”
asked the old goblin.

“I have learnt everything that is Norwegian,” said she; “and I will never marry,
unless I can go to Norway.”

Then her youngest sister whispered to the old goblin, “That is only because
she has heard, in a Norwegian song, that when the world shall decay, the cliffs
of Norway will remain standing like monuments; and she wants to get there, that
she may be safe; for she is so afraid of sinking.”

“Ho! ho!” said the old goblin, “is that what she means? Well, what can the
seventh and last do?”

“The sixth comes before the seventh,” said the elf king, for he could reckon;
but the sixth would not come forward.

“I can only tell people the truth,” said she. “No one cares for me, nor troubles
himself about me; and I have enough to do to sew my grave clothes.”

So the seventh and last came; and what could she do? Why, she could tell stories,
as many as you liked, on any subject.

“Here are my five fingers,” said the old goblin; “now tell me a story for each
of them.”

So she took him by the wrist, and he laughed till he nearly choked; and when
she came to the fourth finger, there was a gold ring on it, as if it knew there
was to be a betrothal. Then the old goblin said, “Hold fast what you have: this
hand is yours; for I will have you for a wife myself.”

Then the elfin girl said that the stories about the ring-finger and little
Peter Playman had not yet been told.

“We will hear them in the winter,” said the old goblin, “and also about the
fir and the birch-trees, and the ghost stories, and of the tingling frost. You
shall tell your tales, for no one over there can do it so well; and we will
sit in the stone rooms, where the pine logs are burning, and drink mead out
of the golden drinking-horn of the old Norwegian kings. The water-god has given
me two; and when we sit there, Nix comes to pay us a visit, and will sing you
all the songs of the mountain shepherdesses. How merry we shall be! The salmon
will be leaping in the waterfalls, and dashing against the stone walls, but
he will not be able to come in. It is indeed very pleasant to live in old Norway.
But where are the lads?”

Where indeed were they? Why, running about the fields, and blowing out the
will-o’-the-wisps, who so good-naturedly came and brought their torches.

“What tricks have you been playing?” said the old goblin. “I have taken a mother
for you, and now you may take one of your aunts.”

But the youngsters said they would rather make a speech and drink to their
good fellowship; they had no wish to marry. Then they made speeches and drank
toasts, and tipped their glasses, to show that they were empty. Then they took
off their coats, and lay down on the table to sleep; for they made themselves
quite at home. But the old goblin danced about the room with his young bride,
and exchanged boots with her, which is more fashionable than exchanging rings.

“The cock is crowing,” said the old elfin maiden who acted as housekeeper;
“now we must close the shutters, that the sun may not scorch us.”

Then the hill closed up. But the lizards continued to run up and down the riven
tree; and one said to the other, “Oh, how much I was pleased with the old goblin!”

“The boys pleased me better,” said the earth-worm. But then the poor miserable
creature could not see.

The Story of the Wind

Near the shores of the great Belt, which is one of the straits that connect the
Cattegat with the Baltic, stands an old mansion with thick red walls. I know every
stone of it,” says the Wind. “I saw it when it was part of the castle
of Marck Stig on the promontory. But the castle was obliged to be pulled down,
and the stone was used again for the walls of a new mansion on another spot—the
baronial residence of Borreby, which still stands near the coast. I knew them
well, those noble lords and ladies, the successive generations that dwelt there;
and now I’m going to tell you of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. How proud
was his bearing, for he was of royal blood, and could boast of more noble deeds
than merely hunting the stag and emptying the wine-cup. His rule was despotic:
‘It shall be,’ he was accustomed to say. His wife, in garments embroidered
with gold, stepped proudly over the polished marble floors. The tapestries were
gorgeous, and the furniture of costly and artistic taste. She had brought gold
and plate with her into the house. The cellars were full of wine. Black, fiery
horses, neighed in the stables. There was a look of wealth about the house of
Borreby at that time. They had three children, daughters, fair and delicate maidens—Ida,
Joanna, and Anna Dorothea; I have never forgotten their names. They were a rich,
noble family, born in affluence and nurtured in luxury.

“Whir-r-r, whir-r-r!” roared the Wind, and went on, “I did
not see in this house, as in other great houses, the high-born lady sitting
among her women, turning the spinning-wheel. She could sweep the sounding chords
of the guitar, and sing to the music, not always Danish melodies, but the songs
of a strange land. It was ‘Live and let live,’ here. Stranger guests
came from far and near, music sounded, goblets clashed, and I,” said the
Wind, “was not able to drown the noise. Ostentation, pride, splendor,
and display ruled, but not the fear of the Lord.

”It was on the evening of the first day of May,” the Wind continued,
“I came from the west, and had seen the ships overpowered with the waves,
when all on board persisted or were cast shipwrecked on the coast of Jutland.
I had hurried across the heath and over Jutland’s wood-girt eastern coast,
and over the island of Funen, and then I drove across the great belt, sighing
and moaning. At length I lay down to rest on the shores of Zeeland, near to
the great house of Borreby, where the splendid forest of oaks still flourished.
The young men of the neighborhood were collecting branches and brushwood under
the oak-trees. The largest and dryest they could find they carried into the
village, and piled them up in a heap and set them on fire. Then the men and
maidens danced, and sung in a circle round the blazing pile. I lay quite quiet,”
said the Wind, “but I silently touched a branch which had been brought
by one of the handsomest of the young men, and the wood blazed up brightly,
blazed brighter than all the rest. Then he was chosen as the chief, and received
the name of the Shepherd; and might choose his lamb from among the maidens.
There was greater mirth and rejoicing than I had ever heard in the halls of
the rich baronial house. Then the noble lady drove by towards the baron’s
mansion with her three daughters, in a gilded carriage drawn by six horses.
The daughters were young and beautiful—three charming blossoms—a
rose, a lily, and a white hyacinth. The mother was a proud tulip, and never
acknowledged the salutations of any of the men or maidens who paused in their
sport to do her honor. The gracious lady seemed like a flower that was rather
stiff in the stalk. Rose, lily, and hyacinth—yes, I saw them all three.
Whose little lambs will they one day become? thought I; their shepherd will
be a gallant knight, perhaps a prince. The carriage rolled on, and the peasants
resumed their dancing. They drove about the summer through all the villages
near. But one night, when I rose again, the high-born lady lay down to rise
again no more; that thing came to her which comes to us all, in which there
is nothing new. Waldemar Daa remained for a time silent and thoughtful. ‘The
loftiest tree may be bowed without being broken,’ said a voice within
him. His daughters wept; all the people in the mansion wiped their eyes, but
Lady Daa had driven away, and I drove away too,” said the Wind. “Whir-r-r,
whir-r-r-!

“I returned again; I often returned and passed over the island of Funen
and the shores of the Belt. Then I rested by Borreby, near the glorious wood,
where the heron made his nest, the haunt of the wood-pigeons, the blue-birds,
and the black stork. It was yet spring, some were sitting on their eggs, others
had already hatched their young broods; but how they fluttered about and cried
out when the axe sounded through the forest, blow upon blow! The trees of the
forest were doomed. Waldemar Daa wanted to build a noble ship, a man-of-war,
a three-decker, which the king would be sure to buy; and these, the trees of
the wood, the landmark of the seamen, the refuge of the birds, must be felled.
The hawk started up and flew away, for its nest was destroyed; the heron and
all the birds of the forest became homeless, and flew about in fear and anger.
I could well understand how they felt. Crows and ravens croaked, as if in scorn,
while the trees were cracking and falling around them. Far in the interior of
the wood, where a noisy swarm of laborers were working, stood Waldemar Daa and
his three daughters, and all were laughing at the wild cries of the birds, excepting
one, the youngest, Anna Dorothea, who felt grieved to the heart; and when they
made preparations to fell a tree that was almost dead, and on whose naked branches
the black stork had built her nest, she saw the poor little things stretching
out their necks, and she begged for mercy for them, with the tears in her eyes.
So the tree with the black stork’s nest was left standing; the tree itself,
however, was not worth much to speak of. Then there was a great deal of hewing
and sawing, and at last the three-decker was built. The builder was a man of
low origin, but possessing great pride; his eyes and forehead spoke of large
intellect, and Waldemar Daa was fond of listening to him, and so was Waldemar’s
daughter Ida, the eldest, now about fifteen years old; and while he was building
the ship for the father, he was building for himself a castle in the air, in
which he and Ida were to live when they were married. This might have happened,
indeed, if there had been a real castle, with stone walls, ramparts, and a moat.
But in spite of his clever head, the builder was still but a poor, inferior
bird; and how can a sparrow expect to be admitted into the society of peacocks?

“I passed on in my course,” said the Wind, “and he passed
away also. He was not allowed to remain, and little Ida got over it, because
she was obliged to do so. Proud, black horses, worth looking at, were neighing
in the stable. And they were locked up; for the admiral, who had been sent by
the king to inspect the new ship, and make arrangements for its purchase, was
loud in admiration of these beautiful horses. I heard it all,” said the
Wind, “for I accompanied the gentlemen through the open door of the stable,
and strewed stalks of straw, like bars of gold, at their feet. Waldemar Daa
wanted gold, and the admiral wished for the proud black horses; therefore he
praised them so much. But the hint was not taken, and consequently the ship
was not bought. It remained on the shore covered with boards,—a Noah’s
ark that never got to the water—Whir-r-r-r—and that was a pity.

“In the winter, when the fields were covered with snow, and the water
filled with large blocks of ice which I had blown up to the coast,” continued
the Wind, “great flocks of crows and ravens, dark and black as they usually
are, came and alighted on the lonely, deserted ship. Then they croaked in harsh
accents of the forest that now existed no more, of the many pretty birds’
nests destroyed and the little ones left without a home; and all for the sake
of that great bit of lumber, that proud ship, that never sailed forth. I made
the snowflakes whirl till the snow lay like a great lake round the ship, and
drifted over it. I let it hear my voice, that it might know what the storm has
to say. Certainly I did my part towards teaching it seamanship.

“That winter passed away, and another winter and summer both passed,
as they are still passing away, even as I pass away. The snow drifts onwards,
the apple-blossoms are scattered, the leaves fall,—everything passes away,
and men are passing away too. But the great man’s daughters are still
young, and little Ida is a rose as fair to look upon as on the day when the
shipbuilder first saw her. I often tumbled her long, brown hair, while she stood
in the garden by the apple-tree, musing, and not heeding how I strewed the blossoms
on her hair, and dishevelled it; or sometimes, while she stood gazing at the
red sun and the golden sky through the opening branches of the dark, thick foliage
of the garden trees. Her sister Joanna was bright and slender as a lily; she
had a tall and lofty carriage and figure, though, like her mother, rather stiff
in back. She was very fond of walking through the great hall, where hung the
portraits of her ancestors. The women were represented in dresses of velvet
and silk, with tiny little hats, embroidered with pearls, on their braided hair.
They were all handsome women. The gentlemen appeared clad in steel, or in rich
cloaks lined with squirrel’s fur; they wore little ruffs, and swords at
their sides. Where would Joanna’s place be on that wall some day? and
how would he look,—her noble lord and husband? This is what she thought
of, and often spoke of in a low voice to herself. I heard it as I swept into
the long hall, and turned round to come out again. Anna Dorothea, the pale hyacinth,
a child of fourteen, was quiet and thoughtful; her large, deep, blue eyes had
a dreamy look, but a childlike smile still played round her mouth. I was not
able to blow it away, neither did I wish to do so. We have met in the garden,
in the hollow lane, in the field and meadow, where she gathered herbs and flowers
which she knew would be useful to her father in preparing the drugs and mixtures
he was always concocting. Waldemar Daa was arrogant and proud, but he was also
a learned man, and knew a great deal. It was no secret, and many opinions were
expressed on what he did. In his fireplace there was a fire, even in summer
time. He would lock himself in his room, and for days the fire would be kept
burning; but he did not talk much of what he was doing. The secret powers of
nature are generally discovered in solitude, and did he not soon expect to find
out the art of making the greatest of all good things—the art of making
gold? So he fondly hoped; therefore the chimney smoked and the fire crackled
so constantly. Yes, I was there too,” said the Wind. “‘Leave
it alone,’ I sang down the chimney; ‘leave it alone, it will all
end in smoke, air, coals, and ashes, and you will burn your fingers.’
But Waldemar Daa did not leave it alone, and all he possessed vanished like
smoke blown by me. The splendid black horses, where are they? What became of
the cows in the field, the old gold and silver vessels in cupboards and chests,
and even the house and home itself? It was easy to melt all these away in the
gold-making crucible, and yet obtain no gold. And so it was. Empty are the barns
and store-rooms, the cellars and cupboards; the servants decreased in number,
and the mice multiplied. First one window became broken, and then another, so
that I could get in at other places besides the door. ‘Where the chimney
smokes, the meal is being cooked,’ says the proverb; but here a chimney
smoked that devoured all the meals for the sake of gold. I blew round the courtyard,”
said the Wind, “like a watchman blowing his home, but no watchman was
there. I twirled the weather-cock round on the summit of the tower, and it creaked
like the snoring of a warder, but no warder was there; nothing but mice and
rats. Poverty laid the table-cloth; poverty sat in the wardrobe and in the larder.
The door fell off its hinges, cracks and fissures made their appearance everywhere;
so that I could go in and out at pleasure, and that is how I know all about
it. Amid smoke and ashes, sorrow, and sleepless nights, the hair and beard of
the master of the house turned gray, and deep furrows showed themselves around
his temples; his skin turned pale and yellow, while his eyes still looked eagerly
for gold, the longed-for gold, and the result of his labor was debt instead
of gain. I blew the smoke and ashes into his face and beard; I moaned through
the broken window-panes, and the yawning clefts in the walls; I blew into the
chests and drawers belonging to his daughters, wherein lay the clothes that
had become faded and threadbare, from being worn over and over again. Such a
song had not been sung, at the children’s cradle as I sung now. The lordly
life had changed to a life of penury. I was the only one who rejoiced aloud
in that castle,” said the Wind. “At last I snowed them up, and they
say snow keeps people warm. It was good for them, for they had no wood, and
the forest, from which they might have obtained it, had been cut down. The frost
was very bitter, and I rushed through loop-holes and passages, over gables and
roofs with keen and cutting swiftness. The three high-born daughters were lying
in bed because of the cold, and their father crouching beneath his leather coverlet.
Nothing to eat, nothing to burn, no fire on the hearth! Here was a life for
high-born people! ‘Give it up, give it up!’ But my Lord Daa would
not do that. ‘After winter, spring will come,’ he said, ‘after
want, good times. We must not lose patience, we must learn to wait. Now my horses
and lands are all mortgaged, it is indeed high time; but gold will come at last—at
Easter.’

“I heard him as he thus spoke; he was looking at a spider’s web,
and he continued, ‘Thou cunning little weaver, thou dost teach me perseverance.
Let any one tear thy web, and thou wilt begin again and repair it. Let it be
entirely destroyed, thou wilt resolutely begin to make another till it is completed.
So ought we to do, if we wish to succeed at last.’

“It was the morning of Easter-day. The bells sounded from the neighboring
church, and the sun seemed to rejoice in the sky. The master of the castle had
watched through the night, in feverish excitement, and had been melting and
cooling, distilling and mixing. I heard him sighing like a soul in despair;
I heard him praying, and I noticed how he held his breath. The lamp burnt out,
but he did not observe it. I blew up the fire in the coals on the hearth, and
it threw a red glow on his ghastly white face, lighting it up with a glare,
while his sunken eyes looked out wildly from their cavernous depths, and appeared
to grow larger and more prominent, as if they would burst from their sockets.
‘Look at the alchymic glass,’ he cried; ‘something glows in
the crucible, pure and heavy.’ He lifted it with a trembling hand, and
exclaimed in a voice of agitation, ‘Gold! gold!’ He was quite giddy,
I could have blown him down,” said the Wind; “but I only fanned
the glowing coals, and accompanied him through the door to the room where his
daughter sat shivering. His coat was powdered with ashes, and there were ashes
in his beard and in his tangled hair. He stood erect, and held high in the air
the brittle glass that contained his costly treasure. ‘Found! found! Gold!
gold!’ he shouted, again holding the glass aloft, that it might flash
in the sunshine; but his hand trembled, and the alchymic glass fell from it,
clattering to the ground, and brake in a thousand pieces. The last bubble of
his happiness had burst, with a whiz and a whir, and I rushed away from the
gold-maker’s house.

“Late in the autumn, when the days were short, and the mist sprinkled
cold drops on the berries and the leafless branches, I came back in fresh spirits,
rushed through the air, swept the sky clear, and snapped off the dry twigs,
which is certainly no great labor to do, yet it must be done. There was another
kind of sweeping taking place at Waldemar Daa’s, in the castle of Borreby.
His enemy, Owe Ramel, of Basnas, was there, with the mortgage of the house and
everything it contained, in his pocket. I rattled the broken windows, beat against
the old rotten doors, and whistled through cracks and crevices, so that Mr.
Owe Ramel did not much like to remain there. Ida and Anna Dorothea wept bitterly,
Joanna stood, pale and proud, biting her lips till the blood came; but what
could that avail? Owe Ramel offered Waldemar Daa permission to remain in the
house till the end of his life. No one thanked him for the offer, and I saw
the ruined old gentleman lift his head, and throw it back more proudly than
ever. Then I rushed against the house and the old lime-trees with such force,
that one of the thickest branches, a decayed one, was broken off, and the branch
fell at the entrance, and remained there. It might have been used as a broom,
if any one had wanted to sweep the place out, and a grand sweeping-out there
really was; I thought it would be so. It was hard for any one to preserve composure
on such a day; but these people had strong wills, as unbending as their hard
fortune. There was nothing they could call their own, excepting the clothes
they wore. Yes, there was one thing more, an alchymist’s glass, a new
one, which had been lately bought, and filled with what could be gathered from
the ground of the treasure which had promised so much but failed in keeping
its promise. Waldemar Daa hid the glass in his bosom, and, taking his stick
in his hand, the once rich gentleman passed with his daughters out of the house
of Borreby. I blew coldly upon his flustered cheeks, I stroked his gray beard
and his long white hair, and I sang as well as I was able, ‘Whir-r-r,
whir-r-r. Gone away! Gone away!’ Ida walked on one side of the old man,
and Anna Dorothea on the other; Joanna turned round, as they left the entrance.
Why? Fortune would not turn because she turned. She looked at the stone in the
walls which had once formed part of the castle of Marck Stig, and perhaps she
thought of his daughters and of the old song,—

‘The eldest and youngest, hand-in-hand,
Went forth alone to a distant land’.
These were only two; here there were three, and their father with them also.
They walked along the high-road, where once they had driven in their splendid
carriage; they went forth with their father as beggars. They wandered across
an open field to a mud hut, which they rented for a dollar and a half a year,
a new home, with bare walls and empty cupboards. Crows and magpies fluttered
about them, and cried, as if in contempt, ‘Caw, caw, turned out of our
nest—caw, caw,’ as they had done in the wood at Borreby, when the
trees were felled. Daa and his daughters could not help hearing it, so I blew
about their ears to drown the noise; what use was it that they should listen?
So they went to live in the mud hut in the open field, and I wandered away,
over moor and meadow, through bare bushes and leafless forests, to the open
sea, to the broad shores in other lands, ‘Whir-r-r, whir-r-r! Away, away!’
year after year.”
And what became of Waldemar Daa and his daughters? Listen; the Wind will tell
us:

“The last I saw of them was the pale hyacinth, Anna Dorothea. She was
old and bent then; for fifty years had passed and she had outlived them all.
She could relate the history. Yonder, on the heath, near the town of Wiborg,
in Jutland, stood the fine new house of the canon. It was built of red brick,
with projecting gables. It was inhabited, for the smoke curled up thickly from
the chimneys. The canon’s gentle lady and her beautiful daughters sat
in the bay-window, and looked over the hawthorn hedge of the garden towards
the brown heath. What were they looking at? Their glances fell upon a stork’s
nest, which was built upon an old tumbledown hut. The roof, as far as one existed
at all, was covered with moss and lichen. The stork’s nest covered the
greater part of it, and that alone was in a good condition; for it was kept
in order by the stork himself. That is a house to be looked at, and not to be
touched,” said the Wind. “For the sake of the stork’s nest
it had been allowed to remain, although it is a blot on the landscape. They
did not like to drive the stork away; therefore the old shed was left standing,
and the poor woman who dwelt in it allowed to stay. She had the Egyptian bird
to thank for that; or was it perchance her reward for having once interceded
for the preservation of the nest of its black brother in the forest of Borreby?
At that time she, the poor woman, was a young child, a white hyacinth in a rich
garden. She remembered that time well; for it was Anna Dorothea.

“‘O-h, o-h,’ she sighed; for people can sigh like the moaning
of the wind among the reeds and rushes. ‘O-h, o-h,’ she would say,
‘no bell sounded at thy burial, Waldemar Daa. The poor school-boys did
not even sing a psalm when the former lord of Borreby was laid in the earth
to rest. O-h, everything has an end, even misery. Sister Ida became the wife
of a peasant; that was the hardest trial which befell our father, that the husband
of his own daughter should be a miserable serf, whom his owner could place for
punishment on the wooden horse. I suppose he is under the ground now; and Ida—alas!
alas! it is not ended yet; miserable that I am! Kind Heaven, grant me that I
may die.’

“That was Anna Dorothea’s prayer in the wretched hut that was left
standing for the sake of the stork. I took pity on the proudest of the sisters,”
said the Wind. “Her courage was like that of a man; and in man’s
clothes she served as a sailor on board ship. She was of few words, and of a
dark countenance; but she did not know how to climb, so I blew her overboard
before any one found out that she was a woman; and, in my opinion, that was
well done,” said the Wind.

On such another Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa imagined he had
discovered the art of making gold, I heard the tones of a psalm under the stork’s
nest, and within the crumbling walls. It was Anna Dorothea’s last song.
There was no window in the hut, only a hole in the wall; and the sun rose like
a globe of burnished gold, and looked through. With what splendor he filled
that dismal dwelling! Her eyes were glazing, and her heart breaking; but so
it would have been, even had the sun not shone that morning on Anna Dorothea.
The stork’s nest had secured her a home till her death. I sung over her
grave; I sung at her father’s grave. I know where it lies, and where her
grave is too, but nobody else knows it.

“New times now; all is changed. The old high-road is lost amid cultivated
fields; the new one now winds along over covered graves; and soon the railway
will come, with its train of carriages, and rush over graves where lie those
whose very names are forgoten. All passed away, passed away!

“This is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. Tell it better,
any of you, if you know how,” said the Wind; and he rushed away, and was
gone.

The Little Elder-Tree Mother

There was once a little boy who had caught cold; he had gone out and got wet feet.
Nobody had the least idea how it had happened; the weather was quite dry. His
mother undressed him, put him to bed, and ordered the teapot to be brought in,
that she might make him a good cup of tea from the elder-tree blossoms, which
is so warming. At the same time, the kind-hearted old man who lived by himself
in the upper storey of the house came in; he led a lonely life, for he had no
wife and children; but he loved the children of others very much, and he could
tell so many fairy tales and stories, that it was a pleasure to hear him.

“Now, drink your tea,” said the mother; “perhaps you will
hear a story.”

“Yes, if I only knew a fresh one,” said the old man, and nodded
smilingly. “But how did the little fellow get his wet feet?” he
then asked.

“That,” replied the mother, “nobody can understand.”

“Will you tell me a story?” asked the boy.

“Yes, if you can tell me as nearly as possible how deep is the gutter
in the little street where you go to school.”

“Just half as high as my top-boots,” replied the boy; “but
then I must stand in the deepest holes.”

“There, now we know where you got your wet feet,” said the old
man. “I ought to tell you a story, but the worst of it is, I do not know
any more.”

“You can make one up,” said the little boy. “Mother says
you can tell a fairy tale about anything you look at or touch.”

“That is all very well, but such tales or stories are worth nothing!
No, the right ones come by themselves and knock at my forehead saying: ‘Here
I am.’”

“Will not one knock soon?” asked the boy; and the mother smiled
while she put elder-tree blossoms into the teapot and poured boiling water over
them. “Pray, tell me a story.”

“Yes, if stories came by themselves; they are so proud, they only come
when they please.—But wait,” he said suddenly, “there is one.
Look at the teapot; there is a story in it now.”

And the little boy looked at the teapot; the lid rose up gradually, the elder-tree
blossoms sprang forth one by one, fresh and white; long boughs came forth; even
out of the spout they grew up in all directions, and formed a bush—nay,
a large elder tree, which stretched its branches up to the bed and pushed the
curtains aside; and there were so many blossoms and such a sweet fragrance!
In the midst of the tree sat a kindly-looking old woman with a strange dress;
it was as green as the leaves, and trimmed with large white blossoms, so that
it was difficult to say whether it was real cloth, or the leaves and blossoms
of the elder-tree.

“What is this woman’s name?” asked the little boy.

“Well, the Romans and Greeks used to call her a Dryad,” said the
old man; “but we do not understand that. Out in the sailors’ quarter
they give her a better name; there she is called elder-tree mother. Now, you
must attentively listen to her and look at the beautiful elder-tree.

“Just such a large tree, covered with flowers, stands out there; it grew
in the corner of an humble little yard; under this tree sat two old people one
afternoon in the beautiful sunshine. He was an old, old sailor, and she his
old wife; they had already great-grandchildren, and were soon to celebrate their
golden wedding, but they could not remember the date, and the elder-tree mother
was sitting in the tree and looked as pleased as this one here. ‘I know
very well when the golden wedding is to take place,’ she said; but they
did not hear it—they were talking of bygone days.

“‘Well, do you remember?’ said the old sailor, ‘when
we were quite small and used to run about and play—it was in the very
same yard where we now are—we used to put little branches into the ground
and make a garden.’

“‘Yes,’ said the old woman, ‘I remember it very well;
we used to water the branches, and one of them, an elder-tree branch, took root,
and grew and became the large tree under which we are now sitting as old people.’

“‘Certainly, you are right,’ he said; ‘and in yonder
corner stood a large water-tub; there I used to sail my boat, which I had cut
out myself—it sailed so well; but soon I had to sail somewhere else.’

“‘But first we went to school to learn something,’ she said,
‘and then we were confirmed; we both wept on that day, but in the afternoon
we went out hand in hand, and ascended the high round tower and looked out into
the wide world right over Copenhagen and the sea; then we walked to Fredericksburg,
where the king and the queen were sailing about in their magnificent boat on
the canals.’

“‘But soon I had to sail about somewhere else, and for many years
I was travelling about far away from home.’

“‘And I often cried about you, for I was afraid lest you were drowned
and lying at the bottom of the sea. Many a time I got up in the night and looked
if the weathercock had turned; it turned often, but you did not return. I remember
one day distinctly: the rain was pouring down in torrents; the dust-man had
come to the house where I was in service; I went down with the dust-bin and
stood for a moment in the doorway, and looked at the dreadful weather. Then
the postman gave me a letter; it was from you. Heavens! how that letter had
travelled about. I tore it open and read it; I cried and laughed at the same
time, and was so happy! Therein was written that you were staying in the hot
countries, where the coffee grows. These must be marvellous countries. You said
a great deal about them, and I read all while the rain was pouring down and
I was standing there with the dust-bin. Then suddenly some one put his arm round
my waist—’

“‘Yes, and you gave him a hearty smack on the cheek,’ said
the old man.

“‘I did not know that it was you—you had come as quickly
as your letter; and you looked so handsome, and so you do still. You had a large
yellow silk handkerchief in your pocket and a shining hat on. You looked so
well, and the weather in the street was horrible!’

“‘Then we married,’ he said. ‘Do you remember how we
got our first boy, and then Mary, Niels, Peter, John, and Christian?’

‘Oh yes; and now they have all grown up, and have become useful members
of society, whom everybody cares for.’

“‘And their children have had children again,’ said the old
sailor. ‘Yes, these are children’s children, and they are strong
and healthy. If I am not mistaken, our wedding took place at this season of
the year.’

“‘Yes, to-day is your golden wedding-day,’ said the little
elder-tree mother, stretching her head down between the two old people, who
thought that she was their neighbour who was nodding to them; they looked at
each other and clasped hands. Soon afterwards the children and grandchildren
came, for they knew very well that it was the golden wedding-day; they had already
wished them joy and happiness in the morning, but the old people had forgotten
it, although they remembered things so well that had passed many, many years
ago. The elder-tree smelt strongly, and the setting sun illuminated the faces
of the two old people, so that they looked quite rosy; the youngest of the grandchildren
danced round them, and cried merrily that there would be a feast in the evening,
for they were to have hot potatoes; and the elder mother nodded in the tree
and cried ‘Hooray’ with the others.”

“But that was no fairy tale,” said the little boy who had listened
to it.

“You will presently understand it,” said the old man who told the
story. “Let us ask little elder-tree mother about it.”

“That was no fairy tale,” said the little elder-tree mother; “but
now it comes! Real life furnishes us with subjects for the most wonderful fairy
tales; for otherwise my beautiful elder-bush could not have grown forth out
of the teapot.”

And then she took the little boy out of bed and placed him on her bosom; the
elder branches, full of blossoms, closed over them; it was as if they sat in
a thick leafy bower which flew with them through the air; it was beautiful beyond
all description. The little elder-tree mother had suddenly become a charming
young girl, but her dress was still of the same green material, covered with
white blossoms, as the elder-tree mother had worn; she had a real elder blossom
on her bosom, and a wreath of the same flowers was wound round her curly golden
hair; her eyes were so large and so blue that it was wonderful to look at them.
She and the boy kissed each other, and then they were of the same age and felt
the same joys. They walked hand in hand out of the bower, and now stood at home
in a beautiful flower garden. Near the green lawn the father’s walking-stick
was tied to a post. There was life in this stick for the little ones, for as
soon as they seated themselves upon it the polished knob turned into a neighing
horse’s head, a long black mane was fluttering in the wind, and four strong
slender legs grew out. The animal was fiery and spirited; they galloped round
the lawn. “Hooray! now we shall ride far away, many miles!” said
the boy; “we shall ride to the nobleman’s estate where we were last
year.” And they rode round the lawn again, and the little girl, who, as
we know, was no other than the little elder-tree mother, continually cried,
“Now we are in the country! Do you see the farmhouse there, with the large
baking stove, which projects like a gigantic egg out of the wall into the road?
The elder-tree spreads its branches over it, and the cock struts about and scratches
for the hens. Look how proud he is! Now we are near the church; it stands on
a high hill, under the spreading oak trees; one of them is half dead! Now we
are at the smithy, where the fire roars and the half-naked men beat with their
hammers so that the sparks fly far and wide. Let’s be off to the beautiful
farm!” And they passed by everything the little girl, who was sitting
behind on the stick, described, and the boy saw it, and yet they only went round
the lawn. Then they played in a side-walk, and marked out a little garden on
the ground; she took elder-blossoms out of her hair and planted them, and they
grew exactly like those the old people planted when they were children, as we
have heard before. They walked about hand in hand, just as the old couple had
done when they were little, but they did not go to the round tower nor to the
Fredericksburg garden. No; the little girl seized the boy round the waist, and
then they flew far into the country. It was spring and it became summer, it
was autumn and it became winter, and thousands of pictures reflected themselves
in the boy’s eyes and heart, and the little girl always sang again, “You
will never forget that!” And during their whole flight the elder-tree
smelt so sweetly; he noticed the roses and the fresh beeches, but the elder-tree
smelt much stronger, for the flowers were fixed on the little girl’s bosom,
against which the boy often rested his head during the flight.

“It is beautiful here in spring,” said the little girl, and they
were again in the green beechwood, where the thyme breathed forth sweet fragrance
at their feet, and the pink anemones looked lovely in the green moss. “Oh!
that it were always spring in the fragrant beechwood!”

“Here it is splendid in summer!” she said, and they passed by old
castles of the age of chivalry. The high walls and indented battlements were
reflected in the water of the ditches, on which swans were swimming and peering
into the old shady avenues. The corn waved in the field like a yellow sea. Red
and yellow flowers grew in the ditches, wild hops and convolvuli in full bloom
in the hedges. In the evening the moon rose, large and round, and the hayricks
in the meadows smelt sweetly. “One can never forget it!”

“Here it is beautiful in autumn!” said the little girl, and the
atmosphere seemed twice as high and blue, while the wood shone with crimson,
green, and gold. The hounds were running off, flocks of wild fowl flew screaming
over the barrows, while the bramble bushes twined round the old stones. The
dark-blue sea was covered with white-sailed ships, and in the barns sat old
women, girls, and children picking hops into a large tub; the young ones sang
songs, and the old people told fairy tales about goblins and sorcerers. It could
not be more pleasant anywhere.

“Here it’s agreeable in winter!” said the little girl, and
all the trees were covered with hoar-frost, so that they looked like white coral.
The snow creaked under one’s feet, as if one had new boots on. One shooting
star after another traversed the sky. In the room the Christmas tree was lit,
and there were song and merriment. In the peasant’s cottage the violin
sounded, and games were played for apple quarters; even the poorest child said,
“It is beautiful in winter!”

And indeed it was beautiful! And the little girl showed everything to the boy,
and the elder-tree continued to breathe forth sweet perfume, while the red flag
with the white cross was streaming in the wind; it was the flag under which
the old sailor had served. The boy became a youth; he was to go out into the
wide world, far away to the countries where the coffee grows. But at parting
the little girl took an elder-blossom from her breast and gave it to him as
a keepsake. He placed it in his prayer-book, and when he opened it in distant
lands it was always at the place where the flower of remembrance was lying;
and the more he looked at it the fresher it became, so that he could almost
smell the fragrance of the woods at home. He distinctly saw the little girl,
with her bright blue eyes, peeping out from behind the petals, and heard her
whispering, “Here it is beautiful in spring, in summer, in autumn, and
in winter,” and hundreds of pictures passed through his mind.

Thus many years rolled by. He had now become an old man, and was sitting, with
his old wife, under an elder-tree in full bloom. They held each other by the
hand exactly as the great-grandfather and the great-grandmother had done outside,
and, like them, they talked about bygone days and of their golden wedding. The
little girl with the blue eyes and elder-blossoms in her hair was sitting high
up in the tree, and nodded to them, saying, “To-day is the golden wedding!”
And then she took two flowers out of her wreath and kissed them. They glittered
at first like silver, then like gold, and when she placed them on the heads
of the old people each flower became a golden crown. There they both sat like
a king and queen under the sweet-smelling tree, which looked exactly like an
elder-tree, and he told his wife the story of the elder-tree mother as it had
been told him when he was a little boy. They were both of opinion that the story
contained many points like their own, and these similarities they liked best.

“Yes, so it is,” said the little girl in the tree. “Some
call me Little Elder-tree Mother; others a Dryad; but my real name is ‘Remembrance.’
It is I who sit in the tree which grows and grows. I can remember things and
tell stories! But let’s see if you have still got your flower.”

And the old man opened his prayer-book; the elder-blossom was still in it,
and as fresh as if it had only just been put in. Remembrance nodded, and the
two old people, with the golden crowns on their heads, sat in the glowing evening
sun. They closed their eyes and—and—

Well, now the story is ended! The little boy in bed did not know whether he
had dreamt it or heard it told; the teapot stood on the table, but no elder-tree
was growing out of it, and the old man who had told the story was on the point
of leaving the room, and he did go out.

“How beautiful it was!” said the little boy. “Mother, I have
been to warm countries!”

“I believe you,” said the mother; “if one takes two cups
of hot elder-tea it is quite natural that one gets into warm countries!”
And she covered him up well, so that he might not take cold. “You have
slept soundly while I was arguing with the old man whether it was a story or
a fairy tale!”

“And what has become of the little elder-tree mother?” asked the
boy.

“She is in the teapot,” said the mother; “and there she may
remain.”

The Metal Pig

In the city of Florence, not far from the Piazza del Granduca, runs a little street
called Porta Rosa. In this street, just in front of the market-place where vegetables
are sold, stands a pig, made of brass and curiously formed. The bright color has
been changed by age to dark green; but clear, fresh water pours from the snout,
which shines as if it had been polished, and so indeed it has, for hundreds of
poor people and children seize it in their hands as they place their mouths close
to the mouth of the animal, to drink. It is quite a picture to see a half-naked
boy clasping the well-formed creature by the head, as he presses his rosy lips
against its jaws. Every one who visits Florence can very quickly find the place;
he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the Metal Pig, and he will be
told where it is.

It was late on a winter evening; the mountains were covered with snow, but
the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in Italy is like a dull winter’s
day in the north; indeed it is better, for clear air seems to raise us above
the earth, while in the north a cold, gray, leaden sky appears to press us down
to earth, even as the cold damp earth shall one day press on us in the grave.
In the garden of the grand duke’s palace, under the roof of one of the
wings, where a thousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been
sitting the whole day long; a boy, who might serve as a type of Italy, lovely
and smiling, and yet still suffering. He was hungry and thirsty, yet no one
gave him anything; and when it became dark, and they were about to close the
gardens, the porter turned him out. He stood a long time musing on the bridge
which crosses the Arno, and looking at the glittering stars, reflected in the
water which flowed between him and the elegant marble bridge Della Trinità.
He then walked away towards the Metal Pig, half knelt down, clasped it with
his arms, and then put his mouth to the shining snout and drank deep draughts
of the fresh water. Close by, lay a few salad-leaves and two chestnuts, which
were to serve for his supper. No one was in the street but himself; it belonged
only to him, so he boldly seated himself on the pig’s back, leaned forward
so that his curly head could rest on the head of the animal, and, before he
was aware, he fell asleep.

It was midnight. The Metal Pig raised himself gently, and the boy heard him
say quite distinctly, “Hold tight, little boy, for I am going to run;”
and away he started for a most wonderful ride. First, they arrived at the Piazza
del Granduca, and the metal horse which bears the duke’s statue, neighed
aloud. The painted coats-of-arms on the old council-house shone like transparent
pictures, and Michael Angelo’s David tossed his sling; it was as if everything
had life. The metallic groups of figures, among which were Perseus and the Rape
of the Sabines, looked like living persons, and cries of terror sounded from
them all across the noble square. By the Palazzo degli Uffizi, in the arcade,
where the nobility assemble for the carnival, the Metal Pig stopped. “Hold
fast,” said the animal; “hold fast, for I am going up stairs.”

The little boy said not a word; he was half pleased and half afraid. They entered
a long gallery, where the boy had been before. The walls were resplendent with
paintings; here stood statues and busts, all in a clear light as if it were
day. But the grandest appeared when the door of a side room opened; the little
boy could remember what beautiful things he had seen there, but to-night everything
shone in its brightest colors. Here stood the figure of a beautiful woman, as
beautifully sculptured as possible by one of the great masters. Her graceful
limbs appeared to move; dolphins sprang at her feet, and immortality shone from
her eyes. The world called her the Venus de’ Medici. By her side were
statues, in which the spirit of life breathed in stone; figures of men, one
of whom whetted his sword, and was named the Grinder; wrestling gladiators formed
another group, the sword had been sharpened for them, and they strove for the
goddess of beauty. The boy was dazzled by so much glitter; for the walls were
gleaming with bright colors, all appeared living reality.

As they passed from hall to hall, beauty everywhere showed itself; and as the
Metal Pig went step by step from one picture to the other, the little boy could
see it all plainly. One glory eclipsed another; yet there was one picture that
fixed itself on the little boy’s memory, more especially because of the
happy children it represented, for these the little boy had seen in daylight.
Many pass this picture by with indifference, and yet it contains a treasure
of poetic feeling; it represents Christ descending into Hades. They are not
the lost whom the spectator sees, but the heathen of olden times. The Florentine,
Angiolo Bronzino, painted this picture; most beautiful is the expression on
the face of the two children, who appear to have full confidence that they shall
reach heaven at last. They are embracing each other, and one little one stretches
out his hand towards another who stands below him, and points to himself, as
if he were saying, “I am going to heaven.” The older people stand
as if uncertain, yet hopeful, and they bow in humble adoration to the Lord Jesus.
On this picture the boy’s eyes rested longer than on any other: the Metal
Pig stood still before it. A low sigh was heard. Did it come from the picture
or from the animal? The boy raised his hands towards the smiling children, and
then the Pig ran off with him through the open vestibule.

“Thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal,” said the little boy,
caressing the Metal Pig as it ran down the steps.

“Thanks to yourself also,” replied the Metal Pig; “I have
helped you and you have helped me, for it is only when I have an innocent child
on my back that I receive the power to run. Yes; as you see, I can even venture
under the rays of the lamp, in front of the picture of the Madonna, but I may
not enter the church; still from without, and while you are upon my back, I
may look in through the open door. Do not get down yet, for if you do, then
I shall be lifeless, as you have seen me in the Porta Rosa.”

“I will stay with you, my dear creature,” said the little boy.
So then they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of Florence, till they
came to the square before the church of Santa Croce. The folding-doors flew
open, and light streamed from the altar through the church into the deserted
square. A wonderful blaze of light streamed from one of the monuments in the
left-side aisle, and a thousand moving stars seemed to form a glory round it;
even the coat-of-arms on the tomb-stone shone, and a red ladder on a blue field
gleamed like fire. It was the grave of Galileo. The monument is unadorned, but
the red ladder is an emblem of art, signifying that the way to glory leads up
a shining ladder, on which the prophets of mind rise to heaven, like Elias of
old. In the right aisle of the church every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi
seemed endowed with life. Here stood Michael Angelo; there Dante, with the laurel
wreath round his brow; Alfieri and Machiavelli; for here side by side rest the
great men—the pride of Italy.1 The church itself is very beautiful, even
more beautiful than the marble cathedral at Florence, though not so large. It
seemed as if the carved vestments stirred, and as if the marble figures they
covered raised their heads higher, to gaze upon the brightly colored glowing
altar where the white-robed boys swung the golden censers, amid music and song,
while the strong fragrance of incense filled the church, and streamed forth
into the square. The boy stretched forth his hands towards the light, and at
the same moment the Metal Pig started again so rapidly that he was obliged to
cling tightly to him. The wind whistled in his ears, he heard the church door
creak on its hinges as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his
senses— then a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.

It was morning; the Metal Pig stood in its old place on the Porta Rosa, and
the boy found he had slipped nearly off its back. Fear and trembling came upon
him as he thought of his mother; she had sent him out the day before to get
some money, he had not done so, and now he was hungry and thirsty. Once more
he clasped the neck of his metal horse, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell
to it. Then he wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there
was scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass. A great iron-bound door stood
ajar; he passed through, and climbed up a brick staircase, with dirty walls
and a rope for a balustrade, till he came to an open gallery hung with rags.
From here a flight of steps led down to a court, where from a well water was
drawn up by iron rollers to the different stories of the house, and where the
water-buckets hung side by side. Sometimes the roller and the bucket danced
in the air, splashing the water all over the court. Another broken-down staircase
led from the gallery, and two Russian sailors running down it almost upset the
poor boy. They were coming from their nightly carousal. A woman not very young,
with an unpleasant face and a quantity of black hair, followed them. “What
have you brought home?” she asked. when she saw the boy.

“Don’t be angry,” he pleaded; “I received nothing,
I have nothing at all;” and he seized his mother’s dress and would
have kissed it. Then they went into a little room. I need not describe it, but
only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles, made for holding
fire, which in Italy is called a marito. This pot she took in her lap, warmed
her fingers, and pushed the boy with her elbow.

“Certainly you must have some money,” she said. The boy began to
cry, and then she struck him with her foot till he cried out louder.

“Will you be quiet? or I’ll break your screaming head;” and
she swung about the fire-pot which she held in her hand, while the boy crouched
to the earth and screamed.

Then a neighbor came in, and she had also a marito under her arm. “Felicita,”
she said, “what are you doing to the child?”

“The child is mine,” she answered; “I can murder him if I
like, and you too, Giannina.” And then she swung about the fire-pot. The
other woman lifted up hers to defend herself, and the two pots clashed together
so violently that they were dashed to pieces, and fire and ashes flew about
the room. The boy rushed out at the sight, sped across the courtyard, and fled
from the house. The poor child ran till he was quite out of breath; at last
he stopped at the church, the doors of which were opened to him the night before,
and went in. Here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first
tomb on his right, the grave of Michael Angelo, and sobbed as if his heart would
break. People came and went, mass was performed, but no one noticed the boy,
excepting an elderly citizen, who stood still and looked at him for a moment,
and then went away like the rest. Hunger and thirst overpowered the child, and
he became quite faint and ill. At last he crept into a corner behind the marble
monuments, and went to sleep. Towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his
sleeve; he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.

“Are you ill? where do you live? have you been here all day?” were
some of the questions asked by the old man. After hearing his answers, the old
man took him home to a small house close by, in a back street. They entered
a glovemaker’s shop, where a woman sat sewing busily. A little white poodle,
so closely shaven that his pink skin could plainly be seen, frisked about the
room, and gambolled upon the boy.

“Innocent souls are soon intimate,” said the woman, as she caressed
both the boy and the dog. These good people gave the child food and drink, and
said he should stay with them all night, and that the next day the old man,
who was called Giuseppe, would go and speak to his mother. A little homely bed
was prepared for him, but to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it
was a royal couch, and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures
and of the Metal Pig. Giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child
was not glad to see him go, for he knew that the old man was gone to his mother,
and that, perhaps, he would have to go back. He wept at the thought, and then
he played with the little, lively dog, and kissed it, while the old woman looked
kindly at him to encourage him. And what news did Giuseppe bring back? At first
the boy could not hear, for he talked a great deal to his wife, and she nodded
and stroked the boy’s cheek.

Then she said, “He is a good lad, he shall stay with us, he may become
a clever glovemaker, like you. Look what delicate fingers he has got; Madonna
intended him for a glovemaker.” So the boy stayed with them, and the woman
herself taught him to sew; and he ate well, and slept well, and became very
merry. But at last he began to tease Bellissima, as the little dog was called.
This made the woman angry, and she scolded him and threatened him, which made
him very unhappy, and he went and sat in his own room full of sad thoughts.
This chamber looked upon the street, in which hung skins to dry, and there were
thick iron bars across his window. That night he lay awake, thinking of the
Metal Pig; indeed, it was always in his thoughts. Suddenly he fancied he heard
feet outside going pit-a-pat. He sprung out of bed and went to the window. Could
it be the Metal Pig? But there was nothing to be seen; whatever he had heard
had passed already. Next morning, their neighbor, the artist, passed by, carrying
a paint-box and a large roll of canvas.

“Help the gentleman to carry his box of colors,” said the woman
to the boy; and he obeyed instantly, took the box, and followed the painter.
They walked on till they reached the picture gallery, and mounted the same staircase
up which he had ridden that night on the Metal Pig. He remembered all the statues
and pictures, the beautiful marble Venus, and again he looked at the Madonna
with the Saviour and St. John. They stopped before the picture by Bronzino,
in which Christ is represented as standing in the lower world, with the children
smiling before Him, in the sweet expectation of entering heaven; and the poor
boy smiled, too, for here was his heaven.

“You may go home now,” said the painter, while the boy stood watching
him, till he had set up his easel.

“May I see you paint?” asked the boy; “may I see you put
the picture on this white canvas?”

“I am not going to paint yet,” replied the artist; then he brought
out a piece of chalk. His hand moved quickly, and his eye measured the great
picture; and though nothing appeared but a faint line, the figure of the Saviour
was as clearly visible as in the colored picture.

“Why don’t you go?” said the painter. Then the boy wandered
home silently, and seated himself on the table, and learned to sew gloves. But
all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery; and so he pricked his
fingers and was awkward. But he did not tease Bellissima. When evening came,
and the house door stood open, he slipped out. It was a bright, beautiful, starlight
evening, but rather cold. Away he went through the already-deserted streets,
and soon came to the Metal Pig; he stooped down and kissed its shining nose,
and then seated himself on its back.

“You happy creature,” he said; “how I have longed for you!
we must take a ride to-night.”

But the Metal Pig lay motionless, while the fresh stream gushed forth from
its mouth. The little boy still sat astride on its back, when he felt something
pulling at his clothes. He looked down, and there was Bellissima, little smooth-shaven
Bellissima, barking as if she would have said, “Here I am too; why are
you sitting there?”

A fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as did the
little dog in this place. “Bellissima in the street, and not dressed!”
as the old lady called it; “what would be the end of this?”

The dog never went out in winter, unless she was attired in a little lambskin
coat which had been made for her; it was fastened round the little dog’s
neck and body with red ribbons, and was decorated with rosettes and little bells.
The dog looked almost like a little kid when she was allowed to go out in winter,
and trot after her mistress. And now here she was in the cold, and not dressed.
Oh, how would it end? All his fancies were quickly put to flight; yet he kissed
the Metal Pig once more, and then took Bellissima in his arms. The poor little
thing trembled so with cold, that the boy ran homeward as fast as he could.

“What are you running away with there?” asked two of the police
whom he met, and at whom the dog barked. “Where have you stolen that pretty
dog?” they asked; and they took it away from him.

“Oh, I have not stolen it; do give it to me back again,” cried
the boy, despairingly.

“If you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send to
the watch-house for the dog.” Then they told him where the watch-house
was, and went away with Bellissima.

Here was a dreadful trouble. The boy did not know whether he had better jump
into the Arno, or go home and confess everything. They would certainly kill
him, he thought.

“Well, I would gladly be killed,” he reasoned; “for then
I shall die, and go to heaven:” and so he went home, almost hoping for
death.

The door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker. No one was in the
street; so he took up a stone, and with it made a tremendous noise at the door.

“Who is there?” asked somebody from within.

“It is I,” said he. “Bellissima is gone. Open the door, and
then kill me.”

Then indeed there was a great panic. Madame was so very fond of Bellissima.
She immediately looked at the wall where the dog’s dress usually hung;
and there was the little lambskin.

“Bellissima in the watch-house!” she cried. “You bad boy!
how did you entice her out? Poor little delicate thing, with those rough policemen!
and she’ll be frozen with cold.”

Giuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented, and the boy wept. Several
of the neighbors came in, and amongst them the painter. He took the boy between
his knees, and questioned him; and, in broken sentences, he soon heard the whole
story, and also about the Metal Pig, and the wonderful ride to the picture-gallery,
which was certainly rather incomprehensible. The painter, however, consoled
the little fellow, and tried to soften the lady’s anger; but she would
not be pacified till her husband returned with Bellissima, who had been with
the police. Then there was great rejoicing, and the painter caressed the boy,
and gave him a number of pictures. Oh, what beautiful pictures these were!—figures
with funny heads; and, above all, the Metal Pig was there too. Oh, nothing could
be more delightful. By means of a few strokes, it was made to appear on the
paper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched in. Oh, if
he could only draw and paint! He who could do this could conjure all the world
before him. The first leisure moment during the next day, the boy got a pencil,
and on the back of one of the other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing
of the Metal Pig, and he succeeded. Certainly it was rather crooked, rather
up and down, one leg thick, and another thin; still it was like the copy, and
he was overjoyed at what he had done. The pencil would not go quite as it ought,—he
had found that out; but the next day he tried again. A second pig was drawn
by the side of the first, and this looked a hundred times better; and the third
attempt was so good, that everybody might know what it was meant to represent.

And now the glovemaking went on but slowly. The orders given by the shops in
the town were not finished quickly; for the Metal Pig had taught the boy that
all objects may be drawn upon paper; and Florence is a picture-book in itself
for any one who chooses to turn over its pages. On the Piazza dell Trinita stands
a slender pillar, and upon it is the goddess of Justice, blindfolded, with her
scales in her hand. She was soon represented on paper, and it was the glovemaker’s
boy who placed her there. His collection of pictures increased; but as yet they
were only copies of lifeless objects, when one day Bellissima came gambolling
before him: “Stand still,” cried he, “and I will draw you
beautifully, to put amongst my collection.”

But Bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in one position.
He tied her head and tail; but she barked and jumped, and so pulled and tightened
the string, that she was nearly strangled; and just then her mistress walked
in.

“You wicked boy! the poor little creature!” was all she could utter.

She pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called him a most
ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him to enter the house
again. Then she wept, and kissed her little half-strangled Bellissima. At this
moment the painter entered the room. In the year 1834 there was an exhibition
in the Academy of Arts at Florence. Two pictures, placed side by side, attracted
a large number of spectators. The smaller of the two represented a little boy
sitting at a table, drawing; before him was a little white poodle, curiously
shaven; but as the animal would not stand still, it had been fastened with a
string to its head and tail, to keep it in one position. The truthfulness and
life in this picture interested every one. The painter was said to be a young
Florentine, who had been found in the streets, when a child, by an old glovemaker,
who had brought him up. The boy had taught himself to draw: it was also said
that a young artist, now famous, had discovered talent in the child just as
he was about to be sent away for having tied up madame’s favorite little
dog, and using it as a model. The glovemaker’s boy had also become a great
painter, as the picture proved; but the larger picture by its side was a still
greater proof of his talent. It represented a handsome boy, clothed in rags,
lying asleep, and leaning against the Metal Pig in the street of the Porta Rosa.
All the spectators knew the spot well. The child’s arms were round the
neck of the Pig, and he was in a deep sleep. The lamp before the picture of
the Madonna threw a strong, effective light on the pale, delicate face of the
child. It was a beautiful picture. A large gilt frame surrounded it, and on
one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been hung; but a black band, twined
unseen among the green leaves, and a streamer of crape, hung down from it; for
within the last few days the young artist had — died.

Opposite to the grave of Galileo is the tomb of Michael Angelo. His bust stands
upon it, with three figures, representing sculpture, painting and architecture.
Close by is a monument to Dante, whose body is buried in Ravenna. On this monument
Italy is represented pointing to the colossal statue of Dante, while poetry
weeps over his loss. A few steps farther is Alfieri’s monumnet, which
is adorned with laurel, the lyre, and dramatic masks: Italy weeps over the grave.
Machiavelli is the last in the list of these celebrated men.

Grandmother

Grandmother is very old, her face is wrinkled, and her hair is quite white; but
her eyes are like two stars, and they have a mild, gentle expression in them when
they look at you, which does you good. She wears a dress of heavy, rich silk,
with large flowers worked on it; and it rustles when she moves. And then she can
tell the most wonderful stories. Grandmother knows a great deal, for she was alive
before father and mother—that’s quite certain. She has a hymn-book
with large silver clasps, in which she often reads; and in the book, between the
leaves, lies a rose, quite flat and dry; it is not so pretty as the roses which
are standing in the glass, and yet she smiles at it most pleasantly, and tears
even come into her eyes. “I wonder why grandmother looks at the withered
flower in the old book that way? Do you know?” Why, when grandmother’s
tears fall upon the rose, and she is looking at it, the rose revives, and fills
the room with its fragrance; the walls vanish as in a mist, and all around her
is the glorious green wood, where in summer the sunlight streams through thick
foliage; and grandmother, why she is young again, a charming maiden, fresh as
a rose, with round, rosy cheeks, fair, bright ringlets, and a figure pretty and
graceful; but the eyes, those mild, saintly eyes, are the same,—they have
been left to grandmother. At her side sits a young man, tall and strong; he gives
her a rose and she smiles. Grandmother cannot smile like that now. Yes, she is
smiling at the memory of that day, and many thoughts and recollections of the
past; but the handsome young man is gone, and the rose has withered in the old
book, and grandmother is sitting there, again an old woman, looking down upon
the withered rose in the book.

Grandmother is dead now. She had been sitting in her arm-chair, telling us
a long, beautiful tale; and when it was finished, she said she was tired, and
leaned her head back to sleep awhile. We could hear her gentle breathing as
she slept; gradually it became quieter and calmer, and on her countenance beamed
happiness and peace. It was as if lighted up with a ray of sunshine. She smiled
once more, and then people said she was dead. She was laid in a black coffin,
looking mild and beautiful in the white folds of the shrouded linen, though
her eyes were closed; but every wrinkle had vanished, her hair looked white
and silvery, and around her mouth lingered a sweet smile. We did not feel at
all afraid to look at the corpse of her who had been such a dear, good grandmother.
The hymn-book, in which the rose still lay, was placed under her head, for so
she had wished it; and then they buried grandmother.

On the grave, close by the churchyard wall, they planted a rose-tree; it was
soon full of roses, and the nightingale sat among the flowers, and sang over
the grave. From the organ in the church sounded the music and the words of the
beautiful psalms, which were written in the old book under the head of the dead
one.

The moon shone down upon the grave, but the dead was not there; every child
could go safely, even at night, and pluck a rose from the tree by the churchyard
wall. The dead know more than we do who are living. They know what a terror
would come upon us if such a strange thing were to happen, as the appearance
of a dead person among us. They are better off than we are; the dead return
no more. The earth has been heaped on the coffin, and it is earth only that
lies within it. The leaves of the hymn-book are dust; and the rose, with all
its recollections, has crumbled to dust also. But over the grave fresh roses
bloom, the nightingale sings, and the organ sounds and there still lives a remembrance
of old grandmother, with the loving, gentle eyes that always looked young. Eyes
can never die. Ours will once again behold dear grandmother, young and beautiful
as when, for the first time, she kissed the fresh, red rose, that is now dust
in the grave.

The Angel

Whenever a good child dies, an angel of God comes down from heaven, takes the dead
child in his arms, spreads out his great white wings, and flies with him over
all the places which the child had loved during his life. Then he gathers a large
handful of flowers, which he carries up to the Almighty, that they may bloom more
brightly in heaven than they do on earth. And the Almighty presses the flowers
to His heart, but He kisses the flower that pleases Him best, and it receives
a voice, and is able to join the song of the chorus of bliss.”

These words were spoken by an angel of God, as he carried a dead child up to
heaven, and the child listened as if in a dream. Then they passed over well-known
spots, where the little one had often played, and through beautiful gardens
full of lovely flowers.

“Which of these shall we take with us to heaven to be transplanted there?”
asked the angel.

Close by grew a slender, beautiful, rose-bush, but some wicked hand had broken
the stem, and the half-opened rosebuds hung faded and withered on the trailing
branches.

“Poor rose-bush!” said the child, “let us take it with us
to heaven, that it may bloom above in God’s garden.”

The angel took up the rose-bush; then he kissed the child, and the little one
half opened his eyes. The angel gathered also some beautiful flowers, as well
as a few humble buttercups and heart’s-ease.

“Now we have flowers enough,” said the child; but the angel only
nodded, he did not fly upward to heaven.

It was night, and quite still in the great town. Here they remained, and the
angel hovered over a small, narrow street, in which lay a large heap of straw,
ashes, and sweepings from the houses of people who had removed. There lay fragments
of plates, pieces of plaster, rags, old hats, and other rubbish not pleasant
to see. Amidst all this confusion, the angel pointed to the pieces of a broken
flower-pot, and to a lump of earth which had fallen out of it. The earth had
been kept from falling to pieces by the roots of a withered field-flower, which
had been thrown amongst the rubbish.

“We will take this with us,” said the angel, “I will tell
you why as we fly along.”

And as they flew the angel related the history.

“Down in that narrow lane, in a low cellar, lived a poor sick boy; he
had been afflicted from his childhood, and even in his best days he could just
manage to walk up and down the room on crutches once or twice, but no more.
During some days in summer, the sunbeams would lie on the floor of the cellar
for about half an hour. In this spot the poor sick boy would sit warming himself
in the sunshine, and watching the red blood through his delicate fingers as
he held them before his face. Then he would say he had been out, yet he knew
nothing of the green forest in its spring verdure, till a neighbor’s son
brought him a green bough from a beech-tree. This he would place over his head,
and fancy that he was in the beech-wood while the sun shone, and the birds carolled
gayly. One spring day the neighbor’s boy brought him some field-flowers,
and among them was one to which the root still adhered. This he carefully planted
in a flower-pot, and placed in a window-seat near his bed. And the flower had
been planted by a fortunate hand, for it grew, put forth fresh shoots, and blossomed
every year. It became a splendid flower-garden to the sick boy, and his little
treasure upon earth. He watered it, and cherished it, and took care it should
have the benefit of every sunbeam that found its way into the cellar, from the
earliest morning ray to the evening sunset. The flower entwined itself even
in his dreams—for him it bloomed, for him spread its perfume. And it gladdened
his eyes, and to the flower he turned, even in death, when the Lord called him.
He has been one year with God. During that time the flower has stood in the
window, withered and forgotten, till at length cast out among the sweepings
into the street, on the day of the lodgers’ removal. And this poor flower,
withered and faded as it is, we have added to our nosegay, because it gave more
real joy than the most beautiful flower in the garden of a queen.”

“But how do you know all this?” asked the child whom the angel
was carrying to heaven.

“I know it,” said the angel, “because I myself was the poor
sick boy who walked upon crutches, and I know my own flower well.”

Then the child opened his eyes and looked into the glorious happy face of the
angel, and at the same moment they found themselves in that heavenly home where
all is happiness and joy. And God pressed the dead child to His heart, and wings
were given him so that he could fly with the angel, hand in hand. Then the Almighty
pressed all the flowers to His heart; but He kissed the withered field-flower,
and it received a voice. Then it joined in the song of the angels, who surrounded
the throne, some near, and others in a distant circle, but all equally happy.
They all joined in the chorus of praise, both great and small,—the good,
happy child, and the poor field-flower, that once lay withered and cast away
on a heap of rubbish in a narrow, dark street.

The Wild Swans

Far away in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt a king
who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named Eliza. The eleven brothers were princes,
and each went to school with a star on his breast, and a sword by his side. They
wrote with diamond pencils on gold slates, and learnt their lessons so quickly
and read so easily that every one might know they were princes. Their sister Eliza
sat on a little stool of plate-glass, and had a book full of pictures, which had
cost as much as half a kingdom. Oh, these children were indeed happy, but it was
not to remain so always. Their father, who was king of the country, married a
very wicked queen, who did not love the poor children at all. They knew this from
the very first day after the wedding. In the palace there were great festivities,
and the children played at receiving company; but instead of having, as usual,
all the cakes and apples that were left, she gave them some sand in a tea-cup,
and told them to pretend it was cake. The week after, she sent little Eliza into
the country to a peasant and his wife, and then she told the king so many untrue
things about the young princes, that he gave himself no more trouble respecting
them.

“Go out into the world and get your own living,” said the queen. “Fly like
great birds, who have no voice.” But she could not make them ugly as she wished,
for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild swans. Then, with a strange
cry, they flew through the windows of the palace, over the park, to the forest
beyond. It was early morning when they passed the peasant’s cottage, where their
sister Eliza lay asleep in her room. They hovered over the roof, twisted their
long necks and flapped their wings, but no one heard them or saw them, so they
were at last obliged to fly away, high up in the clouds; and over the wide world
they flew till they came to a thick, dark wood, which stretched far away to
the seashore. Poor little Eliza was alone in her room playing with a green leaf,
for she had no other playthings, and she pierced a hole through the leaf, and
looked through it at the sun, and it was as if she saw her brothers’ clear eyes,
and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks, she thought of all the kisses they
had given her. One day passed just like another; sometimes the winds rustled
through the leaves of the rose-bush, and would whisper to the roses, “Who can
be more beautiful than you!” But the roses would shake their heads, and say,
“Eliza is.” And when the old woman sat at the cottage door on Sunday, and read
her hymn-book, the wind would flutter the leaves, and say to the book, “Who
can be more pious than you?” and then the hymn-book would answer “Eliza.” And
the roses and the hymn-book told the real truth. At fifteen she returned home,
but when the queen saw how beautiful she was, she became full of spite and hatred
towards her. Willingly would she have turned her into a swan, like her brothers,
but she did not dare to do so yet, because the king wished to see his daughter.
Early one morning the queen went into the bath-room; it was built of marble,
and had soft cushions, trimmed with the most beautiful tapestry. She took three
toads with her, and kissed them, and said to one, “When Eliza comes to the bath,
seat yourself upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are.” Then
she said to another, “Place yourself on her forehead, that she may become as
ugly as you are, and that her father may not know her.” “Rest on her heart,”
she whispered to the third, “then she will have evil inclinations, and suffer
in consequence.” So she put the toads into the clear water, and they turned
green immediately. She next called Eliza, and helped her to undress and get
into the bath. As Eliza dipped her head under the water, one of the toads sat
on her hair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast, but she did
not seem to notice them, and when she rose out of the water, there were three
red poppies floating upon it. Had not the creatures been venomous or been kissed
by the witch, they would have been changed into red roses. At all events they
became flowers, because they had rested on Eliza’s head, and on her heart. She
was too good and too innocent for witchcraft to have any power over her. When
the wicked queen saw this, she rubbed her face with walnut-juice, so that she
was quite brown; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with disgusting
ointment, till it was quite impossible to recognize the beautiful Eliza.

When her father saw her, he was much shocked, and declared she was not his
daughter. No one but the watch-dog and the swallows knew her; and they were
only poor animals, and could say nothing. Then poor Eliza wept, and thought
of her eleven brothers, who were all away. Sorrowfully, she stole away from
the palace, and walked, the whole day, over fields and moors, till she came
to the great forest. She knew not in what direction to go; but she was so unhappy,
and longed so for her brothers, who had been, like herself, driven out into
the world, that she was determined to seek them. She had been but a short time
in the wood when night came on, and she quite lost the path; so she laid herself
down on the soft moss, offered up her evening prayer, and leaned her head against
the stump of a tree. All nature was still, and the soft, mild air fanned her
forehead. The light of hundreds of glow-worms shone amidst the grass and the
moss, like green fire; and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so lightly,
the brilliant insects fell down around her, like shooting-stars.

All night long she dreamt of her brothers. She and they were children again,
playing together. She saw them writing with their diamond pencils on golden
slates, while she looked at the beautiful picture-book which had cost half a
kingdom. They were not writing lines and letters, as they used to do; but descriptions
of the noble deeds they had performed, and of all they had discovered and seen.
In the picture-book, too, everything was living. The birds sang, and the people
came out of the book, and spoke to Eliza and her brothers; but, as the leaves
turned over, they darted back again to their places, that all might be in order.

When she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens; yet she could not see him,
for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly over her head; but his beams
were glancing through the leaves here and there, like a golden mist. There was
a sweet fragrance from the fresh green verdure, and the birds almost perched
upon her shoulders. She heard water rippling from a number of springs, all flowing
in a lake with golden sands. Bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one
spot an opening had been made by a deer, through which Eliza went down to the
water. The lake was so clear that, had not the wind rustled the branches of
the trees and the bushes, so that they moved, they would have appeared as if
painted in the depths of the lake; for every leaf was reflected in the water,
whether it stood in the shade or the sunshine. As soon as Eliza saw her own
face, she was quite terrified at finding it so brown and ugly; but when she
wetted her little hand, and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin gleamed
forth once more; and, after she had undressed, and dipped herself in the fresh
water, a more beautiful king’s daughter could not be found in the wide world.
As soon as she had dressed herself again, and braided her long hair, she went
to the bubbling spring, and drank some water out of the hollow of her hand.
Then she wandered far into the forest, not knowing whither she went. She thought
of her brothers, and felt sure that God would not forsake her. It is God who
makes the wild apples grow in the wood, to satisfy the hungry, and He now led
her to one of these trees, which was so loaded with fruit, that the boughs bent
beneath the weight. Here she held her noonday repast, placed props under the
boughs, and then went into the gloomiest depths of the forest. It was so still
that she could hear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling
of every withered leaf which she crushed under her feet. Not a bird was to be
seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate through the large, dark boughs of the trees.
Their lofty trunks stood so close together, that, when she looked before her,
it seemed as if she were enclosed within trellis-work. Such solitude she had
never known before. The night was very dark. Not a single glow-worm glittered
in the moss.

Sorrowfully she laid herself down to sleep; and, after a while, it seemed to
her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head, and that the mild
eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven. When she awoke in the morning,
she knew not whether she had dreamt this, or if it had really been so. Then
she continued her wandering; but she had not gone many steps forward, when she
met an old woman with berries in her basket, and she gave her a few to eat.
Then Eliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through the forest.

“No,” replied the old woman, “But I saw yesterday eleven swans, with gold crowns
on their heads, swimming on the river close by.” Then she led Eliza a little
distance farther to a sloping bank, and at the foot of it wound a little river.
The trees on its banks stretched their long leafy branches across the water
towards each other, and where the growth prevented them from meeting naturally,
the roots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches might
mingle their foliage as they hung over the water. Eliza bade the old woman farewell,
and walked by the flowing river, till she reached the shore of the open sea.
And there, before the young maiden’s eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a
sail appeared on its surface, not even a boat could be seen. How was she to
go farther? She noticed how the countless pebbles on the sea-shore had been
smoothed and rounded by the action of the water. Glass, iron, stones, everything
that lay there mingled together, had taken its shape from the same power, and
felt as smooth, or even smoother than her own delicate hand. “The water rolls
on without weariness,” she said, “till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will
I be unwearied in my task. Thanks for your lessons, bright rolling waves; my
heart tells me you will lead me to my dear brothers.” On the foam-covered sea-weeds,
lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered up and placed together. Drops
of water lay upon them; whether they were dew-drops or tears no one could say.
Lonely as it was on the sea-shore, she did not observe it, for the ever-moving
sea showed more changes in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce
during a whole year. If a black heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said,
“I can look dark and angry too;” and then the wind blew, and the waves turned
to white foam as they rolled. When the wind slept, and the clouds glowed with
the red sunlight, then the sea looked like a rose leaf. But however quietly
its white glassy surface rested, there was still a motion on the shore, as its
waves rose and fell like the breast of a sleeping child. When the sun was about
to set, Eliza saw eleven white swans with golden crowns on their heads, flying
towards the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon. Then Eliza
went down the slope from the shore, and hid herself behind the bushes. The swans
alighted quite close to her and flapped their great white wings. As soon as
the sun had disappeared under the water, the feathers of the swans fell off,
and eleven beautiful princes, Eliza’s brothers, stood near her. She uttered
a loud cry, for, although they were very much changed, she knew them immediately.
She sprang into their arms, and called them each by name. Then, how happy the
princes were at meeting their little sister again, for they recognized her,
although she had grown so tall and beautiful. They laughed, and they wept, and
very soon understood how wickedly their mother had acted to them all. “We brothers,”
said the eldest, “fly about as wild swans, so long as the sun is in the sky;
but as soon as it sinks behind the hills, we recover our human shape. Therefore
must we always be near a resting place for our feet before sunset; for if we
should be flying towards the clouds at the time we recovered our natural shape
as men, we should sink deep into the sea. We do not dwell here, but in a land
just as fair, that lies beyond the ocean, which we have to cross for a long
distance; there is no island in our passage upon which we could pass, the night;
nothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which we can scarcely
stand with safety, even closely crowded together. If the sea is rough, the foam
dashes over us, yet we thank God even for this rock; we have passed whole nights
upon it, or we should never have reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight
across the sea occupies two of the longest days in the year. We have permission
to visit out home once in every year, and to remain eleven days, during which
we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where our father dwells,
and where we were born, and at the church, where our mother lies buried. Here
it seems as if the very trees and bushes were related to us. The wild horses
leap over the plains as we have seen them in our childhood. The charcoal burners
sing the old songs, to which we have danced as children. This is our fatherland,
to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have found you, our dear little
sister., Two days longer we can remain here, and then must we fly away to a
beautiful land which is not our home; and how can we take you with us? We have
neither ship nor boat.”

“How can I break this spell?” said their sister. And then she talked about
it nearly the whole night, only slumbering for a few hours. Eliza was awakened
by the rustling of the swans’ wings as they soared above. Her brothers were
again changed to swans, and they flew in circles wider and wider, till they
were far away; but one of them, the youngest swan, remained behind, and laid
his head in his sister’s lap, while she stroked his wings; and they remained
together the whole day. Towards evening, the rest came back, and as the sun
went down they resumed their natural forms. “To-morrow,” said one, “we shall
fly away, not to return again till a whole year has passed. But we cannot leave
you here. Have you courage to go with us? My arm is strong enough to carry you
through the wood; and will not all our wings be strong enough to fly with you
over the sea?”

“Yes, take me with you,” said Eliza. Then they spent the whole night in weaving
a net with the pliant willow and rushes. It was very large and strong. Eliza
laid herself down on the net, and when the sun rose, and her brothers again
became wild swans, they took up the net with their beaks, and flew up to the
clouds with their dear sister, who still slept. The sunbeams fell on her face,
therefore one of the swans soared over her head, so that his broad wings might
shade her. They were far from the land when Eliza woke. She thought she must
still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to her to feel herself being carried
so high in the air over the sea. By her side lay a branch full of beautiful
ripe berries, and a bundle of sweet roots; the youngest of her brothers had
gathered them for her, and placed them by her side. She smiled her thanks to
him; she knew it was the same who had hovered over her to shade her with his
wings. They were now so high, that a large ship beneath them looked like a white
sea-gull skimming the waves. A great cloud floating behind them appeared like
a vast mountain, and upon it Eliza saw her own shadow and those of the eleven
swans, looking gigantic in size. Altogether it formed a more beautiful picture
than she had ever seen; but as the sun rose higher, and the clouds were left
behind, the shadowy picture vanished away. Onward the whole day they flew through
the air like a winged arrow, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their
sister to carry. The weather seemed inclined to be stormy, and Eliza watched
the sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was not
yet in sight. It appeared to her as if the swans were making great efforts with
their wings. Alas! she was the cause of their not advancing more quickly. When
the sun set, they would change to men, fall into the sea and be drowned. Then
she offered a prayer from her inmost heart, but still no appearance of the rock.
Dark clouds came nearer, the gusts of wind told of a coming storm, while from
a thick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth flash after flash. The
sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans darted down so swiftly,
that Eliza’s head trembled; she believed they were falling, but they again soared
onward. Presently she caught sight of the rock just below them, and by this
time the sun was half hidden by the waves. The rock did not appear larger than
a seal’s head thrust out of the water. They sunk so rapidly, that at the moment
their feet touched the rock, it shone only like a star, and at last disappeared
like the last spark in a piece of burnt paper. Then she saw her brothers standing
closely round her with their arms linked together. There was but just room enough
for them, and not the smallest space to spare. The sea dashed against the rock,
and covered them with spray. The heavens were lighted up with continual flashes,
and peal after peal of thunder rolled. But the sister and brothers sat holding
each other’s hands, and singing hymns, from which they gained hope and courage.
In the early dawn the air became calm and still, and at sunrise the swans flew
away from the rock with Eliza. The sea was still rough, and from their high
position in the air, the white foam on the dark green waves looked like millions
of swans swimming on the water. As the sun rose higher, Eliza saw before her,
floating on the air, a range of mountains, with shining masses of ice on their
summits. In the centre, rose a castle apparently a mile long, with rows of columns,
rising one above another, while, around it, palm-trees waved and flowers bloomed
as large as mill wheels. She asked if this was the land to which they were hastening.
The swans shook their heads, for what she beheld were the beautiful ever-changing
cloud palaces of the “Fata Morgana,” into which no mortal can enter. Eliza was
still gazing at the scene, when mountains, forests, and castles melted away,
and twenty stately churches rose in their stead, with high towers and pointed
gothic windows. Eliza even fancied she could hear the tones of the organ, but
it was the music of the murmuring sea which she heard. As they drew nearer to
the churches, they also changed into a fleet of ships, which seemed to be sailing
beneath her; but as she looked again, she found it was only a sea mist gliding
over the ocean. So there continued to pass before her eyes a constant change
of scene, till at last she saw the real land to which they were bound, with
its blue mountains, its cedar forests, and its cities and palaces. Long before
the sun went down, she sat on a rock, in front of a large cave, on the floor
of which the over-grown yet delicate green creeping plants looked like an embroidered
carpet. “Now we shall expect to hear what you dream of to-night,” said the youngest
brother, as he showed his sister her bedroom.

“Heaven grant that I may dream how to save you,” she replied. And this thought
took such hold upon her mind that she prayed earnestly to God for help, and
even in her sleep she continued to pray. Then it appeared to her as if she were
flying high in the air, towards the cloudy palace of the “Fata Morgana,” and
a fairy came out to meet her, radiant and beautiful in appearance, and yet very
much like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood, and who had told
her of the swans with golden crowns on their heads. “Your brothers can be released,”
said she, “if you have only courage and perseverance. True, water is softer
than your own delicate hands, and yet it polishes stones into shapes; it feels
no pain as your fingers would feel, it has no soul, and cannot suffer such agony
and torment as you will have to endure. Do you see the stinging nettle which
I hold in my hand? Quantities of the same sort grow round the cave in which
you sleep, but none will be of any use to you unless they grow upon the graves
in a churchyard. These you must gather even while they burn blisters on your
hands. Break them to pieces with your hands and feet, and they will become flax,
from which you must spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these
are then thrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken. But remember,
that from the moment you commence your task until it is finished, even should
it occupy years of your life, you must not speak. The first word you utter will
pierce through the hearts of your brothers like a deadly dagger. Their lives
hang upon your tongue. Remember all I have told you.” And as she finished speaking,
she touched her hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain, as of burning fire,
awoke Eliza.

It was broad daylight, and close by where she had been sleeping lay a nettle
like the one she had seen in her dream. She fell on her knees and offered her
thanks to God. Then she went forth from the cave to begin her work with her
delicate hands. She groped in amongst the ugly nettles, which burnt great blisters
on her hands and arms, but she determined to bear it gladly if she could only
release her dear brothers. So she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and
spun the flax. At sunset her brothers returned and were very much frightened
when they found her dumb. They believed it to be some new sorcery of their wicked
step-mother. But when they saw her hands they understood what she was doing
on their behalf, and the youngest brother wept, and where his tears fell the
pain ceased, and the burning blisters vanished. She kept to her work all night,
for she could not rest till she had released her dear brothers. During the whole
of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in solitude, but
never before had the time flown so quickly. One coat was already finished and
she had begun the second, when she heard the huntsman’s horn, and was struck
with fear. The sound came nearer and nearer, she heard the dogs barking, and
fled with terror into the cave. She hastily bound together the nettles she had
gathered into a bundle and sat upon them. Immediately a great dog came bounding
towards her out of the ravine, and then another and another; they barked loudly,
ran back, and then came again. In a very few minutes all the huntsmen stood
before the cave, and the handsomest of them was the king of the country. He
advanced towards her, for he had never seen a more beautiful maiden.

“How did you come here, my sweet child?” he asked. But Eliza shook her head.
She dared not speak, at the cost of her brothers’ lives. And she hid her hands
under her apron, so that the king might not see how she must be suffering.

“Come with me,” he said; “here you cannot remain. If you are as good as you
are beautiful, I will dress you in silk and velvet, I will place a golden crown
upon your head, and you shall dwell, and rule, and make your home in my richest
castle.” And then he lifted her on his horse. She wept and wrung her hands,
but the king said, “I wish only for your happiness. A time will come when you
will thank me for this.” And then he galloped away over the mountains, holding
her before him on this horse, and the hunters followed behind them. As the sun
went down, they approached a fair royal city, with churches, and cupolas. On
arriving at the castle the king led her into marble halls, where large fountains
played, and where the walls and the ceilings were covered with rich paintings.
But she had no eyes for all these glorious sights, she could only mourn and
weep. Patiently she allowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave
pearls in her hair, and draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers. As she
stood before them in all her rich dress, she looked so dazzingly beautiful that
the court bowed low in her presence. Then the king declared his intention of
making her his bride, but the archbishop shook his head, and whispered that
the fair young maiden was only a witch who had blinded the king’s eyes and bewitched
his heart. But the king would not listen to this; he ordered the music to sound,
the daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance. After-wards
he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but not a smile appeared
on her lips or sparkled in her eyes. She looked the very picture of grief. Then
the king opened the door of a little chamber in which she. was to sleep; it
was adorned with rich green tapestry, and resembled the cave in which he had
found her. On the floor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles,
and under the ceiling hung the coat she had made. These things had been brought
away from the cave as curiosities by one of the huntsmen.

“Here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the cave,” said
the king; “here is the work with which you employed yourself. It will amuse
you now in the midst of all this splendor to think of that time.”

When Eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a smile played
around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her cheeks. She thought of
her brothers, and their release made her so joyful that she kissed the king’s
hand. Then he pressed her to his heart. Very soon the joyous church bells announced
the marriage feast, and that the beautiful dumb girl out of the wood was to
be made the queen of the country. Then the archbishop whispered wicked words
in the king’s ear, but they did not sink into his heart. The marriage was still
to take place, and the archbishop himself had to place the crown on the bride’s
head; in his wicked spite, he pressed the narrow circlet so tightly on her forehead
that it caused her pain. But a heavier weight encircled her heart—sorrow for
her brothers. She felt not bodily pain. Her mouth was closed; a single word
would cost the lives of her brothers. But she loved the kind, handsome king,
who did everything to make her happy more and more each day; she loved him with
all her heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared not speak. Oh! if
she had only been able to confide in him and tell him of her grief. But dumb
she must remain till her task was finished. Therefore at night she crept away
into her little chamber, which had been decked out to look like the cave, and
quickly wove one coat after another. But when she began the seventh she found
she had no more flax. She knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the
churchyard, and that she must pluck them herself. How should she get out there?
“Oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my heart endures?”
said she. “I must venture, I shall not be denied help from heaven.” Then with
a trembling heart, as if she were about to perform a wicked deed, she crept
into the garden in the broad moonlight, and passed through the narrow walks
and the deserted streets, till she reached the churchyard. Then she saw on one
of the broad tombstones a group of ghouls. These hideous creatures took off
their rags, as if they intended to bathe, and then clawing open the fresh graves
with their long, skinny fingers, pulled out the dead bodies and ate the flesh!
Eliza had to pass close by them, and they fixed their wicked glances upon her,
but she prayed silently, gathered the burning nettles, and carried them home
with her to the castle. One person only had seen her, and that was the archbishop—he
was awake while everybody was asleep. Now he thought his opinion was evidently
correct. All was not right with the queen. She was a witch, and had bewitched
the king and all the people. Secretly he told the king what he had seen and
what he feared, and as the hard words came from his tongue, the carved images
of the saints shook their heads as if they would say. “It is not so. Eliza is
innocent.”

But the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that they witnessed
against her, and were shaking their heads at her wickedness. Two large tears
rolled down the king’s cheeks, and he went home with doubt in his heart, and
at night he pretended to sleep, but there came no real sleep to his eyes, for
he saw Eliza get up every night and disappear in her own chamber. From day to
day his brow became darker, and Eliza saw it and did not understand the reason,
but it alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers. Her hot tears
glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while all who saw her
were wishing they could be queens. In the mean time she had almost finished
her task; only one coat of mail was wanting, but she had no flax left, and not
a single nettle. Once more only, and for the last time, must she venture to
the churchyard and pluck a few handfuls. She thought with terror of the solitary
walk, and of the horrible ghouls, but her will was firm, as well as her trust
in Providence. Eliza went, and the king and the archbishop followed her. They
saw her vanish through the wicket gate into the churchyard, and when they came
nearer they saw the ghouls sitting on the tombstone, as Eliza had seen them,
and the king turned away his head, for he thought she was with them—she whose
head had rested on his breast that very evening. “The people must condemn her,”
said he, and she was very quickly condemned by every one to suffer death by
fire. Away from the gorgeous regal halls was she led to a dark, dreary cell,
where the wind whistled through the iron bars. Instead of the velvet and silk
dresses, they gave her the coats of mail which she had woven to cover her, and
the bundle of nettles for a pillow; but nothing they could give her would have
pleased her more. She continued her task with joy, and prayed for help, while
the street-boys sang jeering songs about her, and not a soul comforted her with
a kind word. Towards evening, she heard at the grating the flutter of a swan’s
wing, it was her youngest brother—he had found his sister, and she sobbed for
joy, although she knew that very likely this would be the last night she would
have to live. But still she could hope, for her task was almost finished, and
her brothers were come. Then the archbishop arrived, to be with her during her
last hours, as he had promised the king. But she shook her head, and begged
him, by looks and gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must
finish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights would
have been suffered in vain. The archbishop withdrew, uttering bitter words against
her; but poor Eliza knew that she was innocent, and diligently continued her
work.

The little mice ran about the floor, they dragged the nettles to her feet,
to help as well as they could; and the thrush sat outside the grating of the
window, and sang to her the whole night long, as sweetly as possible, to keep
up her spirits.

It was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when the eleven
brothers stood at the castle gate, and demanded to be brought before the king.
They were told it could not be, it was yet almost night, and as the king slept
they dared not disturb him. They threatened, they entreated. Then the guard
appeared, and even the king himself, inquiring what all the noise meant. At
this moment the sun rose. The eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven
wild swans flew away over the castle.

And now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of the city, to
see the witch burnt. An old horse drew the cart on which she sat. They had dressed
her in a garment of coarse sackcloth. Her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders,
her cheeks were deadly pale, her lips moved silently, while her fingers still
worked at the green flax. Even on the way to death, she would not give up her
task. The ten coats of mail lay at her feet, she was working hard at the eleventh,
while the mob jeered her and said, “See the witch, how she mutters! She has
no hymn-book in her hand. She sits there with her ugly sorcery. Let us tear
it in a thousand pieces.”

And then they pressed towards her, and would have destroyed the coats of mail,
but at the same moment eleven wild swans flew over her, and alighted on the
cart. Then they flapped their large wings, and the crowd drew on one side in
alarm.

“It is a sign from heaven that she is innocent,” whispered many of them; but
they ventured not to say it aloud.

As the executioner seized her by the hand, to lift her out of the cart, she
hastily threw the eleven coats of mail over the swans, and they immediately
became eleven handsome princes; but the youngest had a swan’s wing, instead
of an arm; for she had not been able to finish the last sleeve of the coat.

“Now I may speak,” she exclaimed. “I am innocent.”

Then the people, who saw what happened, bowed to her, as before a saint; but
she sank lifeless in her brothers’ arms, overcome with suspense, anguish, and
pain.

“Yes, she is innocent,” said the eldest brother; and then he related all that
had taken place; and while he spoke there rose in the air a fragrance as from
millions of roses. Every piece of faggot in the pile had taken root, and threw
out branches, and appeared a thick hedge, large and high, covered with roses;
while above all bloomed a white and shining flower, that glittered like a star.
This flower the king plucked, and placed in Eliza’s bosom, when she awoke from
her swoon, with peace and happiness in her heart. And all the church bells rang
of themselves, and the birds came in great troops. And a marriage procession
returned to the castle, such as no king had ever before seen.

The Puppet-Show Man

On board a steamer I once met an elderly man, with such a merry face that, if it
was really an index of his mind, he must have been the happiest fellow in creation;
and indeed he considered himself so, for I heard it from his own mouth. He was
a Dane, the owner of a travelling theatre. He had all his company with him in
a large box, for he was the proprietor of a puppet-show. His inborn cheerfulness,
he said, had been tested by a member of the Polytechnic Institution, and the experiment
had made him completely happy. I did not at first understand all this, but afterwards
he explained the whole story to me; and here it is:—

“I was giving a representation,” he said, “in the hall of the posting-house
in the little town of Slagelse; there was a splendid audience, entirely juvenile
excepting two respectable matrons. All at once, a person in black, of student-like
appearance, entered the room, and sat down; he laughed aloud at the telling
points, and applauded quite at the proper time. This was a very unusual spectator
for me, and I felt anxious to know who he was. I heard that he was a member
of the Polytechnic Institution in Copenhagen, who had been sent out to lecture
to the people in the provinces. Punctually at eight o’clock my performance closed,
for children must go early to bed, and a manager must also consult the convenience
of the public.

“At nine o’clock the lecturer commenced his lecture and his experiments, and
then I formed a part of his audience. It was wonderful both to hear and to see.
The greater part of it was beyond my comprehension, but it led me to think that
if we men can acquire so much, we must surely be intended to last longer than
the little span which extends only to the time when we are hidden away under
the earth. His experiments were quite miracles on a small scale, and yet the
explanations flowed as naturally as water from his lips. At the time of Moses
and the prophets, such a man would have been placed among the sages of the land;
in the middle ages they would have burnt him at the stake.

“All night long I could not sleep; and the next evening when I gave another
performance and the lecturer was present, I was in one of my best moods.

“I once heard of an actor, who, when he had to act the part of a lover, always
thought of one particular lady in the audience; he only played for her, and
forgot all the rest of the house, and now the Polytechnic lecturer was my she,
my only auditor, for whom alone I played.

“When the performance was over, and the puppets removed behind the curtain,
the Polytechnic lecturer invited me into his room to take a glass of wine. He
talked of my comedies, and I of his science, and I believe we were both equally
pleased. But I had the best of it, for there was much in what he did that he
could not always explain to me. For instance, why a piece of iron which is rubbed
on a cylinder, should become magnetic. How does this happen? The magnetic sparks
come to it,—but how? It is the same with people in the world; they are rubbed
about on this spherical globe till the electric spark comes upon them, and then
we have a Napoleon, or a Luther, or some one of the kind.

“‘The whole world is but a series of miracles,’ said the lecturer, ‘but we
are so accustomed to them that we call them everyday matters.’ And he went on
explaining things to me till my skull seemed lifted from my brain, and I declared
that were I not such an old fellow, I would at once become a member of the Polytechnic
Institution, that I might learn to look at the bright side of everything, although
I was one of the happiest of men.

“‘One of the happiest!’ said the lecturer, as if the idea pleased him; ‘are
you really happy?’

“‘Yes,’ I replied; ‘for I am welcomed in every town, when I arrive with my
company; but I certainly have one wish which sometimes weighs upon my cheerful
temper like a mountain of lead. I should like to become the manager of a real
theatre, and the director of a real troupe of men and women.’

“‘I understand,’ he said; ‘you would like to have life breathed into your puppets,
so that they might be living actors, and you their director. And would you then
be quite happy?’

“I said I believed so. But he did not; and we talked it over in all manner
of ways, yet could not agree on the subject. However, the wine was excellent,
and we clanked our glasses together as we drank. There must have been magic
in it, or I should most certainly become tipsy; but that did not happen, for
my mind seemed quite clear; and, indeed, a kind of sunshine filled the room,
and beamed from the eyes of the Polytechnic lecturer. It made me think of the
old stories when the gods, in their immortal youth, wandered upon this earth,
and paid visits to mankind. I said so to him, and he smiled; and I could have
sworn that he was one of these ancient deities in disguise, or, at all events,
that he belonged to the race of the gods. The result seemed to prove I was right
in my suspicions; for it was arranged that my highest wish should be granted,
that my puppets were to be gifted with life, and that I was to be the manager
of a real company. We drank to my success, and clanked our glasses. Then he
packed all my dolls into the box, and fastened it on my back, and I felt as
if I were spinning round in a circle, and presently found myself lying on the
floor. I remember that quite well. And then the whole company sprang from the
box. The spirit had come upon us all; the puppets had become distinguished actors—at
least, so they said themselves—and I was their director.

“When all was ready for the first representation, the whole company requested
permission to speak to me before appearing in public. The dancing lady said
the house could not be supported unless she stood on one leg; for she was a
great genius, and begged to be treated as such. The lady who acted the part
of the queen expected to be treated as a queen off the stage, as well as on
it, or else she said she should get out of practice. The man whose duty it was
to deliver a letter gave himself as many airs as he who took the part of first
lover in the piece; he declared that the inferior parts were as important as
the great ones, and deserving equal consideration, as parts of an artistic whole.
The hero of the piece would only play in a part containing points likely to
bring down the applause of the house. The ‘prima donna’ would only act when
the lights were red, for she declared that a blue light did not suit her complexion.
It was like a company of flies in a bottle, and I was in the bottle with them;
for I was their director. My breath was taken away, my head whirled, and I was
as miserable as a man could be. It was quite a novel, strange set of beings
among whom I now found myself. I only wished I had them all in my box again,
and that I had never been their director. So I told them roundly that, after
all, they were nothing but puppets; and then they killed me. After a while I
found myself lying on my bed in my room; but how I got there, or how I got away
at all from the Polytechnic professor, he may perhaps know, I don’t. The moon
shone upon the floor, the box lay open, and the dolls were all scattered about
in great confusion; but I was not idle. I jumped off the bed, and into the box
they all had to go, some on their heads, some on their feet. Then I shut down
the lid, and seated myself upon the box. ‘Now you’ll have to stay,’ said I,
‘and I shall be cautious how I wish you flesh and blood again.’

“I felt quite light, my cheerfulness had returned, and I was the happiest of
mortals. The Polytechnic professor had fully cured me. I was as happy as a king,
and went to sleep on the box. Next morning— correctly speaking, it was noon,
for I slept remarkably late that day— I found myself still sitting there, in
happy consciousness that my former wish had been a foolish one. I inquired for
the Polytechnic professor; but he had disappeared like the Greek and Roman gods;
from that time I have been the happiest man in the world. I am a happy director;
for none of my company ever grumble, nor the public either, for I always make
them merry. I can arrange my pieces just as I please. I choose out of every
comedy what I like best, and no one is offended. Plays that are neglected now-a-days
by the great public were ran after thirty years ago, and listened to till the
tears ran down the cheeks of the audience. These are the pieces I bring forward.
I place them before the little ones, who cry over them as papa and mamma used
to cry thirty years ago. But I make them shorter, for the youngsters don’t like
long speeches; and if they have anything mournful, they like it to be over quickly.”

The Drop of Water

Of course you know what is meant by a magnifying glass—one of those round spectacle-glasses
that make everything look a hundred times bigger than it is? When any one takes
one of these and holds it to his eye, and looks at a drop of water from the pond
yonder, he sees above a thousand wonderful creatures that are otherwise never
discerned in the water. But there they are, and it is no delusion. It almost looks
like a great plateful of spiders jumping about in a crowd. And how fierce they
are! They tear off each other’s legs. and arms and bodies, before and behind;
and yet they are merry and joyful in their way.

Now, there once was an old man whom all the people called Kribble-Krabble,
for that was his name. He always wanted the best of everything, and when he
could not manage it otherwise, he did it by magic.

There he sat one day, and held his magnifying-glass to his eye, and looked
at a drop of water that had been taken out of a puddle by the ditch. But what
a kribbling and krabbling was there! All the thousands of little creatures hopped
and sprang and tugged at one another, and ate each other up.

“That is horrible!” said old Kribble-Krabble. “Can one not persuade them to
live in peace and quietness, so that each one may mind his own business?”

And he thought it over and over, but it would not do, and so he had recourse
to magic.

“I must give them color, that they may be seen more plainly,” said he; and
he poured something like a little drop of red wine into the drop of water, but
it was witches’ blood from the lobes of the ear, the finest kind, at ninepence
a drop. And now the wonderful little creatures were pink all over. It looked
like a whole town of naked wild men.

“What have you there?” asked another old magician, who had no name—and that
was the best thing about him.

“Yes, if you can guess what it is,” said Kribble-Krabble, “I’ll make you a
present of it.”

But it is not so easy to find out if one does not know.

And the magician who had no name looked through the magnifying-glass.

It looked really like a great town reflected there, in which all the people
were running about without clothes. It was terrible! But it was still more terrible
to see how one beat and pushed the other, and bit and hacked, and tugged and
mauled him. Those at the top were being pulled down, and those at the bottom
were struggling upwards.

“Look! look! his leg is longer than mine! Bah! Away with it! There is one who
has a little bruise. It hurts him, but it shall hurt him still more.”

And they hacked away at him, and they pulled at him, and ate him up, because
of the little bruise. And there was one sitting as still as any little maiden,
and wishing only for peace and quietness. But now she had to come out, and they
tugged at her, and pulled her about, and ate her up.

“That’s funny!” said the magician.

“Yes; but what do you think it is?” said Kribble-Krabble. “Can you find that
out?”

“Why, one can see that easily enough,” said the other. “That’s Paris, or some
other great city, for they’re all alike. It’s a great city!”

“It’s a drop of puddle water!” said Kribble-Krabble.

The Galoshes of Fortune

In a house in Copenhagen, not far from the
king’s new market, a very large party had assembled, the host and his family
expecting, no doubt, to receive invitations in return. One half of the company
were already seated at the card-tables, the other half seemed to be waiting the
result of their hostess’s question, “Well, how shall we amuse
ourselves?”

Conversation followed, which, after a while, began to prove
very entertaining. Among other subjects, it turned upon the events of the
middle ages, which some persons maintained were more full of interest than our
own times. Counsellor Knapp defended this opinion so warmly that the lady of
the house immediately went over to his side, and both exclaimed against
Oersted’s Essays on Ancient and Modern Times, in which the preference is given
to our own. The counsellor considered the times of the Danish king,
Hans,¹ as the noblest and
happiest.

The conversation on this topic was only interrupted for a
moment by the arrival of a newspaper, which did not, however, contain much
worth reading, and while it is still going on we will pay a visit to the
ante-room, in which cloaks, sticks, and goloshes were carefully placed. Here
sat two maidens, one young, and the other old, as if they had come and were
waiting to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking at them more
closely, it could easily be seen that they were no common servants. Their
shapes were too graceful, their complexions too delicate, and the cut of their
dresses much too elegant. They were two fairies. The younger was not Fortune
herself, but the chambermaid of one of Fortune’s attendants, who carries about
her more trifling gifts. The elder one, who was named Care, looked rather
gloomy; she always goes about to perform her own business in person; for then
she knows it is properly done. They were telling each other where they had been
during the day. The messenger of Fortune had only transacted a few unimportant
matters; for instance, she had preserved a new bonnet from a shower of rain,
and obtained for an honest man a bow from a titled nobody, and so on; but she
had something extraordinary to relate, after all.

“I must tell you,” said she, “that to-day
is my birthday; and in honor of it I have been intrusted with a pair of
goloshes, to introduce amongst mankind. These goloshes have the property of
making every one who puts them on imagine himself in any place he wishes, or
that he exists at any period. Every wish is fulfilled at the moment it is
expressed, so that for once mankind have the chance of being happy.”

“No,” replied Care; “you may depend upon
it that whoever puts on those goloshes will be very unhappy, and bless the
moment in which he can get rid of them.”

“What are you thinking of?” replied the other.
“Now see; I will place them by the door; some one will take them instead
of his own, and he will be the happy man.”

This was the end of their conversation.

What Happened to the Counsellor

T was late when Counsellor Knapp, lost in
thought about the times of King Hans, desired to return home; and fate so
ordered it that he put on the goloshes of Fortune instead of his own, and
walked out into the East Street. Through the magic power of the goloshes, he
was at once carried back three hundred years, to the times of King Hans, for
which he had been longing when he put them on. Therefore he immediately set his
foot into the mud and mire of the street, which in those days possessed no
pavement.

“Why, this is horrible; how dreadfully dirty it
is!” said the counsellor; “and the whole pavement has vanished, and
the lamps are all out.”

The moon had not yet risen high enough to penetrate the
thick foggy air, and all the objects around him were confused together in the
darkness. At the nearest corner, a lamp hung before a picture of the Madonna;
but the light it gave was almost useless, for he only perceived it when he came
quite close and his eyes fell on the painted figures of the Mother and
Child.

“That is most likely a museum of art,” thought
he, “and they have forgotten to take down the sign.”

Two men, in the dress of olden times, passed by him.

“What odd figures!” thought he; “they must
be returning from some masquerade.”

Suddenly he heard the sound of a drum and fifes, and then a
blazing light from torches shone upon him. The counsellor stared with
astonishment as he beheld a most strange procession pass before him. First came
a whole troop of drummers, beating their drums very cleverly; they were
followed by life-guards, with longbows and crossbows. The principal person in
the procession was a clerical-looking gentleman. The astonished counsellor
asked what it all meant, and who the gentleman might be.

“That is the bishop of Zealand.”

“Good gracious!” he exclaimed; “what in
the world has happened to the bishop? what can he be thinking about?”
Then he shook his head and said, “It cannot possibly be the bishop
himself.”

While musing on this strange affair, and without looking to
the right or left, he walked on through East Street and over Highbridge Place.
The bridge, which he supposed led to Palace Square, was nowhere to be found;
but instead, he saw a bank and some shallow water, and two people, who sat in a
boat.

“Does the gentleman wish to be ferried over the
Holm?” asked one.

“To the Holm!” exclaimed the counsellor, not
knowing in what age he was now existing; “I want to go to Christian’s
Haven, in Little Turf Street.” The men stared at him. “Pray tell me
where the bridge is!” said he. “It is shameful that the lamps are
not lighted here, and it is as muddy as if one were walking in a marsh.”
But the more he talked with the boatmen the less they could understand each
other.

“I don’t understand your outlandish talk,” he
cried at last, angrily turning his back upon them. He could not, however, find
the bridge nor any railings.

“What a scandalous condition this place is in,”
said he; never, certainly, had he found his own times so miserable as on this
evening. “I think it will be better for me to take a coach; but where are
they?” There was not one to be seen! “I shall be obliged to go back
to the king’s new market,” said he, “where there are plenty of
carriages standing, or I shall never reach Christian’s Haven.” Then he
went towards East Street, and had nearly passed through it, when the moon burst
forth from a cloud.

“Dear me, what have they been erecting here?” he
cried, as he caught sight of the East gate, which in olden times used to stand
at the end of East Street. However, he found an opening through which he
passed, and came out upon where he expected to find the new market. Nothing was
to be seen but an open meadow, surrounded by a few bushes, through which ran a
broad canal or stream. A few miserable-looking wooden booths, for the
accommodation of Dutch watermen, stood on the opposite shore.

“Either I behold a fata morgana, or I must be
tipsy,” groaned the counsellor. “What can it be? What is the matter
with me?” He turned back in the full conviction that he must be ill. In
walking through the street this time, he examined the houses more closely; he
found that most of them were built of lath and plaster, and many had only a
thatched roof.

“I am certainly all wrong,” said he, with a
sigh; “and yet I only drank one glass of punch. But I cannot bear even
that, and it was very foolish to give us punch and hot salmon; I shall speak
about it to our hostess, the agent’s lady. Suppose I were to go back now and
say how ill I feel, I fear it would look so ridiculous, and it is not very
likely that I should find any one up.” Then he looked for the house, but
it was not in existence.

“This is really frightful; I cannot even recognize
East Street. Not a shop to be seen; nothing but old, wretched, tumble-down
houses, just as if I were at Roeskilde or Ringstedt. Oh, I really must be ill!
It is no use to stand upon ceremony. But where in the world is the agent’s
house. There is a house, but it is not his; and people still up in it, I
can hear. Oh dear! I certainly am very queer.” As he reached the
half-open door, he saw a light and went in. It was a tavern of the olden times,
and seemed a kind of beershop. The room had the appearance of a Dutch interior.
A number of people, consisting of seamen, Copenhagen citizens, and a few
scholars, sat in deep conversation over their mugs, and took very little notice
of the new comer.

“Pardon me,” said the counsellor, addressing the
landlady, “I do not feel quite well, and I should be much obliged if you
will send for a fly to take me to Christian’s Haven.” The woman stared at
him and shook her head. Then she spoke to him in German. The counsellor
supposed from this that she did not understand Danish; he therefore repeated
his request in German. This, as well as his singular dress, convinced the woman
that he was a foreigner. She soon understood, however, that he did not find
himself quite well, and therefore brought him a mug of water. It had something
of the taste of seawater, certainly, although it had been drawn from the well
outside. Then the counsellor leaned his head on his hand, drew a deep breath,
and pondered over all the strange things that had happened to him.

“Is that to-day’s number of the
Day?”² he asked, quite
mechanically, as he saw the woman putting by a large piece of paper. She did
not understand what he meant, but she handed him the sheet; it was a woodcut,
representing a meteor, which had appeared in the town of Cologne.

“That is very old,” said the counsellor,
becoming quite cheerful at the sight of this antique drawing. “Where did
you get this singular sheet? It is very interesting, although the whole affair
is a fable. Meteors are easily explained in these days; they are northern
lights, which are often seen, and are no doubt caused by
electricity.”

Those who sat near him, and heard what he said, looked at
him in great astonishment, and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully,
and said in a very serious manner, “You must certainly be a very learned
man, monsieur.”

“Oh no,” replied the counsellor; “I can
only discourse on topics which every one should understand.”

“Modestia is a beautiful virtue,” said
the man. “Moreover, I must add to your speech mihi secus videtur;
yet in this case I would suspend my judicium”.

“May I ask to whom I have the pleasure of
speaking?”

“I am a Bachelor of Divinity,” said the man.
This answer satisfied the counsellor. The title agreed with the dress.

“This is surely,” thought he, “an old
village schoolmaster, a perfect original, such as one meets with sometimes even
in Jutland.”

“This is not certainly a locus docendi,” began
the man; “still I must beg you to continue the conversation. You must be
well read in ancient lore.”

“Oh yes,” replied the counsellor; “I am
very fond of reading useful old books, and modern ones as well, with the
exception of every-day stories, of which we really have more than
enough.”

“Every-day stories?” asked the bachelor.

“Yes, I mean the new novels that we have at the
present day.”

“Oh,” replied the man, with a smile; “and
yet they are very witty, and are much read at Court. The king likes especially
the romance of Messeurs Iffven and Gaudian, which describes King Arthur and his
knights of the round table. He has joked about it with the gentlemen of his
Court.”

“Well, I have certainly not read that,” replied
the counsellor. “I suppose it is quite new, and published by
Heiberg.”

“No,” answered the man, “it is not by
Heiberg; Godfred von Gehman brought it out.”

“Oh, is he the publisher? That is a very old
name,” said the counsellor; “was it not the name of the first
publisher in Denmark?”

“Yes; and he is our first printer and publisher
now,” replied the scholar.

So far all had passed off very well; but now one of the
citizens began to speak of a terrible pestilence which had been raging a few
years before, meaning the plague of 1484. The counsellor thought he referred to
the cholera, and they could discuss this without finding out the mistake. The
war in 1490 was spoken of as quite recent. The English pirates had taken some
ships in the Channel in 1801, and the counsellor, supposing they referred to
these, agreed with them in finding fault with the English. The rest of the
talk, however, was not so agreeable; every moment one contradicted the other.
The good bachelor appeared very ignorant, for the simplest remark of the
counsellor seemed to him either too bold or too fantastic. They stared at each
other, and when it became worse the bachelor spoke in Latin, in the hope of
being better understood; but it was all useless.

“How are you now?” asked the landlady, pulling
the counsellor’s sleeve.

Then his recollection returned to him. In the course of
conversation he had forgotten all that had happened previously.

“Goodness me! where am I?” said he. It
bewildered him as he thought of it.

“We will have some claret, or mead, or Bremen
beer,” said one of the guests; “will you drink with us?”

Two maids came in. One of them had a cap on her head of two
colors.³ They poured out the wine,
bowed their heads, and withdrew.

The counsellor felt a cold shiver run all over him.
“What is this? what does it mean?” said he; but he was obliged to
drink with them, for they overpowered the good man with their politeness. He
became at last desperate; and when one of them said he was tipsy, he did not
doubt the man’s word in the least—only begged them to get a droschky; and
then they thought he was speaking the Muscovite language. Never before had he
been in such rough and vulgar company. “One might believe that the
country was going back to heathenism,” he observed. “This is the
most terrible moment of my life.”

Just then it came into his mind that he would stoop under
the table, and so creep to the door. He tried it; but before he reached the
entry, the rest discovered what he was about, and seized him by the feet, when,
luckily for him, off came the goloshes, and with them vanished the whole
enchantment. The counsellor now saw quite plainly a lamp, and a large building
behind it; everything looked familiar and beautiful. He was in East Street, as
it now appears; he lay with his legs turned towards a porch, and just by him
sat the watchman asleep.

“Is it possible that I have been lying here in the
street dreaming?” said he. “Yes, this is East Street; how
beautifully bright and gay it looks! It is quite shocking that one glass of
punch should have upset me like this.”

Two minutes afterwards he sat in a droschky, which was to
drive him to Christian’s Haven. He thought of all the terror and anxiety which
he had undergone, and felt thankful from his heart for the reality and comfort
of modern times, which, with all their errors, were far better than those in
which he so lately found himself.

The Watchman’s Adventures

ELL, I declare, there lies a pair of
goloshes,” said the watchman. “No doubt, they belong to the
lieutenant who lives up stairs. They are lying just by his door.” Gladly
would the honest man have rung, and given them in, for a light was still
burning, but he did not wish to disturb the other people in the house; so he
let them lie. “These things must keep the feet very warm,” said he;
“they are of such nice soft leather.” Then he tried them on, and
they fitted his feet exactly. “Now,” said he, “how droll
things are in this world! There’s that man can lie down in his warm bed, but he
does not do so. There he goes pacing up and down the room. He ought to be a
happy man. He has neither wife nor children, and he goes out into company every
evening. Oh, I wish I were he; then I should be a happy man.”

As he uttered this wish, the goloshes which he had put on
took effect, and the watchman at once became the lieutenant. There he stood in
his room, holding a little piece of pink paper between his fingers, on which
was a poem,—a poem written by the lieutenant himself. Who has not had,
for once in his life, a moment of poetic inspiration? and at such a moment, if
the thoughts are written down, they flow in poetry. The following verses were
written on the pink paper:—

“OH WERE I RICH!

“Oh were I rich! How oft, in youth’s bright hour,

When youthful pleasures banish every care,

I longed for riches but to gain a power,

The sword and plume and uniform to wear!

The riches and the honor came for me;

Yet still my greatest wealth was poverty:

Ah, help and pity me!

“Once in my youthful hours, when gay and free,

A maiden loved me; and her gentle kiss,

Rich in its tender love and purity,

Taught me, alas! too much of earthly bliss.

Dear child! She only thought of youthful glee;

She loved no wealth, but fairy tales and me.

Thou knowest: ah, pity me!

“Oh were I rich! again is all my prayer:

That child is now a woman, fair and free,

As good and beautiful as angels are.

Oh, were I rich in lovers’ poetry,

To tell my fairy tale, love’s richest lore!

But no; I must be silent—I am poor.

Ah, wilt thou pity me?

“Oh were I rich in truth and peace below,

I need not then my poverty bewail.

To thee I dedicate these lines of woe;

Wilt thou not understand the mournful tale?

A leaf on which my sorrows I relate—

Dark story of a darker night of fate.

Ah, bless and pity me!”

“Well, yes; people write poems when they are in love, but a wise
man will not print them. A lieutenant in love, and poor. This is a
triangle, or more properly speaking, the half of the broken die of
fortune.” The lieutenant felt this very keenly, and therefore leaned
his head against the window-frame, and sighed deeply. “The poor watchman
in the street,” said he, “is far happier than I am. He knows not
what I call poverty. He has a home, a wife and children, who weep at his sorrow
and rejoice at his joy. Oh, how much happier I should be could I change my
being and position with him, and pass through life with his humble expectations
and hopes! Yes, he is indeed happier than I am.”

At this moment the watchman again became a watchman; for
having, through the goloshes of Fortune, passed into the existence of the
lieutenant, and found himself less contented than he expected, he had preferred
his former condition, and wished himself again a watchman. “That was an
ugly dream,” said he, “but droll enough. It seemed to me as if I
were the lieutenant up yonder, but there was no happiness for me. I missed my
wife and the little ones, who are always ready to smother me with
kisses.” He sat down again and nodded, but he could not get the dream out
of his thoughts, and he still had the goloshes on his feet. A falling star
gleamed across the sky. “There goes one!” cried he. “However,
there are quite enough left; I should very much like to examine these a little
nearer, especially the moon, for that could not slip away under one’s hands.
The student, for whom my wife washes, says that when we die we shall fly from
one star to another. If that were true, it would be very delightful, but I
don’t believe it. I wish I could make a little spring up there now; I would
willingly let my body lie here on the steps.”

There are certain things in the world which should be
uttered very cautiously; doubly so when the speaker has on his feet the
goloshes of Fortune. Now we shall hear what happened to the watchman.

Nearly every one is acquainted with the great power of
steam; we have proved it by the rapidity with which we can travel, both on a
railroad or in a steamship across the sea. But this speed is like the movements
of the sloth, or the crawling march of the snail, when compared to the
swiftness with which light travels; light flies nineteen million times faster
than the fleetest race-horse, and electricity is more rapid still. Death is an
electric shock which we receive in our hearts, and on the wings of electricity
the liberated soul flies away swiftly, the light from the sun travels to our
earth ninety-five millions of miles in eight minutes and a few seconds; but on
the wings of electricity, the mind requires only a second to accomplish the
same distance. The space between the heavenly bodies is, to thought, no farther
than the distance which we may have to walk from one friend’s house to another
in the same town; yet this electric shock obliges us to use our bodies here
below, unless, like the watchman, we have on the goloshes of Fortune.

In a very few seconds the watchman had travelled more than
two hundred thousand miles to the moon, which is formed of a lighter material
than our earth, and may be said to be as soft as new fallen snow. He found
himself on one of the circular range of mountains which we see represented in
Dr. Madler’s large map of the moon. The interior had the appearance of a large
hollow, bowl-shaped, with a depth about half a mile from the brim. Within this
hollow stood a large town; we may form some idea of its appearance by pouring
the white of an egg into a glass of water. The materials of which it was built
seemed just as soft, and pictured forth cloudy turrets and sail-like terraces,
quite transparent, and floating in the thin air. Our earth hung over his head
like a great dark red ball. Presently he discovered a number of beings, which
might certainly be called men, but were very different to ourselves. A more
fantastical imagination than Herschel’s must have discovered these. Had they
been placed in groups, and painted, it might have been said, “What
beautiful foliage!” They had also a language of their own. No one could
have expected the soul of the watchman to understand it, and yet he did
understand it, for our souls have much greater capabilities then we are
inclined to believe. Do we not, in our dreams, show a wonderful dramatic
talent? each of our acquaintance appears to us then in his own character, and
with his own voice; no man could thus imitate them in his waking hours. How
clearly, too, we are reminded of persons whom we have not seen for many years;
they start up suddenly to the mind’s eye with all their peculiarities as living
realities. In fact, this memory of the soul is a fearful thing; every sin,
every sinful thought it can bring back, and we may well ask how we are to give
account of “every idle word” that may have been whispered in the
heart or uttered with the lips. The spirit of the watchman therefore understood
very well the language of the inhabitants of the moon. They were disputing
about our earth, and doubted whether it could be inhabited. The atmosphere,
they asserted, must be too dense for any inhabitants of the moon to exist
there. They maintained that the moon alone was inhabited, and was really the
heavenly body in which the old world people lived. They likewise talked
politics.

But now we will descend to East Street, and see what
happened to the watchman’s body. He sat lifeless on the steps. His staff had
fallen out of his hand, and his eyes stared at the moon, about which his honest
soul was wandering.

“What is it o’clock, watchman?” inquired a
passenger. But there was no answer from the watchman.

The man then pulled his nose gently, which caused him to
lose his balance. The body fell forward, and lay at full length on the ground
as one dead.

All his comrades were very much frightened, for he seemed
quite dead; still they allowed him to remain after they had given notice of
what had happened; and at dawn the body was carried to the hospital. We might
imagine it to be no jesting matter if the soul of the man should chance to
return to him, for most probably it would seek for the body in East Street
without being able to find it. We might fancy the soul inquiring of the police,
or at the address office, or among the missing parcels, and then at length
finding it at the hospital. But we may comfort ourselves by the certainty that
the soul, when acting upon its own impulses, is wiser than we are; it is the
body that makes it stupid.

As we have said, the watchman’s body had been taken to the
hospital, and here it was placed in a room to be washed. Naturally, the first
thing done here was to take off the goloshes, upon which the soul was instantly
obliged to return, and it took the direct road to the body at once, and in a
few seconds the man’s life returned to him. He declared, when he quite
recovered himself, that this had been the most dreadful night he had ever
passed; not for a hundred pounds would he go through such feelings again.
However, it was all over now.

The same day he was allowed to leave, but the goloshes
remained at the hospital.

The Eventful Moment—a Most Unusual Journey

VERY inhabitant of Copenhagen knows what
the entrance to Frederick’s Hospital is like; but as most probably a few of
those who read this little tale may not reside in Copenhagen, we will give a
short description of it.

The hospital is separated from the street by an iron
railing, in which the bars stand so wide apart that, it is said, some very slim
patients have squeezed through, and gone to pay little visits in the town. The
most difficult part of the body to get through was the head; and in this case,
as it often happens in the world, the small heads were the most fortunate. This
will serve as sufficient introduction to our tale. One of the young volunteers,
of whom, physically speaking, it might be said that he had a great head, was on
guard that evening at the hospital. The rain was pouring down, yet, in spite of
these two obstacles, he wanted to go out just for a quarter of an hour; it was
not worth while, he thought, to make a confidant of the porter, as he could
easily slip through the iron railings. There lay the goloshes, which the
watchman had forgotten. It never occurred to him that these could be goloshes
of Fortune. They would be very serviceable to him in this rainy weather, so he
drew them on. Now came the question whether he could squeeze through the
palings; he certainly had never tried, so he stood looking at them. “I
wish to goodness my head was through,” said he, and instantly, though it
was so thick and large, it slipped through quite easily. The goloshes answered
that purpose very well, but his body had to follow, and this was impossible.
“I am too fat,” he said; “I thought my head would be the
worst, but I cannot get my body through, that is certain.” Then he tried
to pull his head back again, but without success; he could move his neck about
easily enough, and that was all. His first feeling was one of anger, and then
his spirits sank below zero. The goloshes of Fortune had placed him in this
terrible position, and unfortunately it never occurred to him to wish himself
free. No, instead of wishing he kept twisting about, yet did not stir from the
spot. The rain poured, and not a creature could be seen in the street. The
porter’s bell he was unable to reach, and however was he to get loose! He
foresaw that he should have to stay there till morning, and then they must send
for a smith to file away the iron bars, and that would be a work of time. All
the charity children would just be going to school: and all the sailors who
inhabited that quarter of the town would be there to see him standing in the
pillory. What a crowd there would be. “Ha,” he cried, “the
blood is rushing to my head, and I shall go mad. I believe I am crazy already;
oh, I wish I were free, then all these sensations would pass off.” This
is just what he ought to have said at first. The moment he had expressed the
thought his head was free. He started back, quite bewildered with the fright
which the goloshes of Fortune had caused him. But we must not suppose it was
all over; no, indeed, there was worse to come yet. The night passed, and the
whole of the following day; but no one sent for the goloshes. In the evening a
declamatory performance was to take place at the amateur theatre in a distant
street. The house was crowded; among the audience was the young volunteer from
the hospital, who seemed to have quite forgotten his adventures of the previous
evening. He had on the goloshes; they had not been sent for, and as the streets
were still very dirty, they were of great service to him. A new poem, entitled
“My Aunt’s Spectacles,” was being recited. It described these
spectacles as possessing a wonderful power; if any one put them on in a large
assembly the people appeared like cards, and the future events of ensuing years
could be easily foretold by them. The idea struck him that he should very much
like to have such a pair of spectacles; for, if used rightly, they would
perhaps enable him to see into the hearts of people, which he thought would be
more interesting than to know what was going to happen next year; for future
events would be sure to show themselves, but the hearts of people never.
“I can fancy what I should see in the whole row of ladies and gentlemen
on the first seat, if I could only look into their hearts; that lady, I
imagine, keeps a store for things of all descriptions; how my eyes would wander
about in that collection; with many ladies I should no doubt find a large
millinery establishment. There is another that is perhaps empty, and would be
all the better for cleaning out. There may be some well stored with good
articles. Ah, yes,” he sighed, “I know one, in which everything is
solid, but a servant is there already, and that is the only thing against it. I
dare say from many I should hear the words, ‘Please to walk in.’ I
only wish I could slip into the hearts like a little tiny thought.” This
was the word of command for the goloshes. The volunteer shrunk up together, and
commenced a most unusual journey through the hearts of the spectators in the
first row. The first heart he entered was that of a lady, but he thought he
must have got into one of the rooms of an orthopedic institution where plaster
casts of deformed limbs were hanging on the walls, with this difference, that
the casts in the institution are formed when the patient enters, but here they
were formed and preserved after the good people had left. These were casts of
the bodily and mental deformities of the lady’s female friends carefully
preserved. Quickly he passed into another heart, which had the appearance of a
spacious, holy church, with the white dove of innocence fluttering over the
altar. Gladly would he have fallen on his knees in such a sacred place; but he
was carried on to another heart, still, however, listening to the tones of the
organ, and feeling himself that he had become another and a better man. The
next heart was also a sanctuary, which he felt almost unworthy to enter; it
represented a mean garret, in which lay a sick mother; but the warm sunshine
streamed through the window, lovely roses bloomed in a little flowerbox on the
roof, two blue birds sang of childlike joys, and the sick mother prayed for a
blessing on her daughter. Next he crept on his hands and knees through an
overfilled butcher’s shop; there was meat, nothing but meat, wherever he
stepped; this was the heart of a rich, respectable man, whose name is doubtless
in the directory. Then he entered the heart of this man’s wife; it was an old,
tumble-down pigeon-house; the husband’s portrait served as a weather-cock; it
was connected with all the doors, which opened and shut just as the husband’s
decision turned. The next heart was a complete cabinet of mirrors, such as can
be seen in the Castle of Rosenberg. But these mirrors magnified in an
astonishing degree; in the middle of the floor sat, like the Grand Lama, the
insignificant I of the owner, astonished at the contemplation of his own
features. At his next visit he fancied he must have got into a narrow
needlecase, full of sharp needles: “Oh,” thought he, “this
must be the heart of an old maid;” but such was not the fact; it belonged
to a young officer, who wore several orders, and was said to be a man of
intellect and heart.

The poor volunteer came out of the last heart in the row
quite bewildered. He could not collect his thoughts, and imagined his foolish
fancies had carried him away. “Good gracious!” he sighed, “I
must have a tendency to softening of the brain, and here it is so exceedingly
hot that the blood is rushing to my head.” And then suddenly recurred to
him the strange event of the evening before, when his head had been fixed
between the iron railings in front of the hospital. “That is the cause of
it all!” he exclaimed, “I must do something in time. A Russian bath
would be a very good thing to begin with. I wish I were lying on one of the
highest shelves.” Sure enough, there he lay on an upper shelf of a vapor
bath, still in his evening costume, with his boots and goloshes on, and the hot
drops from the ceiling falling on his face. “Ho!” he cried, jumping
down and rushing towards the plunging bath. The attendant stopped him with a
loud cry, when he saw a man with all his clothes on. The volunteer had,
however, presence of mind enough to whisper, “It is for a wager;”
but the first thing he did, when he reached his own room, was to put a large
blister on his neck, and another on his back, that his crazy fit might be
cured. The next morning his back was very sore, which was all he gained by the
goloshes of Fortune.

The Clerk’s Transformation

HE watchman, whom we of course have not
forgotten, thought, after a while, of the goloshes which he had found and taken
to the hospital; so he went and fetched them. But neither the lieutenant nor
any one in the street could recognize them as their own, so he gave them up to
the police. “They look exactly like my own goloshes,” said one of
the clerks, examining the unknown articles, as they stood by the side of his
own. “It would require even more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one
pair from the other.”

“Master clerk,” said a servant who entered with
some papers. The clerk turned and spoke to the man; but when he had done with
him, he turned to look at the goloshes again, and now he was in greater doubt
than ever as to whether the pair on the right or on the left belonged to him.
“Those that are wet must be mine,” thought he; but he thought
wrong, it was just the reverse. The goloshes of Fortune were the wet pair; and,
besides, why should not a clerk in a police office be wrong sometimes? So he
drew them on, thrust his papers into his pocket, placed a few manuscripts under
his arm, which he had to take with him, and to make abstracts from at home.
Then, as it was Sunday morning and the weather very fine, he said to himself,
“A walk to Fredericksburg will do me good:” so away he went.

There could not be a quieter or more steady young man than
this clerk. We will not grudge him this little walk, it was just the thing to
do him good after sitting so much. He went on at first like a mere automaton,
without thought or wish; therefore the goloshes had no opportunity to display
their magic power. In the avenue he met with an acquaintance, one of our young
poets, who told him that he intended to start on the following day on a summer
excursion. “Are you really going away so soon?” asked the clerk.
“What a free, happy man you are. You can roam about where you will, while
such as we are tied by the foot.”

“But it is fastened to the bread-tree,” replied
the poet. “You need have no anxiety for the morrow; and when you are old
there is a pension for you.”

“Ah, yes; but you have the best of it,” said the
clerk; “it must be so delightful to sit and write poetry. The whole world
makes itself agreeable to you, and then you are your own master. You should try
how you would like to listen to all the trivial things in a court of
justice.” The poet shook his head, so also did the clerk; each retained
his own opinion, and so they parted. “They are strange people, these
poets,” thought the clerk. “I should like to try what it is to have
a poetic taste, and to become a poet myself. I am sure I should not write such
mournful verses as they do. This is a splendid spring day for a poet, the air
is so remarkably clear, the clouds are so beautiful, and the green grass has
such a sweet smell. For many years I have not felt as I do at this
moment.”

We perceive, by these remarks, that he had already become a
poet. By most poets what he had said would be considered common-place, or as
the Germans call it, “insipid.” It is a foolish fancy to look upon
poets as different to other men. There are many who are more the poets of
nature than those who are professed poets. The difference is this, the poet’s
intellectual memory is better; he seizes upon an idea or a sentiment, until he
can embody it, clearly and plainly in words, which the others cannot do. But
the transition from a character of every-day life to one of a more gifted
nature is a great transition; and so the clerk became aware of the change after
a time. “What a delightful perfume,” said he; “it reminds me
of the violets at Aunt Lora’s. Ah, that was when I was a little boy. Dear me,
how long it seems since I thought of those days! She was a good old maiden
lady! she lived yonder, behind the Exchange. She always had a sprig or a few
blossoms in water, let the winter be ever so severe. I could smell the violets,
even while I was placing warm penny pieces against the frozen panes to make
peep-holes, and a pretty view it was on which I peeped. Out in the river lay
the ships, icebound, and forsaken by their crews; a screaming crow represented
the only living creature on board. But when the breezes of spring came,
everything started into life. Amidst shouting and cheers the ships were tarred
and rigged, and then they sailed to foreign lands.”

“I remain here, and always shall remain, sitting at my
post at the police office, and letting others take passports to distant lands.
Yes, this is my fate,” and he sighed deeply. Suddenly he paused.
“Good gracious, what has come over me? I never felt before as I do now;
it must be the air of spring. It is overpowering, and yet it is
delightful.”

He felt in his pockets for some of his papers. “These
will give me something else to think of,” said he. Casting his eyes on
the first page of one, he read, “‘Mistress Sigbirth; an original
Tragedy, in Five Acts.’ What is this?—in my own handwriting, too!
Have I written this tragedy?” He read again, “‘The Intrigue
on the Promenade; or, the Fast-Day. A Vaudeville.’ However did I get all
this? Some one must have put them into my pocket. And here is a letter!”
It was from the manager of a theatre; the pieces were rejected, not at all in
polite terms.

“Hem, hem!” said he, sitting down on a bench;
his thoughts were very elastic, and his heart softened strangely. Involuntarily
he seized one of the nearest flowers; it was a little, simple daisy. All that
botanists can say in many lectures was explained in a moment by this little
flower. It spoke of the glory of its birth; it told of the strength of the
sunlight, which had caused its delicate leaves to expand, and given to it such
sweet perfume. The struggles of life which arouse sensations in the bosom have
their type in the tiny flowers. Air and light are the lovers of the flowers,
but light is the favored one; towards light it turns, and only when light
vanishes does it fold its leaves together, and sleep in the embraces of the
air.”

“It is light that adorns me,” said the
flower.

“But the air gives you the breath of life,”
whispered the poet.

Just by him stood a boy, splashing with his stick in a
marshy ditch. The water-drops spurted up among the green twigs, and the clerk
thought of the millions of animalculae which were thrown into the air with
every drop of water, at a height which must be the same to them as it would be
to us if we were hurled beyond the clouds. As the clerk thought of all these
things, and became conscious of the great change in his own feelings, he
smiled, and said to himself, “I must be asleep and dreaming; and yet, if
so, how wonderful for a dream to be so natural and real, and to know at the
same time too that it is but a dream. I hope I shall be able to remember it all
when I wake tomorrow. My sensations seem most unaccountable. I have a clear
perception of everything as if I were wide awake. I am quite sure if I
recollect all this tomorrow, it will appear utterly ridiculous and absurd. I
have had this happen to me before. It is with the clever or wonderful things we
say or hear in dreams, as with the gold which comes from under the earth, it is
rich and beautiful when we possess it, but when seen in a true light it is but
as stones and withered leaves.”

“Ah!” he sighed mournfully, as he gazed at the
birds singing merrily, or hopping from branch to branch, “they are much
better off than I. Flying is a glorious power. Happy is he who is born with
wings. Yes, if I could change myself into anything I would be a little
lark.” At the same moment his coat-tails and sleeves grew together and
formed wings, his clothes changed to feathers, and his goloshes to claws. He
felt what was taking place, and laughed to himself. “Well, now it is
evident I must be dreaming; but I never had such a wild dream as this.”
And then he flew up into the green boughs and sang, but there was no poetry in
the song, for his poetic nature had left him. The goloshes, like all persons
who wish to do a thing thoroughly, could only attend to one thing at a time. He
wished to be a poet, and he became one. Then he wanted to be a little bird, and
in this change he lost the characteristics of the former one.
“Well,” thought he, “this is charming; by day I sit in a
police-office, amongst the dryest law papers, and at night I can dream that I
am a lark, flying about in the gardens of Fredericksburg. Really a complete
comedy could be written about it.” Then he flew down into the grass,
turned his head about in every direction, and tapped his beak on the bending
blades of grass, which, in proportion to his size, seemed to him as long as the
palm-leaves in northern Africa.

In another moment all was darkness around him. It seemed as
if something immense had been thrown over him. A sailor boy had flung his large
cap over the bird, and a hand came underneath and caught the clerk by the back
and wings so roughly, that he squeaked, and then cried out in his alarm,
“You impudent rascal, I am a clerk in the police-office!” but it
only sounded to the boy like “tweet, tweet;” so he tapped the bird
on the beak, and walked away with him. In the avenue he met two school-boys,
who appeared to belong to a better class of society, but whose inferior
abilities kept them in the lowest class at school. These boys bought the bird
for eightpence, and so the clerk returned to Copenhagen. “It is well for
me that I am dreaming,” he thought; “otherwise I should become
really angry. First I was a poet, and now I am a lark. It must have been the
poetic nature that changed me into this little creature. It is a miserable
story indeed, especially now I have fallen into the hands of boys. I wonder
what will be the end of it.” The boys carried him into a very elegant
room, where a stout, pleasant-looking lady received them, but she was not at
all gratified to find that they had brought a lark—a common field-bird as
she called it. However, she allowed them for one day to place the bird in an
empty cage that hung near the window. “It will please Polly
perhaps,” she said, laughing at a large gray parrot, who was swinging
himself proudly on a ring in a handsome brass cage. “It is Polly’s
birthday,” she added in a simpering tone, “and the little
field-bird has come to offer his congratulations.”

Polly did not answer a single word, he continued to swing
proudly to and fro; but a beautiful canary, who had been brought from his own
warm, fragrant fatherland, the summer previous, began to sing as loud as he
could.

“You screamer!” said the lady, throwing a white
handkerchief over the cage.

“Tweet, tweet,” sighed he, “what a
dreadful snowstorm!” and then he became silent.

The clerk, or as the lady called him the field-bird, was
placed in a little cage close to the canary, and not far from the parrot. The
only human speech which Polly could utter, and which she sometimes chattered
forth most comically, was “Now let us be men.” All besides was a
scream, quite as unintelligible as the warbling of the canary-bird, excepting
to the clerk, who being now a bird, could understand his comrades very
well.

“I flew beneath green palm-trees, and amidst the
blooming almond-trees,” sang the canary. “I flew with my brothers
and sisters over beautiful flowers, and across the clear, bright sea, which
reflected the waving foliage in its glittering depths; and I have seen many gay
parrots, who could relate long and delightful stories.”

“They were wild birds,” answered the parrot,
“and totally uneducated. Now let us be men. Why do you not laugh? If the
lady and her visitors can laugh at this, surely you can. It is a great failing
not to be able to appreciate what is amusing. Now let us be men.”

“Do you remember,” said the canary, “the
pretty maidens who used to dance in the tents that were spread out beneath the
sweet blossoms? Do you remember the delicious fruit and the cooling juice from
the wild herbs?”

“Oh, yes,” said the parrot; “but here I am
much better off. I am well fed, and treated politely. I know that I have a
clever head; and what more do I want? Let us be men now. You have a soul for
poetry. I have deep knowledge and wit. You have genius, but no discretion. You
raise your naturally high notes so much, that you get covered over. They never
serve me so. Oh, no; I cost them something more than you. I keep them in order
with my beak, and fling my wit about me. Now let us be men.”

“O my warm, blooming fatherland,” sang the
canary bird, “I will sing of thy dark-green trees and thy quiet streams,
where the bending branches kiss the clear, smooth water. I will sing of the joy
of my brothers and sisters, as their shining plumage flits among the dark
leaves of the plants which grow wild by the springs.”

“Do leave off those dismal strains,” said the
parrot; “sing something to make us laugh; laughter is the sign of the
highest order of intellect. Can a dog or a horse laugh? No, they can cry; but
to man alone is the power of laughter given. Ha! ha! ha!” laughed Polly,
and repeated his witty saying, “Now let us be men.”

“You little gray Danish bird,” said the canary,
“you also have become a prisoner. It is certainly cold in your forests,
but still there is liberty there. Fly out! they have forgotten to close the
cage, and the window is open at the top. Fly, fly!”

Instinctively, the clerk obeyed, and left the cage; at the
same moment the half-opened door leading into the next room creaked on its
hinges, and, stealthily, with green fiery eyes, the cat crept in and chased the
lark round the room. The canary-bird fluttered in his cage, and the parrot
flapped his wings and cried, “Let us be men;” the poor clerk, in
the most deadly terror, flew through the window, over the houses, and through
the streets, till at length he was obliged to seek a resting-place. A house
opposite to him had a look of home. A window stood open; he flew in, and
perched upon the table. It was his own room. “Let us be men now,”
said he, involuntarily imitating the parrot; and at the same moment he became a
clerk again, only that he was sitting on the table. “Heaven preserve
us!” said he; “How did I get up here and fall asleep in this way?
It was an uneasy dream too that I had. The whole affair appears most
absurd.”

The Best Thing the Goloshes Did

ARLY on the following morning, while the
clerk was still in bed, his neighbor, a young divinity student, who lodged on
the same storey, knocked at his door, and then walked in. “Lend me your
goloshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, but the sun is
shining brightly. I should like to go out there and smoke my pipe.” He
put on the goloshes, and was soon in the garden, which contained only one
plum-tree and one apple-tree; yet, in a town, even a small garden like this is
a great advantage.

The student wandered up and down the path; it was just six
o’clock, and he could hear the sound of the post-horn in the street.
“Oh, to travel, to travel!” cried he; “there is no greater
happiness in the world: it is the height of my ambition. This restless feeling
would be stilled, if I could take a journey far away from this country. I
should like to see beautiful Switzerland, to travel through Italy,
and,”—It was well for him that the goloshes acted immediately,
otherwise he might have been carried too far for himself as well as for us. In
a moment he found himself in Switzerland, closely packed with eight others in
the diligence. His head ached, his back was stiff, and the blood had ceased to
circulate, so that his feet were swelled and pinched by his boots. He wavered
in a condition between sleeping and waking. In his right-hand pocket he had a
letter of credit; in his left-hand pocket was his passport; and a few louis
d’ors were sewn into a little leather bag which he carried in his
breast-pocket. Whenever he dozed, he dreamed that he had lost one or another of
these possessions; then he would awake with a start, and the first movements of
his hand formed a triangle from his right-hand pocket to his breast, and from
his breast to his left-hand pocket, to feel whether they were all safe.
Umbrellas, sticks, and hats swung in the net before him, and almost obstructed
the prospect, which was really very imposing; and as he glanced at it, his
memory recalled the words of one poet at least, who has sung of Switzerland,
and whose poems have not yet been printed:—

“How lovely to my wondering eyes

Mont Blanc’s fair summits gently rise;

’Tis sweet to breathe the mountain air,—

If you have gold enough to spare.”

Grand, dark, and gloomy appeared the landscape around him. The pine-forests
looked like little groups of moss on high rocks, whose summits were lost in
clouds of mist. Presently it began to snow, and the wind blew keen and cold.
“Ah,” he sighed, “if I were only on the other side of the
Alps now, it would be summer, and I should be able to get money on my letter of
credit. The anxiety I feel on this matter prevents me from enjoying myself in
Switzerland. Oh, I wish I was on the other side of the Alps.”

And there, in a moment, he found himself, far away in the
midst of Italy, between Florence and Rome, where the lake Thrasymene glittered
in the evening sunlight like a sheet of molten gold between the dark blue
mountains. There, where Hannibal defeated Flaminius, the grape vines clung to
each other with the friendly grasp of their green tendril fingers; while, by
the wayside, lovely half-naked children were watching a herd of coal-black
swine under the blossoms of fragrant laurel. Could we rightly describe this
picturesque scene, our readers would exclaim, “Delightful
Italy!”

But neither the student nor either of his travelling
companions felt the least inclination to think of it in this way. Poisonous
flies and gnats flew into the coach by thousands. In vain they drove them away
with a myrtle branch, the flies stung them notwithstanding. There was not a man
in the coach whose face was not swollen and disfigured with the stings. The
poor horses looked wretched; the flies settled on their backs in swarms, and
they were only relieved when the coachmen got down and drove the creatures
off.

As the sun set, an icy coldness filled all nature, not
however of long duration. It produced the feeling which we experience when we
enter a vault at a funeral, on a summer’s day; while the hills and the clouds
put on that singular green hue which we often notice in old paintings, and look
upon as unnatural until we have ourselves seen nature’s coloring in the south.
It was a glorious spectacle; but the stomachs of the travellers were empty,
their bodies exhausted with fatigue, and all the longings of their heart turned
towards a resting-place for the night; but where to find one they knew not.
All the eyes were too eagerly seeking for this resting-place, to notice the
beauties of nature.

The road passed through a grove of olive-trees; it reminded
the student of the willow-trees at home. Here stood a lonely inn, and close by
it a number of crippled beggars had placed themselves; the brightest among them
looked, to quote the words of Marryat, “like the eldest son of Famine who
had just come of age.” The others were either blind, or had withered
legs, which obliged them to creep about on their hands and knees, or they had
shrivelled arms and hands without fingers. It was indeed poverty arrayed in
rags. “Eccellenza, miserabili!” they exclaimed, stretching
forth their diseased limbs. The hostess received the travellers with bare feet,
untidy hair, and a dirty blouse. The doors were fastened together with string;
the floors of the rooms were of brick, broken in many places; bats flew about
under the roof; and as to the odor within—

“Let us have supper laid in the stable,” said
one of the travellers; “then we shall know what we are
breathing.”

The windows were opened to let in a little fresh air, but
quicker than air came in the withered arms and the continual whining sounds,
“Miserabili, eccellenza”. On the walls were inscriptions,
half of them against “la bella Italia.”

The supper made its appearance at last. It consisted of
watery soup, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil. This last delicacy played a
principal part in the salad. Musty eggs and roasted cocks’-combs were the best
dishes on the table; even the wine had a strange taste, it was certainly a
mixture. At night, all the boxes were placed against the doors, and one of the
travellers watched while the others slept. The student’s turn came to watch.
How close the air felt in that room; the heat overpowered him. The gnats were
buzzing about and stinging, while the miserabili, outside, moaned in
their dreams.

“Travelling would be all very well,” said the
student of divinity to himself, “if we had no bodies, or if the body
could rest while the soul if flying. Wherever I go I feel a want which
oppresses my heart, for something better presents itself at the moment; yes,
something better, which shall be the best of all; but where is that to be
found? In fact, I know in my heart very well what I want. I wish to attain the
greatest of all happiness.”

No sooner were the words spoken than he was at home. Long
white curtains shaded the windows of his room, and in the middle of the floor
stood a black coffin, in which he now lay in the still sleep of death; his wish
was fulfilled, his body was at rest, and his spirit travelling.

“Esteem no man happy until he is in his grave,”
were the words of Solon. Here was a strong fresh proof of their truth. Every
corpse is a sphinx of immortality. The sphinx in this sarcophagus might unveil
its own mystery in the words which the living had himself written two days
before—

“Stern death, thy chilling silence waketh dread;

Yet in thy darkest hour there may be light.

Earth’s garden reaper! from the grave’s cold bed

The soul on Jacob’s ladder takes her flight.

Man’s greatest sorrows often are a part

Of hidden griefs, concealed from human eyes,

Which press far heavier on the lonely heart

Than now the earth that on his coffin lies.”

Two figures were moving about the room; we know them both.
One was the fairy named Care, the other the messenger of Fortune. They bent
over the dead.

“Look!” said Care; “what happiness have
your goloshes brought to mankind?”

“They have at least brought lasting happiness to him
who slumbers here,” she said.

“Not so,” said Care, “he went away of
himself, he was not summoned. His mental powers were not strong enough to
discern the treasures which he had been destined to discover. I will do him a
favor now.” And she drew the goloshes from his feet.

The sleep of death was ended, and the recovered man raised
himself. Care vanished, and with her the goloshes; doubtless she looked upon
them as her own property.

He died in 1513. He married Christine, daughter of the
Electoral Prince Ernest of Saxony.

An evening paper in Copenhagen.

In the time of king Hans, chambermaids were obliged to wear
caps of two colors.

The Story of a Mother

A mother sat by her little child; she was very sad, for she feared it would die.
It was quite pale, and its little eyes were closed, and sometimes it drew a heavy
deep breath, almost like a sigh; and then the mother gazed more sadly than ever
on the poor little creature. Some one knocked at the door, and a poor old man
walked in. He was wrapped in something that looked like a great horse-cloth; and
he required it truly to keep him warm, for it was cold winter; the country everywhere
lay covered with snow and ice, and the wind blew so sharply that it cut one’s
face. The little child had dozed off to sleep for a moment, and the mother, seeing
that the old man shivered with the cold, rose and placed a small mug of beer on
the stove to warm for him. The old man sat and rocked the cradle; and the mother
seated herself on a chair near him, and looked at her sick child who still breathed
heavily, and took hold of its little hand.

“You think I shall keep him, do you not?” she said. “Our all-merciful God will
surely not take him away from me.”

The old man, who was indeed Death himself, nodded his head in a peculiar manner,
which might have signified either Yes, or No; and the mother cast down her eyes,
while the tears rolled down her cheeks. Then her head became heavy, for she
had not closed her eyes for three days and nights, and she slept, but only for
a moment. Shivering with cold, she started up and looked round the room. The
old man was gone, and her child—it was gone too!—the old man had taken it with
him. In the corner of the room the old clock began to strike; “whirr” went the
chains, the heavy weight sank to the ground, and the clock stopped; and the
poor mother rushed out of the house calling for her child. Out in the snow sat
a woman in long black garments, and she said to the mother, “Death has been
with you in your room. I saw him hastening away with your little child; he strides
faster than the wind, and never brings back what he has taken away.”

“Only tell me which way he has gone,” said the mother; “tell me the way, I
will find him.”

“I know the way,” said the woman in the black garments; “but before I tell
you, you must sing to me all the songs that you have sung to your child; I love
these songs, I have heard them before. I am Night, and I saw your tears flow
as you sang.”

“I will sing them all to you,” said the mother; “but do not detain me now.
I must overtake him, and find my child.”

But Night sat silent and still. Then the mother wept and sang, and wrung her
hands. And there were many songs, and yet even more tears; till at length Night
said, “Go to the right, into the dark forest of fir-trees; for I saw Death take
that road with your little child.”

Within the wood the mother came to cross roads, and she knew not which to take.
Just by stood a thorn-bush; it had neither leaf nor flower, for it was the cold
winter time, and icicles hung on the branches. “Have you not seen Death go by,
with my little child?” she asked.

“Yes,” replied the thorn-bush; “but I will not tell you which way he has taken
until you have warmed me in your bosom. I am freezing to death here, and turning
to ice.”

Then she pressed the bramble to her bosom quite close, so that it might be
thawed, and the thorns pierced her flesh, and great drops of blood flowed; but
the bramble shot forth fresh green leaves, and they became flowers on the cold
winter’s night, so warm is the heart of a sorrowing mother. Then the bramble-bush
told her the path she must take. She came at length to a great lake, on which
there was neither ship nor boat to be seen. The lake was not frozen sufficiently
for her to pass over on the ice, nor was it open enough for her to wade through;
and yet she must cross it, if she wished to find her child. Then she laid herself
down to drink up the water of the lake, which was of course impossible for any
human being to do; but the bereaved mother thought that perhaps a miracle might
take place to help her. “You will never succeed in this,” said the lake; “let
us make an agreement together which will be better. I love to collect pearls,
and your eyes are the purest I have ever seen. If you will weep those eyes away
in tears into my waters, then I will take you to the large hothouse where Death
dwells and rears flowers and trees, every one of which is a human life.”

“Oh, what would I not give to reach my child!” said the weeping mother; and
as she still continued to weep, her eyes fell into the depths of the lake, and
became two costly pearls.

Then the lake lifted her up, and wafted her across to the opposite shore as
if she were on a swing, where stood a wonderful building many miles in length.
No one could tell whether it was a mountain covered with forests and full of
caves, or whether it had been built. But the poor mother could not see, for
she had wept her eyes into the lake. “Where shall I find Death, who went away
with my little child?” she asked.

“He has not arrived here yet,” said an old gray-haired woman, who was walking
about, and watering Death’s hothouse. “How have you found your way here? and
who helped you?”

“God has helped me,” she replied. “He is merciful; will you not be merciful
too? Where shall I find my little child?”

“I did not know the child,” said the old woman; “and you are blind. Many flowers
and trees have faded to-night, and Death will soon come to transplant them.
You know already that every human being has a life-tree or a life-flower, just
as may be ordained for him. They look like other plants; but they have hearts
that beat. Children’s hearts also beat: from that you may perhaps be able to
recognize your child. But what will you give me, if I tell you what more you
will have to do?”

“I have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother; “but I would go to the
ends of the earth for you.”

“I can give you nothing to do for me there,” said the old woman; “but you can
give me your long black hair. You know yourself that it is beautiful, and it
pleases me. You can take my white hair in exchange, which will be something
in return.”

“Do you ask nothing more than that?” said she. “I will give it to you with
pleasure.”

And she gave up her beautiful hair, and received in return the white locks
of the old woman. Then they went into Death’s vast hothouse, where flowers and
trees grew together in wonderful profusion. Blooming hyacinths, under glass
bells, and peonies, like strong trees. There grew water-plants, some quite fresh,
and others looking sickly, which had water-snakes twining round them, and black
crabs clinging to their stems. There stood noble palm-trees, oaks, and plantains,
and beneath them bloomed thyme and parsley. Each tree and flower had a name;
each represented a human life, and belonged to men still living, some in China,
others in Greenland, and in all parts of the world. Some large trees had been
planted in little pots, so that they were cramped for room, and seemed about
to burst the pot to pieces; while many weak little flowers were growing in rich
soil, with moss all around them, carefully tended and cared for. The sorrowing
mother bent over the little plants, and heard the human heart beating in each,
and recognized the beatings of her child’s heart among millions of others.

“That is it,” she cried, stretching out her hand towards a little crocus-flower
which hung down its sickly head.

“Do not touch the flower,” exclaimed the old woman; “but place yourself here;
and when Death comes—I expect him every minute—do not let him pull up that plant,
but threaten him that if he does you will serve the other flowers in the same
manner. This will make him afraid; for he must account to God for each of them.
None can be uprooted, unless he receives permission to do so.”

There rushed through the hothouse a chill of icy coldness, and the blind mother
felt that Death had arrived.

“How did you find your way hither?” asked he; “how could you come here faster
than I have?”

“I am a mother,” she answered.

And Death stretched out his hand towards the delicate little flower; but she
held her hands tightly round it, and held it fast at same time, with the most
anxious care, lest she should touch one of the leaves. Then Death breathed upon
her hands, and she felt his breath colder than the icy wind, and her hands sank
down powerless.

“You cannot prevail against me,” said Death.

“But a God of mercy can,” said she.

“I only do His will,” replied Death. “I am his gardener. I take all His flowers
and trees, and transplant them into the gardens of Paradise in an unknown land.
How they flourish there, and what that garden resembles, I may not tell you.”

“Give me back my child,” said the mother, weeping and imploring; and she seized
two beautiful flowers in her hands, and cried to Death, “I will tear up all
your flowers, for I am in despair.”

“Do not touch them,” said Death. “You say you are unhappy; and would you make
another mother as unhappy as yourself?”

“Another mother!” cried the poor woman, setting the flowers free from her hands.

“There are your eyes,” said Death. “I fished them up out of the lake for you.
They were shining brightly; but I knew not they were yours. Take them back—they
are clearer now than before—and then look into the deep well which is close
by here. I will tell you the names of the two flowers which you wished to pull
up; and you will see the whole future of the human beings they represent, and
what you were about to frustrate and destroy.”

Then she looked into the well; and it was a glorious sight to behold how one
of them became a blessing to the world, and how much happiness and joy it spread
around. But she saw that the life of the other was full of care and poverty,
misery and woe.

“Both are the will of God,” said Death.

“Which is the unhappy flower, and which is the blessed one?” she said.

“That I may not tell you,” said Death; “but thus far you may learn, that one
of the two flowers represents your own child. It was the fate of your child
that you saw,—the future of your own child.”

Then the mother screamed aloud with terror, “Which of them belongs to my child?
Tell me that. Deliver the unhappy child. Release it from so much misery. Rather
take it away. Take it to the kingdom of God. Forget my tears and my entreaties;
forget all that I have said or done.”

“I do not understand you,” said Death. “Will you have your child back? or shall
I carry him away to a place that you do not know?”

Then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to God, “Grant
not my prayers, when they are contrary to Thy will, which at all times must
be the best. Oh, hear them not;” and her head sank on her bosom.

Then Death carried away her child to the unknown land.

There Is No Doubt About It

That was a terrible affair!” said a hen, and in a quarter of the town, too, where
it had not taken place. “That was a terrible affair in a hen-roost. I cannot sleep
alone to-night. It is a good thing that many of us sit on the roost together.”
And then she told a story that made the feathers on the other hens bristle up,
and the cock’s comb fall. There was no doubt about it.

But we will begin at the beginning, and that is to be found in a hen-roost
in another part of the town. The sun was setting, and the fowls were flying
on to their roost; one hen, with white feathers and short legs, used to lay
her eggs according to the regulations, and was, as a hen, respectable in every
way. As she was flying upon the roost, she plucked herself with her beak, and
a little feather came out.

“There it goes,” she said; “the more I pluck, the more beautiful do I get.”
She said this merrily, for she was the best of the hens, and, moreover, as had
been said, very respectable. With that she went to sleep.

It was dark all around, and hen sat close to hen, but the one who sat nearest
to her merry neighbour did not sleep. She had heard and yet not heard, as we
are often obliged to do in this world, in order to live at peace; but she could
not keep it from her neighbour on the other side any longer. “Did you hear what
was said? I mention no names, but there is a hen here who intends to pluck herself
in order to look well. If I were a cock, I should despise her.”

Just over the fowls sat the owl, with father owl and the little owls. The family
has sharp ears, and they all heard every word that their neighbour had said.
They rolled their eyes, and mother owl, beating her wings, said: “Don’t listen
to her! But I suppose you heard what was said? I heard it with my own ears,
and one has to hear a great deal before they fall off. There is one among the
fowls who has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen that she plucks out
all her feathers and lets the cock see it.”

“Prenez garde aux enfants!” said father owl; “children should not hear such
things.”

“But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an estimable owl to
talk to.” And with that she flew away.

“Too-whoo! Too-whoo!” they both hooted into the neighbour’s dove-cot to the
doves inside. “Have you heard? Have you heard? Too-whoo! There is a hen who
has plucked out all her feathers for the sake of the cock; she will freeze to
death, if she is not frozen already. Too-whoo!”

“Where? where?” cooed the doves.

“In the neighbour’s yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It is almost unbecoming
to tell the story, but there is no doubt about it.”

“Believe every word of what we tell you,” said the doves, and cooed down into
their poultry-yard. “There is a hen—nay, some say that there are two—who have
plucked out all their feathers, in order not to look like the others, and to
attract the attention of the cock. It is a dangerous game, for one can easily
catch cold and die from fever, and both of these are dead already.”

“Wake up! wake up!” crowed the cock, and flew upon his board. Sleep was still
in his eyes, but yet he crowed out: “Three hens have died of their unfortunate
love for a cock. They had plucked out all their feathers. It is a horrible story:
I will not keep it to myself, but let it go farther.”

“Let it go farther,” shrieked the bats, and the hens clucked and the cocks
crowed, “Let it go farther! Let it go farther!” In this way the story travelled
from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last came back to the place from which
it had really started.

“Five hens,” it now ran, “have plucked out all their feathers to show which
of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then they all pecked at
each other till the blood ran down and they fell down dead, to the derision
and shame of their family, and to the great loss of their owner.”

The hen who had lost the loose little feather naturally did not recognise her
own story, and being a respectable hen, said: “I despise those fowls; but there
are more of that kind. Such things ought not to be concealed, and I will do
my best to get the story into the papers, so that it becomes known throughout
the land; the hens have richly deserved it, and their family too.”

It got into the papers, it was printed; and there is no doubt about it, one
little feather may easily grow into five hens.

Ib and Little Christina

In the forest that extends from the banks of the Gudenau, in North Jutland, a long
way into the country, and not far from the clear stream, rises a great ridge of
land, which stretches through the wood like a wall. Westward of this ridge, and
not far from the river, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by such poor land that
the sandy soil shows itself between the scanty ears of rye and wheat which grow
in it. Some years have passed since the people who lived here cultivated these
fields; they kept three sheep, a pig, and two oxen; in fact they maintained themselves
very well, they had quite enough to live upon, as people generally have who are
content with their lot. They even could have afforded to keep two horses, but
it was a saying among the farmers in those parts, “The horse eats himself up;”
that is to say, he eats as much as he earns. Jeppe Jans cultivated his fields
in summer, and in the winter he made wooden shoes. He also had an assistant, a
lad who understood as well as he himself did how to make wooden shoes strong,
but light, and in the fashion. They carved shoes and spoons, which paid well;
therefore no one could justly call Jeppe Jans and his family poor people. Little
Ib, a boy of seven years old and the only child, would sit by, watching the workmen,
or cutting a stick, and sometimes his finger instead of the stick. But one day
Ib succeeded so well in his carving that he made two pieces of wood look really
like two little wooden shoes, and he determined to give them as a present to Little
Christina.

“And who was Little Christina?” She was the boatman’s daughter, graceful and
delicate as the child of a gentleman; had she been dressed differently, no one
would have believed that she lived in a hut on the neighboring heath with her
father. He was a widower, and earned his living by carrying firewood in his
large boat from the forest to the eel-pond and eel-weir, on the estate of Silkborg,
and sometimes even to the distant town of Randers. There was no one under whose
care he could leave Little Christina; so she was almost always with him in his
boat, or playing in the wood among the blossoming heath, or picking the ripe
wild berries. Sometimes, when her father had to go as far as the town, he would
take Little Christina, who was a year younger than Ib, across the heath to the
cottage of Jeppe Jans, and leave her there. Ib and Christina agreed together
in everything; they divided their bread and berries when they were hungry; they
were partners in digging their little gardens; they ran, and crept, and played
about everywhere. Once they wandered a long way into the forest, and even ventured
together to climb the high ridge. Another time they found a few snipes’ eggs
in the wood, which was a great event. Ib had never been on the heath where Christina’s
father lived, nor on the river; but at last came an opportunity. Christina’s
father invited him to go for a sail in his boat; and the evening before, he
accompanied the boatman across the heath to his house. The next morning early,
the two children were placed on the top of a high pile of firewood in the boat,
and sat eating bread and wild strawberries, while Christina’s father and his
man drove the boat forward with poles. They floated on swiftly, for the tide
was in their favor, passing over lakes, formed by the stream in its course;
sometimes they seemed quite enclosed by reeds and water-plants, yet there was
always room for them to pass out, although the old trees overhung the water
and the old oaks stretched out their bare branches, as if they had turned up
their sleeves and wished to show their knotty, naked arms. Old alder-trees,
whose roots were loosened from the banks, clung with their fibres to the bottom
of the stream, and the tops of the branches above the water looked like little
woody islands. The water-lilies waved themselves to and fro on the river, everything
made the excursion beautiful, and at last they came to the great eel-weir, where
the water rushed through the flood-gates; and the children thought this a beautiful
sight. In those days there was no factory nor any town house, nothing but the
great farm, with its scanty-bearing fields, in which could be seen a few herd
of cattle, and one or two farm laborers. The rushing of the water through the
sluices, and the scream of the wild ducks, were almost the only signs of active
life at Silkborg. After the firewood had been unloaded, Christina’s father bought
a whole bundle of eels and a sucking-pig, which were all placed in a basket
in the stern of the boat. Then they returned again up the stream; and as the
wind was favorable, two sails were hoisted, which carried the boat on as well
as if two horses had been harnessed to it. As they sailed on, they came by chance
to the place where the boatman’s assistant lived, at a little distance from
the bank of the river. The boat was moored; and the two men, after desiring
the children to sit still, both went on shore. they obeyed this order for a
very short time, and then forgot it altogether. First they peeped into the basket
containing the eels and the sucking-pig; then they must needs pull out the pig
and take it in their hands, and feel it, and touch it; and as they both wanted
to hold it at the same time, the consequence was that they let it fall into
the water, and the pig sailed away with the stream.

Here was a terrible disaster. Ib jumped ashore, and ran a little distance from
the boat.

“Oh, take me with you,” cried Christina; and she sprang after him. In a few
minutes they found themselves deep in a thicket, and could no longer see the
boat or the shore. They ran on a little farther, and then Christina fell down,
and began to cry.

Ib helped her up, and said, “Never mind; follow me. Yonder is the house.” But
the house was not yonder; and they wandered still farther, over the dry rustling
leaves of the last year, and treading on fallen branches that crackled under
their little feet; then they heard a loud, piercing cry, and they stood still
to listen. Presently the scream of an eagle sounded through the wood; it was
an ugly cry, and it frightened the children; but before them, in the thickest
part of the forest, grew the most beautiful blackberries, in wonderful quantities.
They looked so inviting that the children could not help stopping; and they
remained there so long eating, that their mouths and cheeks became quite black
with the juice.

Presently they heard the frightful scream again, and Christina said, “We shall
get into trouble about that pig.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Ib; “we will go home to my father’s house. It is here
in the wood.” So they went on, but the road led them out of the way; no house
could be seen, it grew dark, and the children were afraid. The solemn stillness
that reigned around them was now and then broken by the shrill cries of the
great horned owl and other birds that they knew nothing of. At last they both
lost themselves in the thicket; Christina began to cry, and then Ib cried too;
and, after weeping and lamenting for some time, they stretched themselves down
on the dry leaves and fell asleep.

The sun was high in the heavens when the two children woke. They felt cold;
but not far from their resting-place, on a hill, the sun was shining through
the trees. They thought if they went there they should be warm, and Ib fancied
he should be able to see his father’s house from such a high spot. But they
were far away from home now, in quite another part of the forest. They clambered
to the top of the rising ground, and found themselves on the edge of a declivity,
which sloped down to a clear transparent lake. Great quantities of fish could
be seen through the clear water, sparkling in the sun’s rays; they were quite
surprised when they came so suddenly upon such an unexpected sight.

Close to where they stood grew a hazel-bush, covered with beautiful nuts. They
soon gathered some, cracked them, and ate the fine young kernels, which were
only just ripe. But there was another surprise and fright in store for them.
Out of the thicket stepped a tall old woman, her face quite brown, and her hair
of a deep shining black; the whites of her eyes glittered like a Moor’s; on
her back she carried a bundle, and in her hand a knotted stick. She was a gypsy.
The children did not at first understand what she said. She drew out of her
pocket three large nuts, in which she told them were hidden the most beautiful
and lovely things in the world, for they were wishing nuts. Ib looked at her,
and as she spoke so kindly, he took courage, and asked her if she would give
him the nuts; and the woman gave them to him, and then gathered some more from
the bushes for herself, quite a pocket full. Ib and Christina looked at the
wishing nuts with wide open eyes.

“Is there in this nut a carriage, with a pair of horses?” asked Ib.

“Yes, there is a golden carriage, with two golden horses,” replied the woman.

“Then give me that nut,” said Christina; so Ib gave it to her, and the strange
woman tied up the nut for her in her handkerchief.

Ib held up another nut. “Is there, in this nut, a pretty little neckerchief
like the one Christina has on her neck?” asked Ib.

“There are ten neckerchiefs in it,” she replied, “as well as beautiful dresses,
stockings, and a hat and veil.”

“Then I will have that one also,” said Christina; “and it is a pretty one too.”
And then Ib gave her the second nut.

The third was a little black thing. “You may keep that one,” said Christina;
“it is quite as pretty.”

“What is in it?” asked Ib.

“The best of all things for you,” replied the gypsy. So Ib held the nut very
tight.

Then the woman promised to lead the children to the right path, that they might
find their way home: and they went forward certainly in quite another direction
to the one they meant to take; therefore no one ought to speak against the woman,
and say that she wanted to steal the children. In the wild wood-path they met
a forester who knew Ib, and, by his help, Ib and Christina reached home, where
they found every one had been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and
forgiven, although they really had both done wrong, and deserved to get into
trouble; first, because they had let the sucking-pig fall into the water; and,
secondly, because they had run away. Christina was taken back to her father’s
house on the heath, and Ib remained in the farm-house on the borders of the
wood, near the great land ridge.

The first thing Ib did that evening was to take out of his pocket the little
black nut, in which the best thing of all was said to be enclosed. He laid it
carefully between the door and the door-post, and then shut the door so that
the nut cracked directly. But there was not much kernel to be seen; it was what
we should call hollow or worm-eaten, and looked as if it had been filled with
tobacco or rich black earth. “It is just what I expected!” exclaimed Ib. “How
should there be room in a little nut like this for the best thing of all? Christina
will find her two nuts just the same; there will be neither fine clothes or
a golden carriage in them.”

Winter came; and the new year, and indeed many years passed away; until Ib
was old enough to be confirmed, and, therefore, he went during a whole winter
to the clergyman of the nearest village to be prepared.

One day, about this time, the boatman paid a visit to Ib’s parents, and told
them that Christina was going to service, and that she had been remarkably fortunate
in obtaining a good place, with most respectable people. “Only think,” he said,
“She is going to the rich innkeeper’s, at the hotel in Herning, many miles west
from here. She is to assist the landlady in the housekeeping; and, if afterwards
she behaves well and remains to be confirmed, the people will treat her as their
own daughter.”

So Ib and Christina took leave of each other. People already called them “the
betrothed,” and at parting the girl showed Ib the two nuts, which she had taken
care of ever since the time that they lost themselves in the wood; and she told
him also that the little wooden shoes he once carved for her when he was a boy,
and gave her as a present, had been carefully kept in a drawer ever since. And
so they parted.

After Ib’s confirmation, he remained at home with his mother, for he had become
a clever shoemaker, and in summer managed the farm for her quite alone. His
father had been dead some time, and his mother kept no farm servants. Sometimes,
but very seldom, he heard of Christina, through a postillion or eel-seller who
was passing. But she was well off with the rich innkeeper; and after being confirmed
she wrote a letter to her father, in which was a kind message to Ib and his
mother. In this letter, she mentioned that her master and mistress had made
her a present of a beautiful new dress, and some nice under-clothes. This was,
of course, pleasant news.

One day, in the following spring, there came a knock at the door of the house
where Ib’s old mother lived; and when they opened it, lo and behold, in stepped
the boatman and Christina. She had come to pay them a visit, and to spend the
day. A carriage had to come from the Herning hotel to the next village, and
she had taken the opportunity to see her friends once more. She looked as elegant
as a real lady, and wore a pretty dress, beautifully made on purpose for her.
There she stood, in full dress, while Ib wore only his working clothes. He could
not utter a word; he could only seize her hand and hold it fast in his own,
but he felt too happy and glad to open his lips. Christina, however, was quite
at her ease; she talked and talked, and kissed him in the most friendly manner.
Even afterwards, when they were left alone, and she asked, “Did you know me
again, Ib?” he still stood holding her hand, and said at last, “You are become
quite a grand lady, Christina, and I am only a rough working man; but I have
often thought of you and of old times.” Then they wandered up the great ridge,
and looked across the stream to the heath, where the little hills were covered
with the flowering broom. Ib said nothing; but before the time came for them
to part, it became quite clear to him that Christina must be his wife: had they
not even in childhood been called the betrothed? To him it seemed as if they
were really engaged to each other, although not a word had been spoken on the
subject. They had only a few more hours to remain together, for Christina was
obliged to return that evening to the neighboring village, to be ready for the
carriage which was to start the next morning early for Herning. Ib and her father
accompanied her to the village. It was a fine moonlight evening; and when they
arrived, Ib stood holding Christina’s hand in his, as if he could not let her
go. His eyes brightened, and the words he uttered came with hesitation from
his lips, but from the deepest recesses of his heart: “Christina, if you have
not become too grand, and if you can be contented to live in my mother’s house
as my wife, we will be married some day. But we can wait for a while.”

“Oh yes,” she replied; “Let us wait a little longer, Ib. I can trust you, for
I believe that I do love you. But let me think it over.” Then he kissed her
lips; and so they parted.

On the way home, Ib told the boatman that he and Christina were as good as
engaged to each other; and the boatman found out that he had always expected
it would be so, and went home with Ib that evening, and remained the night in
the farmhouse; but nothing further was said of the engagement. During the next
year, two letters passed between Ib and Christina. They were signed, “Faithful
till death;” but at the end of that time, one day the boatman came over to see
Ib, with a kind greeting from Christina. He had something else to say, which
made him hesitate in a strange manner. At last it came out that Christina, who
had grown a very pretty girl, was more lucky than ever. She was courted and
admired by every one; but her master’s son, who had been home on a visit, was
so much pleased with Christina that he wished to marry her. He had a very good
situation in an office at Copenhagen, and as she had also taken a liking for
him, his parents were not unwilling to consent. But Christina, in her heart,
often thought of Ib, and knew how much he thought of her; so she felt inclined
to refuse this good fortune, added the boatman. At first Ib said not a word,
but he became as white as the wall, and shook his head gently, and then he spoke,—“Christina
must not refuse this good fortune.”

“Then will you write a few words to her?” said the boatman.

Ib sat down to write, but he could not get on at all. The words were not what
he wished to say, so he tore up the page. The following morning, however, a
letter lay ready to be sent to Christina, and the following is what he wrote:—

“The letter written by you to your father I have read, and see from it that
you are prosperous in everything, and that still better fortune is in store
for you. Ask your own heart, Christina, and think over carefully what awaits
you if you take me for your husband, for I possess very little in the world.
Do not think of me or of my position; think only of your own welfare. You are
bound to me by no promises; and if in your heart you have given me one, I release
you from it. May every blessing and happiness be poured out upon you, Christina.
Heaven will give me the heart’s consolation.

Ever your sincere friend, IB.”

This letter was sent, and Christina received it in due time. In the course of
the following November, her banns were published in the church on the heath,
and also in Copenhagen, where the bridegroom lived. She was taken to Copenhagen
under the protection of her future mother-in-law, because the bridegroom could
not spare time from his numerous occupations for a journey so far into Jutland.
On the journey, Christina met her father at one of the villages through which
they passed, and here he took leave of her. Very little was said about the matter
to Ib, and he did not refer to it; his mother, however, noticed that he had
grown very silent and pensive. Thinking as he did of old times, no wonder the
three nuts came into his mind which the gypsy woman had given him when a child,
and of the two which he had given to Christina. These wishing nuts, after all,
had proved true fortune-tellers. One had contained a gilded carriage and noble
horses, and the other beautiful clothes; all of these Christina would now have
in her new home at Copenhagen. Her part had come true. And for him the nut had
contained only black earth. The gypsy woman had said it was the best for him.
Perhaps it was, and this also would be fulfilled. He understood the gypsy woman’s
meaning now. The black earth—the dark grave—was the best thing for him now.

Again years passed away; not many, but they seemed long years to Ib. The old
innkeeper and his wife died one after the other; and the whole of their property,
many thousand dollars, was inherited by their son. Christina could have the
golden carriage now, and plenty of fine clothes. During the two long years which
followed, no letter came from Christina to her father; and when at last her
father received one from her, it did not speak of prosperity or happiness. Poor
Christina! Neither she nor her husband understood how to economize or save,
and the riches brought no blessing with them, because they had not asked for
it.

Years passed; and for many summers the heath was covered with bloom; in winter
the snow rested upon it, and the rough winds blew across the ridge under which
stood Ib’s sheltered home. One spring day the sun shone brightly, and he was
guiding the plough across his field. The ploughshare struck against something
which he fancied was a firestone, and then he saw glittering in the earth a
splinter of shining metal which the plough had cut from something which gleamed
brightly in the furrow. He searched, and found a large golden armlet of superior
workmanship, and it was evident that the plough had disturbed a Hun’s grave.
He searched further, and found more valuable treasures, which Ib showed to the
clergyman, who explained their value to him. Then he went to the magistrate,
who informed the president of the museum of the discovery, and advised Ib to
take the treasures himself to the president.

“You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,” said the magistrate.

“The best thing,” thought Ib; “the very best thing for me,—and found in the
earth! Well, if it really is so, then the gypsy woman was right in her prophecy.”

So Ib went in the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him who had only
sailed once or twice on the river near his own home, this seemed like a voyage
on the ocean; and at length he arrived at Copenhagen. The value of the gold
he had found was paid to him; it was a large sum—six hundred dollars. Then Ib
of the heath went out, and wandered about in the great city.

On the evening before the day he had settled to return with the captain of
the passage-boat, Ib lost himself in the streets, and took quite a different
turning to the one he wished to follow. He wandered on till he found himself
in a poor street of the suburb called Christian’s Haven. Not a creature could
be seen. At last a very little girl came out of one of the wretched-looking
houses, and Ib asked her to tell him the way to the street he wanted; she looked
up timidly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He asked her what was the matter;
but what she said he could not understand. So he went along the street with
her; and as they passed under a lamp, the light fell on the little girl’s face.
A strange sensation came over Ib, as he caught sight of it. The living, breathing
embodiment of Little Christina stood before him, just as he remembered her in
the days of her childhood. He followed the child to the wretched house, and
ascended the narrow, crazy staircase which led to a little garret in the roof.
The air in the room was heavy and stifling, no light was burning, and from one
corner came sounds of moaning and sighing. It was the mother of the child who
lay there on a miserable bed. With the help of a match, Ib struck a light, and
approached her.

“Can I be of any service to you?” he asked. “This little girl brought me up
here; but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no neighbors or any one whom
I can call?”

Then he raised the head of the sick woman, and smoothed her pillow. He started
as he did so. It was Christina of the heath! No one had mentioned her name to
Ib for years; it would have disturbed his peace of mind, especially as the reports
respecting her were not good. The wealth which her husband had inherited from
his parents had made him proud and arrogant. He had given up his certain appointment,
and travelled for six months in foreign lands, and, on his return, had lived
in great style, and got into terrible debt. For a time he had trembled on the
high pedestal on which he had placed himself, till at last he toppled over,
and ruin came. His numerous merry companions, and the visitors at his table,
said it served him right, for he had kept house like a madman. One morning his
corpse was found in the canal. The cold hand of death had already touched the
heart of Christina. Her youngest child, looked for in the midst of prosperity,
had sunk into the grave when only a few weeks old; and at last Christina herself
became sick unto death, and lay, forsaken and dying, in a miserable room, amid
poverty she might have borne in her younger days, but which was now more painful
to her from the luxuries to which she had lately been accustomed. It was her
eldest child, also a Little Christina, whom Ib had followed to her home, where
she suffered hunger and poverty with her mother.

“It makes me unhappy to think that I shall die, and leave this poor child,”
sighed she. “Oh, what will become of her?” She could say no more.

Then Ib brought out another match, and lighted a piece of candle which he found
in the room, and it threw a glimmering light over the wretched dwelling. Ib
looked at the little girl, and thought of Christina in her young days. For her
sake, could he not love this child, who was a stranger to him? As he thus reflected,
the dying woman opened her eyes, and gazed at him. Did she recognize him? He
never knew; for not another word escaped her lips.

In the forest by the river Gudenau, not far from the heath, and beneath the
ridge of land, stood the little farm, newly painted and whitewashed. The air
was heavy and dark; there were no blossoms on the heath; the autumn winds whirled
the yellow leaves towards the boatman’s hut, in which strangers dwelt; but the
little farm stood safely sheltered beneath the tall trees and the high ridge.
The turf blazed brightly on the hearth, and within was sunlight, the sparkling
light from the sunny eyes of a child; the birdlike tones from the rosy lips
ringing like the song of a lark in spring. All was life and joy. Little Christina
sat on Ib’s knee. Ib was to her both father and mother; her own parents had
vanished from her memory, as a dream-picture vanishes alike from childhood and
age. Ib’s house was well and prettily furnished; for he was a prosperous man
now, while the mother of the little girl rested in the churchyard at Copenhagen,
where she had died in poverty. Ib had money now—money which had come to him
out of the black earth; and he had Christina for his own, after all.

The Top and Ball

A whipping top and a little ball lay together in a box, among other toys, and
the top said to the ball, “Shall we be married, as we live in the same box?”

But the ball, which wore a dress of morocco leather, and thought as much of
herself as any other young lady, would not even condescend to reply.

The next day came the little boy to whom the playthings belonged, and he painted
the top red and yellow, and drove a brass-headed nail into the middle, so that
while the top was spinning round it looked splendid.

“Look at me,” said the top to the ball. “What do you say now? Shall we be engaged
to each other? We should suit so well; you spring, and I dance. No one could
be happier than we should be.”

“Indeed! do you think so? Perhaps you do not know that my father and mother
were morocco slippers, and that I have a Spanish cork in my body.”

“Yes; but I am made of mahogany,” said the top. “The major himself turned me.
He has a turning lathe of his own, and it is a great amusement to him.”

“Can I believe it?” asked the ball.

“May I never be whipped again,” said the top, “if I am not telling you the
truth.”

“You certainly know how to speak for yourself very well,” said the ball; “but
I cannot accept your proposal. I am almost engaged to a swallow. Every time
I fly up in the air, he puts his head out of the nest, and says, ‘Will you?’
and I have said, ‘Yes,’ to myself silently, and that is as good as being half
engaged; but I will promise never to forget you.”

“Much good that will be to me,” said the top; and they spoke to each other
no more.

Next day the ball was taken out by the boy. The top saw it flying high in the
air, like a bird, till it would go quite out of sight. Each time it came back,
as it touched the earth, it gave a higher leap than before, either because it
longed to fly upwards, or from having a Spanish cork in its body. But the ninth
time it rose in the air, it remained away, and did not return. The boy searched
everywhere for it, but he searched in vain, for it could not be found; it was
gone.

“I know very well where she is,” sighed the top; “she is in the swallow’s nest,
and has married the swallow.”

The more the top thought of this, the more he longed for the ball. His love
increased the more, just because he could not get her; and that she should have
been won by another, was the worst of all. The top still twirled about and hummed,
but he continued to think of the ball; and the more he thought of her, the more
beautiful she seemed to his fancy.

Thus several years passed by, and his love became quite old. The top, also,
was no longer young; but there came a day when he looked handsomer than ever;
for he was gilded all over. He was now a golden top, and whirled and danced
about till he hummed quite loud, and was something worth looking at; but one
day he leaped too high, and then he, also, was gone. They searched everywhere,
even in the cellar, but he was nowhere to be found. Where could he be? He had
jumped into the dust-bin, where all sorts of rubbish were lying: cabbage-stalks,
dust, and rain-droppings that had fallen down from the gutter under the roof.

“Now I am in a nice place,” said he; “my gilding will soon be washed off here.
Oh dear, what a set of rabble I have got amongst!” And then he glanced at a
curious round thing like an old apple, which lay near a long, leafless cabbage-stalk.
It was, however, not an apple, but an old ball, which had lain for years in
the gutter, and was soaked through with water.

“Thank goodness, here comes one of my own class, with whom I can talk,” said
the ball, examining the gilded top. “I am made of morocco,” she said. “I was
sewn together by a young lady, and I have a Spanish cork in my body; but no
one would think it, to look at me now. I was once engaged to a swallow; but
I fell in here from the gutter under the roof, and I have lain here more than
five years, and have been thoroughly drenched. Believe me, it is a long time
for a young maiden.”

The top said nothing, but he thought of his old love; and the more she said,
the more clear it became to him that this was the same ball.

The servant then came to clean out the dust-bin.

“Ah,” she exclaimed, “here is a gilt top.” So the top was brought again to
notice and honor, but nothing more was heard of the little ball. He spoke not
a word about his old love; for that soon died away. When the beloved object
has lain for five years in a gutter, and has been drenched through, no one cares
to know her again on meeting her in a dust-bin.

The Toad

The well was deep, and therefore the rope had to be a long one; it was heavy work
turning the handle when any one had to raise a bucketful of water over the edge
of the well. Though the water was clear, the sun never looked down far enough
into the well to mirror itself in the waters; but as far as its beams could reach,
green things grew forth between the stones in the sides of the well.

Down below dwelt a family of the Toad race. They had, in fact, come head-over-heels
down the well, in the person of the old Mother-Toad, who was still alive. The
green Frogs, who had been established there a long time, and swam about in the
water, called them “well-guests.” But the new-comers seemed determined to stay
where they were, for they found it very agreeable living “in a dry place,” as
they called the wet stones.

The Mother-Frog had once been a traveller. She happened to be in the water-bucket
when it was drawn up, but the light became too strong for her, and she got a
pain in her eyes. Fortunately she scrambled out of the bucket; but she fell
into the water with a terrible flop, and had to lie sick for three days with
pains in her back. She certainly had not much to tell of the things up above,
but she knew this, and all the Frogs knew it, that the well was not all the
world. The Mother-Toad might have told this and that, if she had chosen, but
she never answered when they asked her anything, and so they left off asking.

“She’s thick, and fat and ugly,” said the young green Frogs; “and her children
will be just as ugly as she is.”

“That may be,” retorted the mother-Toad, “but one of them has a jewel in his
head, or else I have the jewel.”

The young frogs listened and stared; and as these words did not please them,
they made grimaces and dived down under the water. But the little Toads kicked
up their hind legs from mere pride, for each of them thought that he must have
the jewel; and then they sat and held their heads quite still. But at length
they asked what it was that made them so proud, and what kind of a thing a jewel
might be.

“Oh, it is such a splendid and precious thing, that I cannot describe it,”
said the Mother-Toad. “It’s something which one carries about for one’s own
pleasure, and that makes other people angry. But don’t ask me any questions,
for I shan’t answer you.”

“Well, I haven’t got the jewel,” said the smallest of the Toads; she was as
ugly as a toad can be. “Why should I have such a precious thing? And if it makes
others angry, it can’t give me any pleasure. No, I only wish I could get to
the edge of the well, and look out; it must be beautiful up there.”

“You’d better stay where you are,” said the old Mother-Toad, “for you know
everything here, and you can tell what you have. Take care of the bucket, for
it will crush you to death; and even if you get into it safely, you may fall
out. And it’s not every one who falls so cleverly as I did, and gets away with
whole legs and whole bones.”

“Quack!” said the little Toad; and that’s just as if one of us were to say,
“Aha!”

She had an immense desire to get to the edge of the well, and to look over;
she felt such a longing for the green, up there; and the next morning, when
it chanced that the bucket was being drawn up, filled with water, and stopped
for a moment just in front of the stone on which the Toad sat, the little creature’s
heart moved within it, and our Toad jumped into the filled bucket, which presently
was drawn to the top, and emptied out.

“Ugh, you beast!” said the farm laborer who emptied the bucket, when he saw
the toad. “You’re the ugliest thing I’ve seen for one while.” And he made a
kick with his wooden shoe at the toad, which just escaped being crushed by managing
to scramble into the nettles which grew high by the well’s brink. Here she saw
stem by stem, but she looked up also; the sun shone through the leaves, which
were quite transparent; and she felt as a person would feel who steps suddenly
into a great forest, where the sun looks in between the branches and leaves.

“It’s much nicer here than down in the well! I should like to stay here my
whole life long!” said the little Toad. So she lay there for an hour, yes, for
two hours. “I wonder what is to be found up here? As I have come so far, I must
try to go still farther.” And so she crawled on as fast as she could crawl,
and got out upon the highway, where the sun shone upon her, and the dust powdered
her all over as she marched across the way.

“I’ve got to a dry place. now, and no mistake,” said the Toad. “It’s almost
too much of a good thing here; it tickles one so.”

She came to the ditch; and forget-me-nots were growing there, and meadow-sweet;
and a very little way off was a hedge of whitethorn, and elder bushes grew there,
too, and bindweed with white flowers. Gay colors were to be seen here, and a
butterfly, too, was flitting by. The Toad thought it was a flower which had
broken loose that it might look about better in the world, which was quite a
natural thing to do.

“If one could only make such a journey as that!” said the Toad. “Croak! how
capital that would be.”

Eight days and eight nights she stayed by the well, and experienced no want
of provisions. On the ninth day she thought, “Forward! onward!” But what could
she find more charming and beautiful? Perhaps a little toad or a few green frogs.
During the last night there had been a sound borne on the breeze, as if there
were cousins in the neighborhood.

“It’s a glorious thing to live! glorious to get out of the well, and to lie
among the stinging-nettles, and to crawl along the dusty road. But onward, onward!
that we may find frogs or a little toad. We can’t do without that; nature alone
is not enough for one.” And so she went forward on her journey.

She came out into the open field, to a great pond, round about which grew reeds;
and she walked into it.

“It will be too damp for you here,” said the Frogs; “but you are very welcome!
Are you a he or a she? But it doesn’t matter; you are equally welcome.”

And she was invited to the concert in the evening—the family concert; great
enthusiasm and thin voices; we know the sort of thing. No refreshments were
given, only there was plenty to drink, for the whole pond was free.

“Now I shall resume my journey,” said the little Toad; for she always felt
a longing for something better.

She saw the stars shining, so large and so bright, and she saw the moon gleaming;
and then she saw the sun rise, and mount higher and higher.

“Perhaps after all, I am still in a well, only in a larger well. I must get
higher yet; I feel a great restlessness and longing.” And when the moon became
round and full, the poor creature thought, “I wonder if that is the bucket which
will be let down, and into which I must step to get higher up? Or is the sun
the great bucket? How great it is! how bright it is! It can take up all. I must
look out, that I may not miss the opportunity. Oh, how it seems to shine in
my head! I don’t think the jewel can shine brighter. But I haven’t the jewel;
not that I cry about that—no, I must go higher up, into splendor and joy! I
feel so confident, and yet I am afraid. It’s a difficult step to take, and yet
it must be taken. Onward, therefore, straight onward!”

She took a few steps, such as a crawling animal may take, and soon found herself
on a road beside which people dwelt; but there were flower gardens as well as
kitchen gardens. And she sat down to rest by a kitchen garden.

“What a number of different creatures there are that I never knew! and how
beautiful and great the world is! But one must look round in it, and not stay
in one spot.” And then she hopped into the kitchen garden. “How green it is
here! how beautiful it is here!”

“I know that,” said the Caterpillar, on the leaf, “my leaf is the largest here.
It hides half the world from me, but I don’t care for the world.”

“Cluck, cluck!” And some fowls came. They tripped about in the cabbage garden.
The Fowl who marched at the head of them had a long sight, and she spied the
Caterpillar on the green leaf, and pecked at it, so that the Caterpillar fell
on the ground, where it twisted and writhed.

The Fowl looked at it first with one eye and then with the other, for she did
not know what the end of this writhing would be.

“It doesn’t do that with a good will,” thought the Fowl, and lifted up her
head to peck at the Caterpillar.

The Toad was so horrified at this, that she came crawling straight up towards
the Fowl.

“Aha, it has allies,” quoth the Fowl. “Just look at the crawling thing!” And
then the Fowl turned away. “I don’t care for the little green morsel; it would
only tickle my throat.” The other fowls took the same view of it, and they all
turned away together.

“I writhed myself free,” said the Caterpillar. “What a good thing it is when
one has presence of mind! But the hardest thing remains to be done, and that
is to get on my leaf again. Where is it?”

And the little Toad came up and expressed her sympathy. She was glad that in
her ugliness she had frightened the fowls.

“What do you mean by that?” cried the Caterpillar. “I wriggled myself free
from the Fowl. You are very disagreeable to look at. Cannot I be left in peace
on my own property? Now I smell cabbage; now I am near my leaf. Nothing is so
beautiful as property. But I must go higher up.”

“Yes, higher up,” said the little Toad; “higher-up! She feels just as I do;
but she’s not in a good humor to-day. That’s because of the fright. We all want
to go higher up.” And she looked up as high as ever she could.

The stork sat in his nest on the roof of the farm-house. He clapped with his
beak, and the Mother-stork clapped with hers.

“How high up they live!” thought the Toad. “If one could only get as high as
that!”

In the farm-house lived two young students; the one was a poet and the other
a scientific searcher into the secrets of nature. The one sang and wrote joyously
of everything that God had created, and how it was mirrored in his heart. He
sang it out clearly, sweetly, richly, in well-sounding verses; while the other
investigated created matter itself, and even cut it open where need was. He
looked upon God’s creation as a great sum in arithmetic—subtracted, multiplied,
and tried to know it within and without, and to talk with understanding concerning
it; and that was a very sensible thing; and he spoke joyously and cleverly of
it. They were good, joyful men, those two,

“There sits a good specimen of a toad,” said the naturalist. “I must have that
fellow in a bottle of spirits.”

“You have two of them already,” replied the poet. “Let the thing sit there
and enjoy its life.”

“But it’s so wonderfully ugly,” persisted the first.

“Yes, if we could find the jewel in its head,” said the poet, “I too should
be for cutting it open.”

“A jewel!” cried the naturalist. “You seem to know a great deal about natural
history.”

“But is there not something beautiful in the popular belief that just as the
toad is the ugliest of animals, it should often carry the most precious jewel
in its head? Is it not just the same thing with men? What a jewel that was that
Aesop had, and still more, Socrates!”

The Toad did not hear any more, nor did she understand half of what she had
heard. The two friends walked on, and thus she escaped the fate of being bottled
up in spirits.

“Those two also were speaking of the jewel,” said the Toad to herself. “What
a good thing that I have not got it! I might have been in a very disagreeable
position.”

Now there was a clapping on the roof of the farm-house. Father-Stork was making
a speech to his family, and his family was glancing down at the two young men
in the kitchen garden.

“Man is the most conceited creature!” said the Stork. “Listen how their jaws
are wagging; and for all that they can’t clap properly. They boast of their
gifts of eloquence and their language! Yes, a fine language truly! Why, it changes
in every day’s journey we make. One of them doesn’t understand another. Now,
we can speak our language over the whole earth—up in the North and in Egypt.
And then men are not able to fly, moreover. They rush along by means of an invention
they call ’railway;’ but they often break their necks over it. It makes my beak
turn cold when I think of it. The world could get on without men. We could do
without them very well, so long as we only keep frogs and earth-worms.”

“That was a powerful speech,” thought the little Toad. “What a great man that
is yonder! and how high he sits! Higher than ever I saw any one sit yet; and
how he can swim!” she cried, as the Stork soared away through the air with outspread
pinions.

And the Mother-Stork began talking in the nest, and told about Egypt and the
waters of the Nile, and the incomparable mud that was to be found in that strange
land; and all this sounded new and very charming to the little Toad.

“I must go to Egypt!” said she. “If the Stork or one of his young ones would
only take me! I would oblige him in return. Yes, I shall get to Egypt, for I
feel so happy! All the longing and all the pleasure that I feel is much better
than having a jewel in one’s head.”

And it was just she who had the jewel. That jewel was the continual striving
and desire to go upward—ever upward. It gleamed in her head, gleamed in joy,
beamed brightly in her longing.

Then, suddenly, up came the Stork. He had seen the Toad in the grass, and stooped
down and seized the little creature anything but gently. The Stork’s beak pinched
her, and the wind whistled; it was not exactly agreeable, but she was going
upward—upward towards Egypt— and she knew it; and that was why her eyes gleamed,
and a spark seemed to fly out of them.

“Quunk!—ah!”

The body was dead—the Toad was killed! But the spark that had shot forth from
her eyes; what became of that?

The sunbeam took it up; the sunbeam carried the jewel from the head of the
toad. Whither?

Ask not the naturalist; rather ask the poet. He will tell it thee under the
guise of a fairy tale; and the Caterpillar on the cabbage, and the Stork family
belong to the story. Think! the Caterpillar is changed, and turns into a beautiful
butterfly; the Stork family flies over mountains and seas, to the distant Africa,
and yet finds the shortest way home to the same country—to the same roof. Nay,
that is almost too improbable; and yet it is true. You may ask the naturalist,
he will confess it is so; and you know it yourself, for you have seen it.

But the jewel in the head of the toad?

Seek it in the sun; see it there if you can.

The brightness is too dazzling there. We have not yet such eyes as can see
into the glories which God has created, but we shall receive them by-and-by;
and that will be the most beautiful story of all, and we shall all have our
share in it.

The Fir Tree

Far down in the forest, where the warm sun and the fresh air made a sweet resting-place,
grew a pretty little fir-tree; and yet it was not happy, it wished so much to
be tall like its companions— the pines and firs which grew around it. The sun
shone, and the soft air fluttered its leaves, and the little peasant children
passed by, prattling merrily, but the fir-tree heeded them not. Sometimes the
children would bring a large basket of raspberries or strawberries, wreathed on
a straw, and seat themselves near the fir-tree, and say, “Is it not a pretty little
tree?” which made it feel more unhappy than before. And yet all this while the
tree grew a notch or joint taller every year; for by the number of joints in the
stem of a fir-tree we can discover its age. Still, as it grew, it complained,
“Oh! how I wish I were as tall as the other trees, then I would spread out my
branches on every side, and my top would over-look the wide world. I should have
the birds building their nests on my boughs, and when the wind blew, I should
bow with stately dignity like my tall companions.” The tree was so discontented,
that it took no pleasure in the warm sunshine, the birds, or the rosy clouds that
floated over it morning and evening. Sometimes, in winter, when the snow lay white
and glittering on the ground, a hare would come springing along, and jump right
over the little tree; and then how mortified it would feel! Two winters passed,
and when the third arrived, the tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged
to run round it. Yet it remained unsatisfied, and would exclaim, “Oh, if I could
but keep on growing tall and old! There is nothing else worth caring for in the
world!” In the autumn, as usual, the wood-cutters came and cut down several of
the tallest trees, and the young fir-tree, which was now grown to its full height,
shuddered as the noble trees fell to the earth with a crash. After the branches
were lopped off, the trunks looked so slender and bare, that they could scarcely
be recognized. Then they were placed upon wagons, and drawn by horses out of the
forest. “Where were they going? What would become of them?” The young fir-tree
wished very much to know; so in the spring, when the swallows and the storks came,
it asked, “Do you know where those trees were taken? Did you meet them?”

The swallows knew nothing, but the stork, after a little reflection, nodded
his head, and said, “Yes, I think I do. I met several new ships when I flew
from Egypt, and they had fine masts that smelt like fir. I think these must
have been the trees; I assure you they were stately, very stately.”

“Oh, how I wish I were tall enough to go on the sea,” said the fir-tree. “What
is the sea, and what does it look like?”

“It would take too much time to explain,” said the stork, flying quickly away.

“Rejoice in thy youth,” said the sunbeam; “rejoice in thy fresh growth, and
the young life that is in thee.”

And the wind kissed the tree, and the dew watered it with tears; but the fir-tree
regarded them not.

Christmas-time drew near, and many young trees were cut down, some even smaller
and younger than the fir-tree who enjoyed neither rest nor peace with longing
to leave its forest home. These young trees, which were chosen for their beauty,
kept their branches, and were also laid on wagons and drawn by horses out of
the forest.

“Where are they going?” asked the fir-tree. “They are not taller than I am:
indeed, one is much less; and why are the branches not cut off? Where are they
going?”

“We know, we know,” sang the sparrows; “we have looked in at the windows of
the houses in the town, and we know what is done with them. They are dressed
up in the most splendid manner. We have seen them standing in the middle of
a warm room, and adorned with all sorts of beautiful things,—honey cakes, gilded
apples, playthings, and many hundreds of wax tapers.”

“And then,” asked the fir-tree, trembling through all its branches, “and then
what happens?”

“We did not see any more,” said the sparrows; “but this was enough for us.”

“I wonder whether anything so brilliant will ever happen to me,” thought the
fir-tree. “It would be much better than crossing the sea. I long for it almost
with pain. Oh! when will Christmas be here? I am now as tall and well grown
as those which were taken away last year. Oh! that I were now laid on the wagon,
or standing in the warm room, with all that brightness and splendor around me!
Something better and more beautiful is to come after, or the trees would not
be so decked out. Yes, what follows will be grander and more splendid. What
can it be? I am weary with longing. I scarcely know how I feel.”

“Rejoice with us,” said the air and the sunlight. “Enjoy thine own bright life
in the fresh air.”

But the tree would not rejoice, though it grew taller every day; and, winter
and summer, its dark-green foliage might be seen in the forest, while passers
by would say, “What a beautiful tree!”

A short time before Christmas, the discontented fir-tree was the first to fall.
As the axe cut through the stem, and divided the pith, the tree fell with a
groan to the earth, conscious of pain and faintness, and forgetting all its
anticipations of happiness, in sorrow at leaving its home in the forest. It
knew that it should never again see its dear old companions, the trees, nor
the little bushes and many-colored flowers that had grown by its side; perhaps
not even the birds. Neither was the journey at all pleasant. The tree first
recovered itself while being unpacked in the courtyard of a house, with several
other trees; and it heard a man say, “We only want one, and this is the prettiest.”

Then came two servants in grand livery, and carried the fir-tree into a large
and beautiful apartment. On the walls hung pictures, and near the great stove
stood great china vases, with lions on the lids. There were rocking chairs,
silken sofas, large tables, covered with pictures, books, and playthings, worth
a great deal of money,—at least, the children said so. Then the fir-tree was
placed in a large tub, full of sand; but green baize hung all around it, so
that no one could see it was a tub, and it stood on a very handsome carpet.
How the fir-tree trembled! “What was going to happen to him now?” Some young
ladies came, and the servants helped them to adorn the tree. On one branch they
hung little bags cut out of colored paper, and each bag was filled with sweetmeats;
from other branches hung gilded apples and walnuts, as if they had grown there;
and above, and all round, were hundreds of red, blue, and white tapers, which
were fastened on the branches. Dolls, exactly like real babies, were placed
under the green leaves,—the tree had never seen such things before,—and at the
very top was fastened a glittering star, made of tinsel. Oh, it was very beautiful!

“This evening,” they all exclaimed, “how bright it will be!” “Oh, that the
evening were come,” thought the tree, “and the tapers lighted! then I shall
know what else is going to happen. Will the trees of the forest come to see
me? I wonder if the sparrows will peep in at the windows as they fly? shall
I grow faster here, and keep on all these ornaments summer and winter?” But
guessing was of very little use; it made his bark ache, and this pain is as
bad for a slender fir-tree, as headache is for us. At last the tapers were lighted,
and then what a glistening blaze of light the tree presented! It trembled so
with joy in all its branches, that one of the candles fell among the green leaves
and burnt some of them. “Help! help!” exclaimed the young ladies, but there
was no danger, for they quickly extinguished the fire. After this, the tree
tried not to tremble at all, though the fire frightened him; he was so anxious
not to hurt any of the beautiful ornaments, even while their brilliancy dazzled
him. And now the folding doors were thrown open, and a troop of children rushed
in as if they intended to upset the tree; they were followed more silently by
their elders. For a moment the little ones stood silent with astonishment, and
then they shouted for joy, till the room rang, and they danced merrily round
the tree, while one present after another was taken from it.

“What are they doing? What will happen next?” thought the fir. At last the
candles burnt down to the branches and were put out. Then the children received
permission to plunder the tree.

Oh, how they rushed upon it, till the branches cracked, and had it not been
fastened with the glistening star to the ceiling, it must have been thrown down.
The children then danced about with their pretty toys, and no one noticed the
tree, except the children’s maid who came and peeped among the branches to see
if an apple or a fig had been forgotten.

“A story, a story,” cried the children, pulling a little fat man towards the
tree.

“Now we shall be in the green shade,” said the man, as he seated himself under
it, “and the tree will have the pleasure of hearing also, but I shall only relate
one story; what shall it be? Ivede-Avede, or Humpty Dumpty, who fell down stairs,
but soon got up again, and at last married a princess.”

“Ivede-Avede,” cried some. “Humpty Dumpty,” cried others, and there was a fine
shouting and crying out. But the fir-tree remained quite still, and thought
to himself, “Shall I have anything to do with all this?” but he had already
amused them as much as they wished. Then the old man told them the story of
Humpty Dumpty, how he fell down stairs, and was raised up again, and married
a princess. And the children clapped their hands and cried, “Tell another, tell
another,” for they wanted to hear the story of “Ivede-Avede;” but they only
had “Humpty Dumpty.” After this the fir-tree became quite silent and thoughtful;
never had the birds in the forest told such tales as “Humpty Dumpty,” who fell
down stairs, and yet married a princess.

“Ah! yes, so it happens in the world,” thought the fir-tree; he believed it
all, because it was related by such a nice man. “Ah! well,” he thought, “who
knows? perhaps I may fall down too, and marry a princess;” and he looked forward
joyfully to the next evening, expecting to be again decked out with lights and
playthings, gold and fruit. “To-morrow I will not tremble,” thought he; “I will
enjoy all my splendor, and I shall hear the story of Humpty Dumpty again, and
perhaps Ivede-Avede.” And the tree remained quiet and thoughtful all night.
In the morning the servants and the housemaid came in. “Now,” thought the fir,
“all my splendor is going to begin again.” But they dragged him out of the room
and up stairs to the garret, and threw him on the floor, in a dark corner, where
no daylight shone, and there they left him. “What does this mean?” thought the
tree, “what am I to do here? I can hear nothing in a place like this,” and he
had time enough to think, for days and nights passed and no one came near him,
and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put away large boxes in a
corner. So the tree was completely hidden from sight as if it had never existed.
“It is winter now,” thought the tree, “the ground is hard and covered with snow,
so that people cannot plant me. I shall be sheltered here, I dare say, until
spring comes. How thoughtful and kind everybody is to me! Still I wish this
place were not so dark, as well as lonely, with not even a little hare to look
at. How pleasant it was out in the forest while the snow lay on the ground,
when the hare would run by, yes, and jump over me too, although I did not like
it then. Oh! it is terrible lonely here.”

“Squeak, squeak,” said a little mouse, creeping cautiously towards the tree;
then came another; and they both sniffed at the fir-tree and crept between the
branches.

“Oh, it is very cold,” said the little mouse, “or else we should be so comfortable
here, shouldn’t we, you old fir-tree?”

“I am not old,” said the fir-tree, “there are many who are older than I am.”

“Where do you come from? and what do you know?” asked the mice, who were full
of curiosity. “Have you seen the most beautiful places in the world, and can
you tell us all about them? and have you been in the storeroom, where cheeses
lie on the shelf, and hams hang from the ceiling? One can run about on tallow
candles there, and go in thin and come out fat.”

“I know nothing of that place,” said the fir-tree, “but I know the wood where
the sun shines and the birds sing.” And then the tree told the little mice all
about its youth. They had never heard such an account in their lives; and after
they had listened to it attentively, they said, “What a number of things you
have seen? you must have been very happy.”

“Happy!” exclaimed the fir-tree, and then as he reflected upon what he had
been telling them, he said, “Ah, yes! after all those were happy days.” But
when he went on and related all about Christmas-eve, and how he had been dressed
up with cakes and lights, the mice said, “How happy you must have been, you
old fir-tree.”

“I am not old at all,” replied the tree, “I only came from the forest this
winter, I am now checked in my growth.”

“What splendid stories you can relate,” said the little mice. And the next
night four other mice came with them to hear what the tree had to tell. The
more he talked the more he remembered, and then he thought to himself, “Those
were happy days, but they may come again. Humpty Dumpty fell down stairs, and
yet he married the princess; perhaps I may marry a princess too.” And the fir-tree
thought of the pretty little birch-tree that grew in the forest, which was to
him a real beautiful princess.

“Who is Humpty Dumpty?” asked the little mice. And then the tree related the
whole story; he could remember every single word, and the little mice was so
delighted with it, that they were ready to jump to the top of the tree. The
next night a great many more mice made their appearance, and on Sunday two rats
came with them; but they said, it was not a pretty story at all, and the little
mice were very sorry, for it made them also think less of it.

“Do you know only one story?” asked the rats.

“Only one,” replied the fir-tree; “I heard it on the happiest evening of my
life; but I did not know I was so happy at the time.”

“We think it is a very miserable story,” said the rats. “Don’t you know any
story about bacon, or tallow in the storeroom.”

“No,” replied the tree.

“Many thanks to you then,” replied the rats, and they marched off.

The little mice also kept away after this, and the tree sighed, and said, “It
was very pleasant when the merry little mice sat round me and listened while
I talked. Now that is all passed too. However, I shall consider myself happy
when some one comes to take me out of this place.” But would this ever happen?
Yes; one morning people came to clear out the garret, the boxes were packed
away, and the tree was pulled out of the corner, and thrown roughly on the garret
floor; then the servant dragged it out upon the staircase where the daylight
shone. “Now life is beginning again,” said the tree, rejoicing in the sunshine
and fresh air. Then it was carried down stairs and taken into the courtyard
so quickly, that it forgot to think of itself, and could only look about, there
was so much to be seen. The court was close to a garden, where everything looked
blooming. Fresh and fragrant roses hung over the little palings. The linden-trees
were in blossom; while the swallows flew here and there, crying, “Twit, twit,
twit, my mate is coming,”—but it was not the fir-tree they meant. “Now I shall
live,” cried the tree, joyfully spreading out its branches; but alas! they were
all withered and yellow, and it lay in a corner amongst weeds and nettles. The
star of gold paper still stuck in the top of the tree and glittered in the sunshine.
In the same courtyard two of the merry children were playing who had danced
round the tree at Christmas, and had been so happy. The youngest saw the gilded
star, and ran and pulled it off the tree. “Look what is sticking to the ugly
old fir-tree,” said the child, treading on the branches till they crackled under
his boots. And the tree saw all the fresh bright flowers in the garden, and
then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the
garret. It thought of its fresh youth in the forest, of the merry Christmas
evening, and of the little mice who had listened to the story of “Humpty Dumpty.”
“Past! past!” said the old tree; “Oh, had I but enjoyed myself while I could
have done so! but now it is too late.” Then a lad came and chopped the tree
into small pieces, till a large bundle lay in a heap on the ground. The pieces
were placed in a fire under the copper, and they quickly blazed up brightly,
while the tree sighed so deeply that each sigh was like a pistol-shot. Then
the children, who were at play, came and seated themselves in front of the fire,
and looked at it and cried, “Pop, pop.” But at each “pop,” which was a deep
sigh, the tree was thinking of a summer day in the forest; and of Christmas
evening, and of “Humpty Dumpty,” the only story it had ever heard or knew how
to relate, till at last it was consumed. The boys still played in the garden,
and the youngest wore the golden star on his breast, with which the tree had
been adorned during the happiest evening of its existence. Now all was past;
the tree’s life was past, and the story also,—for all stories must come to an
end at last.

There is a Difference

It was in the month of May. The wind was still cold, but spring had come, said
the trees and the bushes, the fields and the meadows. Everywhere flowers were
budding into blossom; even the hedges were alive with them. Here spring spoke
about herself; it spoke from a little apple tree, from which hung a single branch
so fresh and blooming, and fairly weighed down by a glorious mass of rosy buds
just ready to open.

Now this branch knew how lovely it was, for that knowledge lies in the leaf
as well as in the flesh, so it wasn’t a bit surprised when one day a grand carriage
stopped in the road beside it, and the young Countess in the carriage said that
this apple branch was the most beautiful she had ever seen-it was spring itself
in its loveliest form. So she broke off the apple branch and carried it in her
own dainty hand, shading it from the sun with her silk parasol, as they drove
on to her castle, in which there were lofty halls and beautifully decorated
rooms. Fleecy-white curtains fluttered at its open windows, and there were many
shining, transparent vases full of beautiful flowers. In one of these vases,
which looked as if it were carved of new-fallen snow, she placed the apple branch,
among fresh green beech leaves-a lovely sight indeed.

And so it happened that the apple branch grew proud, and that’s quite human.

All sorts of people passed through the rooms, and according to their rank expressed
their admiration in different ways; some said too much, some said too little,
and some said nothing at all. And the apple branch began to realize that there
were differences in people as well as in plants.

"Some are used for nourishment, some are for ornament, and some you could
very well do without," thought the apple branch.

From its position at the open window the apple branch could look down over
the gardens and meadows below, and consider the differences among the flowers
and plants beneath. Some were rich, some were poor, and some were very poor.

"Miserable, rejected plants," said the apple branch. "There
is a difference indeed! It’s quite proper and just that distinctions should
be made. Yet how unhappy they must feel, if indeed a creature like that is capable
of feeling anything, as I and my equals do; but it must be that way, otherwise
everybody would be treated as though they were just alike."

And the apple branch looked down with especial pity on one kind of flower that
grew everywhere in meadows and ditches. They were much too common ever to be
gathered into bouquets; they could be found between the paving stones; they
shot up like the rankest and most worthless of weeds. They were dandelions,
but people have given them the ugly name, "the devil’s milk pails."

"Poor wretched outcasts," said the apple branch. "I suppose
you can’t help being as common as you are, and having such a vulgar name! It’s
the same with plants as with men-there must be a difference."

"A difference?" repeated the sunbeam, as it kissed the apple branch;
but it kissed the golden "devil’s milk pails," too. And all the other
sunbeams did the same, kissing all the flowers equally, poor as well as rich.

The apple branch had never thought about our Lord’s infinite love for everything
that lives and moves in Him, had never thought how much that it is good and
beautiful can lie hidden but still not be forgotten; and that, too, was human.

But the sunbeam, the ray of light, knew better. "You don’t see very clearly;
you are not very farsighted. Who are these outcast flowers that you pity so
much?"

"Those devil’s milk pails down there," replied the apple branch.
"Nobody ever ties them up in bouquets; they’re trodden under foot, because
there are too many of them. And when they go to seed they fly about along the
road like little bits of wool and hang on people’s clothes. They’re just weeds!
I suppose there must be weeds too, but I’m certainly happy and grateful that
I’m not like one of them!"

Now a whole flock of children ran out into the meadow to play. The youngest
of them was so tiny that he had to be carried by the others. When they set him
down in the grass among the golden blossoms, he laughed and gurgled with joy,
kicked his little legs, rolled over and over, and plucked only the yellow dandelions.
These he kissed in innocent delight.

The bigger children broke off the flowers of the dandelions and joined the
hollow stalks link by link into chains. First they would make one for a necklace,
then a longer one to hang across the shoulders and around the waist, and finally
one to go around their heads; it was a beautiful wreath of splendid green links
and chains.

But the biggest of the children carefully gathered the stalks that had gone
to seed, those loose, aerial, woolly blossoms, those wonderfully perfect balls
of dainty white plumes, and held them to their lips, trying to blow away all
the white feathers with one breath. Granny had told them that whoever could
do that would receive new clothes before the year was out. The poor, despised
dandelion was considered quite a prophet on such occasions.

"Now do you see?" asked the sunbeam. "Do you see its beauty
and power?"

"Oh, it’s all right-for children," replied the apple branch.

Now an old woman came into the meadow. She stooped and dug up the roots of
the dandelion with a blunt knife that had lost its handle. Some of the roots
she would roast instead of coffee berries, others she would sell to the apothecary
to be used as drugs.

"Beauty is something higher than this," said the apple branch. "Only
the chosen few can really be allowed into the kingdom of the beautiful; there’s
as much difference between plants as between men."

Then the sunbeam spoke of the infinite love of the Creator for all His creatures,
for everything that has life, and of the equal distribution of all things in
time and eternity.

"That’s just your opinion," replied the apple branch.

Now some people came into the room, and among them was the young Countess who
had placed the apple branch in the transparent vase. She was carrying a flower-or
whatever it was-that was protected by three or four large leaves around it like
a cap, so that no breath of air or gust of wind could injure it. She carried
it more carefully and tenderly than she had the apple branch when she had brought
it to the castle. Very gently she removed the leaves, and then the apple branch
could see what she carried. It was a delicate, feathery crown of starry seeds
borne by the despised dandelion!

This was what she had plucked so carefully and carried so tenderly, so that
no single one of the loose, dainty, feathered arrows that rounded out its downy
form should be blown away. There it was, whole and perfect. With delight she
admired the beautiful form, the airy lightness, the marvelous mechanism of a
thing that was destined so soon to be scattered by the wind.

"Look how wonderfully beautiful our Lord made this!" she cried. "I’ll
paint it, together with the apple branch. Everybody thinks it is so extremely
beautiful, but this poor flower is lovely, too; it has received as much from
our Lord in another way. They are very different, yet both are children in the
kingdom of the beautiful!"

The sunbeam kissed the poor dandelion, and then kissed the blooming apple branch,
whose petals seemed to blush a deeper red.

Little Tiny or Thumbelina

There was once a woman who wished very much to have a little child, but she could
not obtain her wish. At last she went to a fairy, and said, “I should so very
much like to have a little child; can you tell me where I can find one?”

“Oh, that can be easily managed,” said the fairy. “Here is a barleycorn of
a different kind to those which grow in the farmer’s fields, and which the chickens
eat; put it into a flower-pot, and see what will happen.”

“Thank you,” said the woman, and she gave the fairy twelve shillings, which
was the price of the barleycorn. Then she went home and planted it, and immediately
there grew up a large handsome flower, something like a tulip in appearance,
but with its leaves tightly closed as if it were still a bud. “It is a beautiful
flower,” said the woman, and she kissed the red and golden-colored leaves, and
while she did so the flower opened, and she could see that it was a real tulip.
Within the flower, upon the green velvet stamens, sat a very delicate and graceful
little maiden. She was scarcely half as long as a thumb, and they gave her the
name of “Thumbelina,” or Tiny, because she was so small. A walnut-shell, elegantly
polished, served her for a cradle; her bed was formed of blue violet-leaves,
with a rose-leaf for a counterpane. Here she slept at night, but during the
day she amused herself on a table, where the woman had placed a plateful of
water. Round this plate were wreaths of flowers with their stems in the water,
and upon it floated a large tulip-leaf, which served Tiny for a boat. Here the
little maiden sat and rowed herself from side to side, with two oars made of
white horse-hair. It really was a very pretty sight. Tiny could, also, sing
so softly and sweetly that nothing like her singing had ever before been heard.
One night, while she lay in her pretty bed, a large, ugly, wet toad crept through
a broken pane of glass in the window, and leaped right upon the table where
Tiny lay sleeping under her rose-leaf quilt. “What a pretty little wife this
would make for my son,” said the toad, and she took up the walnut-shell in which
little Tiny lay asleep, and jumped through the window with it into the garden.

In the swampy margin of a broad stream in the garden lived the toad, with her
son. He was uglier even than his mother, and when he saw the pretty little maiden
in her elegant bed, he could only cry, “Croak, croak, croak.”

“Don’t speak so loud, or she will wake,” said the toad, “and then she might
run away, for she is as light as swan’s down. We will place her on one of the
water-lily leaves out in the stream; it will be like an island to her, she is
so light and small, and then she cannot escape; and, while she is away, we will
make haste and prepare the state-room under the marsh, in which you are to live
when you are married.”

Far out in the stream grew a number of water-lilies, with broad green leaves,
which seemed to float on the top of the water. The largest of these leaves appeared
farther off than the rest, and the old toad swam out to it with the walnut-shell,
in which little Tiny lay still asleep. The tiny little creature woke very early
in the morning, and began to cry bitterly when she found where she was, for
she could see nothing but water on every side of the large green leaf, and no
way of reaching the land. Meanwhile the old toad was very busy under the marsh,
decking her room with rushes and wild yellow flowers, to make it look pretty
for her new daughter-in-law. Then she swam out with her ugly son to the leaf
on which she had placed poor little Tiny. She wanted to fetch the pretty bed,
that she might put it in the bridal chamber to be ready for her. The old toad
bowed low to her in the water, and said, “Here is my son, he will be your husband,
and you will live happily in the marsh by the stream.”

“Croak, croak, croak,” was all her son could say for himself; so the toad took
up the elegant little bed, and swam away with it, leaving Tiny all alone on
the green leaf, where she sat and wept. She could not bear to think of living
with the old toad, and having her ugly son for a husband. The little fishes,
who swam about in the water beneath, had seen the toad, and heard what she said,
so they lifted their heads above the water to look at the little maiden. As
soon as they caught sight of her, they saw she was very pretty, and it made
them very sorry to think that she must go and live with the ugly toads. “No,
it must never be!” so they assembled together in the water, round the green
stalk which held the leaf on which the little maiden stood, and gnawed it away
at the root with their teeth. Then the leaf floated down the stream, carrying
Tiny far away out of reach of land.

Tiny sailed past many towns, and the little birds in the bushes saw her, and
sang, “What a lovely little creature;” so the leaf swam away with her farther
and farther, till it brought her to other lands. A graceful little white butterfly
constantly fluttered round her, and at last alighted on the leaf. Tiny pleased
him, and she was glad of it, for now the toad could not possibly reach her,
and the country through which she sailed was beautiful, and the sun shone upon
the water, till it glittered like liquid gold. She took off her girdle and tied
one end of it round the butterfly, and the other end of the ribbon she fastened
to the leaf, which now glided on much faster than ever, taking little Tiny with
it as she stood. Presently a large cockchafer flew by; the moment he caught
sight of her, he seized her round her delicate waist with his claws, and flew
with her into a tree. The green leaf floated away on the brook, and the butterfly
flew with it, for he was fastened to it, and could not get away.

Oh, how frightened little Tiny felt when the cockchafer flew with her to the
tree! But especially was she sorry for the beautiful white butterfly which she
had fastened to the leaf, for if he could not free himself he would die of hunger.
But the cockchafer did not trouble himself at all about the matter. He seated
himself by her side on a large green leaf, gave her some honey from the flowers
to eat, and told her she was very pretty, though not in the least like a cockchafer.
After a time, all the cockchafers turned up their feelers, and said, “She has
only two legs! how ugly that looks.” “She has no feelers,” said another. “Her
waist is quite slim. Pooh! she is like a human being.”

“Oh! she is ugly,” said all the lady cockchafers, although Tiny was very pretty.
Then the cockchafer who had run away with her, believed all the others when
they said she was ugly, and would have nothing more to say to her, and told
her she might go where she liked. Then he flew down with her from the tree,
and placed her on a daisy, and she wept at the thought that she was so ugly
that even the cockchafers would have nothing to say to her. And all the while
she was really the loveliest creature that one could imagine, and as tender
and delicate as a beautiful rose-leaf. During the whole summer poor little Tiny
lived quite alone in the wide forest. She wove herself a bed with blades of
grass, and hung it up under a broad leaf, to protect herself from the rain.
She sucked the honey from the flowers for food, and drank the dew from their
leaves every morning. So passed away the summer and the autumn, and then came
the winter,— the long, cold winter. All the birds who had sung to her so sweetly
were flown away, and the trees and the flowers had withered. The large clover
leaf under the shelter of which she had lived, was now rolled together and shrivelled
up, nothing remained but a yellow withered stalk. She felt dreadfully cold,
for her clothes were torn, and she was herself so frail and delicate, that poor
little Tiny was nearly frozen to death. It began to snow too; and the snow-flakes,
as they fell upon her, were like a whole shovelful falling upon one of us, for
we are tall, but she was only an inch high. Then she wrapped herself up in a
dry leaf, but it cracked in the middle and could not keep her warm, and she
shivered with cold. Near the wood in which she had been living lay a corn-field,
but the corn had been cut a long time; nothing remained but the bare dry stubble
standing up out of the frozen ground. It was to her like struggling through
a large wood. Oh! how she shivered with the cold. She came at last to the door
of a field-mouse, who had a little den under the corn-stubble. There dwelt the
field-mouse in warmth and comfort, with a whole roomful of corn, a kitchen,
and a beautiful dining room. Poor little Tiny stood before the door just like
a little beggar-girl, and begged for a small piece of barley-corn, for she had
been without a morsel to eat for two days.

“You poor little creature,” said the field-mouse, who was really a good old
field-mouse, “come into my warm room and dine with me.” She was very pleased
with Tiny, so she said, “You are quite welcome to stay with me all the winter,
if you like; but you must keep my rooms clean and neat, and tell me stories,
for I shall like to hear them very much.” And Tiny did all the field-mouse asked
her, and found herself very comfortable.

“We shall have a visitor soon,” said the field-mouse one day; “my neighbor
pays me a visit once a week. He is better off than I am; he has large rooms,
and wears a beautiful black velvet coat. If you could only have him for a husband,
you would be well provided for indeed. But he is blind, so you must tell him
some of your prettiest stories.”

But Tiny did not feel at all interested about this neighbor, for he was a mole.
However, he came and paid his visit dressed in his black velvet coat.

“He is very rich and learned, and his house is twenty times larger than mine,”
said the field-mouse.

He was rich and learned, no doubt, but he always spoke slightingly of the sun
and the pretty flowers, because he had never seen them. Tiny was obliged to
sing to him, “Lady-bird, lady-bird, fly away home,” and many other pretty songs.
And the mole fell in love with her because she had such a sweet voice; but he
said nothing yet, for he was very cautious. A short time before, the mole had
dug a long passage under the earth, which led from the dwelling of the field-mouse
to his own, and here she had permission to walk with Tiny whenever she liked.
But he warned them not to be alarmed at the sight of a dead bird which lay in
the passage. It was a perfect bird, with a beak and feathers, and could not
have been dead long, and was lying just where the mole had made his passage.
The mole took a piece of phosphorescent wood in his mouth, and it glittered
like fire in the dark; then he went before them to light them through the long,
dark passage. When they came to the spot where lay the dead bird, the mole pushed
his broad nose through the ceiling, the earth gave way, so that there was a
large hole, and the daylight shone into the passage. In the middle of the floor
lay a dead swallow, his beautiful wings pulled close to his sides, his feet
and his head drawn up under his feathers; the poor bird had evidently died of
the cold. It made little Tiny very sad to see it, she did so love the little
birds; all the summer they had sung and twittered for her so beautifully. But
the mole pushed it aside with his crooked legs, and said, “He will sing no more
now. How miserable it must be to be born a little bird! I am thankful that none
of my children will ever be birds, for they can do nothing but cry, ‘Tweet,
tweet,’ and always die of hunger in the winter.”

“Yes, you may well say that, as a clever man!” exclaimed the field-mouse, “What
is the use of his twittering, for when winter comes he must either starve or
be frozen to death. Still birds are very high bred.”

Tiny said nothing; but when the two others had turned their backs on the bird,
she stooped down and stroked aside the soft feathers which covered the head,
and kissed the closed eyelids. “Perhaps this was the one who sang to me so sweetly
in the summer,” she said; “and how much pleasure it gave me, you dear, pretty
bird.”

The mole now stopped up the hole through which the daylight shone, and then
accompanied the lady home. But during the night Tiny could not sleep; so she
got out of bed and wove a large, beautiful carpet of hay; then she carried it
to the dead bird, and spread it over him; with some down from the flowers which
she had found in the field-mouse’s room. It was as soft as wool, and she spread
some of it on each side of the bird, so that he might lie warmly in the cold
earth. “Farewell, you pretty little bird,” said she, “farewell; thank you for
your delightful singing during the summer, when all the trees were green, and
the warm sun shone upon us.” Then she laid her head on the bird’s breast, but
she was alarmed immediately, for it seemed as if something inside the bird went
“thump, thump.” It was the bird’s heart; he was not really dead, only benumbed
with the cold, and the warmth had restored him to life. In autumn, all the swallows
fly away into warm countries, but if one happens to linger, the cold seizes
it, it becomes frozen, and falls down as if dead; it remains where it fell,
and the cold snow covers it. Tiny trembled very much; she was quite frightened,
for the bird was large, a great deal larger than herself,—she was only an inch
high. But she took courage, laid the wool more thickly over the poor swallow,
and then took a leaf which she had used for her own counterpane, and laid it
over the head of the poor bird. The next morning she again stole out to see
him. He was alive but very weak; he could only open his eyes for a moment to
look at Tiny, who stood by holding a piece of decayed wood in her hand, for
she had no other lantern. “Thank you, pretty little maiden,” said the sick swallow;
“I have been so nicely warmed, that I shall soon regain my strength, and be
able to fly about again in the warm sunshine.”

“Oh,” said she, “it is cold out of doors now; it snows and freezes. Stay in
your warm bed; I will take care of you.”

Then she brought the swallow some water in a flower-leaf, and after he had
drank, he told her that he had wounded one of his wings in a thorn-bush, and
could not fly as fast as the others, who were soon far away on their journey
to warm countries. Then at last he had fallen to the earth, and could remember
no more, nor how he came to be where she had found him. The whole winter the
swallow remained underground, and Tiny nursed him with care and love. Neither
the mole nor the field-mouse knew anything about it, for they did not like swallows.
Very soon the spring time came, and the sun warmed the earth. Then the swallow
bade farewell to Tiny, and she opened the hole in the ceiling which the mole
had made. The sun shone in upon them so beautifully, that the swallow asked
her if she would go with him; she could sit on his back, he said, and he would
fly away with her into the green woods. But Tiny knew it would make the field-mouse
very grieved if she left her in that manner, so she said, “No, I cannot.”

“Farewell, then, farewell, you good, pretty little maiden,” said the swallow;
and he flew out into the sunshine.

Tiny looked after him, and the tears rose in her eyes. She was very fond of
the poor swallow.

“Tweet, tweet,” sang the bird, as he flew out into the green woods, and Tiny
felt very sad. She was not allowed to go out into the warm sunshine. The corn
which had been sown in the field over the house of the field-mouse had grown
up high into the air, and formed a thick wood to Tiny, who was only an inch
in height.

“You are going to be married, Tiny,” said the field-mouse. “My neighbor has
asked for you. What good fortune for a poor child like you. Now we will prepare
your wedding clothes. They must be both woollen and linen. Nothing must be wanting
when you are the mole’s wife.”

Tiny had to turn the spindle, and the field-mouse hired four spiders, who were
to weave day and night. Every evening the mole visited her, and was continually
speaking of the time when the summer would be over. Then he would keep his wedding-day
with Tiny; but now the heat of the sun was so great that it burned the earth,
and made it quite hard, like a stone. As soon, as the summer was over, the wedding
should take place. But Tiny was not at all pleased; for she did not like the
tiresome mole. Every morning when the sun rose, and every evening when it went
down, she would creep out at the door, and as the wind blew aside the ears of
corn, so that she could see the blue sky, she thought how beautiful and bright
it seemed out there, and wished so much to see her dear swallow again. But he
never returned; for by this time he had flown far away into the lovely green
forest.

When autumn arrived, Tiny had her outfit quite ready; and the field-mouse said
to her, “In four weeks the wedding must take place.”

Then Tiny wept, and said she would not marry the disagreeable mole.

“Nonsense,” replied the field-mouse. “Now don’t be obstinate, or I shall bite
you with my white teeth. He is a very handsome mole; the queen herself does
not wear more beautiful velvets and furs. His kitchen and cellars are quite
full. You ought to be very thankful for such good fortune.”

So the wedding-day was fixed, on which the mole was to fetch Tiny away to live
with him, deep under the earth, and never again to see the warm sun, because
he did not like it. The poor child was very unhappy at the thought of saying
farewell to the beautiful sun, and as the field-mouse had given her permission
to stand at the door, she went to look at it once more.

“Farewell bright sun,” she cried, stretching out her arm towards it; and then
she walked a short distance from the house; for the corn had been cut, and only
the dry stubble remained in the fields. “Farewell, farewell,” she repeated,
twining her arm round a little red flower that grew just by her side. “Greet
the little swallow from me, if you should see him again.”

“Tweet, tweet,” sounded over her head suddenly. She looked up, and there was
the swallow himself flying close by. As soon as he spied Tiny, he was delighted;
and then she told him how unwilling she felt to marry the ugly mole, and to
live always beneath the earth, and never to see the bright sun any more. And
as she told him she wept.

“Cold winter is coming,” said the swallow, “and I am going to fly away into
warmer countries. Will you go with me? You can sit on my back, and fasten yourself
on with your sash. Then we can fly away from the ugly mole and his gloomy rooms,—far
away, over the mountains, into warmer countries, where the sun shines more brightly—than
here; where it is always summer, and the flowers bloom in greater beauty. Fly
now with me, dear little Tiny; you saved my life when I lay frozen in that dark
passage.”

“Yes, I will go with you,” said Tiny; and she seated herself on the bird’s
back, with her feet on his outstretched wings, and tied her girdle to one of
his strongest feathers.

Then the swallow rose in the air, and flew over forest and over sea, high above
the highest mountains, covered with eternal snow. Tiny would have been frozen
in the cold air, but she crept under the bird’s warm feathers, keeping her little
head uncovered, so that she might admire the beautiful lands over which they
passed. At length they reached the warm countries, where the sun shines brightly,
and the sky seems so much higher above the earth. Here, on the hedges, and by
the wayside, grew purple, green, and white grapes; lemons and oranges hung from
trees in the woods; and the air was fragrant with myrtles and orange blossoms.
Beautiful children ran along the country lanes, playing with large gay butterflies;
and as the swallow flew farther and farther, every place appeared still more
lovely.

At last they came to a blue lake, and by the side of it, shaded by trees of
the deepest green, stood a palace of dazzling white marble, built in the olden
times. Vines clustered round its lofty pillars, and at the top were many swallows’
nests, and one of these was the home of the swallow who carried Tiny.

“This is my house,” said the swallow; “but it would not do for you to live
there—you would not be comfortable. You must choose for yourself one of those
lovely flowers, and I will put you down upon it, and then you shall have everything
that you can wish to make you happy.”

“That will be delightful,” she said, and clapped her little hands for joy.

A large marble pillar lay on the ground, which, in falling, had been broken
into three pieces. Between these pieces grew the most beautiful large white
flowers; so the swallow flew down with Tiny, and placed her on one of the broad
leaves. But how surprised she was to see in the middle of the flower, a tiny
little man, as white and transparent as if he had been made of crystal! He had
a gold crown on his head, and delicate wings at his shoulders, and was not much
larger than Tiny herself. He was the angel of the flower; for a tiny man and
a tiny woman dwell in every flower; and this was the king of them all.

“Oh, how beautiful he is!” whispered Tiny to the swallow.

The little prince was at first quite frightened at the bird, who was like a
giant, compared to such a delicate little creature as himself; but when he saw
Tiny, he was delighted, and thought her the prettiest little maiden he had ever
seen. He took the gold crown from his head, and placed it on hers, and asked
her name, and if she would be his wife, and queen over all the flowers.

This certainly was a very different sort of husband to the son of a toad, or
the mole, with my black velvet and fur; so she said, “Yes,” to the handsome
prince. Then all the flowers opened, and out of each came a little lady or a
tiny lord, all so pretty it was quite a pleasure to look at them. Each of them
brought Tiny a present; but the best gift was a pair of beautiful wings, which
had belonged to a large white fly and they fastened them to Tiny’s shoulders,
so that she might fly from flower to flower. Then there was much rejoicing,
and the little swallow who sat above them, in his nest, was asked to sing a
wedding song, which he did as well as he could; but in his heart he felt sad
for he was very fond of Tiny, and would have liked never to part from her again.

“You must not be called Tiny any more,” said the spirit of the flowers to her.
“It is an ugly name, and you are so very pretty. We will call you Maia.”

“Farewell, farewell,” said the swallow, with a heavy heart as he left the warm
countries to fly back into Denmark. There he had a nest over the window of a
house in which dwelt the writer of fairy tales. The swallow sang, “Tweet, tweet,”
and from his song came the whole story.

The Marsh King’s Daughter

The storks relate to their little ones a great many stories, and they are all about
moors and reed banks, and suited to their age and capacity. The youngest of them
are quite satisfied with “kribble, krabble,” or such nonsense, and think it very
grand; but the elder ones want something with a deeper meaning, or at least something
about their own family.

We are only acquainted with one of the two longest and oldest stories which
the storks relate—it is about Moses, who was exposed by his mother on the banks
of the Nile, and was found by the king’s daughter, who gave him a good education,
and he afterwards became a great man; but where he was buried is still unknown.

Every one knows this story, but not the second; very likely because it is quite
an inland story. It has been repeated from mouth to mouth, from one stork-mamma
to another, for thousands of years; and each has told it better than the last;
and now we mean to tell it better than all.

The first stork pair who related it lived at the time it happened, and had
their summer residence on the rafters of the Viking’s1 house, which stood near
the wild moorlands of Wendsyssell; that is, to speak more correctly, the great
moorheath, high up in the north of Jutland, by the Skjagen peak. This wilderness
is still an immense wild heath of marshy ground, about which we can read in
the “Official Directory.” It is said that in olden times the place was a lake,
the ground of which had heaved up from beneath, and now the moorland extends
for miles in every direction, and is surrounded by damp meadows, trembling,
undulating swamps, and marshy ground covered with turf, on which grow bilberry
bushes and stunted trees. Mists are almost always hovering over this region,
which, seventy years ago, was overrun with wolves. It may well be called the
Wild Moor; and one can easily imagine, with such a wild expanse of marsh and
lake, how lonely and dreary it must have been a thousand years ago. Many things
may be noticed now that existed then. The reeds grow to the same height, and
bear the same kind of long, purple-brown leaves, with their feathery tips. There
still stands the birch, with its white bark and its delicate, loosely hanging
leaves; and with regard to the living beings who frequented this spot, the fly
still wears a gauzy dress of the same cut, and the favorite colors of the stork
are white, with black and red for stockings. The people, certainly, in those
days, wore very different dresses to those they now wear, but if any of them,
be he huntsman or squire, master or servant, ventured on the wavering, undulating,
marshy ground of the moor, they met with the same fate a thousand years ago
as they would now. The wanderer sank, and went down to the Marsh King, as he
is named, who rules in the great moorland empire beneath. They also called him
“Gunkel King,” but we like the name of “Marsh King” better, and we will give
him that name as the storks do. Very little is known of the Marsh King’s rule,
but that, perhaps, is a good thing.

In the neighborhood of the moorlands, and not far from the great arm of the
North Sea and the Cattegat which is called the Lumfjorden, lay the castle of
the Viking, with its water-tight stone cellars, its tower, and its three projecting
storeys. On the ridge of the roof the stork had built his nest, and there the
stork-mamma sat on her eggs and felt sure her hatching would come to something.

One evening, stork-papa stayed out rather late, and when he came home he seemed
quite busy, bustling, and important. “I have something very dreadful to tell
you,” said he to the stork-mamma.

“Keep it to yourself then,” she replied. “Remember that I am hatching eggs;
it may agitate me, and will affect them.”

“You must know it at once,” said he. “The daughter of our host in Egypt has
arrived here. She has ventured to take this journey, and now she is lost.”

“She who sprung from the race of the fairies, is it?” cried the mother stork.
“Oh, tell me all about it; you know I cannot bear to be kept waiting at a time
when I am hatching eggs.”

“Well, you see, mother,” he replied, “she believed what the doctors said, and
what I have heard you state also, that the moor-flowers which grow about here
would heal her sick father; and she has flown to the north in swan’s plumage,
in company with some other swan-princesses, who come to these parts every year
to renew their youth. She came, and where is she now!”

“You enter into particulars too much,” said the mamma stork, “and the eggs
may take cold; I cannot bear such suspense as this.”

“Well,” said he, “I have kept watch; and this evening I went among the rushes
where I thought the marshy ground would bear me, and while I was there three
swans came. Something in their manner of flying seemed to say to me, ‘Look carefully
now; there is one not all swan, only swan’s feathers.’ You know, mother, you
have the same intuitive feeling that I have; you know whether a thing is right
or not immediately.”

“Yes, of course,” said she; “but tell me about the princess; I am tired of
hearing about the swan’s feathers.”

“Well, you know that in the middle of the moor there is something like a lake,”
said the stork-papa. “You can see the edge of it if you raise yourself a little.
Just there, by the reeds and the green banks, lay the trunk of an elder-tree;
upon this the three swans stood flapping their wings, and looking about them;
one of them threw off her plumage, and I immediately recognized her as one of
the princesses of our home in Egypt. There she sat, without any covering but
her long, black hair. I heard her tell the two others to take great care of
the swan’s plumage, while she dipped down into the water to pluck the flowers
which she fancied she saw there. The others nodded, and picked up the feather
dress, and took possession of it. I wonder what will become of it? thought I,
and she most likely asked herself the same question. If so, she received an
answer, a very practical one; for the two swans rose up and flew away with her
swan’s plumage. ‘Dive down now!’ they cried; ‘thou shalt never more fly in the
swan’s plumage, thou shalt never again see Egypt; here, on the moor, thou wilt
remain.’ So saying, they tore the swan’s plumage into a thousand pieces, the
feathers drifted about like a snow-shower, and then the two deceitful princesses
flew away.”

“Why, that is terrible,” said the stork-mamma; “I feel as if I could hardly
bear to hear any more, but you must tell me what happened next.”

“The princess wept and lamented aloud; her tears moistened the elder stump,
which was really not an elder stump but the Marsh King himself, he who in marshy
ground lives and rules. I saw myself how the stump of the tree turned round,
and was a tree no more, while long, clammy branches like arms, were extended
from it. Then the poor child was terribly frightened, and started up to run
away. She hastened to cross the green, slimy ground; but it will not bear any
weight, much less hers. She quickly sank, and the elder stump dived immediately
after her; in fact, it was he who drew her down. Great black bubbles rose up
out of the moor-slime, and with these every trace of the two vanished. And now
the princess is buried in the wild marsh, she will never now carry flowers to
Egypt to cure her father. It would have broken your heart, mother, had you seen
it.”

“You ought not to have told me,” said she, “at such a time as this; the eggs
might suffer. But I think the princess will soon find help; some one will rise
up to help her. Ah! if it had been you or I, or one of our people, it would
have been all over with us.”

“I mean to go every day,” said he, “to see if anything comes to pass;” and
so he did.

A long time went by, but at last he saw a green stalk shooting up out of the
deep, marshy ground. As it reached the surface of the marsh, a leaf spread out,
and unfolded itself broader and broader, and close to it came forth a bud.

One morning, when the stork-papa was flying over the stem, he saw that the
power of the sun’s rays had caused the bud to open, and in the cup of the flower
lay a charming child—a little maiden, looking as if she had just come out of
a bath. The little one was so like the Egyptian princess, that the stork, at
the first moment, thought it must be the princess herself, but after a little
reflection he decided that it was much more likely to be the daughter of the
princess and the Marsh King; and this explained also her being placed in the
cup of a water-lily. “But she cannot be left to lie here,” thought the stork,
“and in my nest there are already so many. But stay, I have thought of something:
the wife of the Viking has no children, and how often she has wished for a little
one. People always say the stork brings the little ones; I will do so in earnest
this time. I shall fly with the child to the Viking’s wife; what rejoicing there
will be!”

And then the stork lifted the little girl out of the flower-cup, flew to the
castle, picked a hole with his beak in the bladder-covered, window, and laid
the beautiful child in the bosom of the Viking’s wife. Then he flew back quickly
to the stork-mamma and told her what he had seen and done; and the little storks
listened to it all, for they were then quite old enough to do so. “So you see,”
he continued, “that the princess is not dead, for she must have sent her little
one up here; and now I have found a home for her.”

“Ah, I said it would be so from the first,” replied the stork-mamma; “but now
think a little of your own family. Our travelling time draws near, and I sometimes
feel a little irritation already under the wings. The cuckoos and the nightingale
are already gone, and I heard the quails say they should go too as soon as the
wind was favorable. Our youngsters will go through all the manoeuvres at the
review very well, or I am much mistaken in them.”

The Viking’s wife was above measure delighted when she awoke the next morning
and found the beautiful little child lying in her bosom. She kissed it and caressed
it; but it cried terribly, and struck out with its arms and legs, and did not
seem to be pleased at all. At last it cried itself to sleep; and as it lay there
so still and quiet, it was a most beautiful sight to see. The Viking’s wife
was so delighted, that body and soul were full of joy. Her heart felt so light
within her, that it seemed as if her husband and his soldiers, who were absent,
must come home as suddenly and unexpectedly as the little child had done. She
and her whole household therefore busied themselves in preparing everything
for the reception of her lord. The long, colored tapestry, on which she and
her maidens had worked pictures of their idols, Odin, Thor, and Friga, was hung
up. The slaves polished the old shields that served as ornaments; cushions were
placed on the seats, and dry wood laid on the fireplaces in the centre of the
hall, so that the flames might be fanned up at a moment’s notice. The Viking’s
wife herself assisted in the work, so that at night she felt very tired, and
quickly fell into a sound sleep. When she awoke, just before morning, she was
terribly alarmed to find that the infant had vanished. She sprang from her couch,
lighted a pine-chip, and searched all round the room, when, at last, in that
part of the bed where her feet had been, lay, not the child, but a great, ugly
frog. She was quite disgusted at this sight, and seized a heavy stick to kill
the frog; but the creature looked at her with such strange, mournful eyes, that
she was unable to strike the blow. Once more she searched round the room; then
she started at hearing the frog utter a low, painful croak. She sprang from
the couch and opened the window hastily; at the same moment the sun rose, and
threw its beams through the window, till it rested on the couch where the great
frog lay. Suddenly it appeared as if the frog’s broad mouth contracted, and
became small and red. The limbs moved and stretched out and extended themselves
till they took a beautiful shape; and behold there was the pretty child lying
before her, and the ugly frog was gone. “How is this?” she cried, “have I had
a wicked dream? Is it not my own lovely cherub that lies there.” Then she kissed
it and fondled it; but the child struggled and fought, and bit as if she had
been a little wild cat.

The Viking did not return on that day, nor the next; he was, however, on the
way home; but the wind, so favorable to the storks, was against him; for it
blew towards the south. A wind in favor of one is often against another.

After two or three days had passed, it became clear to the Viking’s wife how
matters stood with the child; it was under the influence of a powerful sorcerer.
By day it was charming in appearance as an angel of light, but with a temper
wicked and wild; while at night, in the form of an ugly frog, it was quiet and
mournful, with eyes full of sorrow. Here were two natures, changing inwardly
and outwardly with the absence and return of sunlight. And so it happened that
by day the child, with the actual form of its mother, possessed the fierce disposition
of its father; at night, on the contrary, its outward appearance plainly showed
its descent on the father’s side, while inwardly it had the heart and mind of
its mother. Who would be able to loosen this wicked charm which the sorcerer
had worked upon it? The wife of the Viking lived in constant pain and sorrow
about it. Her heart clung to the little creature, but she could not explain
to her husband the circumstances in which it was placed. He was expected to
return shortly; and were she to tell him, he would very likely, as was the custom
at that time, expose the poor child in the public highway, and let any one take
it away who would. The good wife of the Viking could not let that happen, and
she therefore resolved that the Viking should never see the child excepting
by daylight.

One morning there sounded a rushing of storks’ wings over the roof. More than
a hundred pair of storks had rested there during the night, to recover themselves
after their excursion; and now they soared aloft, and prepared for the journey
southward.

“All the husbands are here, and ready!” they cried; “wives and children also!”

“How light we are!” screamed the young storks in chorus. “Something pleasant
seems creeping over us, even down to our toes, as if we were full of live frogs.
Ah, how delightful it is to travel into foreign lands!”

“Hold yourselves properly in the line with us,” cried papa and mamma. “Do not
use your beaks so much; it tries the lungs.” And then the storks flew away.

About the same time sounded the clang of the warriors’ trumpets across the
heath. The Viking had landed with his men. They were returning home, richly
laden with spoil from the Gallic coast, where the people, as did also the inhabitants
of Britain, often cried in alarm, “Deliver us from the wild northmen.”

Life and noisy pleasure came with them into the castle of the Viking on the
moorland. A great cask of mead was drawn into the hall, piles of wood blazed,
cattle were slain and served up, that they might feast in reality, The priest
who offered the sacrifice sprinkled the devoted parishioners with the warm blood;
the fire crackled, and the smoke rolled along beneath the roof; the soot fell
upon them from the beams; but they were used to all these things. Guests were
invited, and received handsome presents. All wrongs and unfaithfulness were
forgotten. They drank deeply, and threw in each other’s faces the bones that
were left, which was looked upon as a sign of good feeling amongst them. A bard,
who was a kind of musician as well as warrior, and who had been with the Viking
in his expedition, and knew what to sing about, gave them one of his best songs,
in which they heard all their warlike deeds praised, and every wonderful action
brought forward with honor. Every verse ended with this refrain,—

“Gold and possessions will flee away,
Friends and foes must die one day;
Every man on earth must die,
But a famous name will never die.”
And with that they beat upon their shields, and hammered upon the table with
knives and bones, in a most outrageous manner.
The Viking’s wife sat upon a raised cross seat in the open hall. She wore a
silk dress, golden bracelets, and large amber beads. She was in costly attire,
and the bard named her in his song, and spoke of the rich treasure of gold which
she had brought to her husband. Her husband had already seen the wonderfully
beautiful child in the daytime, and was delighted with her beauty; even her
wild ways pleased him. He said the little maiden would grow up to be a heroine,
with the strong will and determination of a man. She would never wink her eyes,
even if, in joke, an expert hand should attempt to cut off her eye-brows with
a sharp sword.

The full cask of mead soon became empty, and a fresh one was brought in; for
these were people who liked plenty to eat and drink. The old proverb, which
every one knows, says that “the cattle know when to leave their pasture, but
a foolish man knows not the measure of his own appetite.” Yes, they all knew
this; but men may know what is right, and yet often do wrong. They also knew
“that even the welcome guest becomes wearisome when he sits too long in the
house.” But there they remained; for pork and mead are good things. And so at
the Viking’s house they stayed, and enjoyed themselves; and at night the bondmen
slept in the ashes, and dipped their fingers in the fat, and licked them. Oh,
it was a delightful time!

Once more in the same year the Viking went forth, though the storms of autumn
had already commenced to roar. He went with his warriors to the coast of Britain;
he said that it was but an excursion of pleasure across the water, so his wife
remained at home with the little girl. After a while, it is quite certain the
foster-mother began to love the poor frog, with its gentle eyes and its deep
sighs, even better than the little beauty who bit and fought with all around
her.

The heavy, damp mists of autumn, which destroy the leaves of the wood, had
already fallen upon forest and heath. Feathers of plucked birds, as they call
the snow, flew about in thick showers, and winter was coming. The sparrows took
possession of the stork’s nest, and conversed about the absent owners in their
own fashion; and they, the stork pair and all their young ones, where were they
staying now? The storks might have been found in the land of Egypt, where the
sun’s rays shone forth bright and warm, as it does here at midsummer. Tamarinds
and acacias were in full bloom all over the country, the crescent of Mahomet
glittered brightly from the cupolas of the mosques, and on the slender pinnacles
sat many of the storks, resting after their long journey. Swarms of them took
divided possession of the nests—nests which lay close to each other between
the venerable columns, and crowded the arches of temples in forgotten cities.
The date and the palm lifted themselves as a screen or as a sun-shade over them.
The gray pyramids looked like broken shadows in the clear air and the far-off
desert, where the ostrich wheels his rapid flight, and the lion, with his subtle
eyes, gazes at the marble sphinx which lies half buried in sand. The waters
of the Nile had retreated, and the whole bed of the river was covered with frogs,
which was a most acceptable prospect for the stork families. The young storks
thought their eyes deceived them, everything around appeared so beautiful.

“It is always like this here, and this is how we live in our warm country,”
said the stork-mamma; and the thought made the young ones almost beside themselves
with pleasure.

“Is there anything more to see?” they asked; “are we going farther into the
country?”

“There is nothing further for us to see,” answered the stork-mamma. “Beyond
this delightful region there are immense forests, where the branches of the
trees entwine round each other, while prickly, creeping plants cover the paths,
and only an elephant could force a passage for himself with his great feet.
The snakes are too large, and the lizards too lively for us to catch. Then there
is the desert; if you went there, your eyes would soon be full of sand with
the lightest breeze, and if it should blow great guns, you would most likely
find yourself in a sand-drift. Here is the best place for you, where there are
frogs and locusts; here I shall remain, and so must you.” And so they stayed.

The parents sat in the nest on the slender minaret, and rested, yet still were
busily employed in cleaning and smoothing their feathers, and in sharpening
their beaks against their red stockings; then they would stretch out their necks,
salute each other, and gravely raise their heads with the high-polished forehead,
and soft, smooth feathers, while their brown eyes shone with intelligence. The
female young ones strutted about amid the moist rushes, glancing at the other
young storks and making acquaintances, and swallowing a frog at every third
step, or tossing a little snake about with their beaks, in a way they considered
very becoming, and besides it tasted very good. The young male storks soon began
to quarrel; they struck at each other with their wings, and pecked with their
beaks till the blood came. And in this manner many of the young ladies and gentlemen
were betrothed to each other: it was, of course, what they wanted, and indeed
what they lived for. Then they returned to a nest, and there the quarrelling
began afresh; for in hot countries people are almost all violent and passionate.
But for all that it was pleasant, especially for the old people, who watched
them with great joy: all that their young ones did suited them. Every day here
there was sunshine, plenty to eat, and nothing to think of but pleasure. But
in the rich castle of their Egyptian host, as they called him, pleasure was
not to be found. The rich and mighty lord of the castle lay on his couch, in
the midst of the great hall, with its many colored walls looking like the centre
of a great tulip; but he was stiff and powerless in all his limbs, and lay stretched
out like a mummy. His family and servants stood round him; he was not dead,
although he could scarcely be said to live. The healing moor-flower from the
north, which was to have been found and brought to him by her who loved him
so well, had not arrived. His young and beautiful daughter who, in swan’s plumage,
had flown over land and seas to the distant north, had never returned. She is
dead, so the two swan-maidens had said when they came home; and they made up
quite a story about her, and this is what they told,—

“We three flew away together through the air,” said they: “a hunter caught
sight of us, and shot at us with an arrow. The arrow struck our young friend
and sister, and slowly singing her farewell song she sank down, a dying swan,
into the forest lake. On the shores of the lake, under a spreading birch-tree,
we laid her in the cold earth. We had our revenge; we bound fire under the wings
of a swallow, who had a nest on the thatched roof of the huntsman. The house
took fire, and burst into flames; the hunter was burnt with the house, and the
light was reflected over the sea as far as the spreading birch, beneath which
we laid her sleeping dust. She will never return to the land of Egypt.” And
then they both wept. And stork-papa, who heard the story, snapped with his beak
so that it might be heard a long way off.

“Deceit and lies!” cried he; “I should like to run my beak deep into their
chests.”

“And perhaps break it off,” said the mamma stork, “then what a sight you would
be. Think first of yourself, and then of your family; all others are nothing
to us.”

“Yes, I know,” said the stork-papa; “but to-morrow I can easily place myself
on the edge of the open cupola, when the learned and wise men assemble to consult
on the state of the sick man; perhaps they may come a little nearer to the truth.”
And the learned and wise men assembled together, and talked a great deal on
every point; but the stork could make no sense out of anything they said; neither
were there any good results from their consultations, either for the sick man,
or for his daughter in the marshy heath. When we listen to what people say in
this world, we shall hear a great deal; but it is an advantage to know what
has been said and done before, when we listen to a conversation. The stork did,
and we know at least as much as he, the stork.

“Love is a life-giver. The highest love produces the highest life. Only through
love can the sick man be cured.” This had been said by many, and even the learned
men acknowledged that it was a wise saying.

“What a beautiful thought!” exclaimed the papa stork immediately.

“I don’t quite understand it,” said the mamma stork, when her husband repeated
it; “however, it is not my fault, but the fault of the thought; whatever it
may be, I have something else to think of.”

Now the learned men had spoken also of love between this one and that one;
of the difference of the love which we have for our neighbor, to the love that
exists between parents and children; of the love of the plant for the light,
and how the germ springs forth when the sunbeam kisses the ground. All these
things were so elaborately and learnedly explained, that it was impossible for
stork-papa to follow it, much less to talk about it. His thoughts on the subject
quite weighed him down; he stood the whole of the following day on one leg,
with half-shut eyes, thinking deeply. So much learning was quite a heavy weight
for him to carry. One thing, however, the papa stork could understand. Every
one, high and low, had from their inmost hearts expressed their opinion that
it was a great misfortune for so many thousands of people—the whole country
indeed—to have this man so sick, with no hopes of his recovery. And what joy
and blessing it would spread around if he could by any means be cured! But where
bloomed the flower that could bring him health? They had searched for it everywhere;
in learned writings, in the shining stars, in the weather and wind. Inquiries
had been made in every by-way that could be thought of, until at last the wise
and learned men has asserted, as we have been already told, that “love, the
life-giver, could alone give new life to a father;” and in saying this, they
had overdone it, and said more than they understood themselves. They repeated
it, and wrote it down as a recipe, “Love is a life-giver.” But how could such
a recipe be prepared—that was a difficulty they could not overcome. At last
it was decided that help could only come from the princess herself, whose whole
soul was wrapped up in her father, especially as a plan had been adopted by
her to enable her to obtain a remedy.

More than a year had passed since the princess had set out at night, when the
light of the young moon was soon lost beneath the horizon. She had gone to the
marble sphinx in the desert, shaking the sand from her sandals, and then passed
through the long passage, which leads to the centre of one of the great pyramids,
where the mighty kings of antiquity, surrounded with pomp and splendor, lie
veiled in the form of mummies. She had been told by the wise men, that if she
laid her head on the breast of one of them, from the head she would learn where
to find life and recovery for her father. She had performed all this, and in
a dream had learnt that she must bring home to her father the lotus flower,
which grows in the deep sea, near the moors and heath in the Danish land. The
very place and situation had been pointed out to her, and she was told that
the flower would restore her father to health and strength. And, therefore,
she had gone forth from the land of Egypt, flying over to the open marsh and
the wild moor in the plumage of a swan.

The papa and mamma storks knew all this, and we also know it now. We know,
too, that the Marsh King has drawn her down to himself, and that to the loved
ones at home she is forever dead. One of the wisest of them said, as the stork-mamma
also said, “That in some way she would, after all, manage to succeed;” and so
at last they comforted themselves with this hope, and would wait patiently;
in fact, they could do nothing better.

“I should like to get away the swan’s feathers from those two treacherous princesses,”
said the papa stork; “then, at least, they would not be able to fly over again
to the wild moor, and do more wickedness. I can hide the two suits of feathers
over yonder, till we find some use for them.”

“But where will you put them?” asked the mamma stork.

“In our nest on the moor. I and the young ones will carry them by turns during
our flight across; and as we return, should they prove too heavy for us, we
shall be sure to find plenty of places on the way in which we can conceal them
till our next journey. Certainly one suit of swan’s feathers would be enough
for the princess, but two are always better. In those northern countries no
one can have too many travelling wrappers.”

“No one will thank you for it,” said stork-mamma; “but you are master; and,
excepting at breeding time, I have nothing to say.”

In the Viking’s castle on the wild moor, to which the storks directed their
flight in the following spring, the little maiden still remained. They had named
her Helga, which was rather too soft a name for a child with a temper like hers,
although her form was still beautiful. Every month this temper showed itself
in sharper outlines; and in the course of years, while the storks still made
the same journeys in autumn to the hill, and in spring to the moors, the child
grew to be almost a woman, and before any one seemed aware of it, she was a
wonderfully beautiful maiden of sixteen. The casket was splendid, but the contents
were worthless. She was, indeed, wild and savage even in those hard, uncultivated
times. It was a pleasure to her to splash about with her white hands in the
warm blood of the horse which had been slain for sacrifice. In one of her wild
moods she bit off the head of the black cock, which the priest was about to
slay for the sacrifice. To her foster-father she said one day, “If thine enemy
were to pull down thine house about thy ears, and thou shouldest be sleeping
in unconscious security, I would not wake thee; even if I had the power I would
never do it, for my ears still tingle with the blow that thou gavest me years
ago. I have never forgotten it.” But the Viking treated her words as a joke;
he was, like every one else, bewitched with her beauty, and knew nothing of
the change in the form and temper of Helga at night. Without a saddle, she would
sit on a horse as if she were a part of it, while it rushed along at full speed;
nor would she spring from its back, even when it quarrelled with other horses
and bit them. She would often leap from the high shore into the sea with all
her clothes on, and swim to meet the Viking, when his boat was steering home
towards the shore. She once cut off a long lock of her beautiful hair, and twisted
it into a string for her bow. “If a thing is to be done well,” said she, “I
must do it myself.”

The Viking’s wife was, for the time in which she lived, a woman of strong character
and will; but, compared to her daughter, she was a gentle, timid woman, and
she knew that a wicked sorcerer had the terrible child in his power. It was
sometimes as if Helga acted from sheer wickedness; for often when her mother
stood on the threshold of the door, or stepped into the yard, she would seat
herself on the brink of the well, wave her arms and legs in the air, and suddenly
fall right in. Here she was able, from her frog nature, to dip and dive about
in the water of the deep well, until at last she would climb forth like a cat,
and come back into the hall dripping with water, so that the green leaves that
were strewed on the floor were whirled round, and carried away by the streams
that flowed from her.

But there was one time of the day which placed a check upon Helga. It was the
evening twilight; when this hour arrived she became quiet and thoughtful, and
allowed herself to be advised and led; then also a secret feeling seemed to
draw her towards her mother. And as usual, when the sun set, and the transformation
took place, both in body and mind, inwards and outwards, she would remain quiet
and mournful, with her form shrunk together in the shape of a frog. Her body
was much larger than those animals ever are, and on this account it was much
more hideous in appearance; for she looked like a wretched dwarf, with a frog’s
head, and webbed fingers. Her eyes had a most piteous expression; she was without
a voice, excepting a hollow, croaking sound, like the smothered sobs of a dreaming
child.

Then the Viking’s wife took her on her lap, and forgot the ugly form, as she
looked into the mournful eyes, and often said, “I could wish that thou wouldst
always remain my dumb frog child, for thou art too terrible when thou art clothed
in a form of beauty.” And the Viking woman wrote Runic characters against sorcery
and spells of sickness, and threw them over the wretched child; but they did
no good.

“One can scarcely believe that she was ever small enough to lie in the cup
of the water-lily,” said the papa stork; “and now she is grown up, and the image
of her Egyptian mother, especially about the eyes. Ah, we shall never see her
again; perhaps she has not discovered how to help herself, as you and the wise
men said she would. Year after year have I flown across and across the moor,
but there was no sign of her being still alive. Yes, and I may as well tell
you that you that each year, when I arrived a few days before you to repair
the nest, and put everything in its place, I have spent a whole night flying
here and there over the marshy lake, as if I had been an owl or a bat, but all
to no purpose. The two suit of swan’s plumage, which I and the young ones dragged
over here from the land of the Nile, are of no use; trouble enough it was to
us to bring them here in three journeys, and now they are lying at the bottom
of the nest; and if a fire should happen to break out, and the wooden house
be burnt down, they would be destroyed.”

“And our good nest would be destroyed, too,” said the mamma stork; “but you
think less of that than of your plumage stuff and your moor-princess. Go and
stay with her in the marsh if you like. You are a bad father to your own children,
as I have told you already, when I hatched my first brood. I only hope neither
we nor our children may have an arrow sent through our wings, owing to that
wild girl. Helga does not know in the least what she is about. We have lived
in this house longer than she has, she should think of that, and we have never
forgotten our duty. We have paid every year our toll of a feather, an egg, and
a young one, as it is only right we should do. You don’t suppose I can wander
about the court-yard, or go everywhere as I used to do in old times. I can do
it in Egypt, where I can be a companion of the people, without forgetting myself.
But here I cannot go and peep into the pots and kettles as I do there. No, I
can only sit up here and feel angry with that girl, the little wretch; and I
am angry with you, too; you should have left her lying in the water lily, then
no one would have known anything about her.”

“You are far better than your conversation,” said the papa stork; “I know you
better than you know yourself.” And with that he gave a hop, and flapped his
wings twice, proudly; then he stretched his neck and flew, or rather soared
away, without moving his outspread wings. He went on for some distance, and
then he gave a great flap with his wings and flew on his course at a rapid rate,
his head and neck bending proudly before him, while the sun’s rays fell on his
glossy plumage.

“He is the handsomest of them all,” said the mamma stork, as she watched him;
“but I won’t tell him so.”

Early in the autumn, the Viking again returned home laden with spoil, and bringing
prisoners with him. Among them was a young Christian priest, one of those who
contemned the gods of the north. Often lately there had been, both in hall and
chamber, a talk of the new faith which was spreading far and wide in the south,
and which, through the means of the holy Ansgarius, had already reached as far
as Hedeby on the Schlei. Even Helga had heard of this belief in the teachings
of One who was named Christ, and who for the love of mankind, and for their
redemption, had given up His life. But to her all this had, as it were, gone
in one ear and out the other. It seemed that she only understood the meaning
of the word “love,” when in the form of a miserable frog she crouched together
in the corner of the sleeping chamber; but the Viking’s wife had listened to
the wonderful story, and had felt herself strangely moved by it.

On their return, after this voyage, the men spoke of the beautiful temples
built of polished stone, which had been raised for the public worship of this
holy love. Some vessels, curiously formed of massive gold, had been brought
home among the booty. There was a peculiar fragrance about them all, for they
were incense vessels, which had been swung before the altars in the temples
by the Christian priests. In the deep stony cellars of the castle, the young
Christian priest was immured, and his hands and feet tied together with strips
of bark. The Viking’s wife considered him as beautiful as Baldur, and his distress
raised her pity; but Helga said he ought to have ropes fastened to his heels,
and be tied to the tails of wild animals.

“I would let the dogs loose after him” she said; “over the moor and across
the heath. Hurrah! that would be a spectacle for the gods, and better still
to follow in its course.”

But the Viking would not allow him to die such a death as that, especially
as he was the disowned and despiser of the high gods. In a few days, he had
decided to have him offered as a sacrifice on the blood-stone in the grove.
For the first time, a man was to be sacrificed here. Helga begged to be allowed
to sprinkle the assembled people with the blood of the priest. She sharpened
her glittering knife; and when one of the great, savage dogs, who were running
about the Viking’s castle in great numbers, sprang towards her, she thrust the
knife into his side, merely, as she said, to prove its sharpness.

The Viking’s wife looked at the wild, badly disposed girl, with great sorrow;
and when night came on, and her daughter’s beautiful form and disposition were
changed, she spoke in eloquent words to Helga of the sorrow and deep grief that
was in her heart. The ugly frog, in its monstrous shape, stood before her, and
raised its brown mournful eyes to her face, listening to her words, and seeming
to understand them with the intelligence of a human being.

“Never once to my lord and husband has a word passed my lips of what I have
to suffer through you; my heart is full of grief about you,” said the Viking’s
wife. “The love of a mother is greater and more powerful than I ever imagined.
But love never entered thy heart; it is cold and clammy, like the plants on
the moor.”

Then the miserable form trembled; it was as if these words had touched an invisible
bond between body and soul, for great tears stood in the eyes.

“A bitter time will come for thee at last,” continued the Viking’s wife; “and
it will be terrible for me too. It had been better for thee if thou hadst been
left on the high-road, with the cold night wind to lull thee to sleep.” And
the Viking’s wife shed bitter tears, and went away in anger and sorrow, passing
under the partition of furs, which hung loose over the beam and divided the
hall.

The shrivelled frog still sat in the corner alone. Deep silence reigned around.
At intervals, a half-stifled sigh was heard from its inmost soul; it was the
soul of Helga. It seemed in pain, as if a new life were arising in her heart.
Then she took a step forward and listened; then stepped again forward, and seized
with her clumsy hands the heavy bar which was laid across the door. Gently,
and with much trouble, she pushed back the bar, as silently lifted the latch,
and then took up the glimmering lamp which stood in the ante-chamber of the
hall. It seemed as if a stronger will than her own gave her strength. She removed
the iron bolt from the closed cellar-door, and slipped in to the prisoner. He
was slumbering. She touched him with her cold, moist hand, and as he awoke and
caught sight of the hideous form, he shuddered as if he beheld a wicked apparition.
She drew her knife, cut through the bonds which confined his hands and feet,
and beckoned to him to follow her. He uttered some holy names and made the sign
of the cross, while the form remained motionless by his side.

“Who art thou?” he asked, “whose outward appearance is that of an animal, while
thou willingly performest acts of mercy?”

The frog-figure beckoned to him to follow her, and led him through a long gallery
concealed by hanging drapery to the stables, and then pointed to a horse. He
mounted upon it, and she sprang up also before him, and held tightly by the
animal’s mane. The prisoner understood her, and they rode on at a rapid trot,
by a road which he would never have found by himself, across the open heath.
He forgot her ugly form, and only thought how the mercy and loving-kindness
of the Almighty was acting through this hideous apparition. As he offered pious
prayers and sang holy songs of praise, she trembled. Was it the effect of prayer
and praise that caused this? or, was she shuddering in the cold morning air
at the thought of approaching twilight? What were her feelings? She raised herself
up, and wanted to stop the horse and spring off, but the Christian priest held
her back with all his might, and then sang a pious song, as if this could loosen
the wicked charm that had changed her into the semblance of a frog.

And the horse galloped on more wildly than before. The sky painted itself red,
the first sunbeam pierced through the clouds, and in the clear flood of sunlight
the frog became changed. It was Helga again, young and beautiful, but with a
wicked demoniac spirit. He held now a beautiful young woman in his arms, and
he was horrified at the sight. He stopped the horse, and sprang from its back.
He imagined that some new sorcery was at work. But Helga also leaped from the
horse and stood on the ground. The child’s short garment reached only to her
knee. She snatched the sharp knife from her girdle, and rushed like lightning
at the astonished priest. “Let me get at thee!” she cried; “let me get at thee,
that I may plunge this knife into thy body. Thou art pale as ashes, thou beardless
slave.” She pressed in upon him. They struggled with each other in heavy combat,
but it was as if an invisible power had been given to the Christian in the struggle.
He held her fast, and the old oak under which they stood seemed to help him,
for the loosened roots on the ground became entangled in the maiden’s feet,
and held them fast. Close by rose a bubbling spring, and he sprinkled Helga’s
face and neck with the water, commanded the unclean spirit to come forth, and
pronounced upon her a Christian blessing. But the water of faith has no power
unless the well-spring of faith flows within. And yet even here its power was
shown; something more than the mere strength of a man opposed itself, through
his means, against the evil which struggled within her. His holy action seemed
to overpower her. She dropped her arms, glanced at him with pale cheeks and
looks of amazement. He appeared to her a mighty magician skilled in secret arts;
his language was the darkest magic to her, and the movements of his hands in
the air were as the secret signs of a magician’s wand. She would not have blinked
had he waved over her head a sharp knife or a glittering axe; but she shrunk
from him as he signed her with the sign of the cross on her forehead and breast,
and sat before him like a tame bird, with her head bowed down. Then he spoke
to her, in gentle words, of the deed of love she had performed for him during
the night, when she had come to him in the form of an ugly frog, to loosen his
bonds, and to lead him forth to life and light; and he told her that she was
bound in closer fetters than he had been, and that she could recover also life
and light by his means. He would take her to Hedeby2 to St. Ansgarius, and there,
in that Christian town, the spell of the sorcerer would be removed. But he would
not let her sit before him on the horse, though of her own free will she wished
to do so. “Thou must sit behind me, not before me,” said he. “Thy magic beauty
has a magic power which comes from an evil origin, and I fear it; still I am
sure to overcome through my faith in Christ.” Then he knelt down, and prayed
with pious fervor. It was as if the quiet woodland were a holy church consecrated
by his worship. The birds sang as if they were also of this new congregation;
and the fragrance of the wild flowers was as the ambrosial perfume of incense;
while, above all, sounded the words of Scripture, “A light to them that sit
in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide their feet into the way of
peace.” And he spoke these words with the deep longing of his whole nature.

Meanwhile, the horse that had carried them in wild career stood quietly by,
plucking at the tall bramble-bushes, till the ripe young berries fell down upon
Helga’s hands, as if inviting her to eat. Patiently she allowed herself to be
lifted on the horse, and sat there like a somnambulist—as one who walked in
his sleep. The Christian bound two branches together with bark, in the form
of a cross, and held it on high as they rode through the forest. The way gradually
grew thicker of brushwood, as they rode along, till at last it became a trackless
wilderness. Bushes of the wild sloe here and there blocked up the path, so that
they had to ride over them. The bubbling spring formed not a stream, but a marsh,
round which also they were obliged to guide the horse; still there were strength
and refreshment in the cool forest breeze, and no trifling power in the gentle
words spoken in faith and Christian love by the young priest, whose inmost heart
yearned to lead this poor lost one into the way of light and life. It is said
that rain-drops can make a hollow in the hardest stone, and the waves of the
sea can smooth and round the rough edges of the rocks; so did the dew of mercy
fall upon Helga, softening what was hard, and smoothing what was rough in her
character. These effects did not yet appear; she was not herself aware of them;
neither does the seed in the lap of earth know, when the refreshing dew and
the warm sunbeams fall upon it, that it contains within itself power by which
it will flourish and bloom. The song of the mother sinks into the heart of the
child, and the little one prattles the words after her, without understanding
their meaning; but after a time the thoughts expand, and what has been heard
in childhood seems to the mind clear and bright. So now the “Word,” which is
all-powerful to create, was working in the heart of Helga.

They rode forth from the thick forest, crossed the heath, and again entered
a pathless wood. Here, towards evening, they met with robbers.

“Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?” cried the robbers, seizing
the horse by the bridle, and dragging the two riders from its back.

The priest had nothing to defend himself with, but the knife he had taken from
Helga, and with this he struck out right and left. One of the robbers raised
his axe against him; but the young priest sprang on one side, and avoided the
blow, which fell with great force on the horse’s neck, so that the blood gushed
forth, and the animal sunk to the ground. Then Helga seemed suddenly to awake
from her long, deep reverie; she threw herself hastily upon the dying animal.
The priest placed himself before her, to defend and shelter her; but one of
the robbers swung his iron axe against the Christian’s head with such force
that it was dashed to pieces, the blood and brains were scattered about, and
he fell dead upon the ground. Then the robbers seized beautiful Helga by her
white arms and slender waist; but at that moment the sun went down, and as its
last ray disappeared, she was changed into the form of a frog. A greenish white
mouth spread half over her face; her arms became thin and slimy; while broad
hands, with webbed fingers, spread themselves out like fans. Then the robbers,
in terror, let her go, and she stood among them, a hideous monster; and as is
the nature of frogs to do, she hopped up as high as her own size, and disappeared
in the thicket. Then the robbers knew that this must be the work of an evil
spirit or some secret sorcery, and, in a terrible fright, they ran hastily from
the spot.

The full moon had already risen, and was shining in all her radiant splendor
over the earth, when from the thicket, in the form of a frog, crept poor Helga.
She stood still by the corpse of the Christian priest, and the carcase of the
dead horse. She looked at them with eyes that seemed to weep, and from the frog’s
head came forth a croaking sound, as when a child bursts into tears. She threw
herself first upon one, and then upon the other; brought water in her hand,
which, from being webbed, was large and hollow, and poured it over them; but
they were dead, and dead they would remain. She understood that at last. Soon
wild animals would come and tear their dead bodies; but no, that must not happen.
Then she dug up the earth, as deep as she was able, that she might prepare a
grave for them. She had nothing but a branch of a tree and her two hands, between
the fingers of which the webbed skin stretched, and they were torn by the work,
while the blood ran down her hands. She saw at last that her work would be useless,
more than she could accomplish; so she fetched more water, and washed the face
of the dead, and then covered it with fresh green leaves; she also brought large
boughs and spread over him, and scattered dried leaves between the branches.
Then she brought the heaviest stones that she could carry, and laid them over
the dead body, filling up the crevices with moss, till she thought she had fenced
in his resting-place strongly enough. The difficult task had employed her the
whole night; and as the sun broke forth, there stood the beautiful Helga in
all her loveliness, with her bleeding hands, and, for the first time, with tears
on her maiden cheeks. It was, in this transformation, as if two natures were
striving together within her; her whole frame trembled, and she looked around
her as if she had just awoke from a painful dream. She leaned for support against
the trunk of a slender tree, and at last climbed to the topmost branches, like
a cat, and seated herself firmly upon them. She remained there the whole day,
sitting alone, like a frightened squirrel, in the silent solitude of the wood,
where the rest and stillness is as the calm of death.

Butterflies fluttered around her, and close by were several ant-hills, each
with its hundreds of busy little creatures moving quickly to and fro. In the
air, danced myriads of gnats, swarm upon swarm, troops of buzzing flies, ladybirds,
dragon-flies with golden wings, and other little winged creatures. The worm
crawled forth from the moist ground, and the moles crept out; but, excepting
these, all around had the stillness of death: but when people say this, they
do not quite understand themselves what they mean. None noticed Helga but a
flock of magpies, which flew chattering round the top of the tree on which she
sat. These birds hopped close to her on the branches with bold curiosity. A
glance from her eyes was a signal to frighten them away, and they were not clever
enough to find out who she was; indeed she hardly knew herself.

When the sun was near setting, and the evening’s twilight about to commence,
the approaching transformation aroused her to fresh exertion. She let herself
down gently from the tree, and, as the last sunbeam vanished, she stood again
in the wrinkled form of a frog, with the torn, webbed skin on her hands, but
her eyes now gleamed with more radiant beauty than they had ever possessed in
her most beautiful form of loveliness; they were now pure, mild maidenly eyes
that shone forth in the face of a frog. They showed the existence of deep feeling
and a human heart, and the beauteous eyes overflowed with tears, weeping precious
drops that lightened the heart.

On the raised mound which she had made as a grave for the dead priest, she
found the cross made of the branches of a tree, the last work of him who now
lay dead and cold beneath it. A sudden thought came to Helga, and she lifted
up the cross and planted it upon the grave, between the stones that covered
him and the dead horse. The sad recollection brought the tears to her eyes,
and in this gentle spirit she traced the same sign in the sand round the grave;
and as she formed, with both her hands, the sign of the cross, the web skin
fell from them like a torn glove. She washed her hands in the water of the spring,
and gazed with astonishment at their delicate whiteness. Again she made the
holy sign in the air, between herself and the dead man; her lips trembled, her
tongue moved, and the name which she in her ride through the forest had so often
heard spoken, rose to her lips, and she uttered the words, “Jesus Christ.” Then
the frog skin fell from her; she was once more a lovely maiden. Her head bent
wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and then she slept.

Her sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight, she awoke; before her stood
the dead horse, prancing and full of life, which shone forth from his eyes and
from his wounded neck. Close by his side appeared the murdered Christian priest,
more beautiful than Baldur, as the Viking’s wife had said; but now he came as
if in a flame of fire. Such gravity, such stern justice, such a piercing glance
shone from his large, gentle eyes, that it seemed to penetrate into every corner
of her heart. Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her memory returned
with a power as if it had been the day of judgment. Every good deed that had
been done for her, every loving word that had been said, were vividly before
her mind. She understood now that love had kept her here during the day of her
trial; while the creature formed of dust and clay, soul and spirit, had wrestled
and struggled with evil. She acknowledged that she had only followed the impulses
of an evil disposition, that she had done nothing to cure herself; everything
had been given her, and all had happened as it were by the ordination of Providence.
She bowed herself humbly, confessed her great imperfections in the sight of
Him who can read every fault of the heart, and then the priest spoke. “Daughter
of the moorland, thou hast come from the swamp and the marshy earth, but from
this thou shalt arise. The sunlight shining into thy inmost soul proves the
origin from which thou hast really sprung, and has restored the body to its
natural form. I am come to thee from the land of the dead, and thou also must
pass through the valley to reach the holy mountains where mercy and perfection
dwell. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby that thou mayst receive Christian baptism,
for first thou must remove the thick veil with which the waters of the moorland
are shrouded, and bring forth from its depths the living author of thy being
and thy life. Till this is done, thou canst not receive consecration.”

Then he lifted her on the horse and gave her a golden censer, similar to those
she had already seen at the Viking’s house. A sweet perfume arose from it, while
the open wound in the forehead of the slain priest, shone with the rays of a
diamond. He took the cross from the grave, and held it aloft, and now they rode
through the air over the rustling trees, over the hills where warriors lay buried
each by his dead war-horse; and the brazen monumental figures rose up and galloped
forth, and stationed themselves on the summits of the hills. The golden crescent
on their foreheads, fastened with golden knots, glittered in the moonlight,
and their mantles floated in the wind. The dragon, that guards buried treasure,
lifted his head and gazed after them. The goblins and the satyrs peeped out
from beneath the hills, and flitted to and fro in the fields, waving blue, red,
and green torches, like the glowing sparks in burning paper. Over woodland and
heath, flood and fen, they flew on, till they reached the wild moor, over which
they hovered in broad circles. The Christian priest held the cross aloft, and
it glittered like gold, while from his lips sounded pious prayers. Beautiful
Helga’s voice joined with his in the hymns he sung, as a child joins in her
mother’s song. She swung the censer, and a wonderful fragrance of incense arose
from it; so powerful, that the reeds and rushes of the moor burst forth into
blossom. Each germ came forth from the deep ground: all that had life raised
itself. Blooming water-lilies spread themselves forth like a carpet of wrought
flowers, and upon them lay a slumbering woman, young and beautiful. Helga fancied
that it was her own image she saw reflected in the still water. But it was her
mother she beheld, the wife of the Marsh King, the princess from the land of
the Nile.

The dead Christian priest desired that the sleeping woman should be lifted
on the horse, but the horse sank beneath the load, as if he had been a funeral
pall fluttering in the wind. But the sign of the cross made the airy phantom
strong, and then the three rode away from the marsh to firm ground.

At the same moment the cock crew in the Viking’s castle, and the dream figures
dissolved and floated away in the air, but mother and daughter stood opposite
to each other.

“Am I looking at my own image in the deep water?” said the mother.

“Is it myself that I see represented on a white shield?” cried the daughter.

Then they came nearer to each other in a fond embrace. The mother’s heart beat
quickly, and she understood the quickened pulses. “My child!” she exclaimed,
“the flower of my heart—my lotus flower of the deep water!” and she embraced
her child again and wept, and the tears were as a baptism of new life and love
for Helga. “In swan’s plumage I came here,” said the mother, “and here I threw
off my feather dress. Then I sank down through the wavering ground, deep into
the marsh beneath, which closed like a wall around me; I found myself after
a while in fresher water; still a power drew me down deeper and deeper. I felt
the weight of sleep upon my eyelids. Then I slept, and dreams hovered round
me. It seemed to me as if I were again in the pyramids of Egypt, and yet the
waving elder trunk that had frightened me on the moor stood ever before me.
I observed the clefts and wrinkles in the stem; they shone forth in strange
colors, and took the form of hieroglyphics. It was the mummy case on which I
gazed. At last it burst, and forth stepped the thousand years’ old king, the
mummy form, black as pitch, black as the shining wood-snail, or the slimy mud
of the swamp. Whether it was really the mummy or the Marsh King I know not.
He seized me in his arms, and I felt as if I must die. When I recovered myself,
I found in my bosom a little bird, flapping its wings, twittering and fluttering.
The bird flew away from my bosom, upwards towards the dark, heavy canopy above
me, but a long, green band kept it fastened to me. I heard and understood the
tenor of its longings. Freedom! sunlight! to my father! Then I thought of my
father, and the sunny land of my birth, my life, and my love. Then I loosened
the band, and let the bird fly away to its home—to a father. Since that hour
I have ceased to dream; my sleep has been long and heavy, till in this very
hour, harmony and fragrance awoke me, and set me free.”

The green band which fastened the wings of the bird to the mother’s heart,
where did it flutter now? whither had it been wafted? The stork only had seen
it. The band was the green stalk, the cup of the flower the cradle in which
lay the child, that now in blooming beauty had been folded to the mother’s heart.

And while the two were resting in each other’s arms, the old stork flew round
and round them in narrowing circles, till at length he flew away swiftly to
his nest, and fetched away the two suits of swan’s feathers, which he had preserved
there for many years. Then he returned to the mother and daughter, and threw
the swan’s plumage over them; the feathers immediately closed around them, and
they rose up from the earth in the form of two white swans.

“And now we can converse with pleasure,” said the stork-papa; “we can understand
one another, although the beaks of birds are so different in shape. It is very
fortunate that you came to-night. To-morrow we should have been gone. The mother,
myself and the little ones, we’re about to fly to the south. Look at me now:
I am an old friend from the Nile, and a mother’s heart contains more than her
beak. She always said that the princess would know how to help herself. I and
the young ones carried the swan’s feathers over here, and I am glad of it now,
and how lucky it is that I am here still. When the day dawns we shall start
with a great company of other storks. We’ll fly first, and you can follow in
our track, so that you cannot miss your way. I and the young ones will have
an eye upon you.”

“And the lotus-flower which I was to take with me,” said the Egyptian princess,
“is flying here by my side, clothed in swan’s feathers. The flower of my heart
will travel with me; and so the riddle is solved. Now for home! now for home!”

But Helga said she could not leave the Danish land without once more seeing
her foster-mother, the loving wife of the Viking. Each pleasing recollection,
each kind word, every tear from the heart which her foster-mother had wept for
her, rose in her mind, and at that moment she felt as if she loved this mother
the best.

“Yes, we must go to the Viking’s castle,” said the stork; “mother and the young
ones are waiting for me there. How they will open their eyes and flap their
wings! My wife, you see, does not say much; she is short and abrupt in her manner;
but she means well, for all that. I will flap my wings at once, that they may
hear us coming.” Then stork-papa flapped his wings in first-rate style, and
he and the swans flew away to the Viking’s castle.

In the castle, every one was in a deep sleep. It had been late in the evening
before the Viking’s wife retired to rest. She was anxious about Helga, who,
three days before, had vanished with the Christian priest. Helga must have helped
him in his flight, for it was her horse that was missed from the stable; but
by what power had all this been accomplished? The Viking’s wife thought of it
with wonder, thought on the miracles which they said could be performed by those
who believed in the Christian faith, and followed its teachings. These passing
thoughts formed themselves into a vivid dream, and it seemed to her that she
was still lying awake on her couch, while without darkness reigned. A storm
arose; she heard the lake dashing and rolling from east and west, like the waves
of the North Sea or the Cattegat. The monstrous snake which, it is said, surrounds
the earth in the depths of the ocean, was trembling in spasmodic convulsions.
The night of the fall of the gods was come, “Ragnorock,” as the heathens call
the judgment-day, when everything shall pass away, even the high gods themselves.
The war trumpet sounded; riding upon the rainbow, came the gods, clad in steel,
to fight their last battle on the last battle-field. Before them flew the winged
vampires, and the dead warriors closed up the train. The whole firmament was
ablaze with the northern lights, and yet the darkness triumphed. It was a terrible
hour. And, close to the terrified woman, Helga seemed to be seated on the floor,
in the hideous form of a frog, yet trembling, and clinging to her foster-mother,
who took her on her lap, and lovingly caressed her, hideous and frog-like as
she was. The air was filled with the clashing of arms and the hissing of arrows,
as if a storm of hail was descending upon the earth. It seemed to her the hour
when earth and sky would burst asunder, and all things be swallowed up in Saturn’s
fiery lake; but she knew that a new heaven and a new earth would arise, and
that corn-fields would wave where now the lake rolled over desolate sands, and
the ineffable God reign. Then she saw rising from the region of the dead, Baldur
the gentle, the loving, and as the Viking’s wife gazed upon him, she recognized
his countenance. It was the captive Christian priest. “White Christian!” she
exclaimed aloud, and with the words, she pressed a kiss on the forehead of the
hideous frog-child. Then the frog-skin fell off, and Helga stood before her
in all her beauty, more lovely and gentle-looking, and with eyes beaming with
love. She kissed the hands of her foster-mother, blessed her for all her fostering
love and care during the days of her trial and misery, for the thoughts she
had suggested and awoke in her heart, and for naming the Name which she now
repeated. Then beautiful Helga rose as a mighty swan, and spread her wings with
the rushing sound of troops of birds of passage flying through the air.

Then the Viking’s wife awoke, but she still heard the rushing sound without.
She knew it was the time for the storks to depart, and that it must be their
wings which she heard. She felt she should like to see them once more, and bid
them farewell. She rose from her couch, stepped out on the threshold, and beheld,
on the ridge of the roof, a party of storks ranged side by side. Troops of the
birds were flying in circles over the castle and the highest trees; but just
before her, as she stood on the threshold and close to the well where Helga
had so often sat and alarmed her with her wildness, now stood two swans, gazing
at her with intelligent eyes. Then she remembered her dream, which still appeared
to her as a reality. She thought of Helga in the form of a swan. She thought
of a Christian priest, and suddenly a wonderful joy arose in her heart. The
swans flapped their wings and arched their necks as if to offer her a greeting,
and the Viking’s wife spread out her arms towards them, as if she accepted it,
and smiled through her tears. She was roused from deep thought by a rustling
of wings and snapping of beaks; all the storks arose, and started on their journey
towards the south.

“We will not wait for the swans,” said the mamma stork; “if they want to go
with us, let them come now; we can’t sit here till the plovers start. It is
a fine thing after all to travel in families, not like the finches and the partridges.
There the male and the female birds fly in separate flocks, which, to speak
candidly, I consider very unbecoming.”

“What are those swans flapping their wings for?”

“Well, every one flies in his own fashion,” said the papa stork. “The swans
fly in an oblique line; the cranes, in the form of a triangle; and the plovers,
in a curved line like a snake.”

“Don’t talk about snakes while we are flying up here,” said stork-mamma. “It
puts ideas into the children’s heads that can not be realized.”

“Are those the high mountains I have heard spoken of?” asked Helga, in the
swan’s plumage.

“They are storm-clouds driving along beneath us,” replied her mother.

“What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?” again inquired Helga.

“Those are mountains covered with perpetual snows, that you see yonder,” said
her mother. And then they flew across the Alps towards the blue Mediterranean.

“Africa’s land! Egyptia’s strand!” sang the daughter of the Nile, in her swan’s
plumage, as from the upper air she caught sight of her native land, a narrow,
golden, wavy strip on the shores of the Nile; the other birds espied it also
and hastened their flight.

“I can smell the Nile mud and the wet frogs,” said the stork-mamma, “and I
begin to feel quite hungry. Yes, now you shall taste something nice, and you
will see the marabout bird, and the ibis, and the crane. They all belong to
our family, but they are not nearly so handsome as we are. They give themselves
great airs, especially the ibis. The Egyptians have spoilt him. They make a
mummy of him, and stuff him with spices. I would rather be stuffed with live
frogs, and so would you, and so you shall. Better have something in your inside
while you are alive, than to be made a parade of after you are dead. That is
my opinion, and I am always right.”

“The storks are come,” was said in the great house on the banks of the Nile,
where the lord lay in the hall on his downy cushions, covered with a leopard
skin, scarcely alive, yet not dead, waiting and hoping for the lotus-flower
from the deep moorland in the far north. Relatives and servants were standing
by his couch, when the two beautiful swans who had come with the storks flew
into the hall. They threw off their soft white plumage, and two lovely female
forms approached the pale, sick old man, and threw back their long hair, and
when Helga bent over her grandfather, redness came back to his cheeks, his eyes
brightened, and life returned to his benumbed limbs. The old man rose up with
health and energy renewed; daughter and grandchild welcomed him as joyfully
as if with a morning greeting after a long and troubled dream.

Joy reigned through the whole house, as well as in the stork’s nest; although
there the chief cause was really the good food, especially the quantities of
frogs, which seemed to spring out of the ground in swarms.

Then the learned men hastened to note down, in flying characters, the story
of the two princesses, and spoke of the arrival of the health-giving flower
as a mighty event, which had been a blessing to the house and the land. Meanwhile,
the stork-papa told the story to his family in his own way; but not till they
had eaten and were satisfied; otherwise they would have had something else to
do than to listen to stories.

“Well,” said the stork-mamma, when she had heard it, “you will be made something
of at last; I suppose they can do nothing less.”

“What could I be made?” said stork-papa; “what have I done?— just nothing.”

“You have done more than all the rest,” she replied. “But for you and the youngsters
the two young princesses would never have seen Egypt again, and the recovery
of the old man would not have been effected. You will become something. They
must certainly give you a doctor’s hood, and our young ones will inherit it,
and their children after them, and so on. You already look like an Egyptian
doctor, at least in my eyes.”

“I cannot quite remember the words I heard when I listened on the roof,” said
stork-papa, while relating the story to his family; “all I know is, that what
the wise men said was so complicated and so learned, that they received not
only rank, but presents; even the head cook at the great house was honored with
a mark of distinction, most likely for the soup.”

“And what did you receive?” said the stork-mamma. “They certainly ought not
to forget the most important person in the affair, as you really are. The learned
men have done nothing at all but use their tongues. Surely they will not overlook
you.”

Late in the night, while the gentle sleep of peace rested on the now happy
house, there was still one watcher. It was not stork-papa, who, although he
stood on guard on one leg, could sleep soundly. Helga alone was awake. She leaned
over the balcony, gazing at the sparkling stars that shone clearer and brighter
in the pure air than they had done in the north, and yet they were the same
stars. She thought of the Viking’s wife in the wild moorland, of the gentle
eyes of her foster-mother, and of the tears she had shed over the poor frog-child
that now lived in splendor and starry beauty by the waters of the Nile, with
air balmy and sweet as spring. She thought of the love that dwelt in the breast
of the heathen woman, love that had been shown to a wretched creature, hateful
as a human being, and hideous when in the form of an animal. She looked at the
glittering stars, and thought of the radiance that had shone forth on the forehead
of the dead man, as she had fled with him over the woodland and moor. Tones
were awakened in her memory; words which she had heard him speak as they rode
onward, when she was carried, wondering and trembling, through the air; words
from the great Fountain of love, the highest love that embraces all the human
race. What had not been won and achieved by this love?

Day and night beautiful Helga was absorbed in the contemplation of the great
amount of her happiness, and lost herself in the contemplation, like a child
who turns hurriedly from the giver to examine the beautiful gifts. She was over-powered
with her good fortune, which seemed always increasing, and therefore what might
it become in the future? Had she not been brought by a wonderful miracle to
all this joy and happiness? And in these thoughts she indulged, until at last
she thought no more of the Giver. It was the over-abundance of youthful spirits
unfolding its wings for a daring flight. Her eyes sparkled with energy, when
suddenly arose a loud noise in the court below, and the daring thought vanished.
She looked down, and saw two large ostriches running round quickly in narrow
circles; she had never seen these creatures before,—great, coarse, clumsy-looking
birds with curious wings that looked as if they had been clipped, and the birds
themselves had the appearance of having been roughly used. She inquired about
them, and for the first time heard the legend which the Egyptians relate respecting
the ostrich.

Once, say they, the ostriches were a beautiful and glorious race of birds,
with large, strong wings. One evening the other large birds of the forest said
to the ostrich, “Brother, shall we fly to the river to-morrow morning to drink,
God willing?” and the ostrich answered, “I will.”

With the break of day, therefore, they commenced their flight; first rising
high in the air, towards the sun, which is the eye of God; still higher and
higher the ostrich flew, far above the other birds, proudly approaching the
light, trusting in its own strength, and thinking not of the Giver, or saying,
“if God will.” When suddenly the avenging angel drew back the veil from the
flaming ocean of sunlight, and in a moment the wings of the proud bird were
scorched and shrivelled, and they sunk miserably to the earth. Since that time
the ostrich and his race have never been able to rise in the air; they can only
fly terror-stricken along the ground, or run round and round in narrow circles.
It is a warning to mankind, that in all our thoughts and schemes, and in every
action we undertake, we should say, “if God will.”

Then Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and seriously, and looked at the circling
ostrich, as with timid fear and simple pleasure it glanced at its own great
shadow on the sunlit walls. And the story of the ostrich sunk deeply into the
heart and mind of Helga: a life of happiness, both in the present and in the
future, seemed secure for her, and what was yet to come might be the best of
all, God willing.

Early in the spring, when the storks were again about to journey northward,
beautiful Helga took off her golden bracelets, scratched her name on them, and
beckoned to the stork-father. He came to her, and she placed the golden circlet
round his neck, and begged him to deliver it safely to the Viking’s wife, so
that she might know that her foster-daughter still lived, was happy, and had
not forgotten her.

“It is rather heavy to carry,” thought stork-papa, when he had it on his neck;
“but gold and honor are not to be flung into the street. The stork brings good
fortune—they’ll be obliged to acknowledge that at last.”

“You lay gold, and I lay eggs,” said stork-mamma; “with you it is only once
in a way, I lay eggs every year But no one appreciates what we do; I call it
very mortifying.”

“But then we have a consciousness of our own worth, mother,” replied stork-papa.

“What good will that do you?” retorted stork-mamma; “it will neither bring
you a fair wind, nor a good meal.”

“The little nightingale, who is singing yonder in the tamarind grove, will
soon be going north, too.” Helga said she had often heard her singing on the
wild moor, so she determined to send a message by her. While flying in the swan’s
plumage she had learnt the bird language; she had often conversed with the stork
and the swallow, and she knew that the nightingale would understand. So she
begged the nightingale to fly to the beechwood, on the peninsula of Jutland,
where a mound of stone and twigs had been raised to form the grave, and she
begged the nightingale to persuade all the other little birds to build their
nests round the place, so that evermore should resound over that grave music
and song. And the nightingale flew away, and time flew away also.

In the autumn, an eagle, standing upon a pyramid, saw a stately train of richly
laden camels, and men attired in armor on foaming Arabian steeds, whose glossy
skins shone like silver, their nostrils were pink, and their thick, flowing
manes hung almost to their slender legs. A royal prince of Arabia, handsome
as a prince should be, and accompanied by distinguished guests, was on his way
to the stately house, on the roof of which the storks’ empty nests might be
seen. They were away now in the far north, but expected to return very soon.
And, indeed, they returned on a day that was rich in joy and gladness.

A marriage was being celebrated, in which the beautiful Helga, glittering in
silk and jewels, was the bride, and the bridegroom the young Arab prince. Bride
and bridegroom sat at the upper end of the table, between the bride’s mother
and grandfather. But her gaze was not on the bridegroom, with his manly, sunburnt
face, round which curled a black beard, and whose dark fiery eyes were fixed
upon her; but away from him, at a twinkling star, that shone down upon her from
the sky. Then was heard the sound of rushing wings beating the air. The storks
were coming home; and the old stork pair, although tired with the journey and
requiring rest, did not fail to fly down at once to the balustrades of the verandah,
for they knew already what feast was being celebrated. They had heard of it
on the borders of the land, and also that Helga had caused their figures to
be represented on the walls, for they belonged to her history.

“I call that very sensible and pretty,” said stork-papa.

“Yes, but it is very little,” said mamma stork; “they could not possibly have
done less.”

But, when Helga saw them, she rose and went out into the verandah to stroke
the backs of the storks. The old stork pair bowed their heads, and curved their
necks, and even the youngest among the young ones felt honored by this reception.

Helga continued to gaze upon the glittering star, which seemed to glow brighter
and purer in its light; then between herself and the star floated a form, purer
than the air, and visible through it. It floated quite near to her, and she
saw that it was the dead Christian priest, who also was coming to her wedding
feast—coming from the heavenly kingdom.

“The glory and brightness, yonder, outshines all that is known on earth,” said
he.

Then Helga the fair prayed more gently, and more earnestly, than she had ever
prayed in her life before, that she might be permitted to gaze, if only for
a single moment, at the glory and brightness of the heavenly kingdom. Then she
felt herself lifted up, as it were, above the earth, through a sea of sound
and thought; not only around her, but within her, was there light and song,
such as words cannot express.

“Now we must return;” he said; “you will be missed.”

“Only one more look,” she begged; “but one short moment more.”

“We must return to earth; the guests will have all departed. Only one more
look!—the last!”

Then Helga stood again in the verandah. But the marriage lamps in the festive
hall had been all extinguished, and the torches outside had vanished. The storks
were gone; not a guest could be seen; no bridegroom—all in those few short moments
seemed to have died. Then a great dread fell upon her. She stepped from the
verandah through the empty hall into the next chamber, where slept strange warriors.
She opened a side door, which once led into her own apartment, but now, as she
passed through, she found herself suddenly in a garden which she had never before
seen here, the sky blushed red, it was the dawn of morning. Three minutes only
in heaven, and a whole night on earth had passed away! Then she saw the storks,
and called to them in their own language.

Then stork-papa turned his head towards here, listened to her words, and drew
near. “You speak our language,” said he, “what do you wish? Why do you appear,—you—a
strange woman?”

“It is I—it is Helga! Dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we were speaking
together yonder in the verandah.”

“That is a mistake,” said the stork, “you must have dreamed all this.”

“No, no,” she exclaimed. Then she reminded him of the Viking’s castle, of the
great lake, and of the journey across the ocean.

Then stork-papa winked his eyes, and said, “Why that’s an old story which happened
in the time of my grandfather. There certainly was a princess of that kind here
in Egypt once, who came from the Danish land, but she vanished on the evening
of her wedding day, many hundred years ago, and never came back. You may read
about it yourself yonder, on a monument in the garden. There you will find swans
and storks sculptured, and on the top is a figure of the princess Helga, in
marble.”

And so it was; Helga understood it all now, and sank on her knees. The sun
burst forth in all its glory, and, as in olden times, the form of the frog vanished
in his beams, and the beautiful form stood forth in all its loveliness; so now,
bathed in light, rose a beautiful form, purer, clearer than air—a ray of brightness—from
the Source of light Himself. The body crumbled into dust, and a faded lotus-flower
lay on the spot on which Helga had stood.

“Now that is a new ending to the story,” said stork-papa; “I really never expected
it would end in this way, but it seems a very good ending.”

“And what will the young ones say to it, I wonder?” said stork-mamma.

“Ah, that is a very important question,” replied the stork.

Sea Kings, or pirates of the north.
Now the city of Sleswig.

The Travelling Companion

Poor John was very sad for his father was so ill, he had no hope of his recovery.
John sat alone with the sick man in the little room, and the lamp had nearly burnt
out; for it was late in the night.

“You have been a good son, John,” said the sick father, “and God will help
you on in the world.” He looked at him, as he spoke, with mild, earnest eyes,
drew a deep sigh, and died; yet it appeared as if he still slept.

John wept bitterly. He had no one in the wide world now; neither father, mother,
brother, nor sister. Poor John! he knelt down by the bed, kissed his dead father’s
hand, and wept many, many bitter tears. But at last his eyes closed, and he
fell asleep with his head resting against the hard bedpost. Then he dreamed
a strange dream; he thought he saw the sun shining upon him, and his father
alive and well, and even heard him laughing as he used to do when he was very
happy. A beautiful girl, with a golden crown on her head, and long, shining
hair, gave him her hand; and his father said, “See what a bride you have won.
She is the loveliest maiden on the whole earth.” Then he awoke, and all the
beautiful things vanished before his eyes, his father lay dead on the bed, and
he was all alone. Poor John!

During the following week the dead man was buried. The son walked behind the
coffin which contained his father, whom he so dearly loved, and would never
again behold. He heard the earth fall on the coffin-lid, and watched it till
only a corner remained in sight, and at last that also disappeared. He felt
as if his heart would break with its weight of sorrow, till those who stood
round the grave sang a psalm, and the sweet, holy tones brought tears into his
eyes, which relieved him. The sun shone brightly down on the green trees, as
if it would say, “You must not be so sorrowful, John. Do you see the beautiful
blue sky above you? Your father is up there, and he prays to the loving Father
of all, that you may do well in the future.”

“I will always be good,” said John, “and then I shall go to be with my father
in heaven. What joy it will be when we see each other again! How much I shall
have to relate to him, and how many things he will be able to explain to me
of the delights of heaven, and teach me as he once did on earth. Oh, what joy
it will be!”

He pictured it all so plainly to himself, that he smiled even while the tears
ran down his cheeks.

The little birds in the chestnut-trees twittered, “Tweet, tweet;” they were
so happy, although they had seen the funeral; but they seemed as if they knew
that the dead man was now in heaven, and that he had wings much larger and more
beautiful than their own; and he was happy now, because he had been good here
on earth, and they were glad of it. John saw them fly away out of the green
trees into the wide world, and he longed to fly with them; but first he cut
out a large wooden cross, to place on his father’s grave; and when he brought
it there in the evening, he found the grave decked out with gravel and flowers.
Strangers had done this; they who had known the good old father who was now
dead, and who had loved him very much.

Early the next morning, John packed up his little bundle of clothes, and placed
all his money, which consisted of fifty dollars and a few shillings, in his
girdle; with this he determined to try his fortune in the world. But first he
went into the churchyard; and, by his father’s grave, he offered up a prayer,
and said, “Farewell.”

As he passed through the fields, all the flowers looked fresh and beautiful
in the warm sunshine, and nodded in the wind, as if they wished to say, “Welcome
to the green wood, where all is fresh and bright.”

Then John turned to have one more look at the old church, in which he had been
christened in his infancy, and where his father had taken him every Sunday to
hear the service and join in singing the psalms. As he looked at the old tower,
he espied the ringer standing at one of the narrow openings, with his little
pointed red cap on his head, and shading his eyes from the sun with his bent
arm. John nodded farewell to him, and the little ringer waved his red cap, laid
his hand on his heart, and kissed his hand to him a great many times, to show
that he felt kindly towards him, and wished him a prosperous journey.

John continued his journey, and thought of all the wonderful things he should
see in the large, beautiful world, till he found himself farther away from home
than ever he had been before. He did not even know the names of the places he
passed through, and could scarcely understand the language of the people he
met, for he was far away, in a strange land. The first night he slept on a haystack,
out in the fields, for there was no other bed for him; but it seemed to him
so nice and comfortable that even a king need not wish for a better. The field,
the brook, the haystack, with the blue sky above, formed a beautiful sleeping-room.
The green grass, with the little red and white flowers, was the carpet; the
elder-bushes and the hedges of wild roses looked like garlands on the walls;
and for a bath he could have the clear, fresh water of the brook; while the
rushes bowed their heads to him, to wish him good morning and good evening.
The moon, like a large lamp, hung high up in the blue ceiling, and he had no
fear of its setting fire to his curtains. John slept here quite safely all night;
and when he awoke, the sun was up, and all the little birds were singing round
him, “Good morning, good morning. Are you not up yet?”

It was Sunday, and the bells were ringing for church. As the people went in,
John followed them; he heard God’s word, joined in singing the psalms, and listened
to the preacher. It seemed to him just as if he were in his own church, where
he had been christened, and had sung the psalms with his father. Out in the
churchyard were several graves, and on some of them the grass had grown very
high. John thought of his father’s grave, which he knew at last would look like
these, as he was not there to weed and attend to it. Then he set to work, pulled
up the high grass, raised the wooden crosses which had fallen down, and replaced
the wreaths which had been blown away from their places by the wind, thinking
all the time, “Perhaps some one is doing the same for my father’s grave, as
I am not there to do it ”

Outside the church door stood an old beggar, leaning on his crutch. John gave
him his silver shillings, and then he continued his journey, feeling lighter
and happier than ever. Towards evening, the weather became very stormy, and
he hastened on as quickly as he could, to get shelter; but it was quite dark
by the time he reached a little lonely church which stood on a hill. “I will
go in here,” he said, “and sit down in a corner; for I am quite tired, and want
rest.”

So he went in, and seated himself; then he folded his hands, and offered up
his evening prayer, and was soon fast asleep and dreaming, while the thunder
rolled and the lightning flashed without. When he awoke, it was still night;
but the storm had ceased, and the moon shone in upon him through the windows.
Then he saw an open coffin standing in the centre of the church, which contained
a dead man, waiting for burial. John was not at all timid; he had a good conscience,
and he knew also that the dead can never injure any one. It is living wicked
men who do harm to others. Two such wicked persons stood now by the dead man,
who had been brought to the church to be buried. Their evil intentions were
to throw the poor dead body outside the church door, and not leave him to rest
in his coffin.

“Why do you do this?” asked John, when he saw what they were going to do; “it
is very wicked. Leave him to rest in peace, in Christ’s name.”

“Nonsense,” replied the two dreadful men. “He has cheated us; he owed us money
which he could not pay, and now he is dead we shall not get a penny; so we mean
to have our revenge, and let him lie like a dog outside the church door.”

“I have only fifty dollars,” said John, “it is all I possess in the world,
but I will give it to you if you will promise me faithfully to leave the dead
man in peace. I shall be able to get on without the money; I have strong and
healthy limbs, and God will always help me.”

“Why, of course,” said the horrid men, “if you will pay his debt we will both
promise not to touch him. You may depend upon that;” and then they took the
money he offered them, laughed at him for his good nature, and went their way.

Then he laid the dead body back in the coffin, folded the hands, and took leave
of it; and went away contentedly through the great forest. All around him he
could see the prettiest little elves dancing in the moonlight, which shone through
the trees. They were not disturbed by his appearance, for they knew he was good
and harmless among men. They are wicked people only who can never obtain a glimpse
of fairies. Some of them were not taller than the breadth of a finger, and they
wore golden combs in their long, yellow hair. They were rocking themselves two
together on the large dew-drops with which the leaves and the high grass were
sprinkled. Sometimes the dew-drops would roll away, and then they fell down
between the stems of the long grass, and caused a great deal of laughing and
noise among the other little people. It was quite charming to watch them at
play. Then they sang songs, and John remembered that he had learnt those pretty
songs when he was a little boy. Large speckled spiders, with silver crowns on
their heads, were employed to spin suspension bridges and palaces from one hedge
to another, and when the tiny drops fell upon them, they glittered in the moonlight
like shining glass. This continued till sunrise. Then the little elves crept
into the flower-buds, and the wind seized the bridges and palaces, and fluttered
them in the air like cobwebs.

As John left the wood, a strong man’s voice called after him, “Hallo, comrade,
where are you travelling?”

“Into the wide world,” he replied; “I am only a poor lad, I have neither father
nor mother, but God will help me.”

“I am going into the wide world also,” replied the stranger; “shall we keep
each other company?”

“With all my heart,” he said, and so they went on together. Soon they began
to like each other very much, for they were both good; but John found out that
the stranger was much more clever than himself. He had travelled all over the
world, and could describe almost everything. The sun was high in the heavens
when they seated themselves under a large tree to eat their breakfast, and at
the same moment an old woman came towards them. She was very old and almost
bent double. She leaned upon a stick and carried on her back a bundle of firewood,
which she had collected in the forest; her apron was tied round it, and John
saw three great stems of fern and some willow twigs peeping out. just as she
came close up to them, her foot slipped and she fell to the ground screaming
loudly; poor old woman, she had broken her leg! John proposed directly that
they should carry the old woman home to her cottage; but the stranger opened
his knapsack and took out a box, in which he said he had a salve that would
quickly make her leg well and strong again, so that she would be able to walk
home herself, as if her leg had never been broken. And all that he would ask
in return was the three fern stems which she carried in her apron.

“That is rather too high a price,” said the old woman, nodding her head quite
strangely. She did not seem at all inclined to part with the fern stems. However,
it was not very agreeable to lie there with a broken leg, so she gave them to
him; and such was the power of the ointment, that no sooner had he rubbed her
leg with it than the old mother rose up and walked even better than she had
done before. But then this wonderful ointment could not be bought at a chemist’s.

“What can you want with those three fern rods?” asked John of his fellow-traveller.

“Oh, they will make capital brooms,” said he; “and I like them because I have
strange whims sometimes.” Then they walked on together for a long distance.

“How dark the sky is becoming,” said John; “and look at those thick, heavy
clouds.”

“Those are not clouds,” replied his fellow-traveller; “they are mountains—large
lofty mountains—on the tops of which we should be above the clouds, in the pure,
free air. Believe me, it is delightful to ascend so high, tomorrow we shall
be there.” But the mountains were not so near as they appeared; they had to
travel a whole day before they reached them, and pass through black forests
and piles of rock as large as a town. The journey had been so fatiguing that
John and his fellow-traveller stopped to rest at a roadside inn, so that they
might gain strength for their journey on the morrow. In the large public room
of the inn a great many persons were assembled to see a comedy performed by
dolls. The showman had just erected his little theatre, and the people were
sitting round the room to witness the performance. Right in front, in the very
best place, sat a stout butcher, with a great bull-dog by his side who seemed
very much inclined to bite. He sat staring with all his eyes, and so indeed
did every one else in the room. And then the play began. It was a pretty piece,
with a king and a queen in it, who sat on a beautiful throne, and had gold crowns
on their heads. The trains to their dresses were very long, according to the
fashion; while the prettiest of wooden dolls, with glass eyes and large mustaches,
stood at the doors, and opened and shut them, that the fresh air might come
into the room. It was a very pleasant play, not at all mournful; but just as
the queen stood up and walked across the stage, the great bull-dog, who should
have been held back by his master, made a spring forward, and caught the queen
in the teeth by the slender wrist, so that it snapped in two. This was a very
dreadful disaster. The poor man, who was exhibiting the dolls, was much annoyed,
and quite sad about his queen; she was the prettiest doll he had, and the bull-dog
had broken her head and shoulders off. But after all the people were gone away,
the stranger, who came with John, said that he could soon set her to rights.
And then he brought out his box and rubbed the doll with some of the salve with
which he had cured the old woman when she broke her leg. As soon as this was
done the doll’s back became quite right again; her head and shoulders were fixed
on, and she could even move her limbs herself: there was now no occasion to
pull the wires, for the doll acted just like a living creature, excepting that
she could not speak. The man to whom the show belonged was quite delighted at
having a doll who could dance of herself without being pulled by the wires;
none of the other dolls could do this.

During the night, when all the people at the inn were gone to bed, some one
was heard to sigh so deeply and painfully, and the sighing continued for so
long a time, that every one got up to see what could be the matter. The showman
went at once to his little theatre and found that it proceeded from the dolls,
who all lay on the floor sighing piteously, and staring with their glass eyes;
they all wanted to be rubbed with the ointment, so that, like the queen, they
might be able to move of themselves. The queen threw herself on her knees, took
off her beautiful crown, and, holding it in her hand, cried, “Take this from
me, but do rub my husband and his courtiers.”

The poor man who owned the theatre could scarcely refrain from weeping; he
was so sorry that he could not help them. Then he immediately spoke to John’s
comrade, and promised him all the money he might receive at the next evening’s
performance, if he would only rub the ointment on four or five of his dolls.
But the fellow-traveller said he did not require anything in return, excepting
the sword which the showman wore by his side. As soon as he received the sword
he anointed six of the dolls with the ointment, and they were able immediately
to dance so gracefully that all the living girls in the room could not help
joining in the dance. The coachman danced with the cook, and the waiters with
the chambermaids, and all the strangers joined; even the tongs and the fire-shovel
made an attempt, but they fell down after the first jump. So after all it was
a very merry night. The next morning John and his companion left the inn to
continue their journey through the great pine-forests and over the high mountains.
They arrived at last at such a great height that towns and villages lay beneath
them, and the church steeples looked like little specks between the green trees.
They could see for miles round, far away to places they had never visited, and
John saw more of the beautiful world than he had ever known before. The sun
shone brightly in the blue firmament above, and through the clear mountain air
came the sound of the huntsman’s horn, and the soft, sweet notes brought tears
into his eyes, and he could not help exclaiming, “How good and loving God is
to give us all this beauty and loveliness in the world to make us happy!”

His fellow-traveller stood by with folded hands, gazing on the dark wood and
the towns bathed in the warm sunshine. At this moment there sounded over their
heads sweet music. They looked up, and discovered a large white swan hovering
in the air, and singing as never bird sang before. But the song soon became
weaker and weaker, the bird’s head drooped, and he sunk slowly down, and lay
dead at their feet.

“It is a beautiful bird,” said the traveller, “and these large white wings
are worth a great deal of money. I will take them with me. You see now that
a sword will be very useful.”

So he cut off the wings of the dead swan with one blow, and carried them away
with him.

They now continued their journey over the mountains for many miles, till they
at length reached a large city, containing hundreds of towers, that shone in
the sunshine like silver. In the midst of the city stood a splendid marble palace,
roofed with pure red gold, in which dwelt the king. John and his companion would
not go into the town immediately; so they stopped at an inn outside the town,
to change their clothes; for they wished to appear respectable as they walked
through the streets. The landlord told them that the king was a very good man,
who never injured any one: but as to his daughter, “Heaven defend us!”

She was indeed a wicked princess. She possessed beauty enough—nobody could
be more elegant or prettier than she was; but what of that? for she was a wicked
witch; and in consequence of her conduct many noble young princes had lost their
lives. Any one was at liberty to make her an offer; were he a prince or a beggar,
it mattered not to her. She would ask him to guess three things which she had
just thought of, and if he succeed, he was to marry her, and be king over all
the land when her father died; but if he could not guess these three things,
then she ordered him to be hanged or to have his head cut off. The old king,
her father, was very much grieved at her conduct, but he could not prevent her
from being so wicked, because he once said he would have nothing more to do
with her lovers; she might do as she pleased. Each prince who came and tried
the three guesses, so that he might marry the princess, had been unable to find
them out, and had been hanged or beheaded. They had all been warned in time,
and might have left her alone, if they would. The old king became at last so
distressed at all these dreadful circumstances, that for a whole day every year
he and his soldiers knelt and prayed that the princess might become good; but
she continued as wicked as ever. The old women who drank brandy would color
it quite black before they drank it, to show how they mourned; and what more
could they do?

“What a horrible princess!” said John; “she ought to be well flogged. If I
were the old king, I would have her punished in some way.”

Just then they heard the people outside shouting, “Hurrah!” and, looking out,
they saw the princess passing by; and she was really so beautiful that everybody
forgot her wickedness, and shouted “Hurrah!” Twelve lovely maidens in white
silk dresses, holding golden tulips in their hands, rode by her side on coal-black
horses. The princess herself had a snow-white steed, decked with diamonds and
rubies. Her dress was of cloth of gold, and the whip she held in her hand looked
like a sunbeam. The golden crown on her head glittered like the stars of heaven,
and her mantle was formed of thousands of butterflies’ wings sewn together.
Yet she herself was more beautiful than all.

When John saw her, his face became as red as a drop of blood, and he could
scarcely utter a word. The princess looked exactly like the beautiful lady with
the golden crown, of whom he had dreamed on the night his father died. She appeared
to him so lovely that he could not help loving her.

“It could not be true,” he thought, “that she was really a wicked witch, who
ordered people to be hanged or beheaded, if they could not guess her thoughts.
Every one has permission to go and ask her hand, even the poorest beggar. I
shall pay a visit to the palace,” he said; “I must go, for I cannot help myself.”

Then they all advised him not to attempt it; for he would be sure to share
the same fate as the rest. His fellow-traveller also tried to persuade him against
it; but John seemed quite sure of success. He brushed his shoes and his coat,
washed his face and his hands, combed his soft flaxen hair, and then went out
alone into the town, and walked to the palace.

“Come in,” said the king, as John knocked at the door. John opened it, and
the old king, in a dressing gown and embroidered slippers, came towards him.
He had the crown on his head, carried his sceptre in one hand, and the orb in
the other. “Wait a bit,” said he, and he placed the orb under his arm, so that
he could offer the other hand to John; but when he found that John was another
suitor, he began to weep so violently, that both the sceptre and the orb fell
to the floor, and he was obliged to wipe his eyes with his dressing gown. Poor
old king! “Let her alone,” he said; “you will fare as badly as all the others.
Come, I will show you.” Then he led him out into the princess’s pleasure gardens,
and there he saw a frightful sight. On every tree hung three or four king’s
sons who had wooed the princess, but had not been able to guess the riddles
she gave them. Their skeletons rattled in every breeze, so that the terrified
birds never dared to venture into the garden. All the flowers were supported
by human bones instead of sticks, and human skulls in the flower-pots grinned
horribly. It was really a doleful garden for a princess. “Do you see all this?”
said the old king; “your fate will be the same as those who are here, therefore
do not attempt it. You really make me very unhappy,—I take these things to heart
so very much.”

John kissed the good old king’s hand, and said he was sure it would be all
right, for he was quite enchanted with the beautiful princess. Then the princess
herself came riding into the palace yard with all her ladies, and he wished
her “Good morning.” She looked wonderfully fair and lovely when she offered
her hand to John, and he loved her more than ever. How could she be a wicked
witch, as all the people asserted? He accompanied her into the hall, and the
little pages offered them gingerbread nuts and sweetmeats, but the old king
was so unhappy he could eat nothing, and besides, gingerbread nuts were too
hard for him. It was decided that John should come to the palace the next day,
when the judges and the whole of the counsellors would be present, to try if
he could guess the first riddle. If he succeeded, he would have to come a second
time; but if not, he would lose his life,—and no one had ever been able to guess
even one. However, John was not at all anxious about the result of his trial;
on the contrary, he was very merry. He thought only of the beautiful princess,
and believed that in some way he should have help, but how he knew not, and
did not like to think about it; so he danced along the high-road as he went
back to the inn, where he had left his fellow-traveller waiting for him. John
could not refrain from telling him how gracious the princess had been, and how
beautiful she looked. He longed for the next day so much, that he might go to
the palace and try his luck at guessing the riddles. But his comrade shook his
head, and looked very mournful. “I do so wish you to do well,” said he; “we
might have continued together much longer, and now I am likely to lose you;
you poor dear John! I could shed tears, but I will not make you unhappy on the
last night we may be together. We will be merry, really merry this evening;
to-morrow, after you are gone, shall be able to weep undisturbed.”

It was very quickly known among the inhabitants of the town that another suitor
had arrived for the princess, and there was great sorrow in consequence. The
theatre remained closed, the women who sold sweetmeats tied crape round the
sugar-sticks, and the king and the priests were on their knees in the church.
There was a great lamentation, for no one expected John to succeed better than
those who had been suitors before.

In the evening John’s comrade prepared a large bowl of punch, and said, “Now
let us be merry, and drink to the health of the princess.” But after drinking
two glasses, John became so sleepy, that he could not keep his eyes open, and
fell fast asleep. Then his fellow-traveller lifted him gently out of his chair,
and laid him on the bed; and as soon as it was quite dark, he took the two large
wings which he had cut from the dead swan, and tied them firmly to his own shoulders.
Then he put into his pocket the largest of the three rods which he had obtained
from the old woman who had fallen and broken her leg. After this he opened the
window, and flew away over the town, straight towards the palace, and seated
himself in a corner, under the window which looked into the bedroom of the princess.

The town was perfectly still when the clocks struck a quarter to twelve. Presently
the window opened, and the princess, who had large black wings to her shoulders,
and a long white mantle, flew away over the city towards a high mountain. The
fellow-traveller, who had made himself invisible, so that she could not possibly
see him, flew after her through the air, and whipped the princess with his rod,
so that the blood came whenever he struck her. Ah, it was a strange flight through
the air! The wind caught her mantle, so that it spread out on all sides, like
the large sail of a ship, and the moon shone through it. “How it hails, to be
sure!” said the princess, at each blow she received from the rod; and it served
her right to be whipped.

At last she reached the side of the mountain, and knocked. The mountain opened
with a noise like the roll of thunder, and the princess went in. The traveller
followed her; no one could see him, as he had made himself invisible. They went
through a long, wide passage. A thousand gleaming spiders ran here and there
on the walls, causing them to glitter as if they were illuminated with fire.
They next entered a large hall built of silver and gold. Large red and blue
flowers shone on the walls, looking like sunflowers in size, but no one could
dare to pluck them, for the stems were hideous poisonous snakes, and the flowers
were flames of fire, darting out of their jaws. Shining glow-worms covered the
ceiling, and sky-blue bats flapped their transparent wings. Altogether the place
had a frightful appearance. In the middle of the floor stood a throne supported
by four skeleton horses, whose harness had been made by fiery-red spiders. The
throne itself was made of milk-white glass, and the cushions were little black
mice, each biting the other’s tail. Over it hung a canopy of rose-colored spider’s
webs, spotted with the prettiest little green flies, which sparkled like precious
stones. On the throne sat an old magician with a crown on his ugly head, and
a sceptre in his hand. He kissed the princess on the forehead, seated her by
his side on the splendid throne, and then the music commenced. Great black grasshoppers
played the mouth organ, and the owl struck herself on the body instead of a
drum. It was altogether a ridiculous concert. Little black goblins with false
lights in their caps danced about the hall; but no one could see the traveller,
and he had placed himself just behind the throne where he could see and hear
everything. The courtiers who came in afterwards looked noble and grand; but
any one with common sense could see what they really were, only broomsticks,
with cabbages for heads. The magician had given them life, and dressed them
in embroidered robes. It answered very well, as they were only wanted for show.
After there had been a little dancing, the princess told the magician that she
had a new suitor, and asked him what she could think of for the suitor to guess
when he came to the castle the next morning.

“Listen to what I say,” said the magician, “you must choose something very
easy, he is less likely to guess it then. Think of one of your shoes, he will
never imagine it is that. Then cut his head off; and mind you do not forget
to bring his eyes with you to-morrow night, that I may eat them.”

The princess curtsied low, and said she would not forget the eyes.

The magician then opened the mountain and she flew home again, but the traveller
followed and flogged her so much with the rod, that she sighed quite deeply
about the heavy hail-storm, and made as much haste as she could to get back
to her bedroom through the window. The traveller then returned to the inn where
John still slept, took off his wings and laid down on the bed, for he was very
tired. Early in the morning John awoke, and when his fellow-traveller got up,
he said that he had a very wonderful dream about the princess and her shoe,
he therefore advised John to ask her if she had not thought of her shoe. Of
course the traveller knew this from what the magician in the mountain had said.

“I may as well say that as anything,” said John. “Perhaps your dream may come
true; still I will say farewell, for if I guess wrong I shall never see you
again.”

Then they embraced each other, and John went into the town and walked to the
palace. The great hall was full of people, and the judges sat in arm-chairs,
with eider-down cushions to rest their heads upon, because they had so much
to think of. The old king stood near, wiping his eyes with his white pocket-handkerchief.
When the princess entered, she looked even more beautiful than she had appeared
the day before, and greeted every one present most gracefully; but to John she
gave her hand, and said, “Good morning to you.”

Now came the time for John to guess what she was thinking of; and oh, how kindly
she looked at him as she spoke. But when he uttered the single word shoe, she
turned as pale as a ghost; all her wisdom could not help her, for he had guessed
rightly. Oh, how pleased the old king was! It was quite amusing to see how he
capered about. All the people clapped their hands, both on his account and John’s,
who had guessed rightly the first time. His fellow-traveller was glad also,
when he heard how successful John had been. But John folded his hands, and thanked
God, who, he felt quite sure, would help him again; and he knew he had to guess
twice more. The evening passed pleasantly like the one preceding. While John
slept, his companion flew behind the princess to the mountain, and flogged her
even harder than before; this time he had taken two rods with him. No one saw
him go in with her, and he heard all that was said. The princess this time was
to think of a glove, and he told John as if he had again heard it in a dream.
The next day, therefore, he was able to guess correctly the second time, and
it caused great rejoicing at the palace. The whole court jumped about as they
had seen the king do the day before, but the princess lay on the sofa, and would
not say a single word. All now depended upon John. If he only guessed rightly
the third time, he would marry the princess, and reign over the kingdom after
the death of the old king: but if he failed, he would lose his life, and the
magician would have his beautiful blue eyes. That evening John said his prayers
and went to bed very early, and soon fell asleep calmly. But his companion tied
on his wings to his shoulders, took three rods, and, with his sword at his side,
flew to the palace. It was a very dark night, and so stormy that the tiles flew
from the roofs of the houses, and the trees in the garden upon which the skeletons
hung bent themselves like reeds before the wind. The lightning flashed, and
the thunder rolled in one long-continued peal all night. The window of the castle
opened, and the princess flew out. She was pale as death, but she laughed at
the storm as if it were not bad enough. Her white mantle fluttered in the wind
like a large sail, and the traveller flogged her with the three rods till the
blood trickled down, and at last she could scarcely fly; she contrived, however,
to reach the mountain. “What a hail-storm!” she said, as she entered; “I have
never been out in such weather as this.”

“Yes, there may be too much of a good thing sometimes,” said the magician.

Then the princess told him that John had guessed rightly the second time, and
if he succeeded the next morning, he would win, and she could never come to
the mountain again, or practice magic as she had done, and therefore she was
quite unhappy. “I will find out something for you to think of which he will
never guess, unless he is a greater conjuror than myself. But now let us be
merry.”

Then he took the princess by both hands, and they danced with all the little
goblins and Jack-o’-lanterns in the room. The red spiders sprang here and there
on the walls quite as merrily, and the flowers of fire appeared as if they were
throwing out sparks. The owl beat the drum, the crickets whistled and the grasshoppers
played the mouth-organ. It was a very ridiculous ball. After they had danced
enough, the princess was obliged to go home, for fear she should be missed at
the palace. The magician offered to go with her, that they might be company
to each other on the way. Then they flew away through the bad weather, and the
traveller followed them, and broke his three rods across their shoulders. The
magician had never been out in such a hail-storm as this. Just by the palace
the magician stopped to wish the princess farewell, and to whisper in her ear,
“To-morrow think of my head.”

But the traveller heard it, and just as the princess slipped through the window
into her bedroom, and the magician turned round to fly back to the mountain,
he seized him by the long black beard, and with his sabre cut off the wicked
conjuror’s head just behind the shoulders, so that he could not even see who
it was. He threw the body into the sea to the fishes, and after dipping the
head into the water, he tied it up in a silk handkerchief, took it with him
to the inn, and then went to bed. The next morning he gave John the handkerchief,
and told him not to untie it till the princess asked him what she was thinking
of. There were so many people in the great hall of the palace that they stood
as thick as radishes tied together in a bundle. The council sat in their arm-chairs
with the white cushions. The old king wore new robes, and the golden crown and
sceptre had been polished up so that he looked quite smart. But the princess
was very pale, and wore a black dress as if she were going to a funeral.

“What have I thought of?” asked the princess, of John. He immediately untied
the handkerchief, and was himself quite frightened when he saw the head of the
ugly magician. Every one shuddered, for it was terrible to look at; but the
princess sat like a statue, and could not utter a single word. At length she
rose and gave John her hand, for he had guessed rightly.

She looked at no one, but sighed deeply, and said, “You are my master now;
this evening our marriage must take place.”

“I am very pleased to hear it,” said the old king. “It is just what I wish.”

Then all the people shouted “Hurrah.” The band played music in the streets,
the bells rang, and the cake-women took the black crape off the sugar-sticks.
There was universal joy. Three oxen, stuffed with ducks and chickens, were roasted
whole in the market-place, where every one might help himself to a slice. The
fountains spouted forth the most delicious wine, and whoever bought a penny
loaf at the baker’s received six large buns, full of raisins, as a present.
In the evening the whole town was illuminated. The soldiers fired off cannons,
and the boys let off crackers. There was eating and drinking, dancing and jumping
everywhere. In the palace, the high-born gentlemen and beautiful ladies danced
with each other, and they could be heard at a great distance singing the following
song:—

“Here are maidens, young and fair,
Dancing in the summer air;
Like two spinning-wheels at play,
Pretty maidens dance away-
Dance the spring and summer through
Till the sole falls from your shoe.”
But the princess was still a witch, and she could not love John. His fellow-traveller
had thought of that, so he gave John three feathers out of the swan’s wings,
and a little bottle with a few drops in it. He told him to place a large bath
full of water by the princess’s bed, and put the feathers and the drops into
it. Then, at the moment she was about to get into bed, he must give her a little
push, so that she might fall into the water, and then dip her three times. This
would destroy the power of the magician, and she would love him very much. John
did all that his companion told him to do. The princess shrieked aloud when
he dipped her under the water the first time, and struggled under his hands
in the form of a great black swan with fiery eyes. As she rose the second time
from the water, the swan had become white, with a black ring round its neck.
John allowed the water to close once more over the bird, and at the same time
it changed into a most beautiful princess. She was more lovely even than before,
and thanked him, while her eyes sparkled with tears, for having broken the spell
of the magician. The next day, the king came with the whole court to offer their
congratulations, and stayed till quite late. Last of all came the travelling
companion; he had his staff in his hand and his knapsack on his back. John kissed
him many times and told him he must not go, he must remain with him, for he
was the cause of all his good fortune. But the traveller shook his head, and
said gently and kindly, “No: my time is up now; I have only paid my debt to
you. Do you remember the dead man whom the bad people wished to throw out of
his coffin? You gave all you possessed that he might rest in his grave; I am
that man.” As he said this, he vanished.

The wedding festivities lasted a whole month. John and his princess loved each
other dearly, and the old king lived to see many a happy day, when he took their
little children on his knees and let them play with his sceptre. And John became
king over the whole country.

Monday

Tuesday

Wednesday

Thursday

Friday

Saturday

Sunday

Story the First, Which Describes a Looking-Glass and the Broken Fragments.

Second Story: A Little Boy and a Little Girl

Third Story: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure

Fourth Story: The Prince and Princess

Fifth Story: Little Robber-Girl

Sixth Story: The Lapland Woman and the Finland Woman