{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_27000/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_27000","id":"gutenberg_27000","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/27000","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Short Stories","Children's stories, Danish -- Translations into English","Fairy tales -- Denmark"],"text":"Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Mark C. Orton, and the\nOnline Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n(This file was produced from images generously made\navailable by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n       [Illustration: WALDEMAR DAA AND HIS DAUGHTERS. p. 122.]\n\n\n\n                          WHAT THE MOON SAW:\n\n                           AND OTHER TALES.\n\n\n\n\n                                  BY\n\n                          HANS C. ANDERSEN.\n\n\n                            TRANSLATED BY\n\n                         H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\n\n              WITH EIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. W. BAYES,\n\n                  ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n                               LONDON:\n\n                      GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS,\n\n                       BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.\n\n                                1866.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\n_Uniform with_ \"WHAT THE MOON SAW, and Other Tales,\" _price 5s.,\nextra cloth, on fine toned paper_,\n\nSTORIES AND TALES\n\nBY\n\nHANS C. ANDERSEN.\n\nTRANSLATED BY H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\nEIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. W. BAYES.\n\nENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n*** _The two volumes,_ \"STORIES AND TALES\" _and_ \"WHAT THE MOON SAW,\"\n_form the most complete collection of_ HANS C. ANDERSEN'S _Tales\npublished in this country._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\n\nThe present book is put forth as a sequel to the volume of HANS C.\nANDERSEN'S \"Stories and Tales,\" published in a similar form in the\ncourse of 1864. It contains tales and sketches various in character;\nand following, as it does, an earlier volume, care has been taken to\nintersperse with the children's tales stories which, by their graver\ncharacter and deeper meaning, are calculated to interest those\n\"children of a larger growth\" who can find instruction as well as\namusement in the play of fancy and imagination, though the realm be\nthat of fiction, and the instruction be conveyed in a simple form.\n\nThe series of sketches of \"What the Moon Saw,\" with which the present\nvolume opens, arose from the experiences of ANDERSEN, when as a youth\nhe went to seek his fortune in the capital of his native land; and the\nstory entitled \"Under the Willow Tree\" is said likewise to have its\nfoundation in fact; indeed, it seems redolent of the truth of that\nnatural human love and suffering which is so truly said to \"make the\nwhole world kin.\"\n\nOn the preparation and embellishment of the book, the same care and\nattention have been lavished as on the preceding volume. The pencil of\nMr. BAYES and the graver of the BROTHERS DALZIEL have again been\nemployed in the work of illustration; and it is hoped that the favour\nbestowed by the public on the former volume may be extended to this\nits successor.\n\nH. W. D.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\n                                                         PAGE\n\nWhat the Moon Saw                                          1\n\nThe Story of the Year                                     40\n\nShe was Good for Nothing                                  48\n\n\"There is a Difference\"                                   55\n\nEverything in its Right Place                             59\n\nThe Goblin and the Huckster                               66\n\nIn a Thousand Years                                       70\n\nThe Bond of Friendship                                    72\n\nJack the Dullard. An Old Story told Anew                  81\n\nSomething                                                 86\n\nUnder the Willow Tree                                     92\n\nThe Beetle                                               107\n\nWhat the Old Man does is always Right                    114\n\nThe Wind tells about Waldemar Daa and his Daughters      120\n\nIb and Christine                                         130\n\nOle the Tower-Keeper                                     142\n\nThe Bottle-Neck                                          151\n\nGood Humour                                              161\n\nA Leaf from the Sky                                      165\n\nThe Dumb Book                                            168\n\nThe Jewish Girl                                          171\n\nThe Thorny Road of Honour                                176\n\nThe Old Gravestone                                       180\n\nThe Old Bachelor's Nightcap                              184\n\nThe Marsh King's Daughter                                196\n\nThe Last Dream of the Old Oak Tree. A Christmas Tale     238\n\nThe Bell-deep                                            244\n\nThe Puppet Showman                                       247\n\nThe Pigs                                                 251\n\nAnne Lisbeth                                             254\n\nCharming                                                 265\n\nIn the Duck-yard                                         272\n\nThe Girl who Trod on the Loaf                            277\n\nA Story from the Sand-dunes                              285\n\nThe Bishop of Boerglum and his Warriors                   316\n\nThe Snow Man                                             323\n\nTwo Maidens                                              328\n\nThe Farmyard Cock and the Weathercock                    330\n\nThe Pen and Inkstand                                     332\n\nThe Child in the Grave                                   334\n\nSoup on a Sausage-Peg                                    339\n\nThe Stone of the Wise Men                                353\n\nThe Butterfly                                            367\n\nIn the Uttermost Parts of the Sea                        369\n\nThe Phoenix Bird                                       371\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nWHAT THE MOON SAW.\n\n[Illustration: MY POST OF OBSERVATION.]\n\nINTRODUCTION.\n\n\nIt is a strange thing, that when I feel most fervently and most\ndeeply, my hands and my tongue seem alike tied, so that I cannot\nrightly describe or accurately portray the thoughts that are rising\nwithin me; and yet I am a painter: my eye tells me as much as that,\nand all my friends who have seen my sketches and fancies say the same.\n\nI am a poor lad, and live in one of the narrowest of lanes; but I do\nnot want for light, as my room is high up in the house, with an\nextensive prospect over the neighbouring roofs. During the first few\ndays I went to live in the town, I felt low-spirited and solitary\nenough. Instead of the forest and the green hills of former days, I\nhad here only a forest of chimney-pots to look out upon. And then I\nhad not a single friend; not one familiar face greeted me.\n\nSo one evening I sat at the window, in a desponding mood; and\npresently I opened the casement and looked out. Oh, how my heart\nleaped up with joy! Here was a well-known face at last--a round,\nfriendly countenance, the face of a good friend I had known at home.\nIn, fact it was the MOON that looked in upon me. He was quite\nunchanged, the dear old Moon, and had the same face exactly that he\nused to show when he peered down upon me through the willow trees on\nthe moor. I kissed my hand to him over and over again, as he shone far\ninto my little room; and he, for his part, promised me that every\nevening, when he came abroad, he would look in upon me for a few\nmoments. This promise he has faithfully kept. It is a pity that he can\nonly stay such a short time when he comes. Whenever he appears, he\ntells me of one thing or another that he has seen on the previous\nnight, or on that same evening. \"Just paint the scenes I describe to\nyou\"--this is what he said to me--\"and you will have a very pretty\npicture-book.\" I have followed his injunction for many evenings. I\ncould make up a new \"Thousand and One Nights,\" in my own way, out of\nthese pictures, but the number might be too great, after all. The\npictures I have here given have not been chosen at random, but follow\nin their proper order, just as they were described to me. Some great\ngifted painter, or some poet or musician, may make something more of\nthem if he likes; what I have given here are only hasty sketches,\nhurriedly put upon the paper, with some of my own thoughts\ninterspersed; for the Moon did not come to me every evening--a cloud\nsometimes hid his face from me.\n\n[Illustration: THE INDIAN GIRL.]\n\n\nFIRST EVENING.\n\n\"Last night\"--I am quoting the Moon's own words--\"last night I was\ngliding through the cloudless Indian sky. My face was mirrored in the\nwaters of the Ganges, and my beams strove to pierce through the thick\nintertwining boughs of the bananas, arching beneath me like the\ntortoise's shell. Forth from the thicket tripped a Hindoo maid, light\nas a gazelle, beautiful as Eve. Airy and ethereal as a vision, and yet\nsharply defined amid the surrounding shadows, stood this daughter of\nHindostan: I could read on her delicate brow the thought that had\nbrought her hither. The thorny creeping plants tore her sandals, but\nfor all that she came rapidly forward. The deer that had come down to\nthe river to quench their thirst, sprang by with a startled bound, for\nin her hand the maiden bore a lighted lamp. I could see the blood in\nher delicate finger tips, as she spread them for a screen before the\ndancing flame. She came down to the stream, and set the lamp upon the\nwater, and let it float away. The flame flickered to and fro, and\nseemed ready to expire; but still the lamp burned on, and the girl's\nblack sparkling eyes, half veiled behind their long silken lashes,\nfollowed it with a gaze of earnest intensity. She knew that if the\nlamp continued to burn so long as she could keep it in sight, her\nbetrothed was still alive; but if the lamp was suddenly extinguished,\nhe was dead. And the lamp burned bravely on, and she fell on her\nknees, and prayed. Near her in the grass lay a speckled snake, but she\nheeded it not--she thought only of Bramah and of her betrothed. 'He\nlives!' she shouted joyfully, 'he lives!' And from the mountains the\necho came back upon her, 'he lives!'\"\n\n[Illustration: THE LITTLE GIRL AND THE CHICKENS.]\n\n\nSECOND EVENING.\n\n\"Yesterday,\" said the Moon to me, \"I looked down upon a small\ncourtyard surrounded on all sides by houses. In the courtyard sat a\nclucking hen with eleven chickens; and a pretty little girl was\nrunning and jumping around them. The hen was frightened, and screamed,\nand spread out her wings over the little brood. Then the girl's father\ncame out and scolded her; and I glided away and thought no more of\nthe matter.\n\n\"But this evening, only a few minutes ago, I looked down into the same\ncourtyard. Everything was quiet. But presently the little girl came\nforth again, crept quietly to the hen-house, pushed back the bolt, and\nslipped into the apartment of the hen and chickens. They cried out\nloudly, and came fluttering down from their perches, and ran about in\ndismay, and the little girl ran after them. I saw it quite plainly,\nfor I looked through a hole in the hen-house wall. I was angry with\nthe wilful child, and felt glad when her father came out and scolded\nher more violently than yesterday, holding her roughly by the arm: she\nheld down her head, and her blue eyes were full of large tears. 'What\nare you about here?' he asked. She wept and said, 'I wanted to kiss\nthe hen and beg her pardon for frightening her yesterday; but I was\nafraid to tell you.'\n\n\"And the father kissed the innocent child's forehead, and I kissed her\non the mouth and eyes.\"\n\n\nTHIRD EVENING.\n\n\"In the narrow street round the corner yonder--it is so narrow that my\nbeams can only glide for a minute along the walls of the house, but in\nthat minute I see enough to learn what the world is made of--in that\nnarrow street I saw a woman. Sixteen years ago that woman was a child,\nplaying in the garden of the old parsonage, in the country. The hedges\nof rose-bush were old, and the flowers were faded. They straggled wild\nover the paths, and the ragged branches grew up among the boughs of\nthe apple trees; here and there were a few roses still in bloom--not\nso fair as the queen of flowers generally appears, but still they had\ncolour and scent too. The clergyman's little daughter appeared to me a\nfar lovelier rose, as she sat on her stool under the straggling hedge,\nhugging and caressing her doll with the battered pasteboard cheeks.\n\n\"Ten years afterwards I saw her again. I beheld her in a splendid\nball-room: she was the beautiful bride of a rich merchant. I rejoiced\nat her happiness, and sought her on calm quiet evenings--ah, nobody\nthinks of my clear eye and my silent glance! Alas! my rose ran wild,\nlike the rose bushes in the garden of the parsonage. There are\ntragedies in every-day life, and to-night I saw the last act of one.\n\n\"She was lying in bed in a house in that narrow street: she was sick\nunto death, and the cruel landlord came up, and tore away the thin\ncoverlet, her only protection against the cold. 'Get up!' said he;\n'your face is enough to frighten one. Get up and dress yourself, give\nme money, or I'll turn you out into the street! Quick--get up!' She\nanswered, 'Alas! death is gnawing at my heart. Let me rest.' But he\nforced her to get up and bathe her face, and put a wreath of roses in\nher hair; and he placed her in a chair at the window, with a candle\nburning beside her, and went away.\n\n\"I looked at her, and she was sitting motionless, with her hands in\nher lap. The wind caught the open window and shut it with a crash, so\nthat a pane came clattering down in fragments; but still she never\nmoved. The curtain caught fire, and the flames played about her face;\nand I saw that she was dead. There at the open window sat the dead\nwoman, preaching a sermon against _sin_--my poor faded rose out of the\nparsonage garden!\"\n\n\nFOURTH EVENING.\n\n\"This evening I saw a German play acted,\" said the Moon. \"It was in a\nlittle town. A stable had been turned into a theatre; that is to say,\nthe stable had been left standing, and had been turned into private\nboxes, and all the timber work had been covered with coloured paper. A\nlittle iron chandelier hung beneath the ceiling, and that it might be\nmade to disappear into the ceiling, as it does in great theatres, when\nthe _ting-ting_ of the prompter's bell is heard, a great inverted tub\nhad been placed just above it.\n\n\"'_Ting-ting!_' and the little iron chandelier suddenly rose at least\nhalf a yard and disappeared in the tub; and that was the sign that the\nplay was going to begin. A young nobleman and his lady, who happened\nto be passing through the little town, were present at the\nperformance, and consequently the house was crowded. But under the\nchandelier was a vacant space like a little crater: not a single soul\nsat there, for the tallow was dropping, drip, drip! I saw everything,\nfor it was so warm in there that every loophole had been opened. The\nmale and female servants stood outside, peeping through the chinks,\nalthough a real policeman was inside, threatening them with a stick.\nClose by the orchestra could be seen the noble young couple in two old\narm-chairs, which were usually occupied by his worship the mayor and\nhis lady; but these latter were to-day obliged to content themselves\nwith wooden forms, just as if they had been ordinary citizens; and the\nlady observed quietly to herself, 'One sees, now, that there is rank\nabove rank;' and this incident gave an air of extra festivity to the\nwhole proceedings. The chandelier gave little leaps, the crowd got\ntheir knuckles rapped, and I, the Moon, was present at the performance\nfrom beginning to end.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE PLAY IN A STABLE.]\n\n\nFIFTH EVENING.\n\n\"Yesterday,\" began the Moon, \"I looked down upon the turmoil of Paris.\nMy eye penetrated into an apartment of the Louvre. An old grandmother,\npoorly clad--she belonged to the working class--was following one of\nthe under-servants into the great empty throne-room, for this was the\napartment she wanted to see--that she was resolved to see; it had cost\nher many a little sacrifice, and many a coaxing word, to penetrate\nthus far. She folded her thin hands, and looked round with an air of\nreverence, as if she had been in a church.\n\n\"'Here it was!' she said, 'here!' And she approached the throne, from\nwhich hung the rich velvet fringed with gold lace. 'There,' she\nexclaimed, 'there!' and she knelt and kissed the purple carpet. I\nthink she was actually weeping.\n\n\"'But it was not _this very_ velvet!' observed the footman, and a\nsmile played about his mouth. 'True, but it was this very place,'\nreplied the woman, 'and it must have looked just like this.' 'It\nlooked so, and yet it did not,' observed the man: 'the windows were\nbeaten in, and the doors were off their hinges, and there was blood\nupon the floor.' 'But for all that you can say, my grandson died upon\nthe throne of France. Died!' mournfully repeated the old woman. I do\nnot think another word was spoken, and they soon quitted the hall. The\nevening twilight faded, and my light shone doubly vivid upon the rich\nvelvet that covered the throne of France.\n\n\"Now, who do you think this poor woman was? Listen, I will tell you a\nstory.\n\n\"It happened, in the Revolution of July, on the evening of the most\nbrilliantly victorious day, when every house was a fortress, every\nwindow a breastwork. The people stormed the Tuileries. Even women and\nchildren were to be found among the combatants. They penetrated into\nthe apartments and halls of the palace. A poor half-grown boy in a\nragged blouse fought among the older insurgents. Mortally wounded with\nseveral bayonet thrusts, he sank down. This happened in the\nthrone-room. They laid the bleeding youth upon the throne of France,\nwrapped the velvet around his wounds, and his blood streamed forth\nupon the imperial purple. There was a picture! the splendid hall, the\nfighting groups! A torn flag lay upon the ground, the tricolor was\nwaving above the bayonets, and on the throne lay the poor lad with the\npale glorified countenance, his eyes turned towards the sky, his limbs\nwrithing in the death agony, his breast bare, and his poor tattered\nclothing half hidden by the rich velvet embroidered with silver\nlilies. At the boy's cradle a prophecy had been spoken: 'He will die\non the throne of France!' The mother's heart dreamt of a second\nNapoleon.\n\n\"My beams have kissed the wreath of _immortelles_ on his grave, and\nthis night they kissed the forehead of the old grandame, while in a\ndream the picture floated before her which thou mayest draw--the poor\nboy on the throne of France.\"\n\n\nSIXTH EVENING.\n\n\"I've been in Upsala,\" said the Moon: \"I looked down upon the great\nplain covered with coarse grass, and upon the barren fields. I\nmirrored my face in the Tyris river, while the steamboat drove the\nfish into the rushes. Beneath me floated the waves, throwing long\nshadows on the so-called graves of Odin, Thor, and Friga. In the\nscanty turf that covers the hill-side names have been cut.[1] There is\nno monument here, no memorial on which the traveller can have his name\ncarved, no rocky wall on whose surface he can get it painted; so\nvisitors have the turf cut away for that purpose. The naked earth\npeers through in the form of great letters and names; these form a\nnetwork over the whole hill. Here is an immortality, which lasts till\nthe fresh turf grows!\n\n[Footnote 1: Travellers on the Continent have frequent opportunities\nof seeing how universally this custom prevails among travellers. In\nsome places on the Rhine, pots of paint and brushes are offered by the\nnatives to the traveller desirous of \"immortalising\" himself.]\n\n\"Up on the hill stood a man, a poet. He emptied the mead horn with the\nbroad silver rim, and murmured a name. He begged the winds not to\nbetray him, but I heard the name. I knew it. A count's coronet\nsparkles above it, and therefore he did not speak it out. I smiled,\nfor I knew that a poet's crown adorns his own name. The nobility of\nEleanora d'Este is attached to the name of Tasso. And I also know\nwhere the Rose of Beauty blooms!\"\n\nThus spake the Moon, and a cloud came between us. May no cloud\nseparate the poet from the rose!\n\n\nSEVENTH EVENING.\n\n\"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest of firs and beeches,\nand fresh and fragrant is this wood; hundreds of nightingales visit it\nevery spring. Close beside it is the sea, the ever-changing sea, and\nbetween the two is placed the broad high-road. One carriage after\nanother rolls over it; but I did not follow them, for my eye loves\nbest to rest upon one point. A Hun's Grave[2] lies there, and the sloe\nand blackthorn grow luxuriantly among the stones. Here is true poetry\nin nature.\n\n[Footnote 2: Large mounds similar to the \"barrows\" found in Britain,\nare thus designated in Germany and the North.]\n\n\"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry? I will tell you what\nI heard there last evening and during the night.\n\n\"First, two rich landed proprietors came driving by. 'Those are\nglorious trees!' said the first. 'Certainly; there are ten loads of\nfirewood in each,' observed the other: 'it will be a hard winter, and\nlast year we got fourteen dollars a load'--and they were gone. 'The\nroad here is wretched,' observed another man who drove past. 'That's\nthe fault of those horrible trees,' replied his neighbour; 'there is\nno free current of air; the wind can only come from the sea'--and they\nwere gone. The stage coach went rattling past. All the passengers were\nasleep at this beautiful spot. The postillion blew his horn, but he\nonly thought, 'I can play capitally. It sounds well here. I wonder if\nthose in there like it?'--and the stage coach vanished. Then two young\nfellows came gallopping up on horseback. There's youth and spirit in\nthe blood here! thought I; and, indeed, they looked with a smile at\nthe moss-grown hill and thick forest. 'I should not dislike a walk\nhere with the miller's Christine,' said one--and they flew past.\n\n\"The flowers scented the air; every breath of air was hushed: it\nseemed as if the sea were a part of the sky that stretched above the\ndeep valley. A carriage rolled by. Six people were sitting in it. Four\nof them were asleep; the fifth was thinking of his new summer coat,\nwhich would suit him admirably; the sixth turned to the coachman and\nasked him if there were anything remarkable connected with yonder heap\nof stones. 'No,' replied the coachman, 'it's only a heap of stones;\nbut the trees are remarkable.' 'How so?' 'Why, I'll tell you how they\nare very remarkable. You see, in winter, when the snow lies very deep,\nand has hidden the whole road so that nothing is to be seen, those\ntrees serve me for a landmark. I steer by them, so as not to drive\ninto the sea; and you see that is why the trees are remarkable.'\n\n\"Now came a painter. He spoke not a word, but his eyes sparkled. He\nbegan to whistle. At this the nightingales sang louder than ever.\n'Hold your tongues!' he cried testily; and he made accurate notes of\nall the colours and transitions--blue, and lilac, and dark brown.\n'That will make a beautiful picture,' he said. He took it in just as a\nmirror takes in a view; and as he worked he whistled a march of\nRossini. And last of all came a poor girl. She laid aside the burden\nshe carried, and sat down to rest upon the Hun's Grave. Her pale\nhandsome face was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest. Her\neyes brightened, she gazed earnestly at the sea and the sky, her hands\nwere folded, and I think she prayed, 'Our Father.' She herself could\nnot understand the feeling that swept through her, but I know that\nthis minute, and the beautiful natural scene, will live within her\nmemory for years, far more vividly and more truly than the painter\ncould portray it with his colours on paper. My rays followed her till\nthe morning dawn kissed her brow.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE POOR GIRL RESTS ON THE HUN'S GRAVE.]\n\n\nEIGHTH EVENING.\n\nHeavy clouds obscured the sky, and the Moon did not make his\nappearance at all. I stood in my little room, more lonely than ever,\nand looked up at the sky where he ought to have shown himself. My\nthoughts flew far away, up to my great friend, who every evening told\nme such pretty tales, and showed me pictures. Yes, he has had an\nexperience indeed. He glided over the waters of the Deluge, and smiled\non Noah's ark just as he lately glanced down upon me, and brought\ncomfort and promise of a new world that was to spring forth from the\nold. When the Children of Israel sat weeping by the waters of Babylon,\nhe glanced mournfully upon the willows where hung the silent harps.\nWhen Romeo climbed the balcony, and the promise of true love fluttered\nlike a cherub toward heaven, the round Moon hung, half hidden among\nthe dark cypresses, in the lucid air. He saw the captive giant at St.\nHelena, looking from the lonely rock across the wide ocean, while\ngreat thoughts swept through his soul. Ah! what tales the Moon can\ntell. Human life is like a story to him. To-night I shall not see thee\nagain, old friend. To-night I can draw no picture of the memories of\nthy visit. And, as I looked dreamily towards the clouds, the sky\nbecame bright. There was a glancing light, and a beam from the Moon\nfell upon me. It vanished again, and dark clouds flew past; but still\nit was a greeting, a friendly good-night offered to me by the Moon.\n\n\nNINTH EVENING.\n\nThe air was clear again. Several evenings had passed, and the Moon was\nin the first quarter. Again he gave me an outline for a sketch. Listen\nto what he told me.\n\n\"I have followed the polar bird and the swimming whale to the eastern\ncoast of Greenland. Gaunt ice-covered rocks and dark clouds hung over\na valley, where dwarf willows and barberry bushes stood clothed in\ngreen. The blooming lychnis exhaled sweet odours. My light was faint,\nmy face pale as the water lily that, torn from its stem, has been\ndrifting for weeks with the tide. The crown-shaped Northern Light\nburned fiercely in the sky. Its ring was broad, and from its\ncircumference the rays shot like whirling shafts of fire across the\nwhole sky, flashing in changing radiance from green to red. The\ninhabitants of that icy region were assembling for dance and\nfestivity; but, accustomed to this glorious spectacle, they scarcely\ndeigned to glance at it. 'Let us leave the souls of the dead to their\nball-play with the heads of the walruses,' they thought in their\nsuperstition, and they turned their whole attention to the song and\ndance. In the midst of the circle, and divested of his furry cloak,\nstood a Greenlander, with a small pipe, and he played and sang a song\nabout catching the seal, and the chorus around chimed in with, '_Eia,\nEia, Ah._' And in their white furs they danced about in the circle,\ntill you might fancy it was a polar bear's ball.\n\n\"And now a Court of Judgment was opened. Those Greenlanders who had\nquarrelled stepped forward, and the offended person chanted forth the\nfaults of his adversary in an extempore song, turning them sharply\ninto ridicule, to the sound of the pipe and the measure of the dance.\nThe defendant replied with satire as keen, while the audience laughed,\nand gave their verdict. The rocks heaved, the glaciers melted, and\ngreat masses of ice and snow came crashing down, shivering to\nfragments as they fell: it was a glorious Greenland summer night. A\nhundred paces away, under the open tent of hides, lay a sick man. Life\nstill flowed through his warm blood, but still he was to die--he\nhimself felt it, and all who stood round him knew it also; therefore\nhis wife was already sowing round him the shroud of furs, that she\nmight not afterwards be obliged to touch the dead body. And she asked,\n'Wilt thou be buried on the rock, in the firm snow? I will deck the\nspot with thy _kayak_, and thy arrows, and the _angekokk_ shall dance\nover it. Or wouldst thou rather be buried in the sea?' 'In the sea,'\nhe whispered, and nodded with a mournful smile. 'Yes, it is a pleasant\nsummer tent, the sea,' observed the wife. 'Thousands of seals sport\nthere, the walrus shall lie at thy feet, and the hunt will be safe and\nmerry!' And the yelling children tore the outspread hide from the\nwindow-hole, that the dead man might be carried to the ocean, the\nbillowy ocean, that had given him food in life, and that now, in\ndeath, was to afford him a place of rest. For his monument, he had the\nfloating, ever-changing icebergs, whereon the seal sleeps, while the\nstorm bird flies round their gleaming summits!\"\n\n\nTENTH EVENING.\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD MAID.]\n\n\"I knew an old maid,\" said the Moon. \"Every winter she wore a wrapper\nof yellow satin, and it always remained new, and was the only fashion\nshe followed. In summer she always wore the same straw hat, and I\nverily believe the very same grey-blue dress.\n\n\"She never went out, except across the street to an old female friend;\nand in later years she did not even take this walk, for the old friend\nwas dead. In her solitude my old maid was always busy at the window,\nwhich was adorned in summer with pretty flowers, and in winter with\ncress, grown upon felt. During the last months I saw her no more at\nthe window, but she was still alive. I knew that, for I had not yet\nseen her begin the 'long journey,' of which she often spoke with her\nfriend. 'Yes, yes,' she was in the habit of saying, 'when I come to\ndie, I shall take a longer journey than I have made my whole life\nlong. Our family vault is six miles from here. I shall be carried\nthere, and shall sleep there among my family and relatives.' Last\nnight a van stopped at the house. A coffin was carried out, and then I\nknew that she was dead. They placed straw round the coffin, and the\nvan drove away. There slept the quiet old lady, who had not gone out\nof her house once for the last year. The van rolled out through the\ntown-gate as briskly as if it were going for a pleasant excursion. On\nthe high-road the pace was quicker yet. The coachman looked nervously\nround every now and then--I fancy he half expected to see her sitting\non the coffin, in her yellow satin wrapper. And because he was\nstartled, he foolishly lashed his horses, while he held the reins so\ntightly that the poor beasts were in a foam: they were young and\nfiery. A hare jumped across the road and startled them, and they\nfairly ran away. The old sober maiden, who had for years and years\nmoved quietly round and round in a dull circle, was now, in death,\nrattled over stock and stone on the public highway. The coffin in its\ncovering of straw tumbled out of the van, and was left on the\nhigh-road, while horses, coachman, and carriage flew past in wild\ncareer. The lark rose up carolling from the field, twittering her\nmorning lay over the coffin, and presently perched upon it, picking\nwith her beak at the straw covering, as though she would tear it up.\nThe lark rose up again, singing gaily, and I withdrew behind the red\nmorning clouds.\"\n\n\nELEVENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I will give you a picture of Pompeii,\" said the Moon. \"I was in the\nsuburb in the Street of Tombs, as they call it, where the fair\nmonuments stand, in the spot where, ages ago, the merry youths, their\ntemples bound with rosy wreaths, danced with the fair sisters of Lais.\nNow, the stillness of death reigned around. German mercenaries, in the\nNeapolitan service, kept guard, played cards, and diced; and a troop\nof strangers from beyond the mountains came into the town, accompanied\nby a sentry. They wanted to see the city that had risen from the grave\nillumined by my beams; and I showed them the wheel-ruts in the streets\npaved with broad lava slabs; I showed them the names on the doors, and\nthe signs that hung there yet: they saw in the little courtyard the\nbasins of the fountains, ornamented with shells; but no jet of water\ngushed upwards, no songs sounded forth from the richly-painted\nchambers, where the bronze dog kept the door.\n\n\"It was the City of the Dead; only Vesuvius thundered forth his\neverlasting hymn, each separate verse of which is called by men an\neruption. We went to the temple of Venus, built of snow-white marble,\nwith its high altar in front of the broad steps, and the weeping\nwillows sprouting freshly forth among the pillars. The air was\ntransparent and blue, and black Vesuvius formed the background, with\nfire ever shooting forth from it, like the stem of the pine tree.\nAbove it stretched the smoky cloud in the silence of the night, like\nthe crown of the pine, but in a blood-red illumination. Among the\ncompany was a lady singer, a real and great singer. I have witnessed\nthe homage paid to her in the greatest cities of Europe. When they\ncame to the tragic theatre, they all sat down on the amphitheatre\nsteps, and thus a small part of the house was occupied by an audience,\nas it had been many centuries ago. The stage still stood unchanged,\nwith its walled side-scenes, and the two arches in the background,\nthrough which the beholders saw the same scene that had been exhibited\nin the old times--a scene painted by nature herself, namely, the\nmountains between Sorento and Amalfi. The singer gaily mounted the\nancient stage, and sang. The place inspired her, and she reminded me\nof a wild Arab horse, that rushes headlong on with snorting nostrils\nand flying mane--her song was so light and yet so firm. Anon I thought\nof the mourning mother beneath the cross at Golgotha, so deep was the\nexpression of pain. And, just as it had done thousands of years ago,\nthe sound of applause and delight now filled the theatre. 'Happy,\ngifted creature!' all the hearers exclaimed. Five minutes more, and\nthe stage was empty, the company had vanished, and not a sound more\nwas heard--all were gone. But the ruins stood unchanged, as they will\nstand when centuries shall have gone by, and when none shall know of\nthe momentary applause and of the triumph of the fair songstress; when\nall will be forgotten and gone, and even for me this hour will be but\na dream of the past.\"\n\n\nTWELFTH EVENING.\n\n\"I looked through the windows of an editor's house,\" said the Moon.\n\"It was somewhere in Germany. I saw handsome furniture, many books,\nand a chaos of newspapers. Several young men were present: the editor\nhimself stood at his desk, and two little books, both by young\nauthors, were to be noticed. 'This one has been sent to me,' said he.\n'I have not read it yet; what think _you_ of the contents?' 'Oh,' said\nthe person addressed--he was a poet himself--'it is good enough; a\nlittle broad, certainly; but, you see, the author is still young. The\nverses might be better, to be sure; the thoughts are sound, though\nthere is certainly a good deal of commonplace among them. But what\nwill you have? You can't be always getting something new. That he'll\nturn out anything great I don't believe, but you may safely praise\nhim. He is well read, a remarkable Oriental scholar, and has a good\njudgment. It was he who wrote that nice review of my 'Reflections on\nDomestic Life.' We must be lenient towards the young man.'\n\n\"'But he is a complete hack!' objected another of the gentlemen.\n'Nothing is worse in poetry than mediocrity, and he certainly does not\ngo beyond this.'\n\n\"'Poor fellow,' observed a third, 'and his aunt is so happy about him.\nIt was she, Mr. Editor, who got together so many subscribers for your\nlast translation.'\n\n\"'Ah, the good woman! Well, I have noticed the book briefly. Undoubted\ntalent--a welcome offering--a flower in the garden of poetry--prettily\nbrought out--and so on. But this other book--I suppose the author\nexpects me to purchase it? I hear it is praised. He has genius,\ncertainly; don't you think so?'\n\n\"'Yes, all the world declares as much,' replied the poet, 'but it has\nturned out rather wildly. The punctuation of the book, in particular,\nis very eccentric.'\n\n\"'It will be good for him if we pull him to pieces, and anger him a\nlittle, otherwise he will get too good an opinion of himself.'\n\n\"'But that would be unfair,' objected the fourth. 'Let us not carp at\nlittle faults, but rejoice over the real and abundant good that we\nfind here: he surpasses all the rest.'\n\n\"'Not so. If he is a true genius, he can bear the sharp voice of\ncensure. There are people enough to praise him. Don't let us quite\nturn his head.'\n\n\"'Decided talent,' wrote the editor, 'with the usual carelessness.\nThat he can write incorrect verses may be seen in page 25, where there\nare two false quantities. We recommend him to study the ancients,\netc.'\n\n\"I went away,\" continued the Moon, \"and looked through the windows in\nthe aunt's house. There sat the be-praised poet, the _tame_ one; all\nthe guests paid homage to him, and he was happy.\n\n\"I sought the other poet out, the _wild_ one; him also I found in a\ngreat assembly at his patron's, where the tame poet's book was being\ndiscussed.\n\n\"'I shall read yours also,' said Maecenas; 'but to speak honestly--you\nknow I never hide my opinion from you--I don't expect much from it,\nfor you are much too wild, too fantastic. But it must be allowed that,\nas a man, you are highly respectable.'\n\n\"A young girl sat in a corner; and she read in a book these words:\n\n    \"'In the dust lies genius and glory,\n        But ev'ry-day talent will _pay_.\n      It's only the old, old story,\n        But the piece is repeated each day.'\"\n\n\nTHIRTEENTH EVENING.\n\nThe Moon said, \"Beside the woodland path there are two small\nfarmhouses. The doors are low, and some of the windows are placed\nquite high, and others close to the ground; and whitethorn and\nbarberry bushes grow around them. The roof of each house is overgrown\nwith moss and with yellow flowers and houseleek. Cabbage and potatoes\nare the only plants cultivated in the gardens, but out of the hedge\nthere grows a willow tree, and under this willow tree sat a little\ngirl, and she sat with her eyes fixed upon the old oak tree between\nthe two huts.\n\n\"It was an old withered stem. It had been sawn off at the top, and a\nstork had built his nest upon it; and he stood in this nest clapping\nwith his beak. A little boy came and stood by the girl's side: they\nwere brother and sister.\n\n\"'What are you looking at?' he asked.\n\n\"'I'm watching the stork,' she replied: 'our neighbours told me that\nhe would bring us a little brother or sister to-day; let us watch to\nsee it come!'\n\n\"'The stork brings no such things,' the boy declared, 'you may be sure\nof that. Our neighbour told me the same thing, but she laughed when\nshe said it, and so I asked her if she could say 'On my honour,' and\nshe could not; and I know by that that the story about the storks is\nnot true, and that they only tell it to us children for fun.'\n\n\"'But where do the babies come from, then?' asked the girl.\n\n\"'Why, an angel from heaven brings them under his cloak, but no man\ncan see him; and that's why we never know when he brings them.'\n\n\"At that moment there was a rustling in the branches of the willow\ntree, and the children folded their hands and looked at one another:\nit was certainly the angel coming with the baby. They took each\nother's hand, and at that moment the door of one of the houses opened,\nand the neighbour appeared.\n\n[Illustration: WATCHING THE STORK.]\n\n\"'Come in, you two,' she said. 'See what the stork has brought. It is\na little brother.'\n\n\"And the children nodded gravely at one another, for they had felt\nquite sure already that the baby was come.\"\n\n\nFOURTEENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I was gliding over the Lueneburg Heath,\" the Moon said. \"A lonely hut\nstood by the wayside, a few scanty bushes grew near it, and a\nnightingale who had lost his way sang sweetly. He died in the coldness\nof the night: it was his farewell song that I heard.\n\n\"The morning dawn came glimmering red. I saw a caravan of emigrant\npeasant families who were bound to Hamburgh, there to take ship for\nAmerica, where fancied prosperity would bloom for them. The mothers\ncarried their little children at their backs, the elder ones tottered\nby their sides, and a poor starved horse tugged at a cart that bore\ntheir scanty effects. The cold wind whistled, and therefore the little\ngirl nestled closer to the mother, who, looking up at my decreasing\ndisc, thought of the bitter want at home, and spoke of the heavy taxes\nthey had not been able to raise. The whole caravan thought of the same\nthing; therefore, the rising dawn seemed to them a message from the\nsun, of fortune that was to gleam brightly upon them. They heard the\ndying nightingale sing: it was no false prophet, but a harbinger of\nfortune. The wind whistled, therefore they did not understand that the\nnightingale sung, 'Fare away over the sea! Thou hast paid the long\npassage with all that was thine, and poor and helpless shalt thou\nenter Canaan. Thou must sell thyself, thy wife, and thy children. But\nyour griefs shall not last long. Behind the broad fragrant leaves\nlurks the goddess of Death, and her welcome kiss shall breathe fever\ninto thy blood. Fare away, fare away, over the heaving billows.' And\nthe caravan listened well pleased to the song of the nightingale,\nwhich seemed to promise good fortune. Day broke through the light\nclouds; country people went across the heath to church: the\nblack-gowned women with their white head-dresses looked like ghosts\nthat had stepped forth from the church pictures. All around lay a wide\ndead plain, covered with faded brown heath, and black charred spaces\nbetween the white sand hills. The women carried hymn books, and walked\ninto the church. Oh, pray, pray for those who are wandering to find\ngraves beyond the foaming billows.\"\n\n[Illustration: PULCINELLA ON COLUMBINE'S GRAVE.]\n\n\nFIFTEENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I know a Pulcinella,\"[3] the Moon told me. \"The public applaud\nvociferously directly they see him. Every one of his movements is\ncomic, and is sure to throw the house into convulsions of laughter;\nand yet there is no art in it all--it is complete nature. When he was\nyet a little boy, playing about with other boys, he was already\nPunch. Nature had intended him for it, and had provided him with a\nhump on his back, and another on his breast; but his inward man, his\nmind, on the contrary, was richly furnished. No one could surpass him\nin depth of feeling or in readiness of intellect. The theatre was his\nideal world. If he had possessed a slender well-shaped figure, he\nmight have been the first tragedian on any stage: the heroic, the\ngreat, filled his soul; and yet he had to become a Pulcinella. His\nvery sorrow and melancholy did but increase the comic dryness of his\nsharply-cut features, and increased the laughter of the audience, who\nshowered plaudits on their favourite. The lovely Columbine was indeed\nkind and cordial to him; but she preferred to marry the Harlequin. It\nwould have been too ridiculous if beauty and ugliness had in reality\npaired together.\n\n[Footnote 3: The comic or grotesque character of the Italian ballet,\nfrom which the English \"Punch\" takes his origin.]\n\n\"When Pulcinella was in very bad spirits, she was the only one who\ncould force a hearty burst of laughter, or even a smile from him:\nfirst she would be melancholy with him, then quieter, and at last\nquite cheerful and happy. 'I know very well what is the matter with\nyou,' she said; 'yes, you're in love!' And he could not help laughing.\n'I and Love!' he cried, 'that would have an absurd look. How the\npublic would shout!' 'Certainly, you are in love,' she continued; and\nadded with a comic pathos, 'and I am the person you are in love with.'\nYou see, such a thing may be said when it is quite out of the\nquestion--and, indeed, Pulcinella burst out laughing, and gave a leap\ninto the air, and his melancholy was forgotten.\n\n\"And yet she had only spoken the truth. He _did_ love her, love her\nadoringly, as he loved what was great and lofty in art. At her wedding\nhe was the merriest among the guests, but in the stillness of night he\nwept: if the public had seen his distorted face then, they would have\napplauded rapturously.\n\n\"And a few days ago, Columbine died. On the day of the funeral,\nHarlequin was not required to show himself on the boards, for he was a\ndisconsolate widower. The director had to give a very merry piece,\nthat the public might not too painfully miss the pretty Columbine and\nthe agile Harlequin. Therefore Pulcinella had to be more boisterous\nand extravagant than ever; and he danced and capered, with despair in\nhis heart; and the audience yelled, and shouted '_bravo, bravissimo!_'\nPulcinella was actually called before the curtain. He was pronounced\ninimitable.\n\n\"But last night the hideous little fellow went out of the town, quite\nalone, to the deserted churchyard. The wreath of flowers on\nColumbine's grave was already faded, and he sat down there. It was a\nstudy for a painter. As he sat with his chin on his hands, his eyes\nturned up towards me, he looked like a grotesque monument--a Punch on\na grave--peculiar and whimsical! If the people could have seen their\nfavourite, they would have cried as usual, '_Bravo, Pulcinella; bravo,\nbravissimo!_'\"\n\n\nSIXTEENTH EVENING.\n\nHear what the Moon told me. \"I have seen the cadet who had just been\nmade an officer put on his handsome uniform for the first time; I have\nseen the young bride in her wedding dress, and the princess girl-wife\nhappy in her gorgeous robes; but never have I seen a felicity equal to\nthat of a little girl of four years old, whom I watched this evening.\nShe had received a new blue dress, and a new pink hat, the splendid\nattire had just been put on, and all were calling for a candle, for my\nrays, shining in through the windows of the room, were not bright\nenough for the occasion, and further illumination was required. There\nstood the little maid, stiff and upright as a doll, her arms stretched\npainfully straight out away from the dress, and her fingers apart; and\noh, what happiness beamed from her eyes, and from her whole\ncountenance! 'To-morrow you shall go out in your new clothes,' said\nher mother; and the little one looked up at her hat, and down at her\nfrock, and smiled brightly. 'Mother,' she cried, 'what will the little\ndogs think, when they see me in these splendid new things?'\"\n\n\nSEVENTEENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I have spoken to you of Pompeii,\" said the Moon; \"that corpse of a\ncity, exposed in the view of living towns: I know another sight still\nmore strange, and this is not the corpse, but the spectre of a city.\nWhenever the jetty fountains splash into the marble basins, they seem\nto me to be telling the story of the floating city. Yes, the spouting\nwater may tell of her, the waves of the sea may sing of her fame! On\nthe surface of the ocean a mist often rests, and that is her widow's\nveil. The bridegroom of the sea is dead, his palace and his city are\nhis mausoleum! Dost thou know this city? She has never heard the\nrolling of wheels or the hoof-tread of horses in her streets, through\nwhich the fish swim, while the black gondola glides spectrally over\nthe green water. I will show you the place,\" continued the Moon, \"the\nlargest square in it, and you will fancy yourself transported into the\ncity of a fairy tale. The grass grows rank among the broad flagstones,\nand in the morning twilight thousands of tame pigeons flutter around\nthe solitary lofty tower. On three sides you find yourself surrounded\nby cloistered walks. In these the silent Turk sits smoking his long\npipe, the handsome Greek leans against the pillar and gazes at the\nupraised trophies and lofty masts, memorials of power that is gone.\nThe flags hang down like mourning scarves. A girl rests there: she has\nput down her heavy pails filled with water, the yoke with which she\nhas carried them rests on one of her shoulders, and she leans against\nthe mast of victory. That is not a fairy palace you see before you\nyonder, but a church: the gilded domes and shining orbs flash back my\nbeams; the glorious bronze horses up yonder have made journeys, like\nthe bronze horse in the fairy tale: they have come hither, and gone\nhence, and have returned again. Do you notice the variegated splendour\nof the walls and windows? It looks as if Genius had followed the\ncaprices of a child, in the adornment of these singular temples. Do\nyou see the winged lion on the pillar? The gold glitters still, but\nhis wings are tied--the lion is dead, for the king of the sea is dead;\nthe great halls stand desolate, and where gorgeous paintings hung of\nyore, the naked wall now peers through. The _lazzarone_ sleeps under\nthe arcade, whose pavement in old times was to be trodden only by the\nfeet of high nobility. From the deep wells, and perhaps from the\nprisons by the Bridge of Sighs, rise the accents of woe, as at the\ntime when the tambourine was heard in the gay gondolas, and the golden\nring was cast from the _Bucentaur_ to Adria, the queen of the seas.\nAdria! shroud thyself in mists; let the veil of thy widowhood shroud\nthy form, and clothe in the weeds of woe the mausoleum of thy\nbridegroom--the marble, spectral Venice.\"\n\n\nEIGHTEENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I looked down upon a great theatre,\" said the Moon. \"The house was\ncrowded, for a new actor was to make his first appearance that night.\nMy rays glided over a little window in the wall, and I saw a painted\nface with the forehead pressed against the panes. It was the hero of\nthe evening. The knightly beard curled crisply about the chin; but\nthere were tears in the man's eyes, for he had been hissed off, and\nindeed with reason. The poor Incapable! But Incapables cannot be\nadmitted into the empire of Art. He had deep feeling, and loved his\nart enthusiastically, but the art loved not him. The prompter's bell\nsounded; '_the hero enters with a determined air_,' so ran the stage\ndirection in his part, and he had to appear before an audience who\nturned him into ridicule. When the piece was over, I saw a form\nwrapped in a mantle, creeping down the steps: it was the vanquished\nknight of the evening. The scene-shifters whispered to one another,\nand I followed the poor fellow home to his room. To hang one's self is\nto die a mean death, and poison is not always at hand, I know; but he\nthought of both. I saw how he looked at his pale face in the glass,\nwith eyes half closed, to see if he should look well as a corpse. A\nman may be very unhappy, and yet exceedingly affected. He thought of\ndeath, of suicide; I believe he pitied himself, for he wept bitterly,\nand when a man has had his cry out he doesn't kill himself.\n\n\"Since that time a year had rolled by. Again a play was to be acted,\nbut in a little theatre, and by a poor strolling company. Again I saw\nthe well-remembered face, with the painted cheeks and the crisp beard.\nHe looked up at me and smiled; and yet he had been hissed off only a\nminute before--hissed off from a wretched theatre, by a miserable\naudience. And to-night a shabby hearse rolled out of the town-gate. It\nwas a suicide--our painted, despised hero. The driver of the hearse\nwas the only person present, for no one followed except my beams. In a\ncorner of the churchyard the corpse of the suicide was shovelled into\nthe earth, and nettles will soon be growing rankly over his grave, and\nthe sexton will throw thorns and weeds from the other graves upon it.\"\n\n\nNINETEENTH EVENING.\n\n\"I come from Rome,\" said the Moon. \"In the midst of the city, upon one\nof the seven hills, lie the ruins of the imperial palace. The wild fig\ntree grows in the clefts of the wall, and covers the nakedness thereof\nwith its broad grey-green leaves; trampling among heaps of rubbish,\nthe ass treads upon green laurels, and rejoices over the rank\nthistles. From this spot, whence the eagles of Rome once flew abroad,\nwhence they 'came, saw, and conquered,' our door leads into a little\nmean house, built of clay between two pillars; the wild vine hangs\nlike a mourning garland over the crooked window. An old woman and her\nlittle granddaughter live there: they rule now in the palace of the\nCaesars, and show to strangers the remains of its past glories. Of the\nsplendid throne-hall only a naked wall yet stands, and a black cypress\nthrows its dark shadow on the spot where the throne once stood. The\ndust lies several feet deep on the broken pavement; and the little\nmaiden, now the daughter of the imperial palace, often sits there on\nher stool when the evening bells ring. The keyhole of the door close\nby she calls her turret window; through this she can see half Rome, as\nfar as the mighty cupola of St. Peter's.\n\n\"On this evening, as usual, stillness reigned around; and in the full\nbeam of my light came the little granddaughter. On her head she\ncarried an earthen pitcher of antique shape filled with water. Her\nfeet were bare, her short frock and her white sleeves were torn. I\nkissed her pretty round shoulders, her dark eyes, and black shining\nhair. She mounted the stairs; they were steep, having been made up of\nrough blocks of broken marble and the capital of a fallen pillar. The\ncoloured lizards slipped away, startled, from before her feet, but she\nwas not frightened at them. Already she lifted her hand to pull the\ndoor-bell--a hare's foot fastened to a string formed the bell-handle\nof the imperial palace. She paused for a moment--of what might she be\nthinking? Perhaps of the beautiful Christ-child, dressed in gold and\nsilver, which was down below in the chapel, where the silver\ncandlesticks gleamed so bright, and where her little friends sung the\nhymns in which she also could join? I know not. Presently she moved\nagain--she stumbled; the earthen vessel fell from her head, and broke\non the marble steps. She burst into tears. The beautiful daughter of\nthe imperial palace wept over the worthless broken pitcher; with her\nbare feet she stood there weeping, and dared not pull the string, the\nbell-rope of the imperial palace!\"\n\n\nTWENTIETH EVENING.\n\nIt was more than a fortnight since the Moon had shone. Now he stood\nonce more, round and bright, above the clouds, moving slowly onward.\nHear what the Moon told me.\n\n\"From a town in Fezzan I followed a caravan. On the margin of the\nsandy desert, in a salt plain, that shone like a frozen lake, and was\nonly covered in spots with light drifting sand, a halt was made. The\neldest of the company--the water gourd hung at his girdle, and on his\nhead was a little bag of unleavened bread--drew a square in the sand\nwith his staff, and wrote in it a few words out of the Koran, and then\nthe whole caravan passed over the consecrated spot. A young merchant,\na child of the East, as I could tell by his eye and his figure, rode\npensively forward on his white snorting steed. Was he thinking,\nperchance, of his fair young wife? It was only two days ago that the\ncamel, adorned with furs and with costly shawls, had carried her, the\nbeauteous bride, round the walls of the city, while drums and cymbals\nhad sounded, the women sang, and festive shots, of which the\nbridegroom fired the greatest number, resounded round the camel; and\nnow he was journeying with the caravan across the desert.\n\n\"For many nights I followed the train. I saw them rest by the\nwell-side among the stunted palms; they thrust the knife into the\nbreast of the camel that had fallen, and roasted its flesh by the\nfire. My beams cooled the glowing sands, and showed them the black\nrocks, dead islands in the immense ocean of sand. No hostile tribes\nmet them in their pathless route, no storms arose, no columns of sand\nwhirled destruction over the journeying caravan. At home the beautiful\nwife prayed for her husband and her father. 'Are they dead?' she asked\nof my golden crescent; 'Are they dead?' she cried to my full disc. Now\nthe desert lies behind them. This evening they sit beneath the lofty\npalm trees, where the crane flutters round them with its long wings,\nand the pelican watches them from the branches of the mimosa. The\nluxuriant herbage is trampled down, crushed by the feet of elephants.\nA troop of negroes are returning from a market in the interior of the\nland: the women, with copper buttons in their black hair, and decked\nout in clothes dyed with indigo, drive the heavily-laden oxen, on\nwhose backs slumber the naked black children. A negro leads a young\nlion which he has bought, by a string. They approach the caravan; the\nyoung merchant sits pensive and motionless, thinking of his beautiful\nwife, dreaming, in the land of the blacks, of his white fragrant lily\nbeyond the desert. He raises his head, and----\" But at this moment a\ncloud passed before the Moon, and then another. I heard nothing more\nfrom him this evening.\n\n\nTWENTY-FIRST EVENING.\n\n[Illustration: THE LITTLE GIRL'S TROUBLE.]\n\n\"I saw a little girl weeping,\" said the Moon; \"she was weeping over\nthe depravity of the world. She had received a most beautiful doll as\na present. Oh, that was a glorious doll, so fair and delicate! She did\nnot seem created for the sorrows of this world. But the brothers of\nthe little girl, those great naughty boys, had set the doll high up in\nthe branches of a tree, and had run away.\n\n\"The little girl could not reach up to the doll, and could not help\nher down, and that is why she was crying. The doll must certainly have\nbeen crying too; for she stretched out her arms among the green\nbranches, and looked quite mournful. Yes, these are the troubles of\nlife of which the little girl had often heard tell. Alas, poor doll!\nit began to grow dark already; and suppose night were to come on\ncompletely! Was she to be left sitting there alone on the bough all\nnight long? No, the little maid could not make up her mind to that.\n'I'll stay with you,' she said, although she felt anything but happy\nin her mind. She could almost fancy she distinctly saw little gnomes,\nwith their high-crowned hats, sitting in the bushes; and further back\nin the long walk, tall spectres appeared to be dancing. They came\nnearer and nearer, and stretched out their hands towards the tree on\nwhich the doll sat; they laughed scornfully, and pointed at her with\ntheir fingers. Oh, how frightened the little maid was! 'But if one has\nnot done anything wrong,' she thought, 'nothing evil can harm one. I\nwonder if I have done anything wrong?' And she considered. 'Oh, yes!\nI laughed at the poor duck with the red rag on her leg; she limped\nalong so funnily, I could not help laughing; but it's a sin to laugh\nat animals.' And she looked up at the doll. 'Did you laugh at the duck\ntoo?' she asked; and it seemed as if the doll shook her head.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-SECOND EVENING.\n\n\"I looked down upon Tyrol,\" said the Moon, \"and my beams caused the\ndark pines to throw long shadows upon the rocks. I looked at the\npictures of St. Christopher carrying the Infant Jesus that are painted\nthere upon the walls of the houses, colossal figures reaching from the\nground to the roof. St. Florian was represented pouring water on the\nburning house, and the Lord hung bleeding on the great cross by the\nwayside. To the present generation these are old pictures, but I saw\nwhen they were put up, and marked how one followed the other. On the\nbrow of the mountain yonder is perched, like a swallow's nest, a\nlonely convent of nuns. Two of the sisters stood up in the tower\ntolling the bell; they were both young, and therefore their glances\nflew over the mountain out into the world. A travelling coach passed\nby below, the postillion wound his horn, and the poor nuns looked\nafter the carriage for a moment with a mournful glance, and a tear\ngleamed in the eyes of the younger one. And the horn sounded faint and\nmore faintly, and the convent bell drowned its expiring echoes.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-THIRD EVENING.\n\nHear what the Moon told me. \"Some years ago, here in Copenhagen, I\nlooked through the window of a mean little room. The father and mother\nslept, but the little son was not asleep. I saw the flowered cotton\ncurtains of the bed move, and the child peep forth. At first I thought\nhe was looking at the great clock, which was gaily painted in red and\ngreen. At the top sat a cuckoo, below hung the heavy leaden weights,\nand the pendulum with the polished disc of metal went to and fro, and\nsaid 'tick, tick.' But no, he was not looking at the clock, but at his\nmother's spinning wheel, that stood just underneath it. That was the\nboy's favourite piece of furniture, but he dared not touch it, for if\nhe meddled with it he got a rap on the knuckles. For hours together,\nwhen his mother was spinning, he would sit quietly by her side,\nwatching the murmuring spindle and the revolving wheel, and as he sat\nhe thought of many things. Oh, if he might only turn the wheel\nhimself! Father and mother were asleep; he looked at them, and looked\nat the spinning wheel, and presently a little naked foot peered out of\nthe bed, and then a second foot, and then two little white legs. There\nhe stood. He looked round once more, to see if father and mother were\nstill asleep--yes, they slept; and now he crept _softly_, _softly_, in\nhis short little nightgown, to the spinning wheel, and began to spin.\nThe thread flew from the wheel, and the wheel whirled faster and\nfaster. I kissed his fair hair and his blue eyes, it was such a pretty\npicture.\n\n\"At that moment the mother awoke. The curtain shook, she looked forth,\nand fancied she saw a gnome or some other kind of little spectre. 'In\nHeaven's name!' she cried, and aroused her husband in a frightened\nway. He opened his eyes, rubbed them with his hands, and looked at the\nbrisk little lad. 'Why, that is Bertel,' said he. And my eye quitted\nthe poor room, for I have so much to see. At the same moment I looked\nat the halls of the Vatican, where the marble gods are enthroned. I\nshone upon the group of the Laocoon; the stone seemed to sigh. I\npressed a silent kiss on the lips of the Muses, and they seemed to\nstir and move. But my rays lingered longest about the Nile group with\nthe colossal god. Leaning against the Sphinx, he lies there thoughtful\nand meditative, as if he were thinking on the rolling centuries; and\nlittle love-gods sport with him and with the crocodiles. In the horn\nof plenty sat with folded arms a little tiny love-god, contemplating\nthe great solemn river-god, a true picture of the boy at the spinning\nwheel--the features were exactly the same. Charming and life-like\nstood the little marble form, and yet the wheel of the year has turned\nmore than a thousand times since the time when it sprang forth from\nthe stone. Just as often as the boy in the little room turned the\nspinning wheel had the great wheel murmured, before the age could\nagain call forth marble gods equal to those he afterwards formed.\n\n\"Years have passed since all this happened,\" the Moon went on to say.\n\"Yesterday I looked upon a bay on the eastern coast of Denmark.\nGlorious woods are there, and high trees, an old knightly castle with\nred walls, swans floating in the ponds, and in the background appears,\namong orchards, a little town with a church. Many boats, the crews all\nfurnished with torches, glided over the silent expanse--but these\nfires had not been kindled for catching fish, for everything had a\nfestive look. Music sounded, a song was sung, and in one of the boats\nthe man stood erect to whom homage was paid by the rest, a tall sturdy\nman, wrapped in a cloak. He had blue eyes and long white hair. I knew\nhim, and thought of the Vatican, and of the group of the Nile, and\nthe old marble gods. I thought of the simple little room where little\nBertel sat in his night-shirt by the spinning wheel. The wheel of time\nhas turned, and new gods have come forth from the stone. From the\nboats there arose a shout: 'Hurrah, hurrah for Bertel Thorwaldsen!'\"\n\n[Illustration: LITTLE BERTEL'S AMBITION.]\n\n\nTWENTY-FOURTH EVENING.\n\n\"I will now give you a picture from Frankfort,\" said the Moon. \"I\nespecially noticed one building there. It was not the house in which\nGoethe was born, nor the old Council House, through whose grated\nwindows peered the horns of the oxen that were roasted and given to\nthe people when the emperors were crowned. No, it was a private house,\nplain in appearance, and painted green. It stood near the old Jews'\nStreet. It was Rothschild's house.\n\n\"I looked through the open door. The staircase was brilliantly\nlighted: servants carrying wax candles in massive silver candlesticks\nstood there, and bowed low before an old woman, who was being brought\ndownstairs in a litter. The proprietor of the house stood bare-headed,\nand respectfully imprinted a kiss on the hand of the old woman. She\nwas his mother. She nodded in a friendly manner to him and to the\nservants, and they carried her into the dark narrow street, into a\nlittle house, that was her dwelling. Here her children had been born,\nfrom hence the fortune of the family had arisen. If she deserted the\ndespised street and the little house, fortune would also desert her\nchildren. That was her firm belief.\"\n\nThe Moon told me no more; his visit this evening was far too short.\nBut I thought of the old woman in the narrow despised street. It would\nhave cost her but a word, and a brilliant house would have arisen for\nher on the banks of the Thames--a word, and a villa would have been\nprepared in the Bay of Naples.\n\n\"If I deserted the lowly house, where the fortunes of my sons first\nbegan to bloom, fortune would desert them!\" It was a superstition, but\na superstition of such a class, that he who knows the story and has\nseen this picture, need have only two words placed under the picture\nto make him understand it; and these two words are: \"A mother.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-FIFTH EVENING.\n\n\"It was yesterday, in the morning twilight\"--these are the words the\nMoon told me--\"in the great city no chimney was yet smoking--and it\nwas just at the chimneys that I was looking. Suddenly a little head\nemerged from one of them, and then half a body, the arms resting on\nthe rim of the chimney-pot. 'Ya-hip! ya-hip!' cried a voice. It was\nthe little chimney-sweeper, who had for the first time in his life\ncrept through a chimney, and stuck out his head at the top. 'Ya-hip!\nya-hip!' Yes, certainly that was a very different thing to creeping\nabout in the dark narrow chimneys! the air blew so fresh, and he could\nlook over the whole city towards the green wood. The sun was just\nrising. It shone round and great, just in his face, that beamed with\ntriumph, though it was very prettily blacked with soot.\n\n\"'The whole town can see me now,' he exclaimed, 'and the moon can see\nme now, and the sun too. Ya-hip! ya-hip!' And he flourished his broom\nin triumph.\"\n\n[Illustration: PRETTY PU.]\n\n\nTWENTY-SIXTH EVENING.\n\n\"Last night I looked down upon a town in China,\" said the Moon. \"My\nbeams irradiated the naked walls that form the streets there. Now and\nthen, certainly, a door is seen; but it is locked, for what does the\nChinaman care about the outer world? Close wooden shutters covered the\nwindows behind the walls of the houses; but through the windows of\nthe temple a faint light glimmered. I looked in, and saw the quaint\ndecorations within. From the floor to the ceiling pictures are\npainted, in the most glaring colours, and richly gilt--pictures\nrepresenting the deeds of the gods here on earth. In each niche\nstatues are placed, but they are almost entirely hidden by the\ncoloured drapery and the banners that hang down. Before each idol (and\nthey are all made of tin) stood a little altar of holy water, with\nflowers and burning wax lights on it. Above all the rest stood Fo, the\nchief deity, clad in a garment of yellow silk, for yellow is here the\nsacred colour. At the foot of the altar sat a living being, a young\npriest. He appeared to be praying, but in the midst of his prayer he\nseemed to fall into deep thought, and this must have been wrong, for\nhis cheeks glowed and he held down his head. Poor Soui-hong! Was he,\nperhaps, dreaming of working in the little flower garden behind the\nhigh street wall? And did that occupation seem more agreeable to him\nthan watching the wax lights in the temple? Or did he wish to sit at\nthe rich feast, wiping his mouth with silver paper between each\ncourse? Or was his sin so great that, if he dared utter it, the\nCelestial Empire would punish it with death? Had his thoughts ventured\nto fly with the ships of the barbarians, to their homes in far distant\nEngland? No, his thoughts did not fly so far, and yet they were\nsinful, sinful as thoughts born of young hearts, sinful here in the\ntemple, in the presence of Fo and the other holy gods.\n\n\"I know whither his thoughts had strayed. At the farther end of the\ncity, on the flat roof paved with porcelain, on which stood the\nhandsome vases covered with painted flowers, sat the beauteous Pu, of\nthe little roguish eyes, of the full lips, and of the tiny feet. The\ntight shoe pained her, but her heart pained her still more. She lifted\nher graceful round arm, and her satin dress rustled. Before her stood\na glass bowl containing four gold-fish. She stirred the bowl carefully\nwith a slender lacquered stick, very slowly, for she, too, was lost in\nthought. Was she thinking, perchance, how the fishes were richly\nclothed in gold, how they lived calmly and peacefully in their crystal\nworld, how they were regularly fed, and yet how much happier they\nmight be if they were free? Yes, that she could well understand, the\nbeautiful Pu. Her thoughts wandered away from her home, wandered to\nthe temple, but not for the sake of holy things. Poor Pu! Poor\nSoui-hong!\n\n\"Their earthly thoughts met, but my cold beam lay between the two,\nlike the sword of the cherub.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-SEVENTH EVENING.\n\n\"The air was calm,\" said the Moon; \"the water was transparent as the\npurest ether through which I was gliding, and deep below the surface I\ncould see the strange plants that stretched up their long arms towards\nme like the gigantic trees of the forest. The fishes swam to and fro\nabove their tops. High in the air a flight of wild swans were winging\ntheir way, one of which sank lower and lower, with wearied pinions,\nhis eyes following the airy caravan, that melted farther and farther\ninto the distance. With outspread wings he sank slowly, as a soap\nbubble sinks in the still air, till he touched the water. At length\nhis head lay back between his wings, and silently he lay there, like a\nwhite lotus flower upon the quiet lake. And a gentle wind arose, and\ncrisped the quiet surface, which gleamed like the clouds that poured\nalong in great broad waves; and the swan raised his head, and the\nglowing water splashed like blue fire over his breast and back. The\nmorning dawn illuminated the red clouds, the swan rose strengthened,\nand flew towards the rising sun, towards the bluish coast whither the\ncaravan had gone; but he flew alone, with a longing in his breast.\nLonely he flew over the blue swelling billows.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-EIGHTH EVENING.\n\n\"I will give you another picture of Sweden,\" said the Moon. \"Among\ndark pine woods, near the melancholy banks of the Stoxen, lies the old\nconvent church of Wreta. My rays glided through the grating into the\nroomy vaults, where kings sleep tranquilly in great stone coffins. On\nthe wall, above the grave of each, is placed the emblem of earthly\ngrandeur, a kingly crown; but it is made only of wood, painted and\ngilt, and is hung on a wooden peg driven into the wall. The worms have\ngnawed the gilded wood, the spider has spun her web from the crown\ndown to the sand, like a mourning banner, frail and transient as the\ngrief of mortals. How quietly they sleep! I can remember them quite\nplainly. I still see the bold smile on their lips, that so strongly\nand plainly expressed joy or grief. When the steamboat winds along\nlike a magic snail over the lakes, a stranger often comes to the\nchurch, and visits the burial vault; he asks the names of the kings,\nand they have a dead and forgotten sound. He glances with a smile at\nthe worm-eaten crowns, and if he happens to be a pious, thoughtful\nman, something of melancholy mingles with the smile. Slumber on, ye\ndead ones! The Moon thinks of you, the Moon at night sends down his\nrays into your silent kingdom, over which hangs the crown of pine\nwood.\"\n\n\nTWENTY-NINTH EVENING.\n\n\"Close by the high-road,\" said the Moon, \"is an inn, and opposite to\nit is a great waggon-shed, whose straw roof was just being\nre-thatched. I looked down between the bare rafters and through the\nopen loft into the comfortless space below. The turkey-cock slept on\nthe beam, and the saddle rested in the empty crib. In the middle of\nthe shed stood a travelling carriage; the proprietor was inside, fast\nasleep, while the horses were being watered. The coachman stretched\nhimself, though I am very sure that he had been most comfortably\nasleep half the last stage. The door of the servants' room stood open,\nand the bed looked as if it had been turned over and over; the candle\nstood on the floor, and had burnt deep down into the socket. The wind\nblew cold through the shed: it was nearer to the dawn than to\nmidnight. In the wooden frame on the ground slept a wandering family\nof musicians. The father and mother seemed to be dreaming of the\nburning liquor that remained in the bottle. The little pale daughter\nwas dreaming too, for her eyes were wet with tears. The harp stood at\ntheir heads, and the dog lay stretched at their feet.\"\n\n\nTHIRTIETH EVENING.\n\n[Illustration: THE BEAR PLAYING AT SOLDIERS WITH THE CHILDREN.]\n\n\"It was in a little provincial town,\" the Moon said; \"it certainly happened\nlast year, but that has nothing to do with the matter. I saw it quite\nplainly. To-day I read about it in the papers, but there it was not half so\nclearly expressed. In the taproom of the little inn sat the bear leader,\neating his supper; the bear was tied up outside, behind the wood pile--poor\nBruin, who did nobody any harm, though he looked grim enough. Up in the\ngarret three little children were playing by the light of my beams; the\neldest was perhaps six years old, the youngest certainly not more than two.\n'Tramp, tramp'--somebody was coming upstairs: who might it be? The door was\nthrust open--it was Bruin, the great, shaggy Bruin! He had got tired of\nwaiting down in the courtyard, and had found his way to the stairs. I saw\nit all,\" said the Moon. \"The children were very much frightened at first at\nthe great shaggy animal; each of them crept into a corner, but he found\nthem all out, and smelt at them, but did them no harm. 'This must be a\ngreat dog,' they said, and began to stroke him. He lay down upon the\nground, the youngest boy clambered on his back, and bending down a little\nhead of golden curls, played at hiding in the beast's shaggy skin.\nPresently the eldest boy took his drum, and beat upon it till it rattled\nagain; the bear rose upon his hind legs, and began to dance. It was a\ncharming sight to behold. Each boy now took his gun, and the bear was\nobliged to have one too, and he held it up quite properly. Here was a\ncapital playmate they had found; and they began marching--one, two; one,\ntwo.\n\n\"Suddenly some one came to the door, which opened, and the mother of\nthe children appeared. You should have seen her in her dumb terror,\nwith her face as white as chalk, her mouth half open, and her eyes\nfixed in a horrified stare. But the youngest boy nodded to her in\ngreat glee, and called out in his infantile prattle, 'We're playing at\nsoldiers.' And then the bear leader came running up.\"\n\n\nTHIRTY-FIRST EVENING.\n\nThe wind blew stormy and cold, the clouds flew hurriedly past; only\nfor a moment now and then did the Moon become visible. He said, \"I\nlooked down from the silent sky upon the driving clouds, and saw the\ngreat shadows chasing each other across the earth. I looked upon a\nprison. A closed carriage stood before it; a prisoner was to be\ncarried away. My rays pierced through the grated window towards the\nwall: the prisoner was scratching a few lines upon it, as a parting\ntoken; but he did not write words, but a melody, the outpouring of his\nheart. The door was opened, and he was led forth, and fixed his eyes\nupon my round disc. Clouds passed between us, as if he were not to see\nmy face, nor I his. He stepped into the carriage, the door was closed,\nthe whip cracked, and the horses galloped off into the thick forest,\nwhither my rays were not able to follow him; but as I glanced through\nthe grated window, my rays glided over the notes, his last farewell\nengraved on the prison wall--where words fail, sounds can often speak.\nMy rays could only light up isolated notes, so the greater part of\nwhat was written there will ever remain dark to me. Was it the\ndeath-hymn he wrote there? Were these the glad notes of joy? Did he\ndrive away to meet death, or hasten to the embraces of his beloved?\nThe rays of the Moon do not read all that is written by mortals.\"\n\n\nTHIRTY-SECOND EVENING.\n\n\"I love the children,\" said the Moon, \"especially the quite little\nones--they are so droll. Sometimes I peep into the room, between the\ncurtain and the window frame, when they are not thinking of me. It\ngives me pleasure to see them dressing and undressing. First, the\nlittle round naked shoulder comes creeping out of the frock, then the\narm; or I see how the stocking is drawn off, and a plump little white\nleg makes its appearance, and a white little foot that is fit to be\nkissed, and I kiss it too.\n\n\"But about what I was going to tell you. This evening I looked through\na window, before which no curtain was drawn, for nobody lives\nopposite. I saw a whole troop of little ones, all of one family, and\namong them was a little sister. She is only four years old, but can\nsay her prayers as well as any of the rest. The mother sits by her bed\nevery evening, and hears her say her prayers; and then she has a kiss,\nand the mother sits by the bed till the little one has gone to sleep,\nwhich generally happens as soon as ever she can close her eyes.\n\n\"This evening the two elder children were a little boisterous. One of\nthem hopped about on one leg in his long white nightgown, and the\nother stood on a chair surrounded by the clothes of all the children,\nand declared he was acting Grecian statues. The third and fourth laid\nthe clean linen carefully in the box, for that is a thing that has to\nbe done; and the mother sat by the bed of the youngest, and announced\nto all the rest that they were to be quiet, for little sister was\ngoing to say her prayers.\n\n\"I looked in, over the lamp, into the little maiden's bed, where she\nlay under the neat white coverlet, her hands folded demurely and her\nlittle face quite grave and serious. She was praying the Lord's prayer\naloud. But her mother interrupted her in the middle of her prayer.\n'How is it,' she asked, 'that when you have prayed for daily bread,\nyou always add something I cannot understand? You must tell me what\nthat is.' The little one lay silent, and looked at her mother in\nembarrassment. 'What is it you say after _our daily bread_?' 'Dear\nmother, don't be angry: I only said, _and plenty of butter on it_.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE STORY OF THE YEAR.\n\n\nIt was far in January, and a terrible fall of snow was pelting down.\nThe snow eddied through the streets and lanes; the window-panes seemed\nplastered with snow on the outside; snow plumped down in masses from\nthe roofs: and a sudden hurry had seized on the people, for they ran,\nand flew, and fell into each others' arms, and as they clutched each\nother fast for a moment, they felt that they were safe at least for\nthat length of time. Coaches and horses seemed frosted with sugar. The\nfootmen stood with their backs against the carriages, so as to turn\ntheir faces from the wind. The foot passengers kept in the shelter of\nthe carriages, which could only move slowly on in the deep snow; and\nwhen the storm at last abated, and a narrow path was swept clean\nalongside the houses, the people stood still in this path when they\nmet, for none liked to take the first step aside into the deep snow to\nlet the other pass him. Thus they stood silent and motionless, till,\nas if by tacit consent, each sacrificed one leg, and stepping aside,\nburied it in the deep snow-heap.\n\nTowards evening it grew calm. The sky looked as if it had been swept,\nand had become more lofty and transparent. The stars looked as if they\nwere quite new, and some of them were amazingly bright and pure. It\nfroze so hard that the snow creaked, and the upper rind of snow might\nwell have grown hard enough to bear the sparrows in the morning dawn.\nThese little birds hopped up and down where the sweeping had been\ndone; but they found very little food, and were not a little cold.\n\n\"Piep!\" said one of them to another; \"they call this a new year, and\nit is worse than the last! We might just as well have kept the old\none. I'm dissatisfied, and I've a right to be so.\"\n\n\"Yes; and the people ran about and fired off shots to celebrate the\nnew year,\" said a little shivering sparrow; \"and they threw pans and\npots against the doors, and were quite boisterous with joy, because\nthe old year was gone. I was glad of it too, because I hoped we should\nhave had warm days; but that has come to nothing--it freezes much\nharder than before. People have made a mistake in reckoning the time!\"\n\n\"That they have!\" a third put in, who was old, and had a white poll;\n\"they've something they call the calendar--it's an invention of their\nown--and everything is to be arranged according to that; but it won't\ndo. When spring comes, then the year begins, and I reckon according to\nthat.\"\n\n\"But when will spring come?\" the others inquired.\n\n\"It will come when the stork comes back. But his movements are very\nuncertain, and here in town no one knows anything about it: in the\ncountry they are better informed. Shall we fly out there and wait?\nThere, at any rate, we shall be nearer to spring.\"\n\n\"Yes, that may be all very well,\" observed one of the sparrows, who\nhad been hopping about for a long time, chirping, without saying\nanything decided. \"I've found a few comforts here in town, which I am\nafraid I should miss out in the country. Near this neighbourhood, in a\ncourtyard, there lives a family of people, who have taken the very\nsensible notion of placing three or four flower-pots against the wall,\nwith their mouths all turned inwards, and the bottom of each pointing\noutwards. In each flower-pot a hole has been cut, big enough for me to\nfly in and out at it. I and my husband have built a nest in one of\nthose pots, and have brought up our young family there. The family of\npeople of course made the whole arrangement that they might have the\npleasure of seeing us, or else they would not have done it. To please\nthemselves they also strew crumbs of bread; and so we have food, and\nare in a manner provided for. So I think my husband and I will stay\nwhere we are, although we are very dissatisfied--but we shall stay.\"\n\n\"And we will fly into the country to see if spring is not coming!\" And\naway they flew.\n\nOut in the country it was hard winter, and the glass was a few degrees\nlower than in the town. The sharp winds swept across the snow-covered\nfields. The farmer, muffled in warm mittens, sat in his sledge, and\nbeat his arms across his breast to warm himself, and the whip lay\nacross his knees. The horses ran till they smoked again. The snow\ncreaked, and the sparrows hopped about in the ruts, and shivered,\n\"Piep! when will spring come? it is very long in coming!\"\n\n\"Very long,\" sounded from the next snow-covered hill, far over the\nfield. It might be the echo which was heard; or perhaps the words were\nspoken by yonder wonderful old man, who sat in wind and weather high\non the heap of snow. He was quite white, attired like a peasant in a\ncoarse white coat of frieze; he had long white hair, and was quite\npale, with big blue eyes.\n\n\"Who is that old man yonder?\" asked the sparrows.\n\n\"I know who he is,\" quoth an old raven, who sat on the fence-rail, and\nwas condescending enough to acknowledge that we are all like little\nbirds in the sight of Heaven, and therefore was not above speaking to\nthe sparrows, and giving them information. \"I know who the old man is.\nIt is Winter, the old man of last year. He is not dead, as the\ncalendar says, but is guardian to little Prince Spring, who is to\ncome. Yes, Winter bears sway here. Ugh! the cold makes you shiver,\ndoes it not, you little ones?\"\n\n\"Yes. Did I not tell the truth?\" said the smallest sparrow: \"the\ncalendar is only an invention of man, and is not arranged according to\nnature! They ought to leave these things to us, who are born cleverer\nthan they.\"\n\nAnd one week passed away, and two passed away. The frozen lake lay\nhard and stiff, looking like a sheet of lead, and damp icy mists lay\nbrooding over the land; the great black crows flew about in long rows,\nbut silently; and it seemed as if nature slept. Then a sunbeam glided\nalong over the lake, and made it shine like burnished tin. The snowy\ncovering on the field and on the hill did not glitter as it had done;\nbut the white form, Winter himself, still sat there, his gaze fixed\nunswervingly upon the south. He did not notice that the snowy carpet\nseemed to sink as it were into the earth, and that here and there a\nlittle grass-green patch appeared, and that all these patches were\ncrowded with sparrows.\n\n\"Kee-wit! kee-wit! Is spring coming now?\"\n\n\"Spring!\" The cry resounded over field and meadow, and through the\nblack-brown woods, where the moss still glimmered in bright green upon\nthe tree trunks; and from the south the first two storks came flying\nthrough the air. On the back of each sat a pretty little child--one\nwas a girl and the other a boy. They greeted the earth with a kiss,\nand wherever they set their feet, white flowers grew up from beneath\nthe snow. Then they went hand in hand to the old ice man, Winter,\nclung to his breast embracing him, and in a moment they, and he, and\nall the region around were hidden in a thick damp mist, dark and\nheavy, that closed over all like a veil. Gradually the wind rose, and\nnow it rushed roaring along, and drove away the mist with heavy blows,\nso that the sun shone warmly forth, and Winter himself vanished, and\nthe beautiful children of Spring sat on the throne of the year.\n\n\"That's what I call spring,\" cried each of the sparrows. \"Now we shall\nget our rights, and have amends for the stern winter.\"\n\nWherever the two children turned, green buds burst forth on bushes and\ntrees, the grass shot upwards, and the corn-fields turned green and\nbecame more and more lovely. And the little maiden strewed flowers all\naround. Her apron, which she held up before her, was always full of\nthem; they seemed to spring up there, for her lap continued full,\nhowever zealously she strewed the blossoms around; and in her\neagerness she scattered a snow of blossoms over apple trees and peach\ntrees, so that they stood in full beauty before their green leaves had\nfairly come forth.\n\nAnd she clapped her hands, and the boy clapped his, and then flocks of\nbirds came flying up, nobody knew whence, and they all twittered and\nsang, \"Spring has come.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE STORKS BRINGING BACK THE SPRING.]\n\nThat was beautiful to behold. Many an old granny crept forth over the\nthreshold into the sunshine, and tripped gleefully about, casting a\nglance at the yellow flowers which shone everywhere in the fields,\njust as they used to do when she was young. The world grew young again\nto her, and she said, \"It is a blessed day out here to-day!\"\n\nThe forest still wore its brown-green dress, made of buds; but the\nthyme was already there, fresh and fragrant; there were violets in\nplenty, anemones and primroses came forth, and there was sap and\nstrength in every blade of grass. That was certainly a beautiful\ncarpet on which no one could resist sitting down, and there\naccordingly the young spring pair sat hand in hand, and sang and\nsmiled, and grew on.\n\nA mild rain fell down upon them from the sky, but they did not notice\nit, for the rain-drops were mingled with their own tears of joy. They\nkissed each other, and were betrothed as people that should marry, and\nin the same moment the verdure of the woods was unfolded, and when the\nsun rose, the forest stood there arrayed in green.\n\nAnd hand in hand the betrothed pair wandered under the fresh pendent\nocean of leaves, where the rays of the sun gleamed through the\ninterstices in lovely, changing hues. What virgin purity, what\nrefreshing balm in the delicate leaves! The brooks and streams rippled\nclearly and merrily among the green velvety rushes and over the\ncoloured pebbles. All nature seemed to say, \"There is plenty, and\nthere shall be plenty always!\" And the cuckoo sang and the lark\ncarolled: it was a charming spring; but the willows had woolly gloves\nover their blossoms: they were desperately careful, and that is\nwearisome.\n\nAnd days went by and weeks went by, and the heat came as it were\nwhirling down. Hot waves of air came through the corn, that became\nyellower and yellower. The white water-lily of the north spread its\ngreat green leaves over the glassy mirror of the woodland lakes, and\nthe fishes sought out the shady spots beneath; and at the sheltered\nside of the wood, where the sun shone down upon the walls of the\nfarmhouse, warming the blooming roses, and the cherry trees, which\nhung full of juicy black berries, almost hot with the fierce beams,\nthere sat the lovely wife of Summer, the same being whom we have seen\nas a child and as a bride; and her glance was fixed upon the black\ngathering clouds, which in wavy outlines--blue-black and heavy--were\npiling themselves up, like mountains, higher and higher. They came\nfrom three sides, and growing like a petrified sea, they came swooping\ntowards the forest, where every sound had been silenced as if by\nmagic. Every breath of air was hushed, every bird was mute. There was\na seriousness--a suspense throughout all nature; but in the highways\nand lanes, foot passengers, and riders, and men in carriages were\nhurrying on to get under shelter. Then suddenly there was a flashing\nof light, as if the sun were burst forth--flaming, burning,\nall-devouring! And the darkness returned amid a rolling crash. The\nrain poured down in streams, and there was alternate darkness and\nblinding light; alternate silence and deafening clamour. The young,\nbrown, feathery reeds on the moor moved to and fro in long waves, the\ntwigs of the woods were hidden in a mist of waters, and still came\ndarkness and light, and still silence and roaring followed one\nanother; grass and corn lay beaten down and swamped, looking as though\nthey could never raise themselves again. But soon the rain fell only\nin gentle drops, the sun peered through the clouds, the water-drops\nglittered like pearls on the leaves, the birds sang, the fishes leaped\nup from the surface of the lake, the gnats danced in the sunshine, and\nyonder on the rock, in the salt, heaving sea water, sat Summer\nhimself--a strong man with sturdy limbs and long dripping hair--there\nhe sat, strengthened by the cool bath, in the warm sunshine. All\nnature round about was renewed, everything stood luxuriant, strong and\nbeautiful; it was summer, warm, lovely summer.\n\n[Illustration: SUMMER TIME.]\n\nAnd pleasant and sweet was the fragrance that streamed upwards from\nthe rich clover-field, where the bees swarmed round the old ruined\nplace of meeting: the bramble wound itself around the altar stone,\nwhich, washed by the rain, glittered in the sunshine; and thither flew\nthe queen-bee with her swarm, and prepared wax and honey. Only Summer\nsaw it, he and his strong wife; for them the altar table stood covered\nwith the offerings of nature.\n\nAnd the evening sky shone like gold, shone as no church dome can\nshine; and in the interval between the evening and the morning red,\nthere was moonlight: it was summer.\n\nAnd days went by, and weeks went by. The bright scythes of the reapers\ngleamed in the corn-fields; the branches of the apple trees bent down,\nheavy with red-and-yellow fruit. The hops smelt sweetly, hanging in\nlarge clusters; and under the hazel bushes where hung great bunches of\nnuts, rested a man and woman--Summer and his quiet consort.\n\n\"What wealth!\" exclaimed the woman: \"all around a blessing is\ndiffused, everywhere the scene looks homelike and good; and yet--I\nknow not why--I long for peace and rest--I know not how to express it.\nNow they are already ploughing again in the field. The people want to\ngain more and more. See, the storks flock together, and follow at a\nlittle distance behind the plough--the bird of Egypt that carried us\nthrough the air. Do you remember how we came as children to this land\nof the North? We brought with us flowers, and pleasant sunshine, and\ngreen to the woods; the wind has treated them roughly, and they have\nbecome dark and brown like the trees of the South, but they do not,\nlike them, bear fruit.\"\n\n\"Do you wish to see the golden fruit?\" said the man: \"then rejoice.\"\nAnd he lifted his arm, and the leaves of the forest put on hues of red\nand gold, and beauteous tints spread over all the woodland. The rose\nbush gleamed with scarlet hips; the elder branches hung down with\ngreat heavy bunches of dark berries; the wild chestnuts fell ripe from\ntheir dark husks; and in the depths of the forests the violets bloomed\nfor the second time.\n\nBut the Queen of the Year became more and more silent, and paler and\npaler. \"It blows cold,\" she said, \"and night brings damp mists. I long\nfor the land of my childhood.\"\n\nAnd she saw the storks fly away, one and all; and she stretched forth\nher hands towards them. She looked up at the nests, which stood empty.\nIn one of them the long-stalked cornflower was growing; in another,\nthe yellow mustard-seed, as if the nest were only there for its\nprotection and comfort; and the sparrows were flying up into the\nstorks' nests.\n\n\"Piep! where has the master gone? I suppose he can't bear it when the\nwind blows, and that therefore he has left the country. I wish him a\npleasant journey!\"\n\nThe forest leaves became more and more yellow, leaf fell down upon\nleaf, and the stormy winds of autumn howled. The year was far\nadvanced, and the Queen of the Year reclined upon the fallen yellow\nleaves, and looked with mild eyes at the gleaming star, and her\nhusband stood by her. A gust swept through the leaves; they fell again\nin a shower, and the Queen was gone, but a butterfly, the last of the\nseason, flew through the cold air.\n\nThe wet fogs came, an icy wind blew, and the long dark nights drew on\napace. The Ruler of the Year stood there with locks white as snow, but\nhe knew not it was his hair that gleamed so white--he thought\nsnow-flakes were falling from the clouds; and soon a thin covering of\nsnow was spread over the fields.\n\nAnd then the church bells rang for the Christmas time.\n\n\"The bells ring for the new-born,\" said the Ruler of the Year. \"Soon\nthe new king and queen will be born; and I shall go to rest, as my\nwife has done--to rest in the gleaming star.\"\n\nAnd in the fresh green fir wood, where the snow lay, stood the Angel\nof Christmas, and consecrated the young trees that were to adorn his\nfeast.\n\n\"May there be joy in the room, and under the green boughs,\" said the\nRuler of the Year. In a few weeks he had become a very old man, white\nas snow. \"My time for rest draws near, and the young pair of the year\nshall now receive my crown and sceptre.\"\n\n\"But the might is still thine,\" said the Angel of Christmas; \"the\nmight and not the rest. Let the snow lie warmly upon the young seed.\nLearn to bear it, that another receives homage while thou yet\nreignest. Learn to bear being forgotten while thou art yet alive. The\nhour of thy release will come when spring appears.\"\n\n\"And when will spring come?\" asked Winter.\n\n\"It will come when the stork returns.\"\n\nAnd with white locks and snowy beard, cold, bent, and hoary, but\nstrong as the wintry storm, and firm as ice, old Winter sat on the\nsnowy drift on the hill, looking towards the south, where he had\nbefore sat and gazed. The ice cracked, the snow creaked, the skaters\nskimmed to and fro on the smooth lakes, ravens and crows contrasted\npicturesquely with the white ground, and not a breath of wind stirred.\nAnd in the quiet air old Winter clenched his fists, and the ice was\nfathoms thick between land and land.\n\nThen the sparrows came again out of the town, and asked, \"Who is that\nold man yonder?\" And the raven sat there again, or a son of his, which\ncomes to quite the same thing, and answered them and said, \"It is\nWinter, the old man of last year. He is not dead, as the almanack\nsays, but he is the guardian of Spring, who is coming.\"\n\n\"When will spring come?\" asked the sparrows. \"Then we shall have good\ntimes, and a better rule. The old one was worth nothing.\"\n\nAnd Winter nodded in quiet thought at the leafless forest, where every\ntree showed the graceful form and bend of its twigs; and during the\nwinter sleep the icy mists of the clouds came down, and the ruler\ndreamed of his youthful days, and of the time of his manhood; and\ntowards the morning dawn the whole wood was clothed in glittering hoar\nfrost. That was the summer dream of winter, and the sun scattered the\nhoar frost from the boughs.\n\n\"When will spring come?\" asked the sparrows.\n\n\"The spring!\" sounded like an echo from the hills on which the snow\nlay. The sun shone warmer, the snow melted, and the birds twittered,\n\"Spring is coming!\"\n\nAnd aloft through the air came the first stork, and the second\nfollowed him. A lovely child sat on the back of each, and they\nalighted on the field, kissed the earth, and kissed the old silent\nman, and he disappeared, shrouded in the cloudy mist. And the story of\nthe year was done.\n\n\"That is all very well,\" said the sparrows; \"it is very beautiful too,\nbut it is not according to the almanack, and therefore it is\nirregular.\"\n\n\n\n\nSHE WAS GOOD FOR NOTHING.\n\n\nThe mayor stood at the open window. His shirt-frill was very fine, and\nso were his ruffles; he had a breast-pin stuck in his frill, and was\nuncommonly smooth-shaven--all his own work; certainly he had given\nhimself a slight cut, but he had stuck a bit of newspaper on the\nplace. \"Hark 'ee, youngster!\" he cried.\n\nThe youngster in question was no other than the son of the poor\nwasherwoman, who was just going past the house; and he pulled off his\ncap respectfully. The peak of the said cap was broken in the middle,\nfor the cap was arranged so that it could be rolled up and crammed\ninto his pocket. In his poor, but clean and well-mended attire, with\nheavy wooden shoes on his feet, the boy stood there, as humble and\nabashed as if he stood opposite the king himself.\n\n[Illustration: THE MAYOR AND THE WASHERWOMAN'S SON.]\n\n\"You're a good boy,\" said Mr. Mayor. \"You're a civil boy. I suppose\nyour mother is rinsing clothes down yonder in the river? I suppose you\nare to carry that thing to your mother that you have in your pocket?\nThat's a bad affair with your mother. How much have you got in it?\"\n\n\"Half a quartern,\" stammered the boy, in a frightened voice.\n\n\"And this morning she had just as much,\" the mayor continued.\n\n\"No,\" replied the boy, \"it was yesterday.\"\n\n\"Two halves make a whole. She's good for nothing! It's a sad thing\nwith that kind of people! Tell your mother that she ought to be\nashamed of herself; and mind you don't become a drunkard--but you will\nbecome one, though. Poor child--there, go!\"\n\nAccordingly the boy went on his way. He kept his cap in his hand, and\nthe wind played with his yellow hair, so that great locks of it stood\nup straight. He turned down by the street corner, into the little lane\nthat led to the river, where his mother stood by the washing bench,\nbeating the heavy linen with the mallet. The water rolled quickly\nalong, for the flood-gates at the mill had been drawn up, and the\nsheets were caught by the stream, and threatened to overturn the\nbench. The washerwoman was obliged to lean against the bench, to\nsupport it.\n\n\"I was very nearly sailing away,\" she said. \"It is a good thing that\nyou are come, for I have need to recruit my strength a little. For six\nhours I've been standing in the water. Have you brought anything for\nme?\"\n\nThe boy produced the bottle, and the mother put it to her mouth, and\ntook a little.\n\n\"Ah, how that revives one!\" she said: \"how it warms! It is as good as\na hot meal, and not so dear. And you, my boy! you look quite pale. You\nare shivering in your thin clothes--to be sure it is autumn. Ugh! how\ncold the water is! I hope I shall not be ill. But no, I shall not be\nthat! Give me a little more, and you may have a sip too, but only a\nlittle sip, for you must not accustom yourself to it, my poor dear\nchild!\"\n\nAnd she stepped up to the bridge on which the boy stood, and came\nashore. The water dripped from the straw matting she had wound round\nher, and from her gown.\n\n\"I work and toil as much as ever I can,\" she said, \"but I do it\nwillingly, if I can only manage to bring you up honestly and well, my\nboy.\"\n\nAs she spoke, a somewhat older woman came towards them. She was poor\nenough to behold, lame of one leg, and with a large false curl hanging\ndown over one of her eyes, which was a blind one. The curl was\nintended to cover the eye, but it only made the defect more striking.\nThis was a friend of the laundress. She was called among the\nneighbours, \"Lame Martha with the curl.\"\n\n\"Oh, you poor thing! How you work, standing there in the water!\" cried\nthe visitor. \"You really require something to warm you; and yet\nmalicious folks cry out about the few drops you take!\" And in a few\nminutes' time the mayor's late speech was reported to the laundress;\nfor Martha had heard it all, and she had been angry that a man could\nspeak as he had done to a woman's own child, about the few drops the\nmother took: and she was the more angry, because the mayor on that\nvery day was giving a great feast, at which wine was drunk by the\nbottle--good wine, strong wine. \"A good many will take more than they\nneed--but that's not called drinking. _They_ are good; but _you_ are\ngood for nothing!\" cried Martha, indignantly.\n\n\"Ah, so he spoke to you, my child?\" said the washerwoman; and her lips\ntrembled as she spoke. \"So he says you have a mother who is good for\nnothing? Well, perhaps he's right, but he should not have said it to\nthe child. Still, I have had much misfortune from that house.\"\n\n\"You were in service there when the mayor's parents were alive, and\nlived in that house. That is many years ago: many bushels of salt have\nbeen eaten since then, and we may well be thirsty;\" and Martha smiled.\n\"The mayor has a great dinner party to-day. The guests were to have\nbeen put off, but it was too late, and the dinner was already cooked.\nThe footman told me about it. A letter came a little while ago, to say\nthat the younger brother had died in Copenhagen.\"\n\n\"Died!\" repeated the laundress--and she became pale as death.\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" said Martha. \"Do you take that so much to heart?\nWell, you must have known him years ago, when you were in service in\nthe house.\"\n\n\"Is he dead? He was such a good, worthy man! There are not many like\nhim.\" And the tears rolled down her cheeks. \"Good heavens! everything\nis whirling around me--it was too much for me. I feel quite ill.\" And\nshe leaned against the plank.\n\n\"Good heavens, you are ill indeed!\" exclaimed the other woman. \"Come,\ncome, it will pass over presently. But no, you really look seriously\nill. The best thing will be for me to lead you home.\"\n\n\"But my linen yonder--\"\n\n\"I will take care of that. Come, give me your arm. The boy can stay\nhere and take care of it, and I'll come back and finish the washing;\nthat's only a trifle.\"\n\nThe laundress's limbs shook under her. \"I have stood too long in the\ncold water,\" she said faintly, \"and I have eaten and drunk nothing\nsince this morning. The fever is in my bones. O kind Heaven, help me\nto get home! My poor child!\" and she burst into tears. The boy wept\ntoo, and soon he was sitting alone by the river, beside the damp\nlinen. The two women could make only slow progress. The laundress\ndragged her weary limbs along, and tottered through the lane and round\nthe corner into the street where stood the house of the mayor; and\njust in front of his mansion she sank down on the pavement. Many\npeople assembled round her, and Lame Martha ran into the house to get\nhelp. The mayor and his guests came to the window.\n\n\"That's the washerwoman!\" he said. \"She has taken a glass too much.\nShe is good for nothing. It's a pity for the pretty son she has. I\nreally like the child very well; but the mother is good for nothing.\"\n\nPresently the laundress came to herself, and they led her into her\npoor dwelling, and put her to bed. Kind Martha heated a mug of beer\nfor her, with butter and sugar, which she considered the best\nmedicine; and then she hastened to the river, and rinsed the\nlinen--badly enough, though her will was good. Strictly speaking, she\ndrew it ashore, wet as it was, and laid it in a basket.\n\nTowards evening she was sitting in the poor little room with the\nlaundress. The mayor's cook had given her some roasted potatoes and a\nfine fat piece of ham, for the sick woman, and Martha and the boy\ndiscussed these viands while the patient enjoyed the smell, which she\npronounced very nourishing.\n\nAnd presently the boy was put to bed, in the same bed in which his\nmother lay; but he slept at her feet, covered with an old quilt made\nup of blue and white patches.\n\nSoon the patient felt a little better. The warm beer had strengthened\nher, and the fragrance of the provisions pleased her also. \"Thanks,\nyou kind soul,\" she said to Martha. \"I will tell you all when the boy\nis asleep. I think he has dropped off already. How gentle and good he\nlooks, as he lies there with his eyes closed. He does not know what\nhis mother has suffered, and Heaven grant he may never know it. I was\nin service at the councillor's, the father of the mayor. It happened\nthat the youngest of the sons, the student, came home. I was young\nthen, a wild girl, but honest, that I may declare in the face of\nHeaven. The student was merry and kind, good and brave. Every drop of\nblood in him was good and honest. I have not seen a better man on this\nearth. He was the son of the house, and I was only a maid, but we\nformed an attachment to each other, honestly and honourably. And he\ntold his mother of it, for she was in his eyes as a Deity on earth;\nand she was wise and gentle. He went away on a journey, but before he\nstarted he put his gold ring on my finger; and directly he was gone\nmy mistress called me. With a firm yet gentle seriousness she spoke to\nme, and it seemed as if Wisdom itself were speaking. She showed me\nclearly, in spirit and in truth, the difference there was between him\nand me.\n\n\"'Now he is charmed with your pretty appearance,' she said, 'but your\ngood looks will leave you. You have not been educated as he has. You\nare not equals in mind, and there is the misfortune. I respect the\npoor,' she continued; 'in the sight of God they may occupy a higher\nplace than many a rich man can fill; but here on earth we must beware\nof entering a false track as we go onward, or our carriage is upset,\nand we are thrown into the road. I know that a worthy man wishes to\nmarry you--an artisan--I mean Erich the glovemaker. He is a widower\nwithout children, and is well to do. Think it over.'\n\n\"Every word she spoke cut into my heart like a knife, but I knew that\nmy mistress was right, and that knowledge weighed heavily upon me. I\nkissed her hand, and wept bitter tears, and I wept still more when I\nwent into my room and threw myself on my bed. It was a heavy night\nthat I had to pass through. Heaven knows what I suffered and how I\nwrestled! The next Sunday I went to the Lord's house, to pray for\nstrength and guidance. It seemed like a Providence, that as I stepped\nout of church Erich came towards me. And now there was no longer a\ndoubt in my mind. We were suited to each other in rank and in means,\nand he was even then a thriving man. Therefore I went up to him, took\nhis hand, and said, 'Are you still of the same mind towards me?' 'Yes,\never and always,' he replied. 'Will you marry a girl who honours and\nrespects, but who does not love you--though that may come later?' I\nasked again. 'Yes, it will come!' he answered; and upon this we joined\nhands. I went home to my mistress. I wore the gold ring that the son\nhad given me at my heart. I could not put it on my finger in the\ndaytime, but only in the evening when I went to bed. I kissed the ring\nagain and again, till my lips almost bled, and then I gave it to my\nmistress, and told her the banns were to be put up next week for me\nand the glovemaker. Then my mistress put her arms round me and kissed\nme. _She_ did not say that I was good for nothing; but perhaps I was\nbetter then than I am now, though the misfortunes of life had not yet\nfound me out. In a few weeks we were married; and for the first year\nthe world went well with us: we had a journeyman and an apprentice,\nand you, Martha, lived with us as our servant.\"\n\n\"Oh, you were a dear, good mistress,\" cried Martha. \"Never shall I\nforget how kind you and your husband were!\"\n\n\"Yes, those were our good years, when you were with us. We had not\nany children yet. The student I never saw again.--Yes, though, I saw\nhim, but he did not see me. He was here at his mother's funeral. I saw\nhim stand by the grave. He was pale as death, and very downcast, but\nthat was for his mother; afterwards, when his father died, he was away\nin a foreign land, and did not come back hither. I know that he never\nmarried; I believe he became a lawyer. He had forgotten me; and even\nif he had seen me again, he would not have known me, I look so ugly.\nAnd that is very fortunate.\"\n\nAnd then she spoke of her days of trial, and told how misfortune had\ncome as it were swooping down upon them.\n\n\"We had five hundred dollars,\" she said; \"and as there was a house in\nthe street to be bought for two hundred, and it would pay to pull it\ndown and build a new one, it was bought. The builder and carpenter\ncalculated the expense, and the new house was to cost ten hundred and\ntwenty! Erich had credit, and borrowed the money in the chief town,\nbut the captain who was to bring it was shipwrecked, and the money was\nlost with him.\"\n\n\"Just at that time my dear sweet boy who is sleeping yonder was born.\nMy husband was struck down by a long heavy illness: for three quarters\nof a year I was compelled to dress and undress him. We went back more\nand more, and fell into debt. All that we had was sold, and my husband\ndied. I have worked, and toiled, and striven, for the sake of the\nchild, and scrubbed staircases, washed linen, clean and coarse alike,\nbut I was not to be better off, such was God's good will. But He will\ntake me to Himself in His own good time, and will not forsake my boy.\"\nAnd she fell asleep.\n\nTowards morning she felt much refreshed, and strong enough, as she\nthought, to go back to her work. She had just stepped again into the\ncold water, when a trembling and faintness seized her: she clutched at\nthe air with her hand, took a step forward, and fell down. Her head\nrested on the bank, and her feet were still in the water: her wooden\nshoes, with a wisp of straw in each, which she had worn, floated down\nthe stream, and thus Martha found her on coming to bring her some\ncoffee.\n\nIn the meantime a messenger from the mayor's house had been dispatched\nto her poor lodging to tell her \"to come to the mayor immediately, for\nhe had something to tell her.\" It was too late! A barber-surgeon was\nbrought to open a vein in her arm; but the poor woman was dead.\n\n\"She has drunk herself to death!\" said the mayor.\n\nIn the letter that brought the news of his brother's death, the\ncontents of the will had been mentioned, and it was a legacy of six\nhundred dollars to the glovemaker's widow, who had once been his\nmother's maid. The money was to be paid, according to the mayor's\ndiscretion, in larger or smaller sums, to her or to her child.\n\n\"There was some fuss between my brother and her,\" said the mayor.\n\"It's a good thing that she is dead; for now the boy will have the\nwhole, and I will get him into a house among respectable people. He\nmay turn out a reputable working man.\"\n\nAnd Heaven gave its blessing to these words.\n\nSo the mayor sent for the boy, promised to take care of him, and added\nthat it was a good thing the lad's mother was dead, inasmuch as she\nhad been good for nothing.\n\nThey bore her to the churchyard, to the cemetery of the poor, and\nMartha strewed sand upon her grave, and planted a rose tree upon it,\nand the boy stood beside her.\n\n\"My dear mother!\" he cried, as the tears fell fast. \"Is it true what\nthey said: that she was good for nothing?\" \"No, she was good for\nmuch!\" replied the old servant, and she looked up indignantly. \"I knew\nit many a year ago, and more than all since last night. I tell you she\nwas worth much, and the Lord in heaven knows it is true, let the world\nsay as much as it chooses, 'She was good for nothing.'\"\n\n\n\n\n\"THERE IS A DIFFERENCE.\"\n\n\nIt was in the month of May. The wind still blew cold, but bushes and\ntrees, field and meadow, all alike said the spring had come. There was\nstore of flowers even in the wild hedges; and there spring carried on\nhis affairs, and preached from a little apple tree, where one branch\nhung fresh and blooming, covered with delicate pink blossoms that were\njust ready to open. The apple tree branch knew well enough how\nbeautiful he was, for the knowledge is inherent in the leaf as well as\nin the blood; and consequently the branch was not surprised when a\nnobleman's carriage stopped opposite to him on the road, and the young\ncountess said that an apple branch was the loveliest thing one could\nbehold, a very emblem of spring in its most charming form. And the\nbranch was most carefully broken off, and she held it in her delicate\nhand, and sheltered it with her silk parasol. Then they drove to the\ncastle, where there were lofty halls and splendid apartments. Pure\nwhite curtains fluttered round the open windows, and beautiful flowers\nstood in shining transparent vases; and in one of these, which looked\nas if it had been cut out of fresh-fallen snow, the apple branch was\nplaced among some fresh light twigs of beech. It was charming to\nbehold.\n\nBut the branch became proud; and this was quite like human nature.\n\nPeople of various kinds came through the room, and according to their\nrank they might express their admiration. A few said nothing at all,\nand others again said too much, and the apple tree branch soon got to\nunderstand that there was a difference among plants. \"Some are created\nfor beauty, and some for use; and there are some which one can do\nwithout altogether,\" thought the apple branch; and as he stood just in\nfront of the open window, from whence he could see into the garden and\nacross the fields, he had flowers and plants enough to contemplate and\nto think about, for there were rich plants and humble plants--some\nvery humble indeed.\n\n\"Poor despised herbs!\" said the apple branch. \"There is certainly a\ndifference! And how unhappy they must feel, if indeed that kind can\nfeel like myself and my equals. Certainly there is a difference, and\ndistinctions must be made, or we should all be equal.\"\n\nAnd the apple branch looked down with a species of pity, especially\nupon a certain kind of flower of which great numbers are found in the\nfields and in ditches. No one bound them into a nosegay, they were too\ncommon; for they might be found even among the paving-stones, shooting\nup everywhere like the rankest weeds, and they had the ugly name of\n\"dandelion,\" or \"dog-flower.\"\n\n\"Poor despised plants!\" said the apple branch. \"It is not your fault\nthat you received the ugly name you bear. But it is with plants as\nwith men--there must be a difference!\"\n\n\"A difference?\" said the sunbeam; and he kissed the blooming apple\nbranch, and saluted in like manner the yellow dandelions out in the\nfield--all the brothers of the sunbeam kissed them, the poor flowers\nas well as the rich.\n\nNow the apple branch had never thought of the boundless beneficence of\nProvidence in creation towards everything that lives and moves and has\nits being; he had never thought how much that is beautiful and good\nmay be hidden, but not forgotten; but that, too, was quite like human\nnature.\n\nThe sunbeam, the ray of light, knew better; and said, \"You don't see\nfar, and you don't see clearly. What is the despised plant that you\nespecially pity?\"\n\n\"The dandelion,\" replied the apple branch. \"It is never received into\na nosegay; it is trodden under foot. There are too many of them; and\nwhen they run to seed, they fly away like little pieces of wool over\nthe roads, and hang and cling to people's dress. They are nothing but\nweeds--but it is right there should be weeds too. Oh, I'm really very\nthankful that I was not created one of those flowers.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE CHILDREN AND THE DANDELIONS.]\n\nBut there came across the fields a whole troop of children; the\nyoungest of whom was so small that it was carried by the rest, and\nwhen it was set down in the grass among the yellow flowers it laughed\naloud with glee, kicked out with its little legs, rolled about and\nplucked the yellow flowers, and kissed them in its pretty innocence.\nThe elder children broke off the flowers with their tall stalks, and\nbent the stalks round into one another, link by link, so that a whole\nchain was made; first a necklace, and then a scarf to hang over their\nshoulders and tie round their waists, and then a chaplet to wear on\nthe head: it was quite a gala of green links and yellow flowers. The\neldest children carefully gathered the stalks on which hung the white\nfeathery ball, formed by the flower that had run to seed; and this\nloose, airy wool-flower, which is a beautiful object, looking like the\nfinest snowy down, they held to their mouths, and tried to blow away\nthe whole head at one breath: for their grandmother had said that\nwhoever could do this would be sure to get new clothes before the year\nwas out. So on this occasion the despised flower was actually raised\nto the rank of a prophet or augur.\n\n\"Do you see?\" said the sunbeam. \"Do you see the beauty of those\nflowers? do you see their power?\"\n\n\"Yes, over children,\" replied the apple branch.\n\nAnd now an old woman came into the field, and began to dig with a\nblunt shaftless knife round the root of the dandelion plant, and\npulled it up out of the ground. With some of the roots she intended to\nmake tea for herself; others she was going to sell for money to the\ndruggist.\n\n\"But beauty is a higher thing!\" said the apple tree branch. \"Only the\nchosen few can be admitted into the realm of beauty. There is a\ndifference among plants, just as there is a difference among men.\"\n\nAnd then the sunbeam spoke of the boundless love of the Creator, as\nmanifested in the creation, and of the just distribution of things in\ntime and in eternity.\n\n\"Yes, yes, that is your opinion,\" the apple branch persisted.\n\nBut now some people came into the room, and the beautiful young\ncountess appeared, the lady who had placed the apple branch in the\ntransparent vase in the sunlight. She carried in her hand a flower, or\nsomething of the kind. The object, whatever it might be, was hidden by\nthree or four great leaves, wrapped around it like a shield, that no\ndraught or gust of wind should injure it; and it was carried more\ncarefully than the apple bough had ever been. Very gently the large\nleaves were now removed, and lo, there appeared the fine feathery seed\ncrown of the despised dandelion! This it was that the lady had plucked\nwith the greatest care, and had carried home with every precaution, so\nthat not one of the delicate feathery darts that form its downy ball\nshould be blown away. She now produced it, quite uninjured, and\nadmired its beautiful form, its peculiar construction, and its airy\nbeauty, which was to be scattered by the wind.\n\n\"Look, with what singular beauty Providence has invested it,\" she\nsaid. \"I will paint it, together with the apple branch, whose beauty\nall have admired; but this humble flower has received just as much\nfrom Heaven in a different way; and, various as they are, both are\nchildren of the kingdom of beauty.\"\n\nAnd the sunbeam kissed the humble flower, and he kissed the blooming\napple branch, whose leaves appeared covered with a roseate blush.\n\n\n\n\nEVERYTHING IN ITS RIGHT PLACE.\n\n\nIt is more than a hundred years ago.\n\nBehind the wood, by the great lake, stood the old baronial mansion.\nRound about it lay a deep moat, in which grew reeds and grass. Close\nby the bridge, near the entrance-gate, rose an old willow tree that\nbent over the reeds.\n\nUp from the hollow lane sounded the clang of horns and the trampling\nof horses; therefore the little girl who kept the geese hastened to\ndrive her charges away from the bridge, before the hunting company\nshould come gallopping up. They drew near with such speed that the\ngirl was obliged to climb up in a hurry, and perch herself on the\ncoping-stone of the bridge, lest she should be ridden down. She was\nstill half a child, and had a pretty light figure, and a gentle\nexpression in her face, with two clear blue eyes. The noble baron took\nno note of this, but as he gallopped past the little goose-herd, he\nreversed the whip he held in his hand, and in rough sport gave her\nsuch a push in the chest with the butt-end, that she fell backwards\ninto the ditch.\n\n\"Everything in its place,\" he cried; \"into the puddle with you!\" And\nhe laughed aloud, for this was intended for wit, and the company\njoined in his mirth: the whole party shouted and clamoured, and the\ndogs barked their loudest.\n\nFortunately for herself, the poor girl in falling seized one of the\nhanging branches of the willow tree, by means of which she kept\nherself suspended over the muddy water, and as soon as the baron and\nhis company had disappeared through the castle-gate, the girl tried to\nscramble up again; but the bough broke off at the top, and she would\nhave fallen backward among the reeds, if a strong hand from above had\nnot at that moment seized her. It was the hand of a pedlar, who had\nseen from a short distance what had happened, and who now hurried up\nto give aid.\n\n\"Everything in its right place,\" he said, mimicking the gracious\nbaron; and he drew the little maiden up to the firm ground. He would\nhave restored the broken branch to the place from which it had been\ntorn, but \"everything in its place\" cannot always be managed, and\ntherefore he stuck the piece in the ground. \"Grow and prosper till you\ncan furnish a good flute for them up yonder,\" he said; for he would\nhave liked to play the \"rogue's march\" for my lord the baron, and my\nlord's whole family. And then he betook himself to the castle, but not\ninto the ancestral hall, he was too humble for that! He went to the\nservants' quarters, and the men and maids turned over his stock of\ngoods, and bargained with him; and from above, where the guests were\nat table, came a sound of roaring and screaming that was intended for\nsong, and indeed they did their best. Loud laughter, mingled with the\nbarking and howling of dogs, sounded through the windows, for there\nwas feasting and carousing up yonder. Wine and strong old ale foamed\nin the jugs and glasses, and the dogs sat with their masters and dined\nwith them. They had the pedlar summoned upstairs, but only to make fun\nof him. The wine had mounted into their heads, and the sense had flown\nout. They poured wine into a stocking, that the pedlar might drink\nwith them, but that he must drink quickly; that was considered a rare\njest, and was a cause of fresh laughter. And then whole farms, with\noxen and peasants too, were staked on a card, and won and lost.\n\n\"Everything in its right place!\" said the pedlar, when he had at last\nmade his escape out of what he called \"the Sodom and Gomorrah up\nyonder.\" \"The open high-road is my right place,\" he said; \"I did not\nfeel at all happy there.\" And the little maiden who sat keeping the\ngeese nodded at him in a friendly way, as he strode along beside the\nhedges.\n\nAnd days and weeks went by; and it became manifest that the willow\nbranch which the pedlar had stuck into the ground by the castle moat\nremained fresh and green, and even brought forth new twigs. The little\ngoose-girl saw that the branch must have taken root, and rejoiced\ngreatly at the circumstance; for this tree, she said, was now her\ntree.\n\nThe tree certainly came forward well; but everything else belonging to\nthe castle went very rapidly back, what with feasting and\ngambling--for these two things are like wheels, upon which no man can\nstand securely.\n\nSix years had not passed away before the noble lord passed out of the\ncastle-gate, a beggared man, and the mansion was bought by a rich\ndealer; and this purchaser was the very man who had once been made a\njest of there, for whom wine had been poured into a stocking; but\nhonesty and industry are good winds to speed a vessel; and now the\ndealer was possessor of the baronial estate. But from that hour no\nmore card-playing was permitted there. \"That is bad reading,\" said he:\n\"when the Evil One saw a Bible for the first time, he wanted to put a\nbad book against it, and invented card-playing.\"\n\nThe new proprietor took a wife; and who might that be but the\ngoose-girl, who had always been faithful and good, and looked as\nbeautiful and fine in her new clothes as if she had been born a great\nlady. And how did all this come about? That is too long a story for\nour busy time, but it really happened, and the most important part is\nto come.\n\nIt was a good thing now to be in the old mansion. The mother managed\nthe domestic affairs, and the father superintended the estate, and it\nseemed as if blessings were streaming down. Where rectitude enters in,\nprosperity is sure to follow. The old house was cleaned and painted,\nthe ditches were cleared and fruit trees planted. Everything wore a\nbright cheerful look, and the floors were as polished as a draught\nboard. In the long winter evenings the lady sat at the spinning-wheel\nwith her maids, and every Sunday evening there was a reading from the\nBible, by the Councillor of Justice himself--this title the dealer had\ngained, though it was only in his old age. The children grew up--for\nchildren had come--and they received the best education, though all\nhad not equal abilities, as we find indeed in all families.\n\nIn the meantime the willow branch at the castle-gate had grown to be a\nsplendid tree, which stood there free and self-sustained. \"That is our\ngenealogical tree,\" the old people said, and the tree was to be\nhonoured and respected--so they told all the children, even those who\nhad not very good heads.\n\nAnd a hundred years rolled by.\n\nIt was in our own time. The lake had been converted to moorland, and\nthe old mansion had almost disappeared. A pool of water and the ruins\nof some walls, this was all that was left of the old baronial castle,\nwith its deep moat; and here stood also a magnificent old willow, with\npendent boughs, which seemed to show how beautiful a tree may be if\nleft to itself. The main stem was certainly split from the root to the\ncrown, and the storm had bowed the noble tree a little; but it stood\nfirm for all that, and from every cleft into which wind and weather\nhad carried a portion of earth, grasses and flowers sprang forth:\nespecially near the top, where the great branches parted, a sort of\nhanging garden had been formed of wild raspberry bush, and even a\nsmall quantity of mistletoe had taken root, and stood, slender and\ngraceful, in the midst of the old willow which was mirrored in the\ndark water. A field-path led close by the old tree.\n\nHigh by the forest hill, with a splendid prospect in every direction,\nstood the new baronial hall, large and magnificent, with panes of\nglass so clearly transparent, that it looked as if there were no panes\nthere at all. The grand flight of steps that led to the entrance\nlooked like a bower of roses and broad-leaved plants. The lawn was as\nfreshly green as if each separate blade of grass were cleaned morning\nand evening. In the hall hung costly pictures; silken chairs and sofas\nstood there, so easy that they looked almost as if they could run by\nthemselves; there were tables of great marble slabs, and books bound\nin morocco and gold. Yes, truly, wealthy people lived here, people of\nrank: the baron with his family.\n\nAll things here corresponded with each other. The motto was still\n\"Everything in its right place;\" and therefore all the pictures which\nhad been put up in the old house for honour and glory, hung now in the\npassage that led to the servants' hall: they were considered as old\nlumber, and especially two old portraits, one representing a man in a\npink coat and powdered wig, the other a lady with powdered hair and\nholding a rose in her hand, and each surrounded with a wreath of\nwillow leaves. These two pictures were pierced with many holes,\nbecause the little barons were in the habit of setting up the old\npeople as a mark for their cross-bows. The pictures represented the\nCouncillor of Justice and his lady, the founders of the present\nfamily.\n\n\"But they did not properly belong to our family,\" said one of the\nlittle barons. \"He was a dealer, and she had kept the geese. They were\nnot like papa and mamma.\"\n\nThe pictures were pronounced to be worthless; and as the motto was\n\"Everything in its right place,\" the great-grandmother and\ngreat-grandfather had been sent into the passage that led to the\nservants' hall.\n\nThe son of the neighbouring clergyman was tutor in the great house.\nOne day he was out walking with his pupils, the little barons and\ntheir eldest sister, who had just been confirmed; they came along the\nfield-path, past the old willow, and as they walked on the young lady\nbound a wreath of field flowers, \"Everything in its right place,\" and\nthe flowers formed a pretty whole. At the same time she heard every\nword that was spoken, and she liked to hear the clergyman's son talk\nof the power of nature and of the great men and women in history. She\nhad a good hearty disposition, with true nobility of thought and\nsoul, and a heart full of love for all that God hath created.\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD WILLOW TREE.]\n\nThe party came to a halt at the old willow tree. The youngest baron\ninsisted on having such a flute cut for him from it as he had had made\nof other willows. Accordingly the tutor broke off a branch.\n\n\"Oh, don't do that!\" cried the young baroness; but it was done\nalready. \"That is our famous old tree,\" she continued, \"and I love it\ndearly. They laugh at me at home for this, but I don't mind. There is\na story attached to this tree.\"\n\nAnd she told what we all know about the tree, about the old mansion,\nthe pedlar and the goose-girl, who had met for the first time in this\nspot, and had afterwards become the founders of the noble family to\nwhich the young barons belonged.\n\n\"They would not be ennobled, the good old folks!\" she said. \"They kept\nto the motto 'Everything in its right place;' and accordingly they\nthought it would be out of place for them to purchase a title with\nmoney. My grandfather, the first baron, was their son: he is said to\nhave been a very learned man, very popular with princes and\nprincesses, and a frequent guest at the court festivals. The others at\nhome love him best; but, I don't know how, there seems to me something\nabout that first pair that draws my heart towards them. How\ncomfortable, how patriarchal it must have been in the old house, where\nthe mistress sat at the spinning-wheel among her maids, and the old\nmaster read aloud from the Bible!\"\n\n\"They were charming, sensible people,\" said the clergyman's son; and\nwith this the conversation naturally fell upon nobles and citizens.\nThe young man scarcely seemed to belong to the citizen class, so well\ndid he speak concerning the purpose and meaning of nobility. He said,\n\n\"It is a great thing to belong to a family that has distinguished\nitself, and thus to have, as it were, in one's blood, a spur that\nurges one on to make progress in all that is good. It is delightful to\nhave a name that serves as a card of admission into the highest\ncircles. Nobility means that which is great and noble: it is a coin\nthat has received a stamp to indicate what it is worth. It is the\nfallacy of the time, and many poets have frequently maintained this\nfallacy, that nobility of birth is accompanied by foolishness, and\nthat the lower you go among the poor, the more does everything around\nshine. But that is not my view, for I consider it entirely false. In\nthe higher classes many beautiful and kindly traits are found. My\nmother told me one of this kind, and I could tell you many others.\n\n\"My mother was on a visit to a great family in town. My grandmother, I\nthink, had been housekeeper to the count's mother. The great nobleman\nand my mother were alone in the room, when the former noticed that an\nold woman came limping on crutches into the courtyard. Indeed, she was\naccustomed to come every Sunday, and carry away a gift with her. 'Ah,\nthere is the poor old lady,' said the nobleman: 'walking is a great\ntoil to her;' and before my mother understood what he meant, he had\ngone out of the room and run down the stairs, to save the old woman\nthe toilsome walk, by carrying to her the gift she had come to\nreceive.\n\n\"Now, that was only a small circumstance, but, like the widow's two\nmites in the Scripture, it has a sound that finds an echo in the\ndepths of the heart in human nature; and these are the things the poet\nshould show and point out; especially in these times should he sing of\nit, for that does good, and pacifies and unites men. But where a bit\nof mortality, because it has a genealogical tree and a coat of arms,\nrears up like an Arabian horse, and prances in the street, and says in\nthe room, 'People out of the street have been here,' when a commoner\nhas been--that is nobility in decay, and become a mere mask--a mask of\nthe kind that Thespis created; and people are glad when such an one is\nturned into satire.\"\n\nThis was the speech of the clergyman's son. It was certainly rather\nlong, but then the flute was being finished while he made it.\n\nAt the castle there was a great company. Many guests came from the\nneighbourhood and from the capital. Many ladies, some tastefully, and\nothers tastelessly dressed, were there, and the great hall was quite\nfull of people. The clergymen from the neighbourhood stood\nrespectfully congregated in a corner, which made it look almost as if\nthere were to be a burial there. But it was not so, for this was a\nparty of pleasure, only that the pleasure had not yet begun.\n\nA great concert was to be performed, and consequently the little baron\nhad brought in his willow flute; but he could not get a note out of\nit, nor could his papa, and therefore the flute was worth nothing.\nThere was instrumental music and song, both of the kind that delight\nthe performers most--quite charming!\n\n\"You are a performer?\" said a cavalier--his father's son and nothing\nelse--to the tutor. \"You play the flute and make it too--that's\ngenius. That should command, and should have the place of honour!\"\n\n\"No indeed,\" replied the young man, \"I only advance with the times, as\nevery one is obliged to do.\"\n\n\"Oh, you will enchant us with the little instrument, will you not?\"\nAnd with these words he handed to the clergyman's son the flute cut\nfrom the willow tree by the pool, and announced aloud that the tutor\nwas about to perform a solo on that instrument.\n\nNow, they only wanted to make fun of him, that was easily seen; and\ntherefore the tutor would not play, though indeed he could do so very\nwell; but they crowded round him and importuned him so strongly, that\nat last he took the flute and put it to his lips.\n\nThat was a wonderful flute! A sound, as sustained as that which is\nemitted by the whistle of a steam engine, and much stronger, echoed\nfar over courtyard, garden, and wood, miles away into the country;\nand simultaneously with the tone came a rushing wind that roared,\n\"Everything in its right place!\" And papa flew as if carried by the\nwind straight out of the hall and into the shepherd's cot; and the\nshepherd flew, not into the hall, for there he could not come--no, but\ninto the room of the servants, among the smart lacqueys who strutted\nabout there in silk stockings; and the proud servants were struck\nmotionless with horror at the thought that such a personage dared to\nsit down to table with them.\n\nBut in the hall the young baroness flew up to the place of honour at\nthe top of the table, where she was worthy to sit; and the young\nclergyman's son had a seat next to her; and there the two sat as if\nthey were a newly-married pair. An old count of one of the most\nancient families in the country remained untouched in his place of\nhonour; for the flute was just, as men ought to be. The witty\ncavalier, the son of his father and nothing else, who had been the\ncause of the flute-playing, flew head-over-heels into the\npoultry-house--but not alone.\n\nFor a whole mile round about the sounds of the flute were heard, and\nsingular events took place. A rich banker's family, driving along in a\ncoach and four, was blown quite out of the carriage, and could not\neven find a place on the footboard at the back. Two rich peasants who\nin our times had grown too high for their corn-fields, were tumbled\ninto the ditch. It was a dangerous flute, that: luckily, it burst at\nthe first note, and that was a good thing, for then it was put back\ninto the owner's pocket. \"Everything in its right place.\"\n\nThe day afterwards not a word was said about this marvellous event;\nand thence has come the expression \"pocketing the flute.\" Everything\nwas in its usual order, only that the two old portraits of the dealer\nand the goose-girl hung on the wall in the banqueting hall. They had\nbeen blown up yonder, and as one of the real connoisseurs said they\nhad been painted by a master's hand, they remained where they were,\nand were restored. \"Everything in its right place.\"\n\nAnd to that it will come; for _hereafter_ is long--longer than this\nstory.\n\n\n\n\nTHE GOBLIN AND THE HUCKSTER.\n\n\nThere was once a regular student: he lived in a garret, and nothing at\nall belonged to him; but there was also once a regular huckster: he\nlived on the ground floor, and the whole house was his; and the\ngoblin kept with him, for on the huckster's table on Christmas Eve\nthere was always a dish of plum porridge, with a great piece of butter\nfloating in the middle. The huckster could accomplish that; and\nconsequently the goblin stuck to the huckster's shop, and that was\nvery interesting.\n\n[Illustration: THE STUDENT'S BARGAIN.]\n\nOne evening the student came through the back door to buy candles and\ncheese for himself. He had no one to send, and that's why he came\nhimself. He procured what he wanted and paid for it, and the huckster\nand his wife both nodded a \"good evening\" to him; and the woman was\none who could do more than merely nod--she had an immense power of\ntongue! And the student nodded too, and then suddenly stood still,\nreading the sheet of paper in which the cheese had been wrapped. It\nwas a leaf torn out of an old book, a book that ought not to have been\ntorn up, a book that was full of poetry.\n\n\"Yonder lies some more of the same sort,\" said the huckster: \"I gave\nan old woman a little coffee for the books; give me two groschen, and\nyou shall have the remainder.\"\n\n\"Yes,\" said the student, \"give me the book instead of the cheese: I\ncan eat my bread and butter without cheese. It would be a sin to tear\nthe book up entirely. You are a capital man, a practical man, but you\nunderstand no more about poetry than does that cask yonder.\"\n\nNow, that was an insulting speech, especially towards the cask; but\nthe huckster laughed and the student laughed, for it was only said in\nfun. But the goblin was angry that any one should dare to say such\nthings to a huckster who lived in his own house and sold the best\nbutter.\n\nWhen it was night, and the shop was closed and all were in bed, the\ngoblin came forth, went into the bedroom, and took away the good\nlady's tongue; for she did not want that while she was asleep; and\nwhenever he put this tongue upon any object in the room, the said\nobject acquired speech and language, and could express its thoughts\nand feelings as well as the lady herself could have done; but only one\nobject could use it at a time, and that was a good thing, otherwise\nthey would have interrupted each other.\n\nAnd the goblin laid the tongue upon the cask in which the old\nnewspapers were lying.\n\n\"Is it true,\" he asked, \"that you don't know what poetry means?\"\n\n\"Of course I know it,\" replied the cask: \"poetry is something that\nalways stands at the foot of a column in the newspapers, and is\nsometimes cut out. I dare swear I have more of it in me than the\nstudent, and I'm only a poor tub compared to the huckster.\"\n\nThen the goblin put the tongue upon the coffee-mill, and, mercy! how\nit began to go! And he put it upon the butter-cask, and on the\ncash-box: they were all of the waste-paper cask's opinion, and the\nopinion of the majority must be respected.\n\n\"Now I shall tell it to the student!\" And with these words the goblin\nwent quite quietly up the back stairs to the garret, where the student\nlived. The student had still a candle burning, and the goblin peeped\nthrough the keyhole, and saw that he was reading in the torn book that\nhe had carried up out of the shop downstairs.\n\nBut how light it was in his room! Out of the book shot a clear beam,\nexpanding into a thick stem, and into a mighty tree, which grew\nupward and spread its branches far over the student. Each leaf was\nfresh, and every blossom was a beautiful female head, some with dark\nsparkling eyes, others with wonderfully clear blue orbs; every fruit\nwas a gleaming star, and there was a glorious sound of song in the\nstudent's room.\n\nNever had the little goblin imagined such splendour, far less had he\never seen or heard anything like it. He stood still on tiptoe, and\npeeped in till the light went out in the student's garret. Probably\nthe student blew it out, and went to bed; but the little goblin\nremained standing there nevertheless, for the music still sounded on,\nsoft and beautiful--a splendid cradle song for the student who had\nlain down to rest.\n\n\"This is an incomparable place,\" said the goblin: \"I never expected\nsuch a thing! I should like to stay here with the student.\" And then\nthe little man thought it over--and he was a sensible little man\ntoo--but he sighed, \"The student has no porridge!\" And then he went\ndown again to the huckster's shop: and it was a very good thing that\nhe got down there again at last, for the cask had almost worn out the\ngood woman's tongue, for it had spoken out at one side everything that\nwas contained in it, and was just about turning itself over, to give\nit out from the other side also, when the goblin came in, and restored\nthe tongue to its owner. But from that time forth the whole shop, from\nthe cash-box down to the firewood, took its tone from the cask, and\npaid him such respect, and thought so much of him, that when the\nhuckster afterwards read the critical articles on theatricals and art\nin the newspaper, they were all persuaded the information came from\nthe cask itself.\n\nBut the goblin could no longer sit quietly and contentedly listening\nto all the wisdom down there: so soon as the light glimmered from the\ngarret in the evening he felt as if the rays were strong cables\ndrawing him up, and he was obliged to go and peep through the keyhole;\nand there a feeling of greatness rolled around him, such as we feel\nbeside the ever-heaving sea when the storm rushes over it, and he\nburst into tears! He did not know himself why he was weeping, but a\npeculiar feeling of pleasure mingled with his tears. How wonderfully\nglorious it must be to sit with the student under the same tree! But\nthat might not be, he was obliged to be content with the view through\nthe keyhole, and to be glad of that. There he stood on the cold\nlanding-place, with the autumn wind blowing down from the loft-hole:\nit was cold, very cold; but the little mannikin only felt that when\nthe light in the room was extinguished, and the tones in the tree died\naway. Ha! then he shivered, and crept down again to his warm corner,\nwhere it was homely and comfortable.\n\nAnd when Christmas came, and brought with it the porridge and the\ngreat lump of butter, why, then he thought the huckster the better\nman.\n\nBut in the middle of the night the goblin was awaked by a terrible\ntumult and beating against the window shutters. People rapped noisily\nwithout, and the watchman blew his horn, for a great fire had broken\nout--the whole street was full of smoke and flame. Was it in the house\nitself, or at a neighbour's? Where was it? Terror seized on all. The\nhuckster's wife was so bewildered that she took her gold earrings out\nof her ears and put them in her pocket, that at any rate she might\nsave something; the huckster ran for his share-papers; and the maid\nfor her black silk mantilla, for she had found means to purchase one.\nEach one wanted to save the best thing they had; the goblin wanted to\ndo the same thing, and in a few leaps he was up the stairs, and into\nthe room of the student, who stood quite quietly at the open window,\nlooking at the conflagration that was raging in the house of the\nneighbour opposite. The goblin seized upon the wonderful book which\nlay upon the table, popped it into his red cap, and held the cap tight\nwith both hands. The great treasure of the house was saved; and now he\nran up and away, quite on to the roof of the house, on to the chimney.\nThere he sat, illuminated by the flames of the burning house opposite,\nboth hands pressed tightly over his cap, in which the treasure lay;\nand now he knew the real feelings of his heart, and knew to whom it\nreally belonged. But when the fire was extinguished, and the goblin\ncould think calmly again, why, then....\n\n\"I must divide myself between the two,\" he said; \"I can't quite give\nup the huckster, because of the porridge!\"\n\nNow, that was spoken quite like a human creature. We all of us visit\nthe huckster for the sake of the porridge.\n\n\n\n\nIN A THOUSAND YEARS.\n\n\nYes, in a thousand years people will fly on the wings of steam through\nthe air, over the ocean! The young inhabitants of America will become\nvisitors of old Europe. They will come over to see the monuments and\nthe great cities, which will then be in ruins, just as we in our time\nmake pilgrimages to the tottering splendours of Southern Asia. In a\nthousand years they will come!\n\nThe Thames, the Danube, and the Rhine still roll their course, Mont\nBlanc stands firm with its snow-capped summit, and the Northern Lights\ngleam over the lands of the North; but generation after generation has\nbecome dust, whole rows of the mighty of the moment are forgotten,\nlike those who already slumber under the hill on which the rich trader\nwhose ground it is has built a bench, on which he can sit and look out\nacross his waving corn-fields.\n\n\"To Europe!\" cry the young sons of America; \"to the land of our\nancestors, the glorious land of monuments and fancy--to Europe!\"\n\nThe ship of the air comes. It is crowded with passengers, for the\ntransit is quicker than by sea. The electro-magnetic wire under the\nocean has already telegraphed the number of the aerial caravan. Europe\nis in sight: it is the coast of Ireland that they see, but the\npassengers are still asleep; they will not be called till they are\nexactly over England. There they will first step on European shore, in\nthe land of Shakespeare as the educated call it; in the land of\npolitics, the land of machines, as it is called by others.\n\nHere they stay a whole day. That is all the time the busy race can\ndevote to the whole of England and Scotland. Then the journey is\ncontinued through the tunnel under the English Channel, to France, the\nland of Charlemagne and Napoleon. Moliere is named: the learned men\ntalk of the classic school of remote antiquity: there is rejoicing and\nshouting for the names of heroes, poets, and men of science, whom our\ntime does not know, but who will be born after our time in Paris, the\ncrater of Europe.\n\nThe air steamboat flies over the country whence Columbus went forth,\nwhere Cortez was born, and where Calderon sang dramas in sounding\nverse. Beautiful black-eyed women live still in the blooming valleys,\nand the oldest songs speak of the Cid and the Alhambra.\n\nThen through the air, over the sea, to Italy, where once lay old,\neverlasting Rome. It has vanished! The Campagna lies desert: a single\nruined wall is shown as the remains of St. Peter's, but there is a\ndoubt if this ruin be genuine.\n\nNext to Greece, to sleep a night in the grand hotel at the top of\nMount Olympus, to say that they have been there; and the journey is\ncontinued to the Bosphorus, to rest there a few hours, and see the\nplace where Byzantium lay; and where the legend tells that the harem\nstood in the time of the Turks, poor fishermen are now spreading their\nnets.\n\nOver the remains of mighty cities on the broad Danube, cities which we\nin our time know not, the travellers pass; but here and there, on the\nrich sites of those that time shall bring forth, the caravan sometimes\ndescends, and departs thence again.\n\nDown below lies Germany, that was once covered with a close net of\nrailways and canals, the region where Luther spoke, where Goethe sang,\nand Mozart once held the sceptre of harmony! Great names shine there,\nin science and in art, names that are unknown to us. One day devoted\nto seeing Germany, and one for the North, the country of Oersted and\nLinnaeus, and for Norway, the land of the old heroes and the young\nNormans. Iceland is visited on the journey home: the geysers burn no\nmore, Hecla is an extinct volcano, but the rocky island is still fixed\nin the midst of the foaming sea, a continual monument of legend and\npoetry.\n\n\"There is really a great deal to be seen in Europe,\" says the young\nAmerican, \"and we have seen it in a week, according to the directions\nof the great traveller\" (and here he mentions the name of one of his\ncontemporaries) \"in his celebrated work, 'How to See all Europe in a\nWeek.'\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP.\n\n\nWe have just taken a little journey, and already we want to take a\nlonger one. Whither? To Sparta, to Mycene, to Delphi? There are a\nhundred places at whose names the heart beats with the desire of\ntravel. On horseback we go up the mountain paths, through brake and\nthrough brier. A single traveller makes an appearance like a whole\ncaravan. He rides forward with his guide, a pack-horse carries trunks,\na tent, and provisions, and a few armed soldiers follow as a guard. No\ninn with warm beds awaits him at the end of his tiring day's journey:\nthe tent is often his dwelling-place. In the great wild region the\nguide cooks him a pillan of rice, fowls, and curry for his supper. A\nthousand gnats swarm round the tent. It is a boisterous night, and\nto-morrow the way will lead across swollen streams; take care you are\nnot washed away!\n\nWhat is your reward for undergoing these hardships? The fullest,\nrichest reward. Nature manifests herself here in all her greatness;\nevery spot is historical, and the eye and the thoughts are alike\ndelighted. The poet may sing it, the painter portray it in rich\npictures; but the air of reality which sinks deep into the soul of the\nspectator, and remains there, neither painter nor poet can produce.\n\nIn many little sketches I have endeavoured to give an idea of a small\npart of Athens and its environs; but how colourless the picture seems!\nHow little does it exhibit Greece, the mourning genius of beauty,\nwhose greatness and whose sorrow the stranger never forgets!\n\nThe lonely herdsman yonder on the hills would, perhaps, by a simple\nrecital of an event in his life, better enlighten the stranger who\nwishes in a few features to behold the land of the Hellenes, than any\npicture could do.\n\n\"Then,\" says my Muse, \"let him speak.\" A custom, a good, peculiar\ncustom, shall be the subject of the mountain shepherd's tale. It is\ncalled\n\n\nTHE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP.\n\n\nOur rude house was put together of clay; but the door-posts were\ncolumns of fluted marble found near the spot where the house was\nerected. The roof reached almost down to the ground. It was now dark\nbrown and ugly, but it had originally consisted of blooming olive and\nfresh laurel branches brought from beyond the mountain. Around our\ndwelling was a narrow gorge, whose walls of rock rose steeply upwards,\nand showed naked and black, and round their summits often hung clouds,\nlike white living figures. Never did I hear a singing bird there,\nnever did the men there dance to the sound of the bagpipe; but the\nspot was sacred from the old times: even its name reminded of this,\nfor it was called Delphi! The dark solemn mountains were all covered\nwith snow; the highest, which gleamed the longest in the red light of\nevening, was Parnassus; the brook which rolled from it near our house\nwas once sacred also. Now the ass sullies it with its feet, but the\nstream rolls on and on, and becomes clear again. How I can remember\nevery spot in the deep holy solitude! In the midst of the hut a fire\nwas kindled, and when the hot ashes lay there red and glowing, the\nbread was baked in them. When the snow was piled so high around our\nhut as almost to hide it, my mother appeared most cheerful: then she\nwould hold my head between her hands, and sing the songs she never\nsang at other times, for the Turks our masters would not allow it. She\nsang:\n\n\"On the summit of Olympus, in the forest of dwarf firs, lay an old\nstag. His eyes were heavy with tears; he wept blue and even red\ntears; and there came a roebuck by, and said, 'What ails thee, that\nthou weepest those blue and red tears?' And the stag answered, 'The\nTurk has come to our city: he has wild dogs for the chase, a goodly\npack.' 'I will drive them away across the islands,' cried the young\nroebuck, 'I will drive them away across the islands into the deep\nsea!' But before evening sank down the roebuck was slain, and before\nnight the stag was hunted and dead.\"\n\nAnd when my mother sang thus, her eyes became moist, and on the long\neyelashes hung a tear; but she hid it, and baked our black bread in\nthe ashes. Then I would clench my fist and cry, \"We will kill the\nTurks!\" but she repeated from the song the words, \"I will drive them\nacross the islands into the deep sea. But before evening sank down the\nroebuck was slain, and before the night came the stag was hunted and\ndead.\"\n\nFor several days and nights we had been lonely in our hut, when my\nfather came home. I knew he would bring me shells from the Gulf of\nLepanto, or perhaps even a bright gleaming knife. This time he brought\nus a child, a little half-naked girl, that he brought under his\nsheepskin cloak. It was wrapped in a fur, and all that the little\ncreature possessed when this was taken off, and she lay in my mother's\nlap, were three silver coins, fastened in her dark hair. My father\ntold us that the Turks had killed the child's parents; and he told so\nmuch about them, that I dreamed of the Turks all night. He himself had\nbeen wounded, and my mother bound up his arm. The wound was deep, and\nthe thick sheepskin was stiff with frozen blood. The little maiden was\nto be my sister. How radiantly beautiful she looked! Even my mother's\neyes were not more gentle than hers. Anastasia, as she was called, was\nto be my sister, because her father had been united to mine by the old\ncustom which we still keep. They had sworn brotherhood in their youth,\nand chosen the most beautiful and virtuous girl in the neighbourhood\nto consecrate their bond of friendship. I often heard of the strange\ngood custom.\n\nSo now the little girl was my sister. She sat in my lap, and I brought\nher flowers and the feathers of the mountain birds: we drank together\nof the waters of Parnassus, and dwelt together for many a year under\nthe laurel roof of the hut, while my mother sang winter after winter\nof the stag who wept red tears. But as yet I did not understand that\nit was my own countrymen whose many sorrows were mirrored in those\ntears.\n\nOne day there came three Frankish men. Their dress was different from\nours. They had tents and beds with them on their horses, and more\nthan twenty Turks, all armed with swords and muskets, accompanied\nthem; for they were friends of the pacha, and had letters from him\ncommanding an escort for them. They only came to see our mountains, to\nascend Parnassus amid the snow and the clouds, and to look at the\nstrange black steep rock near our hut. They could not find room in it,\nnor could they endure the smoke that rolled along the ceiling and\nfound its way out at the low door; therefore they pitched their tents\non the small space outside our dwelling, roasted lambs and birds, and\npoured out strong sweet wine, of which the Turks were not allowed to\npartake.\n\n[Illustration: THE GREEK MOTHER'S SONG.]\n\nWhen they departed, I accompanied them for some distance, carrying my\nlittle sister Anastasia, wrapped in a goatskin, on my back. One of the\nFrankish gentlemen made me stand in front of a rock, and drew me, and\nher too, as we stood there, so that we looked like one creature. I\nnever thought of it; but Anastasia and I were really one. She was\nalways sitting in my lap or riding in the goatskin at my back; and\nwhen I dreamed, she appeared in my dreams.\n\nTwo nights afterwards, other men, armed with knives and muskets, came\ninto our tent. They were Albanians, brave men, my mother told me. They\nonly stayed a short time. My sister Anastasia sat on the knee of one\nof them, and when they were gone she had not three, but only two\nsilver coins in her hair. They wrapped tobacco in strips of paper and\nsmoked it. I remember they were undecided as to the road they were to\ntake.\n\nBut they had to make a choice. They went, and my father went with\nthem. Soon afterwards we heard the sound of firing. The noise was\nrenewed, and soldiers rushed into our hut, and took my mother, and\nmyself, and my sister Anastasia prisoners. They declared that the\nrobbers had been entertained by us, and that my father had acted as\nthe robbers' guide, and therefore we must go with them. Presently I\nsaw the corpses of the robbers brought in; I saw my father's corpse\ntoo. I cried and cried till I fell asleep. When I awoke, we were in\nprison, but the room was not worse than ours in our own house. They\ngave me onions to eat, and musty wine poured from a tarry cask, but we\nhad no better fare at home.\n\nHow long we were kept prisoners I do not know; but many days and\nnights went by. When we were set free it was the time of the holy\nEaster feast. I carried Anastasia on my back, for my mother was ill,\nand could only move slowly, and it was a long way till we came down to\nthe sea, to the Gulf of Lepanto. We went into a church that gleamed\nwith pictures painted on a golden ground. They were pictures of\nangels, and very beautiful; but it seemed to me that our little\nAnastasia was just as beautiful. In the middle of the floor stood a\ncoffin filled with roses. \"The Lord Christ is pictured there in the\nform of a beautiful rose,\" said my mother; and the priest announced,\n\"Christ is risen!\" All the people kissed each other: each one had a\nburning taper in his hand, and I received one myself, and so did\nlittle Anastasia. The bagpipes sounded, men danced hand in hand from\nthe church, and outside the women were roasting the Easter lamb. We\nwere invited to partake, and I sat by the fire; a boy, older than\nmyself, put his arms round my neck, kissed me, and said, \"Christ is\nrisen!\" and thus it was that for the first time I met Aphtanides.\n\nMy mother could make fishermen's nets, for which there was a good\ndemand here in the bay, and we lived a long time by the side of the\nsea, the beautiful sea, that tasted like tears, and in its colours\nreminded me of the song of the stag that wept--for sometimes its\nwaters were red, and sometimes green or blue.\n\n[Illustration: THE FRIENDS AT LEPANTO.]\n\nAphtanides knew how to manage our boat, and I often sat in it, with my\nlittle Anastasia, while it glided on through the water, swift as a\nbird flying through the air. Then, when the sun sank down, the\nmountains were tinted with a deeper and deeper blue, one range seemed\nto rise behind the other, and behind them all stood Parnassus with its\nsnow-crowned summit. The mountain-top gleamed in the evening rays like\nglowing iron, and it seemed as though the light came from within it;\nfor long after the sun had set, the mountain still shone through the\nclear blue air. The white water birds touched the surface of the sea\nwith their wings, and all here was as calm and quiet as among the\nblack rocks at Delphi. I lay on my back in the boat, Anastasia leaned\nagainst me, and the stars above us shone brighter than the lamps in\nour church. They were the same stars, and they stood exactly in the\nsame positions above me, as when I had sat in front of our hut at\nDelphi; and at last I almost fancied I was there. Suddenly there was a\nsplash in the water, and the boat rocked violently. I cried out in\nhorror, for Anastasia had fallen into the water: but in a moment\nAphtanides had sprung in after her, and was holding her up to me! We\ndried her clothes as well as we could, remaining on the water till\nthey were dry; for no one was to know what a fright we had had for our\nlittle adopted sister, in whose life Aphtanides now had a part.\n\nThe summer came. The sun burned so hot that the leaves turned yellow\non the trees. I thought of our cool mountains, and of the fresh water\nthey contained; my mother, too, longed for them; and one evening we\nwandered home. What peace, what silence! We walked on through the\nthick thyme, still fragrant though the sun had scorched its leaves.\nNot a single herdsman did we meet, not one solitary hut did we pass.\nEverything was quiet and deserted; but a shooting star announced that\nin heaven there was yet life. I know not if the clear blue air gleamed\nwith light of its own, or if the radiance came from the stars; but we\ncould see the outlines of the mountains quite plainly. My mother\nlighted a fire, roasted some roots she had brought with her, and I and\nmy little sister slept among the thyme, without fear of the ugly\nSmidraki,[4] from whose throat fire spurts forth, or of the wolf and\njackal; for my mother sat beside us, and I considered her presence\nprotection enough for us.\n\nWe reached our old home; but the hut was a heap of ruins, and a new\none had to be built. A few women lent my mother their aid, and in a\nfew days walls were raised, and covered with a new roof of olive\nbranches. My mother made many bottle cases of bark and skins; I kept\nthe little flock of the priests,[5] and Anastasia and the little\ntortoises were my playmates.\n\n[Footnote 4: According to the Greek superstition, this is a monster\ngenerated from the unopened entrails of slaughtered sheep, which are\nthrown away in the fields.]\n\n[Footnote 5: A peasant who can read often becomes a priest; he is then\ncalled \"very holy Sir,\" and the lower orders kiss the ground on which\nhe has stepped.]\n\nOnce we had a visit from our beloved Aphtanides, who said he had\ngreatly longed to see us, and who stayed with us two whole happy days.\n\nA month afterwards he came again, and told us that he was going in a\nship to Corfu and Patras, but must bid us good-bye first; and he had\nbrought a large fish for our mother. He had a great deal to tell, not\nonly of the fishermen yonder in the Gulf of Lepanto, but also of\nkings and heroes, who had once possessed Greece, just as the Turks\npossess it now.\n\nI have seen a bud on a rose-bush gradually unfold in days and weeks,\ntill it became a rose, and hung there in its beauty, before I was\naware how large and beautiful and red it had become; and the same\nthing I now saw in Anastasia. She was now a beautiful grown girl, and\nI had become a stout stripling. The wolf-skins that covered my\nmother's and Anastasia's bed, I had myself taken from wolves that had\nfallen beneath my shots.\n\nYears had gone by, when one evening Aphtanides came in, slender as a\nreed, strong and brown. He kissed us all, and had much to tell of the\nfortifications of Malta, of the great ocean, and of the marvellous\nsepulchres of Egypt. It sounded strange as a legend of the priests,\nand I looked up to him with a kind of veneration.\n\n\"How much you know!\" I exclaimed; \"what wonders you can tell of!\"\n\n\"But you have told me the finest thing, after all,\" he replied. \"You\ntold me of a thing that has never been out of my thoughts--of the good\nold custom of the bond of friendship, a custom I should like to\nfollow. Brother, let you and I go to church, as your father and\nAnastasia's went before us: your sister Anastasia is the most\nbeautiful and most innocent of girls; she shall consecrate us! No\npeople has such grand old customs as we Greeks.\"\n\nAnastasia blushed like a young rose, and my mother kissed Aphtanides.\n\nA couple of miles from our house there, where loose earth lies on the\nhill, and a few scattered trees give a shelter, stood the little\nchurch; a silver lamp hung in front of the altar.\n\nI had put on my best clothes: the white fustanella fell in rich folds\naround my hips, the red jacket fitted tight and close, the tassel on\nmy fez cap was silver, and in my girdle gleamed a knife and my\npistols. Aphtanides was clad in the blue garb worn by Greek sailors;\non his chest hung a silver plate with the figure of the Virgin Mary;\nhis scarf was as costly as those worn by rich lords. Every one could\nsee that we were about to go through a solemn ceremony. We stepped\ninto the little simple church, where the evening sunlight, streaming\nthrough the door, gleamed on the burning lamp and the pictures on\ngolden ground. We knelt down on the altar steps, and Anastasia came\nbefore us. A long white garment hung loose over her graceful form; on\nher white neck and bosom hung a chain, covered with old and new coins,\nforming a kind of collar. Her black hair was fastened in a knot, and\nconfined by a head-dress made of silver and gold coins that had been\nfound in an old temple. No Greek girl had more beautiful ornaments\nthan she. Her countenance glowed, and her eyes were like two stars.\n\nWe all three prayed silently; and then she said to us, \"Will you be\nfriends in life and in death?\" \"Yes,\" we replied. \"Will you, whatever\nmay happen, remember this--my brother is a part of myself. My secret\nis his, my happiness is his. Self-sacrifice, patience--everything in\nme belongs to him as to me?\" And we again answered, \"Yes.\"\n\nThen she joined our hands and kissed us on the forehead, and we again\nprayed silently. Then the priest came through the door near the altar,\nand blessed us all three; and a song, sung by the other holy men,\nsounded from behind the altar screen, and the bond of eternal\nfriendship was concluded. When we rose, I saw my mother standing by\nthe church door weeping heartily.\n\nHow cheerful it was now, in our little hut, and by the springs of\nDelphi! On the evening before his departure, Aphtanides sat thoughtful\nwith me on the declivity of a mountain; his arm was flung round my\nwaist, and mine was round his neck: we spoke of the sorrows of Greece,\nand of the men whom the country could trust. Every thought of our\nsouls lay clear before each of us, and I seized his hand.\n\n\"One thing thou must still know, one thing that till now has been a\nsecret between myself and Heaven. My whole soul is filled with love!\nwith a love stronger than the love I bear to my mother and to thee!\"\n\n\"And whom do you love?\" asked Aphtanides, and his face and neck grew\nred as fire.\n\n\"I love Anastasia,\" I replied--and his hand trembled in mine, and he\nbecame pale as a corpse. I saw it; I understood the cause; and I\nbelieve _my_ hand trembled. I bent towards him, kissed his forehead,\nand whispered, \"I have never spoken of it to her, and perhaps she does\nnot love me. Brother, think of this: I have seen her daily; she has\ngrown up beside me, and has become a part of my soul!\"\n\n\"And she shall be thine!\" he exclaimed, \"thine! I may not deceive\nthee, nor will I do so. I also love her; but to-morrow I depart. In a\nyear we shall see each other once more, and then you will be married,\nwill you not? I have a little gold of my own: it shall be thine. Thou\nmust, thou shalt take it.\"\n\nAnd we wandered home silently across the mountains. It was late in the\nevening when we stood at my mother's door.\n\nAnastasia held the lamp upwards as we entered; my mother was not\nthere. She gazed at Aphtanides with a beautifully mournful gaze.\n\"To-morrow you are going from us,\" she said: \"I am very sorry for\nit.\"\n\n\"Sorry!\" he repeated, and in his voice there seemed a trouble as great\nas the grief I myself felt. I could not speak, but he seized her hand\nand said, \"Our brother yonder loves you, and he is dear to you, is he\nnot? His very silence is a proof of his affection.\"\n\nAnastasia trembled and burst into tears. Then I saw no one but her,\nthought of none but her, and threw my arms round her, and said, \"I\nlove thee!\" She pressed her lips to mine, and flung her arms round my\nneck; but the lamp had fallen to the ground, and all was dark around\nus--dark as in the heart of poor Aphtanides.\n\nBefore daybreak he rose, kissed us all, said farewell, and went away.\nHe had given all his money to my mother for us. Anastasia was my\nbetrothed, and a few days afterwards she became my wife.\n\n\n\n\nJACK THE DULLARD.\n\nAN OLD STORY TOLD ANEW.\n\n\nFar in the interior of the country lay an old baronial hall, and in it\nlived an old proprietor, who had two sons, which two young men thought\nthemselves too clever by half. They wanted to go out and woo the\nking's daughter; for the maiden in question had publicly announced\nthat she would choose for her husband that youth who could arrange his\nwords best.\n\nSo these two geniuses prepared themselves a full week for the\nwooing--this was the longest time that could be granted them; but it\nwas enough, for they had had much preparatory information, and\neverybody knows how useful that is. One of them knew the whole Latin\ndictionary by heart, and three whole years of the daily paper of the\nlittle town into the bargain; and so well, indeed, that he could\nrepeat it all either backwards or forwards, just as he chose. The\nother was deeply read in the corporation laws, and knew by heart what\nevery corporation ought to know; and accordingly he thought he could\ntalk of affairs of state, and put his spoke in the wheel in the\ncouncil. And he knew one thing more: he could embroider braces with\nroses and other flowers, and with arabesques, for he was a tasty,\nlight-fingered fellow.\n\n\"I shall win the princess!\" So cried both of them. Therefore their old\npapa gave to each a handsome horse. The youth who knew the dictionary\nand newspaper by heart had a black horse, and he who knew all about\nthe corporation laws received a milk-white steed. Then they rubbed the\ncorners of their mouths with fish-oil, so that they might become very\nsmooth and glib. All the servants stood below in the courtyard, and\nlooked on while they mounted their horses; and just by chance the\nthird son came up. For the proprietor had really three sons, though\nnobody counted the third with his brothers, because he was not so\nlearned as they, and indeed he was generally known as \"Jack the\nDullard.\"\n\n\"Hallo!\" said Jack the Dullard, \"where are you going? I declare you\nhave put on your Sunday clothes!\"\n\n\"We're going to the king's court, as suitors to the king's daughter.\nDon't you know the announcement that has been made all through the\ncountry?\" And they told him all about it.\n\n\"My word! I'll be in it too!\" cried Jack the Dullard; and his two\nbrothers burst out laughing at him, and rode away.\n\n\"Father dear,\" said Jack, \"I must have a horse too. I do feel so\ndesperately inclined to marry! If she accepts me, she accepts me; and\nif she won't have me, I'll have her; but she _shall_ be mine!\"\n\n\"Don't talk nonsense,\" replied the old gentleman. \"You shall have no\nhorse from me. You don't know how to speak--you can't arrange your\nwords. Your brothers are very different fellows from you.\"\n\n\"Well,\" quoth Jack the Dullard, \"if I can't have a horse, I'll take\nthe billy-goat, who belongs to me, and he can carry me very well!\"\n\nAnd so said, so done. He mounted the billy-goat, pressed his heels\ninto its sides, and gallopped down the high street like a hurricane.\n\n\"Hei, houp! that was a ride! Here I come!\" shouted Jack the Dullard,\nand he sang till his voice echoed far and wide.\n\nBut his brothers rode slowly on in advance of him. They spoke not a\nword, for they were thinking about all the fine extempore speeches\nthey would have to bring out, and all these had to be cleverly\nprepared beforehand.\n\n\"Hallo!\" shouted Jack the Dullard. \"Here am I! Look what I have found\non the high-road.\" And he showed them what it was, and it was a dead\ncrow.\n\n\"Dullard!\" exclaimed the brothers, \"what are you going to do with\nthat?\"\n\n\"With the crow? why, I am going to give it to the princess.\"\n\n\"Yes, do so,\" said they; and they laughed, and rode on.\n\n\"Hallo, here I am again! Just see what I have found now: you don't\nfind that on the high-road every day!\"\n\nAnd the brothers turned round to see what he could have found now.\n\n[Illustration: JACK'S INTRODUCTION TO THE PRINCESS.]\n\n\"Dullard!\" they cried, \"that is only an old wooden shoe, and the upper\npart is missing into the bargain; are you going to give that also to\nthe princess?\"\n\n\"Most certainly I shall,\" replied Jack the Dullard; and again the\nbrothers laughed and rode on, and thus they got far in advance of him;\nbut----\n\n\"Hallo--hop rara!\" and there was Jack the Dullard again. \"It is\ngetting better and better,\" he cried. \"Hurrah! it is quite famous.\"\n\n\"Why, what have you found this time?\" inquired the brothers.\n\n\"Oh,\" said Jack the Dullard, \"I can hardly tell you. How glad the\nprincess will be!\"\n\n\"Bah!\" said the brothers; \"that is nothing but clay out of the ditch.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly it is,\" said Jack the Dullard; \"and clay of the finest\nsort. See, it is so wet, it runs through one's fingers.\" And he filled\nhis pocket with the clay.\n\nBut his brothers gallopped on till the sparks flew, and consequently\nthey arrived a full hour earlier at the town-gate than could Jack. Now\nat the gate each suitor was provided with a number, and all were\nplaced in rows immediately on their arrival, six in each row, and so\nclosely packed together that they could not move their arms; and that\nwas a prudent arrangement, for they would certainly have come to\nblows, had they been able, merely because one of them stood before the\nother.\n\nAll the inhabitants of the country round about stood in great crowds\naround the castle, almost under the very windows, to see the princess\nreceive the suitors; and as each stepped into the hall, his power of\nspeech seemed to desert him, like the light of a candle that is blown\nout. Then the princess would say, \"He is of no use! away with him out\nof the hall!\"\n\nAt last the turn came for that brother who knew the dictionary by\nheart; but he did not know it now; he had absolutely forgotten it\naltogether; and the boards seemed to re-echo with his footsteps, and\nthe ceiling of the hall was made of looking-glass, so that he saw\nhimself standing on his head; and at the window stood three clerks and\na head clerk, and every one of them was writing down every single word\nthat was uttered, so that it might be printed in the newspapers, and\nsold for a penny at the street corners. It was a terrible ordeal, and\nthey had moreover made such a fire in the stove, that the room seemed\nquite red hot.\n\n\"It is dreadfully hot here!\" observed the first brother.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied the princess, \"my father is going to roast young\npullets to-day.\"\n\n\"Baa!\" there he stood like a baa-lamb. He had not been prepared for a\nspeech of this kind; and had not a word to say, though he intended to\nsay something witty. \"Baa!\"\n\n\"He is of no use!\" said the princess. \"Away with him.\"\n\nAnd he was obliged to go accordingly. And now the second brother came\nin.\n\n\"It is terribly warm here!\" he observed.\n\n\"Yes, we're roasting pullets to-day,\" replied the princess.\n\n\"What--what were you--were you pleased to ob----\" stammered he--and\nall the clerks wrote down, \"pleased to ob----\"\n\n\"He is of no use!\" said the princess. \"Away with him!\"\n\nNow came the turn of Jack the Dullard. He rode into the hall on his\ngoat.\n\n\"Well, it's most abominably hot here.\"\n\n\"Yes, because I'm roasting young pullets,\" replied the princess.\n\n\"Ah, that's lucky!\" exclaimed Jack the Dullard, \"for I suppose you'll\nlet me roast my crow at the same time?\"\n\n\"With the greatest pleasure,\" said the princess. \"But have you\nanything you can roast it in? for I have neither pot nor pan.\"\n\n\"Certainly I have!\" said Jack. \"Here's a cooking utensil with a tin\nhandle.\" And he brought out the old wooden shoe, and put the crow into\nit.\n\n\"Well, that _is_ a famous dish!\" said the princess. \"But what shall we\ndo for sauce?\"\n\n\"Oh, I have that in my pocket,\" said Jack: \"I have so much of it, that\nI can afford to throw some away;\" and he poured some of the clay out\nof his pocket.\n\n\"I like that!\" said the princess. \"You can give an answer, and you\nhave something to say for yourself, and so you shall be my husband.\nBut are you aware that every word we speak is being taken down, and\nwill be published in the paper to-morrow? Look yonder, and you will\nsee in every window three clerks and a head clerk; and the old head\nclerk is the worst of all, for he can't understand anything.\" But she\nonly said this to frighten Jack the Dullard: and the clerks gave a\ngreat crow of delight, and each one spurted a blot out of his pen on\nto the floor.\n\n\"Oh, those are the gentlemen, are they?\" said Jack; \"then I will give\nthe best I have to the head clerk.\" And he turned out his pockets, and\nflung the wet clay full in the head clerk's face.\n\n\"That was very cleverly done,\" observed the princess. \"I could not\nhave done that; but I shall learn in time.\"\n\nAnd accordingly Jack the Dullard was made a king, and received a crown\nand a wife, and sat upon a throne. And this report we have wet from\nthe press of the head clerk and the corporation of printers--but they\nare not to be depended upon in the least!\n\n\n\n\nSOMETHING.\n\n\n\"I want to be something!\" said the eldest of five brothers. \"I want to\ndo something in the world. I don't care how humble my position may be\nin society, if I only effect some good, for that will really be\nsomething. I'll make bricks, for they are quite indispensable things,\nand then I shall truly have done something.\"\n\n\"But that _something_ will not be enough!\" quoth the second brother.\n\"What you intend doing is just as much as nothing at all. It is\njourneyman's work, and can be done by a machine. No, I would rather be\na bricklayer at once, for that _is_ something real; and that's what I\nwill be. That brings rank; as a bricklayer one belongs to a guild, and\nis a citizen, and has one's own flag and one's own house of call. Yes,\nand if all goes well, I will keep journeymen. I shall become a master\nbricklayer, and my wife will be a master's wife--that is what _I_ call\nsomething.\"\n\n\"That's nothing at all!\" said the third. \"That is beyond the pale of\nthe guild, and there are many of those in a town that stand far above\nthe mere master artizan. You may be an honest man; but as a 'master'\nyou will after all only belong to those who are ranked among common\nmen. I know something better than that. I will be an architect, and\nwill thus enter into the territory of art and speculation. I shall be\nreckoned among those who stand high in point of intellect. I shall\ncertainly have to serve up from the pickaxe, so to speak; so I must\nbegin as a carpenter's apprentice, and must go about as an assistant,\nin a cap, though I am accustomed to wear a silk hat. I shall have to\nfetch beer and spirits for the common journeymen, and they will call\nme 'thou,' and that is insulting! But I shall imagine to myself that\nthe whole thing is only acting, and a kind of masquerade.\nTo-morrow--that is to say, when I have served my time--I shall go my\nown way, and the others will be nothing to me. I shall go to the\nacademy, and get instructions in drawing, and shall be called an\narchitect. _That's something!_ I may get to be called 'sir,' and even\n'worshipful sir,' or even get a handle at the front or at the back of\nmy name, and shall go on building and building, just as those before\nme have built. That will always be a thing to remember, and that's\nwhat I call something!\"\n\n\"But I don't care at all for _that_ something,\" said the fourth. \"_I_\nwon't sail in the wake of others, and be a copyist. I will be a\ngenius; and will stand up greater than all the rest of you together. I\nshall be the creator of a new style, and will give the plan of a\nbuilding suitable to the climate and the material of the country, for\nthe nationality of the people, for the development of the age--and an\nadditional storey for my own genius.\"\n\n\"But supposing the climate and the material are bad,\" said the fifth,\n\"that would be a disastrous circumstance, for these two exert a great\ninfluence! Nationality, moreover, may expand itself until it becomes\naffectation, and the development of the century may run wild with your\nwork, as youth often runs wild. I quite realise the fact that none of\nyou will be anything real, however much you may believe in yourselves.\nBut, do what you like, I will not resemble you: I shall keep on the\noutside of things, and criticise whatever you produce. To every work\nthere is attached something that is not right--something that has gone\nwrong; and I will ferret that out and find fault with it; and _that_\nwill be doing _something_!\"\n\nAnd he kept his word; and everybody said concerning this fifth\nbrother, \"There is certainly something in him; he has a good head; but\nhe does nothing.\" And by that very means they thought _something_ of\nhim!\n\nNow, you see, this is only a little story; but it will never end so\nlong as the world lasts.\n\nBut what became of the five brothers? Why, this is _nothing_, and not\n_something_.\n\nListen, it is a capital story.\n\nThe eldest brother, he who manufactured bricks, soon became aware of\nthe fact that every brick, however small it might be, produced for him\na little coin, though this coin was only copper; and many copper\npennies laid one upon the other can be changed into a shining dollar;\nand wherever one knocks with such a dollar in one's hand, whether at\nthe baker's, or the butcher's, or the tailor's--wherever it may be,\nthe door flies open, and the visitor is welcomed, and gets what he\nwants. You see that is what comes of bricks. Some of those belonging\nto the eldest brother certainly crumbled away, or broke in two, but\nthere was a use even for these.\n\nOn the high rampart, the wall that kept out the sea, Margaret, the\npoor woman, wished to build herself a little house. All the faulty\nbricks were given to her, and a few perfect ones into the bargain, for\nthe eldest brother was a good-natured man, though he certainly did not\nachieve anything beyond the manufacture of bricks. The poor woman put\ntogether the house for herself. It was little and narrow, and the\nsingle window was quite crooked. The door was too low, and the\nthatched roof might have shown better workmanship. But after all it\nwas a shelter; and from the little house you could look far across the\nsea, whose waves broke vainly against the protecting rampart on which\nit was built. The salt billows spurted their spray over the whole\nhouse, which was still standing when he who had given the bricks for\nits erection had long been dead and buried.\n\nThe second brother knew better how to build a wall, for he had served\nan apprenticeship to it. When he had served his time and passed his\nexamination he packed his knapsack and sang the journeyman's song:\n\n    \"While I am young I'll wander, from place to place I'll roam,\n    And everywhere build houses, until I come back home;\n    And youth will give me courage, and my true love won't forget:\n    Hurrah then for a workman's life! I'll be a master yet!\"\n\nAnd he carried his idea into effect. When he had come home and become\na master, he built one house after another in the town. He built a\nwhole street; and when the street was finished and became an ornament\nto the place, the houses built a house for him in return, that was to\nbe his own. But how can houses build a house? If you ask them they\nwill not answer you, but people will understand what is meant by the\nexpression, and say, 'certainly, it was the street that built his\nhouse for him.' It was little, and the floor was covered with clay;\nbut when he danced with his bride upon this clay floor, it seemed to\nbecome polished oak; and from every stone in the wall sprang forth a\nflower, and the room was gay, as if with the costliest paper-hanger's\nwork. It was a pretty house, and in it lived a happy pair. The flag of\nthe guild fluttered before the house, and the journeymen and\napprentices shouted hurrah! Yes, he certainly was _something_! And at\nlast he died; and _that_ was something too.\n\nNow came the architect, the third brother, who had been at first a\ncarpenter's apprentice, had worn a cap, and served as an errand boy,\nbut had afterwards gone to the academy, and risen to become an\narchitect, and to be called \"honoured sir.\" Yes, if the houses of the\nstreet had built a house for the brother who had become a bricklayer,\nthe street now received its name from the architect, and the\nhandsomest house in it became his property. _That_ was something, and\n_he_ was something; and he had a long title before and after his name.\nHis children were called _genteel_ children, and when he died his\nwidow was \"a widow of rank,\" and _that_ is something!--and his name\nalways remained at the corner of the street, and lived on in the\nmouth of every one as the street's name--and _that_ was something!\n\nNow came the genius of the family, the fourth brother, who wanted to\ninvent something new and original, and an additional storey on the top\nof it for himself. But the top storey tumbled down, and he came\ntumbling down with it, and broke his neck. Nevertheless he had a\nsplendid funeral, with guild flags and music; poems in the papers, and\nflowers strewn on the paving-stones in the street; and three funeral\norations were held over him, each one longer than the last, which\nwould have rejoiced him greatly, for he always liked it when people\ntalked about him; a monument also was erected over his grave. It was\nonly one storey high, but still it was _something_.\n\nNow he was dead like the three other brothers; but the last, the one\nwho was a critic, outlived them all: and that was quite right, for by\nthis means he got the last word, and it was of great importance to him\nto have the last word. The people always said he had a good head of\nhis own. At last his hour came, and he died, and came to the gates of\nParadise. There souls always enter two and two, and he came up with\nanother soul that wanted to get into Paradise too; and who should this\nbe but old dame Margaret from the house upon the sea wall.\n\n\"I suppose this is done for the sake of contrast, that I and this\nwretched soul should arrive here at exactly the same time!\" said the\ncritic. \"Pray who are you, my good woman?\" he asked. \"Do you want to\nget in here too?\"\n\nAnd the old woman curtsied as well as she could: she thought it must\nbe St. Peter himself talking to her.\n\n\"I'm a poor old woman of a very humble family,\" she replied. \"I'm old\nMargaret that lived in the house on the sea wall.\"\n\n\"Well, and what have you done? what have you accomplished down there?\"\n\n\"I have really accomplished nothing at all in the world: nothing that\nI can plead to have the doors here opened to me. It would be a real\nmercy to allow me to slip in through the gate.\"\n\n\"In what manner did you leave the world?\" asked he, just for the sake\nof saying something; for it was wearisome work standing there and\nsaying nothing.\n\n\"Why, I really don't know how I left it. I was sick and miserable\nduring my last years, and could not well bear creeping out of bed, and\ngoing out suddenly into the frost and cold. It was a hard winter, but\nI have got out of it all now. For a few days the weather was quite\ncalm, but very cold, as your honour must very well know. The sea was\ncovered with ice as far as one could look. All the people from the\ntown walked out upon the ice, and I think they said there was a dance\nthere, and skating. There was beautiful music and a great feast there\ntoo; the sound came into my poor little room, where I lay ill. And it\nwas towards the evening; the moon had risen beautifully, but was not\nyet in its full splendour; I looked from my bed out over the wide sea,\nand far off, just where the sea and sky join, a strange white cloud\ncame up. I lay looking at the cloud, and I saw a little black spot in\nthe middle of it, that grew larger and larger; and now I knew what it\nmeant, for I am old and experienced, though this token is not often\nseen. I knew it, and a shuddering came upon me. Twice in my life I\nhave seen the same thing; and I knew there would be an awful tempest,\nand a spring flood, which would overwhelm the poor people who were now\ndrinking and dancing and rejoicing--young and old, the whole city had\nissued forth--who was to warn them, if no one saw what was coming\nyonder, or knew, as I did, what it meant? I was dreadfully alarmed,\nand felt more lively than I had done for a long time. I crept out of\nbed, and got to the window, but could not crawl farther, I was so\nexhausted. But I managed to open the window. I saw the people outside\nrunning and jumping about on the ice; I could see the beautiful flags\nthat waved in the wind. I heard the boys shouting 'hurrah!' and the\nservant men and maids singing. There were all kinds of merriment going\non. But the white cloud with the black spot! I cried out as loud as I\ncould, but no one heard me; I was too far from the people. Soon the\nstorm would burst, and the ice would break, and all who were upon it\nwould be lost without remedy. They could not hear me, and I could not\ncome out to them. Oh, if I could only bring them ashore! Then kind\nHeaven inspired me with the thought of setting fire to my bed, and\nrather to let the house burn down, than that all those people should\nperish so miserably. I succeeded in lighting up a beacon for them. The\nred flame blazed up on high, and I escaped out of the door, but fell\ndown exhausted on the threshold, and could get no farther. The flames\nrushed out towards me, flickered through the window, and rose high\nabove the roof. All the people on the ice yonder beheld it, and ran as\nfast as they could, to give aid to a poor old woman who, they thought,\nwas being burned to death. Not one remained behind. I heard them\ncoming; but I also became aware of a rushing sound in the air; I heard\na rumbling like the sound of heavy artillery; the spring-flood was\nlifting the covering of ice, which presently cracked and burst into a\nthousand fragments. But the people succeeded in reaching the\nsea-wall--I saved them all! But I fancy I could not bear the cold and\nthe fright, and so I came up here to the gates of Paradise. I am told\nthey are opened to poor creatures like me--and now I have no house\nleft down upon the rampart: not that I think this will give me\nadmission here.\"\n\nThen the gates of heaven were opened, and the angel led the old woman\nin. She left a straw behind her, a straw that had been in her bed when\nshe set it on fire to save the lives of many; and this straw had been\nchanged into the purest gold--into gold that grew and grew, and spread\nout into beauteous leaves and flowers.\n\n[Illustration: DAME MARGERY FIRES HER BED FOR A BEACON.]\n\n\"Look, this is what the poor woman brought,\" said the angel to the\ncritic. \"What dost _thou_ bring? I know that thou hast accomplished\nnothing--thou hast not made so much as a single brick. Ah, if thou\ncouldst only return, and effect at least so much as that! Probably the\nbrick, when thou hadst made it, would not be worth much; but if it\nwere made with good-will, it would at least be _something_. But thou\ncanst not go back, and I can do nothing for thee!\"\n\nThen the poor soul, the old dame who had lived on the dyke, put in a\npetition for him. She said,\n\n\"His brother gave me the bricks and the pieces out of which I built up\nmy house, and that was a great deal for a poor woman like me. Could\nnot all those bricks and pieces be counted as a single brick in his\nfavour? It was an act of mercy. He wants it now; and is not this the\nvery fountain of mercy?\"\n\nThen the angel said:\n\n\"Thy brother, him whom thou hast regarded as the least among you all,\nhe whose honest industry seemed to thee as the most humble, hath given\nthee this heavenly gift. Thou shalt not be turned away. It shall be\nvouchsafed to thee to stand here without the gate, and to reflect, and\nrepent of thy life down yonder; but thou shalt not be admitted until\nthou hast in real earnest accomplished _something_.\"\n\n\"I could have said that in better words!\" thought the critic, but he\ndid not find fault aloud; and for him, after all, that was\n\"SOMETHING!\"\n\n\n\n\nUNDER THE WILLOW TREE.\n\n\nThe region round the little town of Kjoege is very bleak and bare. The\ntown certainly lies by the sea shore, which is always beautiful, but\njust there it might be more beautiful than it is: all around are flat\nfields, and it is a long way to the forest. But when one is very much\nat home in a place, one always finds something beautiful, and\nsomething that one longs for in the most charming spot in the world\nthat is strange to us. We confess that, by the utmost boundary of the\nlittle town, where some humble gardens skirt the streamlet that falls\ninto the sea, it must be very pretty in summer; and this was the\nopinion of the two children from neighbouring houses, who were playing\nthere, and forcing their way through the gooseberry bushes, to get to\none another. In one of the gardens stood an elder tree, and in the\nother an old willow, and under the latter the children were especially\nvery fond of playing; they were allowed to play there, though, indeed,\nthe tree stood close beside the stream, and they might easily have\nfallen into the water. But the eye of God watches over the little\nones; if it did not, they would be badly off. And, moreover, they were\nvery careful with respect to the water; in fact, the boy was so much\nafraid of it, that they could not lure him into the sea in summer,\nwhen the other children were splashing about in the waves.\nAccordingly, he was famously jeered and mocked at, and had to bear\nthe jeering and mockery as best he could. But once Joanna, the\nneighbour's little girl, dreamed she was sailing in a boat, and Knud\nwaded out to join her till the water rose, first to his neck, and\nafterwards closed over his head, so that he disappeared altogether.\nFrom the time when little Knud heard of this dream, he would no longer\nbear the teasing of the other boys. He might go into the water now, he\nsaid, for Joanna had dreamed it. He certainly never carried the idea\ninto practice, but the dream was his great guide for all that.\n\nTheir parents, who were poor people, often took tea together, and Knud\nand Joanna played in the gardens and on the high-road, where a row of\nwillows had been planted beside the skirting ditch; these trees, with\ntheir polled tops, certainly did not look beautiful, but they were not\nput there for ornament, but for use. The old willow tree in the garden\nwas much handsomer, and therefore the children were fond of sitting\nunder it. In the town itself there was a great market-place, and at\nthe time of the fair this place was covered with whole streets of\ntents and booths, containing silk ribbons, boots, and everything that\na person could wish for. There was great crowding, and generally the\nweather was rainy; but it did not destroy the fragrance of the\nhoney-cakes and the gingerbread, of which there was a booth quite\nfull; and the best of it was, that the man who kept this booth came\nevery year to lodge during the fair-time in the dwelling of little\nKnud's father. Consequently there came a present of a bit of\ngingerbread every now and then, and of course Joanna received her\nshare of the gift. But, perhaps the most charming thing of all was\nthat the gingerbread dealer knew all sorts of tales, and could even\nrelate histories about his own gingerbread cakes; and one evening, in\nparticular, he told a story about them which made such a deep\nimpression on the children that they never forgot it; and for that\nreason it is perhaps advisable that we should hear it too, more\nespecially as the story is not long.\n\n\"On the shop-board,\" he said, \"lay two gingerbread cakes, one in the\nshape of a man with a hat, the other of a maiden without a bonnet;\nboth their faces were on the side that was uppermost, for they were to\nbe looked at on that side, and not on the other; and, indeed, most\npeople have a favourable side from which they should be viewed. On the\nleft side the man wore a bitter almond--that was his heart; but the\nmaiden, on the other hand, was honey-cake all over. They were placed\nas samples on the shop-board, and remaining there a long time, at last\nthey fell in love with one another, but neither told the other, as\nthey should have done if they had expected anything to come of it.\n\n\"'He is a man, and therefore he must speak first,' she thought; but\nshe felt quite contented, for she knew her love was returned.\n\n\"His thoughts were far more extravagant, as is always the case with a\nman. He dreamed that he was a real street boy, that he had four\npennies of his own, and that he purchased the maiden, and ate her up.\nSo they lay on the shop-board for weeks and weeks, and grew dry and\nhard, but the thoughts of the maiden became ever more gentle and\nmaidenly.\n\n\"'It is enough for me that I have lived on the same table with him,'\nshe said, and crack! she broke in two.\n\n\"'If she had only known of my love, she would have kept together a\nlittle longer,' he thought.\n\n\"And that is the story, and here they are, both of them,\" said the\nbaker in conclusion. \"They are remarkable for their curious history,\nand for their silent love, which never came to anything. And there\nthey are for you!\" and, so saying, he gave Joanna the man who was yet\nentire, and Knud got the broken maiden; but the children had been so\nmuch impressed by the story that they could not summon courage to eat\nthe lovers up.\n\nOn the following day they went out with them to the churchyard, and\nsat down by the church wall, which is covered, winter and summer, with\nthe most luxuriant ivy as with a rich carpet. Here they stood the two\ncake figures up in the sunshine among the green leaves, and told the\nstory to a group of other children; they told them of the silent love\nwhich led to nothing. It was called _love_ because the story was so\nlovely, on that they all agreed. But when they turned to look again at\nthe gingerbread pair, a big boy, out of mischief, had eaten up the\nbroken maiden. The children cried about this, and afterwards--probably\nthat the poor lover might not be left in the world lonely and\ndesolate--they ate him up too; but they never forgot the story.\n\nThe children were always together by the elder tree and under the\nwillow, and the little girl sang the most beautiful songs with a voice\nthat was clear as a bell. Knud, on the other hand, had not a note of\nmusic in him, but he knew the words of the songs, and that, at least,\nwas something. The people of Kjoege, even to the rich wife of the\nfancy-shop keeper, stood still and listened when Joanna sang. \"She has\na very sweet voice, that little girl,\" they said.\n\nThose were glorious days, but they could not last for ever. The\nneighbours were neighbours no longer. The little maiden's mother was\ndead, and the father intended to marry again, in the capital, where he\nhad been promised a living as a messenger, which was to be a very\nlucrative office. And the neighbours separated regretfully, the\nchildren weeping heartily, but the parents promised that they should\nat least write to one another once a year.\n\n[Illustration: THE NAUGHTY BOY WHO ATE THE GINGERBREAD MAIDEN.]\n\nAnd Knud was bound apprentice to a shoemaker, for the big boy could\nnot be allowed to run wild any longer; and moreover he was confirmed.\n\nAh, how gladly on that day of celebration would he have been in\nCopenhagen with little Joanna! but he remained in Kjoege, and had never\nyet been to Copenhagen, though the little town is only five Danish\nmiles distant from the capital; but far across the bay, when the sky\nwas clear, Knud had seen the towers in the distance, and on the day of\nhis confirmation he could distinctly see the golden cross on the\nprincipal church glittering in the sun.\n\nAh, how often his thoughts were with Joanna! Did she think of him?\nYes. Towards Christmas there came a letter from her father to the\nparents of Knud, to say that they were getting on very well in\nCopenhagen, and especially might Joanna look forward to a brilliant\nfuture on the strength of her fine voice. She had been engaged in the\ntheatre in which people sing, and was already earning some money, out\nof which she sent her dear neighbours of Kjoege a dollar for the merry\nChristmas Eve. They were to drink her health, she had herself added in\na postscript, and in the same postscript there stood further, \"A kind\ngreeting to Knud.\"\n\nThe whole family wept: and yet all this was very pleasant; those were\njoyful tears that they shed. Knud's thoughts had been occupied every\nday with Joanna; and now he knew that she also thought of him: and the\nnearer the time came when his apprenticeship would be over, the more\nclearly did it appear to him that he was very fond of Joanna, and that\nshe must be his wife; and when he thought of this, a smile came upon\nhis lips, and he drew the thread twice as fast as before, and pressed\nhis foot hard against the knee-strap. He ran the awl far into his\nfinger, but he did not care for that. He determined not to play the\ndumb lover, as the two gingerbread cakes had done: the story should\nteach him a lesson.\n\nAnd now he was a journeyman, and his knapsack was packed ready for his\njourney: at length, for the first time in his life, he was to go to\nCopenhagen, where a master was already waiting for him. How glad\nJoanna would be! She was now seventeen years old, and he nineteen.\n\nAlready in Kjoege he had wanted to buy a gold ring for her; but he\nrecollected that such things were to be had far better in Copenhagen.\nAnd now he took leave of his parents, and on a rainy day, late in the\nautumn, went forth on foot out of the town of his birth. The leaves\nwere falling down from the trees, and he arrived at his new master's\nin the metropolis wet to the skin. Next Sunday he was to pay a visit\nto Joanna's father. The new journeyman's clothes were brought forth,\nand the new hat from Kjoege was put on, which became Knud very well,\nfor till this time he had only worn a cap. And he found the house he\nsought, and mounted flight after flight of stairs until he became\nalmost giddy. It was terrible to him to see how people lived piled up\none over the other in the dreadful city.\n\nEverything in the room had a prosperous look, and Joanna's father\nreceived him very kindly. To the new wife he was a stranger, but she\nshook hands with him, and gave him some coffee.\n\n\"Joanna will be glad to see you,\" said the father: \"you have grown\nquite a nice young man. You shall see her presently. She is a girl who\nrejoices my heart, and, please God, she will rejoice it yet more. She\nhas her own room now, and pays us rent for it.\" And the father knocked\nquite politely at the door, as if he were a visitor, and then they\nwent in.\n\nBut how pretty everything was in that room! such an apartment was\ncertainly not to be found in all Kjoege: the queen herself could not be\nmore charmingly lodged. There were carpets, there were window curtains\nquite down to the floor, and around were flowers and pictures, and a\nmirror into which there was almost danger that a visitor might step,\nfor it was as large as a door; and there was even a velvet chair.\n\nKnud saw all this at a glance: and yet he saw nothing but Joanna. She\nwas a grown maiden, quite different from what Knud had fancied her,\nand much more beautiful. In all Kjoege there was not a girl like her.\nHow graceful she was, and with what an odd unfamiliar glance she\nlooked at Knud! But that was only for a moment, and then she rushed\ntowards him as if she would have kissed him. She did not really do so,\nbut she came very near it. Yes, she was certainly rejoiced at the\narrival of the friend of her youth! The tears were actually in her\neyes; and she had much to say, and many questions to put concerning\nall, from Knud's parents down to the elder tree and the willow, which\nshe called Elder-mother and Willow-father, as if they had been human\nbeings; and indeed they might pass as such, just as well as the\ngingerbread cakes; and of these she spoke too, and of their silent\nlove, and how they had lain upon the shop-board and split in two--and\nthen she laughed very heartily; but the blood mounted into Knud's\ncheeks, and his heart beat thick and fast. No, she had not grown proud\nat all. And it was through her--he noticed it well--that her parents\ninvited him to stay the whole evening with them; and she poured out\nthe tea and gave him a cup with her own hands; and afterwards she took\na book and read aloud to them, and it seemed to Knud that what she\nread was all about himself and his love, for it matched so well with\nhis thoughts; and then she sang a simple song, but through her singing\nit became like a history, and seemed to be the outpouring of her very\nheart. Yes, certainly she was fond of Knud. The tears coursed down his\ncheeks--he could not restrain them, nor could he speak a single word:\nhe seemed to himself as if he were struck dumb; and yet she pressed\nhis hand, and said,\n\n\"You have a good heart, Knud--remain always as you are now.\"\n\nThat was an evening of matchless delight to Knud; to sleep after it\nwas impossible, and accordingly Knud did not sleep.\n\nAt parting, Joanna's father had said, \"Now, you won't forget us\naltogether! Don't let the whole winter go by without once coming to\nsee us again;\" and therefore he could very well go again the next\nSunday, and resolved to do so. But every evening when working hours\nwere over--and they worked by candlelight there--Knud went out through\nthe town: he went into the street in which Joanna lived, and looked up\nat her window; it was almost always lit up, and one evening he could\nsee the shadow of her face quite plainly on the curtain--and that was\na grand evening for him. His master's wife did not like his\ngallivanting abroad every evening, as she expressed it; and she shook\nher head; but the master only smiled.\n\n\"He is only a young fellow,\" he said.\n\nBut Knud thought to himself: \"On Sunday I shall see her, and I shall\ntell her how completely she reigns in my heart and soul, and that she\nmust be my little wife. I know I am only a poor journeyman shoemaker,\nbut I shall work and strive--yes, I shall tell her so. Nothing comes\nof silent love: I have learned that from the cakes.\"\n\nAnd Sunday came round, and Knud sallied forth; but, unluckily, they\nwere all invited out for that evening, and were obliged to tell him\nso. Joanna pressed his hand and said,\n\n\"Have you ever been to the theatre? You must go once. I shall sing on\nWednesday, and if you have time on that evening, I will send you a\nticket; my father knows where your master lives.\"\n\nHow kind that was of her! And on Wednesday at noon he received a\nsealed paper, with no words written in it; but the ticket was there,\nand in the evening Knud went to the theatre for the first time in his\nlife. And what did he see? He saw Joanna, and how charming and how\nbeautiful she looked! She was certainly married to a stranger, but\nthat was all in the play--something that was only make-believe, as\nKnud knew very well. If it had been real, he thought, she would never\nhave had the heart to send him a ticket that he might go and see it.\nAnd all the people shouted and applauded, and Knud cried out \"hurrah!\"\n\nEven the king smiled at Joanna, and seemed to delight in her. Ah, how\nsmall Knud felt! but then he loved her so dearly, and thought that\nshe loved him too; but it was for the man to speak the first word, as\nthe gingerbread maiden in the child's story had taught him: and there\nwas a great deal for him in that story.\n\nSo soon as Sunday came, he went again. He felt as if he were going\ninto a church. Joanna was alone, and received him--it could not have\nhappened more fortunately. \"It is well that you are come,\" she said.\n\n[Illustration: KNUD'S DISAPPOINTMENT.]\n\n\"I had an idea of sending my father to you, only I felt a presentiment\nthat you would be here this evening; for I must tell you that I start\nfor France on Friday: I must go there, if I am to become efficient.\"\n\nIt seemed to Knud as if the whole room were whirling round and round\nwith him. He felt as if his heart would presently burst: no tear rose\nto his eyes, but still it was easy to see how sorrowful he was.\n\n\"You honest, faithful soul!\" she exclaimed; and these words of hers\nloosened Knud's tongue. He told her how constantly he loved her, and\nthat she must become his wife; and as he said this, he saw Joanna\nchange colour and turn pale. She let his hand fall, and answered,\nseriously and mournfully,\n\n\"Knud, do not make yourself and me unhappy. I shall always be a good\nsister to you, one in whom you may trust, but I shall never be\nanything more.\" And she drew her white hand over his hot forehead.\n\"Heaven gives us strength for much,\" she said, \"if we only endeavour\nto do our best.\"\n\nAt that moment the stepmother came into the room; and Joanna said\nquickly,\n\n\"Knud is quite inconsolable because I am going away. Come, be a man,\"\nshe continued, and laid her hand upon his shoulder; and it seemed as\nif they had been talking of the journey, and nothing else. \"You are a\nchild,\" she added; \"but now you must be good and reasonable, as you\nused to be under the willow tree, when we were both children.\"\n\nBut Knud felt as if the whole world had slid out of its course, and\nhis thoughts were like a loose thread fluttering to and fro in the\nwind. He stayed, though he could not remember if she had asked him to\nstay; and she was kind and good, and poured out his tea for him, and\nsang to him. It had not the old tone, and yet it was wonderfully\nbeautiful, and made his heart feel ready to burst. And then they\nparted. Knud did not offer her his hand, but she seized it, and said,\n\n\"Surely you will shake hands with your sister at parting, old\nplayfellow!\"\n\nAnd she smiled through the tears that were rolling over her cheeks,\nand she repeated the word \"brother\"--and certainly there was good\nconsolation in that--and thus they parted.\n\nShe sailed to France, and Knud wandered about the muddy streets of\nCopenhagen. The other journeymen in the workshop asked him why he went\nabout so gloomily, and told him he should go and amuse himself with\nthem, for he was a young fellow.\n\nAnd they went with him to the dancing-rooms. He saw many handsome\ngirls there, but certainly not one like Joanna; and here, where he\nthought to forget her, she stood more vividly than ever before the\neyes of his soul. \"Heaven gives us strength for a great deal, if we\nonly try to do our best,\" she had said; and holy thoughts came into\nhis mind, and he folded his hands. The violins played, and the girls\ndanced round in a circle; and he was quite startled, for it seemed to\nhim as if he were in a place to which he ought not to have brought\nJoanna--for she was there with him, in his heart; and accordingly he\nwent out. He ran through the streets, and passed by the house where\nshe had dwelt: it was dark there, dark everywhere, and empty, and\nlonely. The world went on its course, but Knud pursued his lonely way,\nunheedingly.\n\nThe winter came, and the streams were frozen. Everything seemed to be\npreparing for a burial. But when spring returned, and the first\nsteamer was to start, a longing seized him to go away, far, far into\nthe world, but not to France. So he packed his knapsack, and wandered\nfar into the German land, from city to city, without rest or peace;\nand it was not till he came to the glorious old city of Nuremberg that\nhe could master his restless spirit; and in Nuremberg, therefore, he\ndecided to remain.\n\nNuremberg is a wonderful old city, and looks as if it were cut out of\nan old picture-book. The streets seem to stretch themselves along just\nas they please. The houses do not like standing in regular ranks.\nGables with little towers, arabesques, and pillars, start out over the\npathway, and from the strange peaked roofs water-spouts, formed like\ndragons or great slim dogs, extend far over the street.\n\nHere in the market-place stood Knud, with his knapsack on his back. He\nstood by one of the old fountains that are adorned with splendid\nbronze figures, scriptural and historical, rising up between the\ngushing jets of water. A pretty servant-maid was just filling her\npails, and she gave Knud a refreshing draught; and as her hand was\nfull of roses, she gave him one of the flowers, and he accepted it as\na good omen.\n\nFrom the neighbouring church the strains of the organ were sounding:\nthey seemed to him as familiar as the tones of the organ at home at\nKjoege; and he went into the great cathedral. The sunlight streamed in\nthrough the stained glass windows, between the two lofty slender\npillars. His spirit became prayerful, and peace returned to his soul.\n\nAnd he sought and found a good master in Nuremberg, with whom he\nstayed, and in whose house he learned the German language.\n\nThe old moat round the town has been converted into a number of little\nkitchen gardens; but the high walls are standing yet, with their heavy\ntowers. The ropemaker twists his ropes on a gallery or walk built of\nwood, inside the town wall, where elder bushes grow out of the clefts\nand cracks, spreading their green twigs over the little low houses\nthat stand below; and in one of these dwelt the master with whom Knud\nworked; and over the little garret window at which Knud sat the elder\nwaved its branches.\n\nHere he lived through a summer and a winter; but when the spring came\nagain he could bear it no longer. The elder was in blossom, and its\nfragrance reminded him so of home, that he fancied himself back in the\ngarden at Kjoege; and therefore Knud went away from his master, and\ndwelt with another, farther in the town, over whose house no elder\nbush grew.\n\nHis workshop was quite close to one of the old stone bridges, by a low\nwater-mill, that rushed and foamed always. Without, rolled the roaring\nstream, hemmed in by houses, whose old decayed gables looked ready to\ntopple down into the water. No elder grew here--there was not even a\nflower-pot with its little green plant; but just opposite the workshop\nstood a great old willow tree, that seemed to cling fast to the house,\nfor fear of being carried away by the water, and which stretched forth\nits branches over the river, just as the willow at Kjoege spread its\narms across the streamlet by the gardens there.\n\nYes, he had certainly gone from the \"Elder-mother\" to the\n\"Willow-father.\" The tree here had something, especially on moonlight\nevenings, that went straight to his heart--and that something was not\nin the moonlight, but in the old tree itself.\n\nNevertheless, he could not remain. Why not? Ask the willow tree, ask\nthe blooming elder! And therefore he bade farewell to his master in\nNuremberg, and journeyed onward.\n\nTo no one did he speak of Joanna--in his secret heart he hid his\nsorrow; and he thought of the deep meaning in the old childish story\nof the two cakes. Now he understood why the man had a bitter almond in\nhis breast--he himself felt the bitterness of it; and Joanna, who was\nalways so gentle and kind, was typified by the honey-cake. The strap\nof his knapsack seemed so tight across his chest that he could\nscarcely breathe; he loosened it, but was not relieved. He saw but\nhalf the world around him; the other half he carried about him, and\nwithin himself. And thus it stood with him.\n\nNot till he came in sight of the high mountains did the world appear\nfreer to him; and now his thoughts were turned without, and tears came\ninto his eyes.\n\nThe Alps appeared to him as the folded wings of the earth; how if they\nwere to unfold themselves, and display their variegated pictures of\nblack woods, foaming waters, clouds, and masses of snow? At the last\nday, he thought, the world will lift up its great wings, and mount\nupwards towards the sky, and burst like a soap-bubble in the glance of\nthe Highest!\n\n\"Ah,\" sighed he, \"that the Last Day were come!\"\n\nSilently he wandered through the land, that seemed to him as an\norchard covered with soft turf. From the wooden balconies of the\nhouses the girls who sat busy with their lace-making nodded at him;\nthe summits of the mountains glowed in the red sun of the evening;\nand when he saw the green lakes gleaming among the dark trees, he\nthought of the coast by the Bay of Kjoege, and there was a longing in\nhis bosom, but it was pain no more.\n\nThere where the Rhine rolls onward like a great billow, and bursts,\nand is changed into snow-white, gleaming, cloud-like masses, as if\nclouds were being created there, with the rainbow fluttering like a\nloose band above them; there he thought of the water-mill at Kjoege,\nwith its rushing, foaming water.\n\nGladly would he have remained in the quiet Rhenish town, but here too\nwere too many elder trees and willows, and therefore he journeyed on,\nover the high, mighty mountains, through shattered walls of rock, and\non roads that clung like swallows' nests to the mountain-side. The\nwaters foamed on in the depths, the clouds were below him, and he\nstrode on over thistles, Alpine roses, and snow, in the warm summer\nsun; and saying farewell to the lands of the North, he passed on under\nthe shade of blooming chestnut trees, and through vineyards and fields\nof maize. The mountains were a wall between him and all his\nrecollections; and he wished it to be so.\n\nBefore him lay a great glorious city which they called _Milano_, and\nhere he found a German master who gave him work. They were an old\npious couple, in whose workshop he now laboured. And the two old\npeople became quite fond of the quiet journeyman, who said little, but\nworked all the more, and led a pious Christian life. To himself also\nit seemed as if Heaven had lifted the heavy burden from his heart.\n\nHis favourite pastime was to mount now and then upon the mighty marble\nchurch, which seemed to him to have been formed of the snow of his\nnative land, fashioned into roofs, and pinnacles, and decorated open\nhalls: from every corner and every point the white statues smiled upon\nhim. Above him was the blue sky, below him the city and the\nwide-spreading Lombard plains, and towards the north the high\nmountains clad with perpetual snow; and he thought of the church at\nKjoege, with its red, ivy-covered walls, but he did not long to go\nthither: here, beyond the mountains, he would be buried.\n\nHe had dwelt here a year, and three years had passed away since he\nleft his home, when one day his master took him into the city, not to\nthe circus where riders exhibited, but to the opera, where was a hall\nworth seeing. There were seven storeys, from each of which beautiful\nsilken curtains hung down, and from the ground to the dizzy height of\nthe roof sat elegant ladies, with bouquets of flowers in their hands,\nas if they were at a ball, and the gentlemen were in full dress, and\nmany of them decorated with gold and silver. It was as bright there as\nin the brilliant sunshine, and the music rolled gloriously through\nthe building. Everything was much more splendid than in the theatre at\nCopenhagen, but then Joanna had been there, and----could it be? Yes,\nit was like magic--she was here also! for the curtain rose, and Joanna\nappeared, dressed in silk and gold, with a crown upon her head: she\nsang as he thought none but angels could sing, and came far forward,\nquite to the front of the stage, and smiled as only Joanna could\nsmile, and looked straight down at Knud. Poor Knud seized his master's\nhand, and called out aloud, \"Joanna!\" but no one heard but the master,\nwho nodded his head, for the loud music sounded above everything.\n\"Yes, yes, her name is Joanna,\" said the master; and he drew forth a\nprinted playbill, and showed Knud her name--for the full name was\nprinted there.\n\nNo, it was not a dream! All the people applauded, and threw wreaths\nand flowers to her, and every time she went away they called her back,\nso that she was always going and coming.\n\nIn the street the people crowded round her carriage, and drew it away\nin triumph. Knud was in the foremost row, and shouted as joyously as\nany; and when the carriage stopped before her brilliantly lighted\nhouse, Knud stood close beside the door of the carriage. It flew open,\nand she stepped out: the light fell upon her dear face, as she smiled,\nand made a kindly gesture of thanks, and appeared deeply moved. Knud\nlooked straight into her face, and she looked into his, but she did\nnot know him. A man, with a star glittering on his breast, gave her\nhis arm--and it was whispered about that the two were engaged.\n\nThen Knud went home and packed his knapsack. He was determined to go\nback to his own home, to the elder and the willow tree--ah, under the\nwillow tree! A whole life is sometimes lived through in a single hour.\n\nThe old couple begged him to remain, but no words could induce him to\nstay. It was in vain they told him that winter was coming, and pointed\nout that snow had already fallen in the mountains; he said he could\nmarch on, with his knapsack on his back, in the wake of the\nslow-moving carriage, for which they would have to clear a path.\n\nSo he went away towards the mountains, and marched up them and down\nthem. His strength was giving way, but still he saw no village, no\nhouse; he marched on towards the north. The stars gleamed above him,\nhis feet stumbled, and his head grew dizzy. Deep in the valley stars\nwere shining too, and it seemed as if there were another sky below\nhim. He felt he was ill. The stars below him became more and more\nnumerous, and glowed brighter and brighter, and moved to and fro. It\nwas a little town whose lights beamed there; and when he understood\nthat, he exerted the remains of his strength, and at last reached the\nshelter of a humble inn.\n\nThat night and the whole of the following day he remained there, for\nhis body required rest and refreshment. It was thawing; there was rain\nin the valley. But early on the second morning came a man with an\norgan, who played a tune of home; and now Knud could stay no longer.\nHe continued his journey towards the north, marching onward for many\ndays with haste and hurry, as if he were trying to get home before all\nwere dead there; but to no one did he speak of his longing, for no one\nwould have believed in the sorrow of his heart, the deepest a human\nheart can feel. Such a grief is not for the world, for it is not\namusing; nor is it even for friends; and moreover he had no friends--a\nstranger, he wandered through strange lands towards his home in the\nnorth.\n\nIt was evening. He was walking on the public high-road. The frost\nbegan to make itself felt, and the country soon became flatter,\ncontaining mere field and meadow. By the road-side grew a great willow\ntree. Everything reminded him of home, and he sat down under the tree:\nhe felt very tired, his head began to nod, and his eyes closed in\nslumber, but still he was conscious that the tree stretched its arms\nabove him; and in his wandering fancy the tree itself appeared to be\nan old, mighty man--it seemed as if the \"Willow-father\" himself had\ntaken up his tired son in his arms, and were carrying him back into\nthe land of home, to the bare bleak shore of Kjoege, to the garden of\nhis childhood. Yes, he dreamed it was the willow tree of Kjoege that\nhad travelled out into the world to seek him, and that now had found\nhim, and had led him back into the little garden by the streamlet, and\nthere stood Joanna, in all her splendour, with the golden crown on her\nhead, as he had seen her last, and she called out \"welcome\" to him.\n\nAnd before him stood two remarkable shapes, which looked much more\nhuman than he remembered them to have been in his childhood: they had\nchanged also, but they were still the two cakes that turned the right\nside towards him, and looked very well.\n\n\"We thank you,\" they said to Knud. \"You have loosened our tongues, and\nhave taught us that thoughts should be spoken out freely, or nothing\nwill come of them; and now something has indeed come of it--we are\nbetrothed.\"\n\nThen they went hand in hand through the streets of Kjoege, and they\nlooked very respectable in every way: there was no fault to find with\n_them_. And they went on, straight towards the church, and Knud and\nJoanna followed them; they also were walking hand in hand; and the\nchurch stood there as it had always stood, with its red walls, on\nwhich the green ivy grew; and the great door of the church flew open,\nand the organ sounded, and they walked up the long aisle of the\nchurch. \"Our master first,\" said the cake-couple, and made room for\nJoanna and Knud, who knelt by the altar, and she bent her head over\nhim, and tears fell from her eyes, but they were icy cold, for it was\nthe ice around her heart that was melting--melting by his strong love;\nand the tears fell upon his burning cheeks, and he awoke, and was\nsitting under the old willow tree in the strange land, in the cold\nwintry evening: an icy hail was falling from the clouds and beating on\nhis face.\n\n[Illustration: KNUD AT REST--UNDER THE WILLOW TREE.]\n\n\"That was the most delicious hour of my life!\" he said, \"and it was\nbut a dream. Oh, let me dream again!\" And he closed his eyes once\nmore, and slept and dreamed.\n\nTowards morning there was a great fall of snow. The wind drifted the\nsnow over him, but he slept on. The villagers came forth to go to\nchurch, and by the road-side sat a journeyman. He was dead--frozen to\ndeath under the willow tree!\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEETLE.\n\n\nThe emperor's favourite horse was shod with gold. It had a golden shoe\non each of its feet.\n\nAnd why was this?\n\nHe was a beautiful creature, with delicate legs, bright intelligent\neyes, and a mane that hung down over his neck like a veil. He had\ncarried his master through the fire and smoke of battle, and heard the\nbullets whistling around him, had kicked, bitten, and taken part in\nthe fight when the enemy advanced, and had sprung with his master on\nhis back over the fallen foe, and had saved the crown of red gold, and\nthe life of the emperor, which was more valuable than the red gold;\nand that is why the emperor's horse had golden shoes.\n\nAnd a beetle came creeping forth.\n\n\"First the great ones,\" said he, \"and then the little ones; but\ngreatness is not the only thing that does it.\" And so saying, he\nstretched out his thin legs.\n\n\"And pray what do you want?\" asked the smith.\n\n\"Golden shoes, to be sure,\" replied the beetle.\n\n\"Why, you must be out of your senses,\" cried the smith. \"Do you want\nto have golden shoes too?\"\n\n\"Golden shoes? certainly,\" replied the beetle. \"Am I not just as good\nas that big creature yonder, that is waited on, and brushed, and has\nmeat and drink put before him? Don't I belong to the imperial stable?\"\n\n\"But _why_ is the horse to have golden shoes? Don't you understand\nthat?\" asked the smith.\n\n\"Understand? I understand that it is a personal slight offered to\nmyself,\" cried the beetle. \"It is done to annoy me, and therefore I am\ngoing into the world to seek my fortune.\"\n\n\"Go along!\" said the smith.\n\n\"You're a rude fellow!\" cried the beetle; and then he went out of the\nstable, flew a little way, and soon afterwards found himself in a\nbeautiful flower garden, all fragrant with roses and lavender.\n\n\"Is it not beautiful here?\" asked one of the little lady-birds that\nflew about, with their delicate wings and their red-and-black shields\non their backs. \"How sweet it is here--how beautiful it is!\"\n\n\"I'm accustomed to better things,\" said the beetle. \"Do you call\n_this_ beautiful? Why, there is not so much as a dung-heap.\"\n\nThen he went on, under the shadow of a great stack, and found a\ncaterpillar crawling along.\n\n\"How beautiful the world is!\" said the caterpillar: \"the sun is so\nwarm, and everything so enjoyable! And when I go to sleep, and die, as\nthey call it, I shall wake up as a butterfly, with beautiful wings to\nfly with.\"\n\n\"How conceited you are!\" exclaimed the stag-beetle. \"Fly about as a\nbutterfly, indeed! I've come out of the stable of the emperor, and no\none there, not even the emperor's favourite horse--that by the way\nwears my cast-off golden shoes--has any such idea. To have wings to\nfly! why, we can fly now;\" and he spread his wings and flew away. \"I\ndon't want to be annoyed, and yet I am annoyed,\" he said, as he flew\noff.\n\nSoon afterwards he fell down upon a great lawn. For awhile he lay\nthere and feigned slumber; at last he fell asleep in earnest.\n\nSuddenly a heavy shower of rain came falling from the clouds. The\nbeetle woke up at the noise, and wanted to escape into the earth, but\ncould not. He was tumbled over and over; sometimes he was swimming on\nhis stomach, sometimes on his back, and as for flying, that was out of\nthe question; he doubted whether he should escape from the place with\nhis life. He therefore remained lying where he was.\n\nWhen the weather had moderated a little, and the beetle had rubbed the\nwater out of his eyes, he saw something gleaming. It was linen that\nhad been placed there to bleach. He managed to make his way up to it,\nand crept into a fold of the damp linen. Certainly the place was not\nso comfortable to lie in as the warm stable; but there was no better\nto be had, and therefore he remained lying there for a whole day and a\nwhole night, and the rain kept on during all the time. Towards morning\nhe crept forth: he was very much out of temper about the climate.\n\nOn the linen two frogs were sitting. Their bright eyes absolutely\ngleamed with pleasure.\n\n\"Wonderful weather this!\" one of them cried. \"How refreshing! And the\nlinen keeps the water together so beautifully. My hind legs seem to\nquiver as if I were going to swim.\"\n\n\"I should like to know,\" said the second, \"if the swallow, who flies\nso far round, in her many journeys in foreign lands ever meets with a\nbetter climate than this. What delicious dampness! It is really as if\none were lying in a wet ditch. Whoever does not rejoice in this,\ncertainly does not love his fatherland.\"\n\n\"Have you been in the emperor's stable?\" asked the beetle: \"there the\ndampness is warm and refreshing. That's the climate for me; but I\ncannot take it with me on my journey. Is there never a muck-heap, here\nin the garden, where a person of rank, like myself, can feel himself\nat home, and take up his quarters?\"\n\nBut the frogs either did not or would not understand him.\n\n\"I never ask a question twice!\" said the beetle, after he had already\nasked this one three times without receiving any answer.\n\nThen he went a little farther, and stumbled against a fragment of\npottery, that certainly ought not to have been lying there; but as it\nwas once there, it gave a good shelter against wind and weather. Here\ndwelt several families of earwigs; and these did not require much,\nonly sociality. The female members of the community were full of the\npurest maternal affection, and accordingly each one considered her own\nchild the most beautiful and cleverest of all.\n\n\"Our son has engaged himself,\" said one mother. \"Dear, innocent boy!\nHis greatest hope is that he may creep one day into a clergyman's ear.\nIt's very artless and loveable, that; and being engaged will keep him\nsteady. What joy for a mother!\"\n\n\"Our son,\" said another mother, \"had scarcely crept out of the egg,\nwhen he was already off on his travels. He's all life and spirits;\nhe'll run his horns off! What joy that is for a mother! Is it not so,\nMr. Beetle?\" for she knew the stranger by his horny coat.\n\n\"You are both quite right,\" said he; so they begged him to walk in;\nthat is to say, to come as far as he could under the bit of pottery.\n\n\"Now, you also see _my_ little earwig,\" observed a third mother and a\nfourth; \"they are lovely little things, and highly amusing. They are\nnever ill-behaved, except when they are uncomfortable in their inside;\nbut, unfortunately, one is very subject to that at their age.\"\n\nThus each mother spoke of her baby; and the babies talked among\nthemselves, and made use of the little nippers they have in their\ntails to nip the beard of the beetle.\n\n\"Yes, they are always busy about something, the little rogues!\" said\nthe mothers; and they quite beamed with maternal pride; but the beetle\nfelt bored by that, and therefore he inquired how far it was to the\nnearest muck-heap.\n\n\"That is quite out in the big world, on the other side of the ditch,\"\nanswered an earwig. \"I hope none of my children will go so far, for it\nwould be the death of me.\"\n\n\"But I shall try to get so far,\" said the beetle; and he went off\nwithout taking formal leave; for that is considered the polite thing\nto do. And by the ditch he met several friends; beetles, all of them.\n\n\"Here we live,\" they said. \"We are very comfortable here. Might we ask\nyou to step down into this rich mud? You must be fatigued after your\njourney.\"\n\n\"Certainly,\" replied the beetle. \"I have been exposed to the rain, and\nhave had to lie upon linen, and cleanliness is a thing that greatly\nexhausts me. I have also pains in one of my wings, from standing in a\ndraught under a fragment of pottery. It is really quite refreshing to\nbe among one's companions once more.\"\n\n\"Perhaps you come from some muck-heap?\" observed the oldest of them.\n\n\"Indeed, I come from a much higher place,\" replied the beetle. \"I came\nfrom the emperor's stable, where I was born with golden shoes on my\nfeet. I am travelling on a secret embassy. You must not ask me any\nquestions, for I can't betray my secret.\"\n\nWith this the beetle stepped down into the rich mud. There sat three\nyoung maiden beetles; and they tittered, because they did not know\nwhat to say.\n\n\"Not one of them is engaged yet,\" said their mother; and the beetle\nmaidens tittered again, this time from embarrassment.\n\n\"I have never seen greater beauties in the royal stables,\" exclaimed\nthe beetle, who was now resting himself.\n\n\"Don't spoil my girls,\" said the mother; \"and don't talk to them,\nplease, unless you have serious intentions. But of course your\nintentions are serious, and therefore I give you my blessing.\"\n\n\"Hurrah!\" cried all the other beetles together; and our friend was\nengaged. Immediately after the betrothal came the marriage, for there\nwas no reason for delay.\n\nThe following day passed very pleasantly, and the next in tolerable\ncomfort; but on the third it was time to think of food for the wife,\nand perhaps also for children.\n\n\"I have allowed myself to be taken in,\" said our beetle to himself.\n\"And now there's nothing for it but to take _them_ in, in turn.\"\n\nSo said, so done. Away he went, and he stayed away all day, and stayed\naway all night; and his wife sat there, a forsaken widow.\n\n\"Oh,\" said the other beetles, \"this fellow whom we received into our\nfamily is nothing more than a thorough vagabond. He has gone away, and\nhas left his wife a burden upon our hands.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE SCHOLARS FIND THE BEETLE.]\n\n\"Well, then, she shall be unmarried again, and sit here among my\ndaughters,\" said the mother. \"Fie on the villain who forsook her!\"\n\nIn the meantime the beetle had been journeying on, and had sailed\nacross the ditch on a cabbage leaf. In the morning two persons came to\nthe ditch. When they saw him, they took him up, and turned him over\nand over, and looked very learned, especially one of them--a boy.\n\n\"Allah sees the black beetle in the black stone and in the black rock.\nIs not that written in the Koran?\" Then he translated the beetle's\nname into Latin, and enlarged upon the creature's nature and history.\nThe second person, an older scholar, voted for carrying him home. He\nsaid they wanted just such good specimens; and this seemed an uncivil\nspeech to our beetle, and in consequence he flew suddenly out of the\nspeaker's hand. As he had now dry wings, he flew a tolerable distance,\nand reached a hot-bed, where a sash of the glass roof was partly open,\nso he quietly slipped in and buried himself in the warm earth.\n\n\"Very comfortable it is here,\" said he.\n\nSoon after he went to sleep, and dreamed that the emperor's favourite\nhorse had fallen, and had given him his golden shoes, with the promise\nthat he should have two more.\n\nThat was all very charming. When the beetle woke up, he crept forth\nand looked around him. What splendour was in the hothouse! In the\nbackground great palm trees growing up on high; the sun made them look\ntransparent; and beneath them what a luxuriance of green, and of\nbeaming flowers, red as fire, yellow as amber, or white as\nfresh-fallen snow.\n\n\"This is an incomparable plenty of plants,\" cried the beetle. \"How\ngood they will taste when they are decayed! A capital store-room this!\nThere must certainly be relations of mine living here. I will just see\nif I can find any one with whom I may associate. I'm proud, certainly,\nand I'm proud of being so.\" And so he prowled about in the earth, and\nthought what a pleasant dream that was about the dying horse, and the\ngolden shoes he had inherited.\n\nSuddenly a hand seized the beetle, and pressed him, and turned him\nround and round.\n\nThe gardener's little son and a companion had come to the hot-bed, had\nespied the beetle, and wanted to have their fun with him. First he was\nwrapped in a vine leaf, and then put into warm trousers-pocket. He\ncribbled and crabbled about there with all his might; but he got a\ngood pressing from the boy's hand for this, which served as a hint to\nhim to keep quiet. Then the boy went rapidly towards the great lake\nthat lay at the end of the garden. Here the beetle was put in an old\nbroken wooden shoe, on which a little stick was placed upright for a\nmast, and to this mast the beetle was bound with a woollen thread. Now\nhe was a sailor, and had to sail away.\n\nThe lake was not very large, but to the beetle it seemed an ocean; and\nhe was so astonished at its extent, that he fell over on his back and\nkicked out with his legs.\n\nThe little ship sailed away. The current of the water seized it; but\nwhenever it went too far from the shore, one of the boys turned up\nhis trousers and went in after it, and brought it back to the land.\nBut at length, just as it went merrily out again, the two boys were\ncalled away, and very harshly, so that they hurried to obey the\nsummons, ran away from the lake, and left the little ship to its fate.\nThus it drove away from the shore, farther and farther into the open\nsea: it was terrible work for the beetle, for he could not get away in\nconsequence of being bound to the mast.\n\nThen a fly came and paid him a visit.\n\n\"What beautiful weather!\" said the fly. \"I'll rest here, and sun\nmyself. You have an agreeable time of it.\"\n\n\"You speak without knowing the facts,\" replied the beetle. \"Don't you\nsee that I'm a prisoner?\"\n\n\"Ah! but I'm not a prisoner,\" observed the fly; and he flew away\naccordingly.\n\n\"Well, now I know the world,\" said the beetle to himself. \"It is an\nabominable world. I'm the only honest person in it. First, they refuse\nme my golden shoes; then I have to lie on wet linen, and to stand in\nthe draught; and, to crown all, they fasten a wife upon me. Then, when\nI've taken a quick step out into the world, and found out how one can\nhave it there, and how I wished to have it, one of those human boys\ncomes and ties me up, and leaves me to the mercy of the wild waves,\nwhile the emperor's favourite horse prances about proudly in golden\nshoes. That is what annoys me more than all. But one must not look for\nsympathy in this world! My career has been very interesting; but\nwhat's the use of that, if nobody knows it? The world does not deserve\nto be made acquainted with my history, for it ought to have given me\ngolden shoes, when the emperor's horse was shod, and I stretched out\nmy feet to be shod too. If I had received golden shoes, I should have\nbecome an ornament to the stable. Now the stable has lost me, and the\nworld has lost me. It is all over!\"\n\nBut all was not over yet. A boat, in which there were a few young\ngirls, came rowing up.\n\n\"Look, yonder is an old wooden shoe sailing along,\" said one of the\ngirls.\n\n\"There's a little creature bound fast to it,\" said another.\n\nThe boat came quite close to our beetle's ship, and the young girls\nfished him out of the water. One of them drew a small pair of scissors\nfrom her pocket, and cut the woollen thread, without hurting the\nbeetle; and when she stepped on shore, she put him down on the grass.\n\n\"Creep, creep--fly, fly--if thou canst,\" she said. \"Liberty is a\nsplendid thing.\"\n\nAnd the beetle flew up, and straight through the open window of a\ngreat building; there he sank down, tired and exhausted, exactly on\nthe mane of the emperor's favourite horse, who stood in the stable\nwhen he was at home, and the beetle also. The beetle clung fast to the\nmane, and sat there a short time to recover himself.\n\n\"Here I'm sitting on the emperor's favourite horse--sitting on him\njust like the emperor himself!\" he cried. \"But what was I saying? Yes,\nnow I remember. That's a good thought, and quite correct. The smith\nasked me why the golden shoes were given to the horse. Now I'm quite\nclear about the answer. They were given to the horse on _my_ account.\"\n\nAnd now the beetle was in a good temper again.\n\n\"Travelling expands the mind rarely,\" said he.\n\nThe sun's rays came streaming into the stable, and shone upon him, and\nmade the place lively and bright.\n\n\"The world is not so bad, upon the whole,\" said the beetle; \"but one\nmust know how to take things as they come.\"\n\n\n\n\nWHAT THE OLD MAN DOES IS ALWAYS RIGHT.\n\n\nI will tell you a story which was told to me when I was a little boy.\nEvery time I thought of the story, it seemed to me to become more and\nmore charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people--they\nbecome better as they grow older.\n\nI take it for granted that you have been in the country, and seen a\nvery old farmhouse with a thatched roof, and mosses and small plants\ngrowing wild upon the thatch. There is a stork's nest on the summit of\nthe gable; for we can't do without the stork. The walls of the house\nare sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is\nmade so that it will open. The baking-oven sticks out of the wall like\na little fat body. The elder tree hangs over the paling, and beneath\nits branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water in which a\nfew ducks are disporting themselves. There is a yard-dog too, who\nbarks at all comers.\n\nJust such a farmhouse stood out in the country; and in this house\ndwelt an old couple--a peasant and his wife. Small as was their\nproperty, there was one article among it that they could do\nwithout--a horse, which made a living out of the grass it found by\nthe side of the high-road. The old peasant rode into the town on this\nhorse; and often his neighbours borrowed it of him, and rendered the\nold couple some service in return for the loan of it. But they thought\nit would be best if they sold the horse, or exchanged it for something\nthat might be more useful to them. But what might this _something_ be?\n\n\"You'll know that best, old man,\" said the wife. \"It is fair-day\nto-day, so ride into town, and get rid of the horse for money, or make\na good exchange: whichever you do will be right to me. Ride to the\nfair.\"\n\nAnd she fastened his neckerchief for him, for she could do that better\nthan he could; and she tied it in a double bow, for she could do that\nvery prettily. Then she brushed his hat round and round with the palm\nof her hand, and gave him a kiss. So he rode away upon the horse that\nwas to be sold or to be bartered for something else. Yes, the old man\nknew what he was about.\n\nThe sun shone hotly down, and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky.\nThe road was very dusty, for many people who were all bound for the\nfair were driving, or riding, or walking upon it. There was no shelter\nanywhere from the sunbeams.\n\nAmong the rest, a man was trudging along, and driving a cow to the\nfair. The cow was as beautiful a creature as any cow can be.\n\n\"She gives good milk, I'm sure,\" said the peasant. \"That would be a\nvery good exchange--the cow for the horse.\n\n\"Hallo, you there with the cow!\" he said; \"I tell you what--I fancy a\nhorse costs more than a cow, but I don't care for that; a cow would be\nmore useful to me. If you like, we'll exchange.\"\n\n\"To be sure I will,\" said the man; and they exchanged accordingly.\n\nSo that was settled, and the peasant might have turned back, for he\nhad done the business he came to do; but as he had once made up his\nmind to go to the fair, he determined to proceed, merely to have a\nlook at it; and so he went on to the town with his cow.\n\nLeading the animal, he strode sturdily on; and after a short time, he\novertook a man who was driving a sheep. It was a good fat sheep, with\na fine fleece on its back.\n\n\"I should like to have that fellow,\" said our peasant to himself. \"He\nwould find plenty of grass by our palings, and in the winter we could\nkeep him in the room with us. Perhaps it would be more practical to\nhave a sheep instead of a cow. Shall we exchange?\"\n\nThe man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was struck. So\nour peasant went on in the high-road with his sheep.\n\nSoon he overtook another man, who came into the road from a field,\ncarrying a great goose under his arm.\n\n\"That's a heavy thing you have there. It has plenty of feathers and\nplenty of fat, and would look well tied to a string, and paddling in\nthe water at our place. That would be something for my old woman; she\ncould make all kinds of profit out of it. How often she has said, 'If\nwe only had a goose!' Now, perhaps, she can have one; and, if\npossible, it shall be hers. Shall we exchange? I'll give you my sheep\nfor your goose, and thank you into the bargain.\"\n\nThe other man had not the least objection; and accordingly they\nexchanged, and our peasant became proprietor of the goose.\n\nBy this time he was very near the town. The crowd on the high-road\nbecame greater and greater; there was quite a crush of men and cattle.\nThey walked in the road, and close by the palings; and at the barrier\nthey even walked into the toll-man's potato-field, where his one fowl\nwas strutting about, with a string to its leg, lest it should take\nfright at the crowd, and stray away, and so be lost. This fowl had\nshort tail-feathers, and winked with both its eyes, and looked very\ncunning. \"Cluck, cluck!\" said the fowl. What it thought when it said\nthis I cannot tell you; but directly our good man saw it, he thought,\n\"That's the finest fowl I've ever seen in my life! Why, it's finer\nthan our parson's brood hen. On my word, I should like to have that\nfowl. A fowl can always find a grain or two, and can almost keep\nitself. I think it would be a good exchange if I could get that for my\ngoose.\n\n\"Shall we exchange?\" he asked the toll-taker.\n\n\"Exchange!\" repeated the man; \"well, that would not be a bad thing.\"\n\nAnd so they exchanged; the toll-taker at the barrier kept the goose,\nand the peasant carried away the fowl.\n\nNow, he had done a good deal of business on his way to the fair, and\nhe was hot and tired. He wanted something to eat, and a glass of\nbrandy to drink; and soon he was in front of the inn. He was just\nabout to step in, when the hostler came out, so they met at the door.\nThe hostler was carrying a sack.\n\n\"What have you in that sack?\" asked the peasant.\n\n\"Rotten apples,\" answered the hostler; \"a whole sackful of\nthem--enough to feed the pigs with.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE OLD MAN RELATES HIS SUCCESS.]\n\n\"Why, that's terrible waste! I should like to take them to my old\nwoman at home. Last year the old tree by the turf-hole only bore a\nsingle apple, and we kept it on the cupboard till it was quite rotten\nand spoilt. 'It was always property,' my old woman said; but here she\ncould see a quantity of property--a whole sackful. Yes, I shall be\nglad to show them to her.\"\n\n\"What will you give me for the sackful?\" asked the hostler.\n\n\"What will I give? I will give my fowl in exchange.\"\n\nAnd he gave the fowl accordingly, and received the apples, which he\ncarried into the guest-room. He leaned the sack carefully by the\nstove, and then went to the table. But the stove was hot: he had not\nthought of that. Many guests were present--horse dealers, ox-herds,\nand two Englishmen--and the two Englishmen were so rich that their\npockets bulged out with gold coins, and almost burst; and they could\nbet too, as you shall hear.\n\nHiss-s-s! hiss-s-s! What was that by the stove? The apples were\nbeginning to roast!\n\n\"What is that?\"\n\n\"Why, do you know--,\" said our peasant.\n\nAnd he told the whole story of the horse that he had changed for a\ncow, and all the rest of it, down to the apples.\n\n\"Well, your old woman will give it you well when you get home!\" said\none of the two Englishmen. \"There will be a disturbance.\"\n\n\"What?--give me what?\" said the peasant. \"She will kiss me, and say,\n'What the old man does is always right.'\"\n\n\"Shall we wager?\" said the Englishman. \"We'll wager coined gold by the\nton--a hundred pounds to the hundredweight!\"\n\n\"A bushel will be enough,\" replied the peasant. \"I can only set the\nbushel of apples against it; and I'll throw myself and my old woman\ninto the bargain--and I fancy that's piling up the measure.\"\n\n\"Done--taken!\"\n\nAnd the bet was made. The host's carriage came up, and the Englishmen\ngot in, and the peasant got in; away they went, and soon they stopped\nbefore the peasant's hut.\n\n\"Good evening, old woman.\"\n\n\"Good evening, old man.\"\n\n\"I've made the exchange.\"\n\n\"Yes, you understand what you're about,\" said the woman.\n\nAnd she embraced him, and paid no attention to the stranger guests,\nnor did she notice the sack.\n\n\"I got a cow in exchange for the horse,\" said he.\n\n\"Heaven be thanked!\" said she. \"What glorious milk we shall have, and\nbutter and cheese on the table! That was a capital exchange!\"\n\n\"Yes, but I changed the cow for a sheep.\"\n\n\"Ah, that's better still!\" cried the wife. \"You always think of\neverything: we have just pasture enough for a sheep. Ewe's-milk and\ncheese, and woollen jackets and stockings! The cow cannot give those,\nand her hairs will only come off. How you think of everything!\"\n\n\"But I changed away the sheep for a goose.\"\n\n\"Then this year we shall really have roast goose to eat, my dear old\nman. You are always thinking of something to give me pleasure. How\ncharming that is! We can let the goose walk about with a string to her\nleg, and she'll grow fatter still before we roast her.\"\n\n\"But I gave away the goose for a fowl,\" said the man.\n\n\"A fowl? That was a good exchange!\" replied the woman. \"The fowl will\nlay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens: we shall have a\nwhole poultry-yard! Oh, that's just what I was wishing for.\"\n\n\"Yes, but I exchanged the fowl for a sack of shrivelled apples.\"\n\n\"What!--I must positively kiss you for that,\" exclaimed the wife. \"My\ndear, good husband! Now, I'll tell you something. Do you know, you had\nhardly left me this morning, before I began thinking how I could give\nyou something very nice this evening. I thought it should be pancakes\nwith savoury herbs. I had eggs, and bacon too; but I wanted herbs. So\nI went over to the schoolmaster's--they have herbs there, I know--but\nthe schoolmistress is a mean woman, though she looks so sweet. I\nbegged her to lend me a handful of herbs. 'Lend!' she answered me;\n'nothing at all grows in our garden, not even a shrivelled apple. I\ncould not even lend you a shrivelled apple, my dear woman.' But now\n_I_ can lend _her_ ten, or a whole sackful. That I'm very glad of;\nthat makes me laugh!\" And with that she gave him a sounding kiss.\n\n\"I like that!\" exclaimed both the Englishmen together. \"Always going\ndown-hill, and always merry; that's worth the money.\" So they paid a\nhundredweight of gold to the peasant, who was not scolded, but kissed.\n\nYes, it always pays, when the wife sees and always asserts that her\nhusband knows best, and that whatever he does is right.\n\nYou see, that is my story. I heard it when I was a child; and now you\nhave heard it too, and know that \"What the old man does is always\nright.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE WIND TELLS ABOUT WALDEMAR DAA AND HIS DAUGHTERS.\n\n\nWhen the wind sweeps across the grass, the field has a ripple like a\npond, and when it sweeps across the corn the field waves to and fro\nlike a high sea. That is called the wind's dance; but the wind does\nnot dance only, he also tells stories; and how loudly he can sing out\nof his deep chest, and how different it sounds in the tree-tops in the\nforest, and through the loopholes and clefts and cracks in walls! Do\nyou see how the wind drives the clouds up yonder, like a frightened\nflock of sheep? Do you hear how the wind howls down here through the\nopen valley, like a watchman blowing his horn? With wonderful tones he\nwhistles and screams down the chimney and into the fireplace. The fire\ncrackles and flares up, and shines far into the room, and the little\nplace is warm and snug, and it is pleasant to sit there listening to\nthe sounds. Let the wind speak, for he knows plenty of stories and\nfairy tales, many more than are known to any of us. Just hear what the\nwind can tell.\n\nHuh--uh--ush! roar along! That is the burden of the song.\n\n\"By the shores of the Great Belt, one of the straits that unite the\nCattegut with the Baltic, lies an old mansion with thick red walls,\"\nsays the Wind. \"I know every stone in it; I saw it when it still\nbelonged to the castle of Marsk Stig on the promontory. But it had to\nbe pulled down, and the stone was used again for the walls of a new\nmansion in another place, the baronial mansion of Borreby, which still\nstands by the coast.\n\n\"I knew them, the noble lords and ladies, the changing races that\ndwelt there, and now I'm going to tell about Waldemar Daa and his\ndaughters. How proudly he carried himself--he was of royal blood! He\ncould do more than merely hunt the stag and empty the wine-can. 'It\n_shall_ be done,' he was accustomed to say.\n\n\"His wife walked proudly in gold-embroidered garments over the\npolished marble floors. The tapestries were gorgeous, the furniture\nwas expensive and artistically carved. She had brought gold and silver\nplate with her into the house, and there was German beer in the\ncellar. Black fiery horses neighed in the stables. There was a wealthy\nlook about the house of Borreby at that time, when wealth was still at\nhome there.\n\n\"Four children dwelt there also; three delicate maidens, Ida, Joanna,\nand Anna Dorothea: I have never forgotten their names.\n\n\"They were rich people, noble people, born in affluence, nurtured in\naffluence.\n\n\"Huh--sh! roar along!\" sang the Wind; and then he continued:\n\n\"I did not see here, as in other great noble houses, the high-born\nlady sitting among her women in the great hall turning the\nspinning-wheel: here she swept the sounding chords of the cithern, and\nsang to the sound, but not always old Danish melodies, but songs of a\nstrange land. It was 'live and let live' here: stranger guests came\nfrom far and near, the music sounded, the goblets clashed, and I was\nnot able to drown the noise,\" said the Wind. \"Ostentation, and\nhaughtiness, and splendour, and display, and rule were there, but the\nfear of the Lord was not there.\n\n\"And it was just on the evening of the first day of May,\" the Wind\ncontinued. \"I came from the west, and had seen how the ships were\nbeing crushed by the waves, with all on board, and flung on the west\ncoast of Jutland. I had hurried across the heath, and over Jutland's\nwood-girt eastern coast, and over the Island of Fuenen, and now I drove\nover the Great Belt, groaning and sighing.\n\n\"Then I lay down to rest on the shore of Seeland, in the neighbourhood\nof the great house of Borreby, where the forest, the splendid oak\nforest, still rose.\n\n\"The young men-servants of the neighbourhood were collecting branches\nand brushwood under the oak trees; the largest and driest they could\nfind they carried into the village, and piled them up in a heap, and\nset them on fire; and men and maids danced, singing in a circle round\nthe blazing pile.\n\n\"I lay quite quiet,\" continued the Wind; \"but I silently touched a\nbranch, which had been brought by the handsomest of the men-servants,\nand the wood blazed up brightly, blazed up higher than all the rest;\nand now he was the chosen one, and bore the name the Street-goat, and\nmight choose his Street-lamb first from among the maids; and there was\nmirth and rejoicing, greater than I had ever heard before in the halls\nof the rich baronial mansion.\n\n\"And the noble lady drove towards the baronial mansion, with her three\ndaughters, in a gilded carriage drawn by six horses. The daughters\nwere young and fair--three charming blossoms, rose, lily, and pale\nhyacinth. The mother was a proud tulip, and never acknowledged the\nsalutation of one of the men or maids who paused in their sport to do\nher honour: the gracious lady seemed a flower that was rather stiff in\nthe stalk.\n\n\"Rose, lily, and pale hyacinth; yes, I saw them all three! Whose\nlambkins will they one day become? thought I; their Street-goat will\nbe a gallant knight, perhaps a prince. Huh--sh! hurry along! hurry\nalong!\n\n\"Yes, the carriage rolled on with them, and the peasant people resumed\ntheir dancing. They rode that summer through all the villages round\nabout. But in the night, when I rose again,\" said the Wind, \"the very\nnoble lady lay down, to rise again no more: that thing came upon her\nwhich comes upon all--there is nothing new in that.\n\n\"Waldemar Daa stood for a space silent and thoughtful. 'The proudest\ntree can be bowed without being broken,' said a voice within him. His\ndaughters wept, and all the people in the mansion wiped their eyes;\nbut Lady Daa had driven away--and I drove away too, and rushed along,\nhuh--sh!\" said the Wind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"I returned again; I often returned again over the Island of Fuenen,\nand the shores of the Belt, and I sat down by Borreby, by the splendid\noak wood; there the heron made his nest, and wood-pigeons haunted the\nplace, and blue ravens, and even the black stork. It was still spring;\nsome of them were yet sitting on their eggs, others had already\nhatched their young. But how they flew up, how they cried! The axe\nsounded, blow on blow: the wood was to be felled. Waldemar Daa wanted\nto build a noble ship, a man-of-war, a three-decker, which the king\nwould be sure to buy; and therefore the wood must be felled, the\nlandmark of the seamen, the refuge of the birds. The hawk started up\nand flew away, for its nest was destroyed; the heron and all the birds\nof the forest became homeless, and flew about in fear and in anger: I\ncould well understand how they felt. Crows and ravens croaked aloud as\nif in scorn. 'Crack, crack! the nest cracks, cracks, cracks!'\n\n\"Far in the interior of the wood, where the noisy swarm of labourers\nwere working, stood Waldemar Daa and his three daughters; and all\nlaughed at the wild cries of the birds; only one, the youngest, Anna\nDorothea, felt grieved in her heart; and when they made preparations\nto fell a tree that was almost dead, and on whose naked branches the\nblack stork had built his nest, whence the little storks were\nstretching out their heads, she begged for mercy for the little\nthings, and tears came into her eyes. Therefore the tree with the\nblack stork's nest was left standing. The tree was not worth speaking\nof.\n\n\"There was a great hewing and sawing, and a three-decker was built.\nThe architect was of low origin, but of great pride; his eyes and\nforehead told how clever he was, and Waldemar Daa was fond of\nlistening to him, and so was Waldemar's daughter Ida, the eldest, who\nwas now fifteen years old; and while he built a ship for the father,\nhe was building for himself an airy castle, into which he and Ida were\nto go as a married couple--which might indeed have happened, if the\ncastle with stone walls, and ramparts, and moats had remained. But in\nspite of his wise head, the architect remained but a poor bird; and,\nindeed, what business has a sparrow to take part in a dance of\npeacocks? Huh--sh! I careered away, and he careered away too, for he\nwas not allowed to stay; and little Ida got over it, because she was\nobliged to get over it.\n\n\"The proud black horses were neighing in the stable; they were worth\nlooking at, and accordingly they _were_ looked at. The admiral, who\nhad been sent by the king himself to inspect the new ship and take\nmeasures for its purchase, spoke loudly in admiration of the beautiful\nhorses.\n\n\"I heard all that,\" said the Wind. \"I accompanied the gentlemen\nthrough the open door, and strewed blades of straw like bars of gold\nbefore their feet. Waldemar Daa wanted to have gold, and the admiral\nwished for the proud black horses, and that is why he praised them so\nmuch; but the hint was not taken, and consequently the ship was not\nbought. It remained on the shore covered over with boards, a Noah's\nark that never got to the water--Huh--sh! rush away! away!--and that\nwas a pity.\n\n\"In the winter, when the fields were covered with snow, and the water\nwith large blocks of ice that I blew up on to the coast,\" continued\nthe Wind, \"crows and ravens came, all as black as might be, great\nflocks of them, and alighted on the dead, deserted, lonely ship by the\nshore, and croaked in hoarse accents of the wood that was no more, of\nthe many pretty bird's nests destroyed, and the little ones left\nwithout a home; and all for the sake of that great bit of lumber, that\nproud ship that never sailed forth.\n\n\"I made the snow-flakes whirl, and the snow lay like a great lake high\naround the ship, and drifted over it. I let it hear my voice, that it\nmight know what a storm has to say. Certainly I did my part towards\nteaching it seamanship. Huh--sh! push along!\n\n\"And the winter passed away; winter and summer, both passed away, and\nthey are still passing away, even as I pass away; as the snow whirls\nalong, and the apple blossom whirls along, and the leaves fall--away!\naway! away! and men are passing away too!\n\n\"But the daughters were still young, and little Ida was a rose, as\nfair to look upon as on the day when the architect saw her. I often\nseized her long brown hair, when she stood in the garden by the apple\ntree, musing, and not heeding how I strewed blossoms on her hair, and\nloosened it, while she was gazing at the red sun and the golden sky,\nthrough the dark underwood and the trees of the garden.\n\n\"Her sister was bright and slender as a lily. Joanna had height and\ndeportment, but was like her mother, rather stiff in the stalk. She\nwas very fond of walking through the great hall, where hung the\nportraits of her ancestors. The women were painted in dresses of silk\nand velvet, with a tiny little hat, embroidered with pearls, on their\nplaited hair. They were handsome women. The gentlemen were represented\nclad in steel, or in costly cloaks lined with squirrel's skin; they\nwore little ruffs, and swords at their sides, but not buckled to their\nhips. Where would Joanna's picture find its place on that wall some\nday? and how would _he_ look, her noble lord and husband? This is what\nshe thought of, and of this she spoke softly to herself. I heard it,\nas I swept into the long hall, and turned round to come out again.\n\n\"Anna Dorothea, the pale hyacinth, a child of fourteen, was quiet and\nthoughtful; her great deep blue eyes had a musing look, but the\nchildlike smile still played around her lips: I was not able to blow\nit away, nor did I wish to do so.\n\n\"We met in the garden, in the hollow lane, in the field and meadow;\nshe gathered herbs and flowers which she knew would be useful to her\nfather in concocting the drinks and drops he distilled. Waldemar Daa\nwas arrogant and proud, but he was also a learned man, and knew a\ngreat deal. That was no secret, and many opinions were expressed\nconcerning it. In his chimney there was fire even in summer time. He\nwould lock the door of his room, and for days the fire would be poked\nand raked; but of this he did not talk much--the forces of nature must\nbe conquered in silence; and soon he would discover the art of making\nthe best thing of all--the red gold.\n\n\"That is why the chimney was always smoking, therefore the flames\ncrackled so frequently. Yes, I was there too,\" said the Wind. \"Let it\ngo, I sang down through the chimney: it will end in smoke, air, coals\nand ashes! You will burn yourself! Hu-uh-ush! drive away! drive away!\nBut Waldemar Daa did _not_ drive it away.\"\n\n\"The splendid black horses in the stable--what became of them? what\nbecame of the old gold and silver vessels in cupboards and chests, the\ncows in the fields, and the house and home itself? Yes, they may melt,\nmay melt in the golden crucible, and yet yield no gold.\n\n\"Empty grew the barns and store-rooms, the cellars and magazines. The\nservants decreased in number, and the mice multiplied. Then a window\nbroke, and then another, and I could get in elsewhere besides at the\ndoor,\" said the Wind. \"'Where the chimney smokes the meal is being\ncooked,' the proverb says. But here the chimney smoked that devoured\nall the meals, for the sake of the red gold.\n\n\"I blew through the courtyard-gate like a watchman blowing his horn,\"\nthe Wind went on, \"but no watchman was there. I twirled the\nweathercock round on the summit of the tower, and it creaked like the\nsnoring of the warder, but no warder was there; only mice and rats\nwere there. Poverty laid the tablecloth; poverty sat in the wardrobe\nand in the larder; the door fell off its hinges, cracks and fissures\nmade their appearance, and I went in and out at pleasure; and that is\nhow I know all about it.\n\n\"Amid smoke and ashes, amid sorrow and sleepless nights, the hair and\nbeard of the master turned grey, and deep furrows showed themselves\naround his temples; his skin turned pale and yellow, as his eyes\nlooked greedily for the gold, the desired gold.\n\n\"I blew the smoke and ashes into his face and beard: the result of his\nlabour was debt instead of pelf. I sung through the burst window-panes\nand the yawning clefts in the walls. I blew into the chests of drawers\nbelonging to the daughters, wherein lay the clothes that had become\nfaded and threadbare from being worn over and over again. That was not\nthe song that had been sung at the children's cradle. The lordly life\nhad changed to a life of penury. I was the only one who rejoiced aloud\nin that castle,\" said the Wind. \"I snowed them up, and they say snow\nkeeps people warm. They had no wood, and the forest from which they\nmight have brought it was cut down. It was a biting frost. I rushed in\nthrough loopholes and passages, over gables and roofs, that I might be\nbrisk. They were lying in bed because of the cold, the three high-born\ndaughters; and their father was crouching under his leathern coverlet.\nNothing to bite, nothing to break, no fire on the hearth--there was a\nlife for high-born people! Huh-sh, let it go! But that is what my Lord\nDaa could _not_ do--he could _not_ let it go.\n\n\"'After winter comes spring,' he said. 'After want, good times will\ncome: one must not lose patience; one must learn to wait! Now my house\nand lands are mortgaged, it is indeed high time; and the gold will\nsoon come. At Easter!'\n\n\"I heard how he spoke thus, looking at a spider's web. 'Thou cunning\nlittle weaver, thou dost teach me perseverance. Let them tear thy web,\nand thou wilt begin it again, and complete it. Let them destroy it\nagain, and thou wilt resolutely begin to work again--again! That is\nwhat we must do, and that will repay itself at last.'\n\n\"It was the morning of Easter-day. The bells sounded from the\nneighbouring church, and the sun seemed to rejoice in the sky. The\nmaster had watched through the night in feverish excitement, and had\nbeen melting and cooling, distilling and mixing. I heard him sighing\nlike a soul in despair; I heard him praying, and I noticed how he held\nhis breath. The lamp was burnt out, but he did not notice it. I blew\nat the fire of coals, and it threw its red glow upon his ghastly white\nface, lighting it up with a glare, and his sunken eyes looked forth\nwildly out of their deep sockets--but they became larger and larger,\nas though they would burst.\n\n\"Look at the alchymic glass! It glows in the crucible, red-hot, and\npure and heavy! He lifted it with a trembling hand, and cried with a\ntrembling voice, 'Gold! gold!'\n\n\"He was quite dizzy--I could have blown him down,\" said the Wind; \"but\nI only fanned the glowing coals, and accompanied him through the door\nto where his daughters sat shivering. His coat was powdered with\nashes, and there were ashes in his beard and in his tangled hair. He\nstood straight up, and held his costly treasure on high, in the\nbrittle glass. 'Found, found!--Gold, gold!' he shouted, and again held\naloft the glass to let it flash in the sunshine; but his hand\ntrembled, and the alchymic glass fell clattering to the ground, and\nbroke into a thousand pieces; and the last bubble of his happiness had\nburst! Hu-uh-ush! rushing away!--and I rushed away from the\ngold-maker's house.\n\n\"Late in autumn, when the days are short, and the mist comes and\nstrews cold drops upon the berries and leafless branches, I came back\nin fresh spirits, rushed through the air, swept the sky clear, and\nsnapped the dry twigs--which is certainly no great labour, but yet it\nmust be done. Then there was another kind of sweeping clean at\nWaldemar Daa's, in the mansion of Borreby. His enemy, Owe Rainel, of\nBasnaes, was there with the mortgage of the house and everything it\ncontained in his pocket. I drummed against the broken window-panes,\nbeat against the old rotten doors, and whistled through cracks and\nrifts--huh-sh! Mr. Owe Rainel did not like staying there. Ida and Anna\nDorothea wept bitterly; Joanna stood pale and proud, and bit her thumb\ntill it bled--but what could that avail? Owe Rainel offered to allow\nWaldemar Daa to remain in the mansion till the end of his life, but no\nthanks were given him for his offer. I listened to hear what occurred.\nI saw the ruined gentleman lift his head and throw it back prouder\nthan ever, and I rushed against the house and the old lime trees with\nsuch force, that one of the thickest branches broke, one that was not\ndecayed; and the branch remained lying at the entrance as a broom\nwhen any one wanted to sweep the place out: and a grand sweeping out\nthere was--I thought it would be so.\n\n[Illustration: LEAVING THE OLD HOME.]\n\n\"It was hard on that day to preserve one's composure; but their will\nwas as hard as their fortune.\n\n\"There was nothing they could call their own except the clothes they\nwore: yes, there was one thing more--the alchymist's glass, a new one\nthat had lately been bought, and filled with what had been gathered up\nfrom the ground of the treasure which promised so much but never kept\nits promise. Waldemar Daa hid the glass in his bosom, and taking his\nstick in his hand, the once rich gentleman passed with his daughters\nout of the house of Borreby. I blew cold upon his heated cheeks, I\nstroked his grey beard and his long white hair, and I sang as well as\nI could,--'Huh-sh! gone away! gone away!' And that was the end of the\nwealth and splendour.\n\n\"Ida walked on one side of the old man, and Anna Dorothea on the\nother. Joanna turned round at the entrance--why? Fortune would not\nturn because she did so. She looked at the old walls of what had once\nbeen the castle of Marsk Stig, and perhaps she thought of his\ndaughters:\n\n    'The eldest gave the youngest her hand.\n    And forth they went to the far-off land.'\n\nWas she thinking of this old song? Here were three of them, and their\nfather was with them too. They walked along the road on which they had\nonce driven in their splendid carriage--they walked forth as beggars,\nwith their father, and wandered out into the open field, and into a\nmud hut, which they rented for a dollar and a half a year--into their\nnew house with the empty rooms and empty vessels. Crows and magpies\nfluttered above them, and cried, as if in contempt, 'Craw! craw! out\nof the nest! craw! craw!' as they had done in the wood at Borreby when\nthe trees were felled.\n\n\"Daa and his daughters could not help hearing it. I blew about their\nears, for what use would it be that they should listen?\n\n\"And they went to live in the mud hut on the open field, and I wandered\naway over moor and field, through bare bushes and leafless forests, to the\nopen waters, the free shores, to other lands--huh-uh-ush!--away, away! year\nafter year!\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd how did Waldemar Daa and his daughters prosper? The Wind tells us:\n\n\"The one I saw last, yes, for the last time, was Anna Dorothea, the\npale hyacinth: then she was old and bent, for it was fifty years\nafterwards. She lived longer than the rest; she knew all.\n\n\"Yonder on the heath, by the Jutland town of Wiborg, stood the fine\nnew house of the canon, built of red bricks with projecting gables;\nthe smoke came up thickly from the chimney. The canon's gentle lady\nand her beautiful daughters sat in the bay window, and looked over the\nhawthorn hedge of the garden towards the brown heath. What were they\nlooking at? Their glances rested upon the stork's nest without, and\non the hut, which was almost falling in; the roof consisted of moss\nand houseleek, in so far as a roof existed there at all--the stork's\nnest covered the greater part of it, and that alone was in proper\ncondition, for it was kept in order by the stork himself.\n\n\"That is a house to be looked at, but not to be touched; I must deal\ngently with it,\" said the Wind. \"For the sake of the stork's nest the\nhut has been allowed to stand, though it was a blot upon the\nlandscape. They did not like to drive the stork away, therefore the\nold shed was left standing, and the poor woman who dwelt in it was\nallowed to stay: she had the Egyptian bird to thank for that; or was\nit perchance her reward, because she had once interceded for the nest\nof its black brother in the forest of Borreby? At that time she, the\npoor woman, was a young child, a pale hyacinth in the rich garden. She\nremembered all that right well, did Anna Dorothea.\n\n\"'Oh! oh!' Yes, people can sigh like the wind moaning in the rushes\nand reeds. 'Oh! oh!'\" she sighed, \"no bells sounded at thy burial,\nWaldemar Daa! The poor schoolboys did not even sing a psalm when the\nformer lord of Borreby was laid in the earth to rest! Oh, everything\nhas an end, even misery. Sister Ida became the wife of a peasant. That\nwas the hardest trial that befell our father, that the husband of a\ndaughter of his should be a miserable serf, whom the proprietor could\nmount on the wooden horse for punishment! I suppose he is under the\nground now. And thou, Ida? Alas, alas! it is not ended yet, wretch\nthat I am! Grant me that I may die, kind Heaven!'\n\n\"That was Anna Dorothea's prayer in the wretched hut which was left\nstanding for the sake of the stork.\n\n\"I took pity on the fairest of the sisters,\" said the Wind. \"Her\ncourage was like that of a man, and in man's clothes she took service\nas a sailor on board of a ship. She was sparing of words, and of a\ndark countenance, but willing at her work. But she did not know how to\nclimb; so I blew her overboard before anybody found out that she was a\nwoman, and according to my thinking that was well done!\" said the\nWind.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"On such an Easter morning as that on which Waldemar Daa had fancied\nthat he had found the red gold, I heard the tones of a psalm under the\nstork's nest, among the crumbling walls--it was Anna Dorothea's last\nsong.\n\n\"There was no window, only a hole in the wall. The sun rose up like a\nmass of gold, and looked through. What a splendour he diffused! Her\neyes were breaking, and her heart was breaking--but that they would\nhave done, even if the sun had not shone that morning on Anna\nDorothea.\n\n\"The stork covered her hut till her death. I sang at her grave!\" said\nthe Wind. \"I sang at her father's grave; I know where his grave is,\nand where hers is, and nobody else knows it.\n\n\"New times, changed times! The old high-road now runs through\ncultivated fields; the new road winds among the trim ditches, and soon\nthe railway will come with its train of carriages, and rush over the\ngraves which are forgotten like the names--hu-ush! passed away, passed\naway!\n\n\"That is the story of Waldemar Daa and his daughters. Tell it better,\nany of you, if you know how,\" said the Wind, and turned away--and he\nwas gone.\n\n\n\n\nIB AND CHRISTINE.\n\n\nNot far from the clear stream Gudenau, in North Jutland, in the forest\nwhich extends by its banks and far into the country, a great ridge of\nland rises and stretches along like a wall through the wood. By this\nridge, westward, stands a farmhouse, surrounded by poor land; the\nsandy soil is seen through the spare rye and wheat-ears that grow upon\nit. Some years have elapsed since the time of which we speak. The\npeople who lived here cultivated the fields, and moreover kept three\nsheep, a pig, and two oxen; in fact, they supported themselves quite\ncomfortably, for they had enough to live on if they took things as\nthey came. Indeed, they could have managed to save enough to keep two\nhorses; but, like the other peasants of the neighbourhood, they said,\n\"The horse eats itself up\"--that is to say, it eats as much as it\nearns. Jeppe-Jaens cultivated his field in summer. In the winter he\nmade wooden shoes, and then he had an assistant, a journeyman, who\nunderstood as well as he himself did how to make the wooden shoes\nstrong, and light, and graceful. They carved shoes and spoons, and\nthat brought in money. It would have been wronging the Jeppe-Jaenses to\ncall them poor people.\n\nLittle Ib, a boy seven years old, the only child of the family, would\nsit by, looking at the workmen, cutting at a stick, and occasionally\ncutting his finger. But one day Ib succeeded so well with two pieces\nof wood, that they really looked like little wooden shoes; and these\nhe wanted to give to little Christine. And who was little Christine?\nShe was the boatman's daughter, and was graceful and delicate as a\ngentleman's child; had she been differently dressed, no one would have\nimagined that she came out of the hut on the neighbouring heath. There\nlived her father, who was a widower, and supported himself by carrying\nfirewood in his great boat out of the forest to the estate of\nSilkeborg, with its great eel-pond and eel-weir, and sometimes even to\nthe distant little town of Randers. He had no one who could take care\nof little Christine, and therefore the child was almost always with\nhim in his boat, or in the forest among the heath plants and barberry\nbushes. Sometimes, when he had to go as far as the town, he would\nbring little Christine, who was a year younger than Ib, to stay at the\nJeppe-Jaenses.\n\nIb and Christine agreed very well in every particular: they divided\ntheir bread and berries when they were hungry, they dug in the ground\ntogether for treasures, and they ran, and crept, and played about\neverywhere. And one day they ventured together up the high ridge, and\na long way into the forest; once they found a few snipes' eggs there,\nand that was a great event for them.\n\nIb had never been on the heath where Christine's father lived, nor had\nhe ever been on the river. But even this was to happen; for\nChristine's father once invited him to go with them; and on the\nevening before the excursion, he followed the boatman over the heath\nto the house of the latter.\n\nNext morning early, the two children were sitting high up on the pile\nof firewood in the boat, eating bread and whistleberries. Christine's\nfather and his assistant propelled the boat with staves. They had the\ncurrent with them, and swiftly they glided down the stream, through\nthe lakes it forms in its course, and which sometimes seemed shut in\nby reeds and water plants, though there was always room for them to\npass, and though the old trees bent quite forward over the water, and\nthe old oaks bent down their bare branches, as if they had turned up\ntheir sleeves and wanted to show their knotty naked arms. Old alder\ntrees, which the stream had washed away from the bank, clung with\ntheir fibrous roots to the bottom of the stream, and looked like\nlittle wooded islands. The water-lilies rocked themselves on the\nriver. It was a splendid excursion; and at last they came to the great\neel-weir, where the water rushed through the flood-gates; and Ib and\nChristine thought this was beautiful to behold.\n\nIn those days there was no manufactory there, nor was there any town;\nonly the old great farmyard, with its scanty fields, with few\nservants and a few head of cattle, could be seen there; and the\nrushing of the water through the weir and the cry of the wild ducks\nwere the only signs of life in Silkeborg. After the firewood had been\nunloaded, the father of Christine bought a whole bundle of eels and a\nslaughtered sucking-pig, and all was put into a basket and placed in\nthe stern of the boat. Then they went back again up the stream; but\nthe wind was favourable, and when the sails were hoisted, it was as\ngood as if two horses had been harnessed to the boat.\n\nWhen they had arrived at a point in the stream where the\nassistant-boatman dwelt, a little way from the bank, the boat was\nmoored, and the two men landed, after exhorting the children to sit\nstill. But the children did not do that; or at least they obeyed only\nfor a very short time. They must be peeping into the basket in which\nthe eels and the sucking-pig had been placed, and they must needs pull\nthe sucking-pig out, and take it in their hands, and feel and touch it\nall over; and as both wanted to hold it at the same time, it came to\npass that they let it fall into the water, and the sucking-pig drifted\naway with the stream--and here was a terrible event!\n\nIb jumped ashore, and ran a little distance along the bank, and\nChristine sprang after him.\n\n\"Take me with you!\" she cried.\n\nAnd in a few minutes they were deep in the thicket, and could no\nlonger see either the boat or the bank. They ran on a little farther,\nand then Christine fell down on the ground and began to cry; but Ib\npicked her up.\n\n\"Follow me!\" he cried. \"Yonder lies the house.\"\n\nBut the house was not yonder. They wandered on and on, over the dry,\nrustling, last year's leaves, and over fallen branches that crackled\nbeneath their feet. Soon they heard a loud piercing scream. They stood\nstill and listened, and presently the scream of an eagle sounded\nthrough the wood. It was an ugly scream, and they were frightened at\nit; but before them, in the thick wood, the most beautiful blueberries\ngrew in wonderful profusion. They were so inviting, that the children\ncould not do otherwise than stop; and they lingered for some time,\neating the blueberries till they had quite blue mouths and blue\ncheeks. Now again they heard the cry they had heard before.\n\n\"We shall get into trouble about the pig,\" said Christine.\n\n\"Come, let us go to our house,\" said Ib; \"it is here in the wood.\"\n\n[Illustration: IB AND CHRISTINE MEET THE GIPSY.]\n\nAnd they went forward. They presently came to a wood, but it did not\nlead them home; and darkness came on, and they were afraid. The\nwonderful stillness that reigned around was interrupted now and then\nby the shrill cries of the great horrid owl and of the birds that were\nstrange to them. At last they both lost themselves in a thicket.\nChristine cried, and Ib cried too; and after they had bemoaned\nthemselves for a time, they threw themselves down on the dry leaves,\nand went fast asleep.\n\nThe sun was high in the heavens when the two children awoke. They were\ncold; but in the neighbourhood of this resting-place, on the hill, the\nsun shone through the trees, and there they thought they would warm\nthemselves; and from there Ib fancied they would be able to see his\nparents' house. But they were far away from the house in question, in\nquite another part of the forest. They clambered to the top of the\nrising ground, and found themselves on the summit of a slope running\ndown to the margin of a transparent lake. They could see fish in great\nnumbers in the pure water illumined by the sun's rays. This spectacle\nwas quite a sudden surprise for them; but close beside them grew a nut\nbush covered with the finest nuts; and now they picked the nuts, and\ncracked them, and ate the delicate young kernels, which had only just\nbecome perfect. But there was another surprise and another fright in\nstore for them. Out of the thicket stepped a tall old woman; her face\nwas quite brown, and her hair was deep black and shining. The whites\nof her eyes gleamed like a negro's; on her back she carried a bundle,\nand in her hand she bore a knotted stick. She was a gipsy. The\nchildren did not at once understand what she said. She brought three\nnuts out of her pocket, and told them that in these nuts the most\nbeautiful, the loveliest things were hidden; for they were\nwishing-nuts.\n\nIb looked at her, and she seemed so friendly, that he plucked up\ncourage and asked her if she would give him the nuts; and the woman\ngave them to him, and gathered some more for herself, a whole\npocketful, from the nut bush.\n\nAnd Ib and Christine looked at the wishing-nuts with great eyes.\n\n\"Is there a carriage with a pair of horses in this nut?\" he asked.\n\n\"Yes, there's a golden carriage with two horses,\" answered the woman.\n\n\"Then give me the nut,\" said little Christine.\n\nAnd Ib gave it to her, and the strange woman tied it in her\npocket-handkerchief for her.\n\n\"Is there in this nut a pretty little neckerchief, like the one\nChristine wears round her neck?\" inquired Ib.\n\n\"There are ten neckerchiefs in it,\" answered the woman. \"There are\nbeautiful dresses in it, and stockings, and a hat with a veil.\"\n\n\"Then I will have that one too,\" cried little Christine.\n\nAnd Ib gave her the second nut also. The third was a little black\nthing.\n\n\"That one you can keep,\" said Christine; \"and it is a pretty one too.\"\n\n\"What is in it?\" inquired Ib.\n\n\"The best of all things for you,\" replied the gipsy-woman.\n\nAnd Ib held the nut very tight. The woman promised to lead the\nchildren into the right path, so that they might find their way home;\nand now they went forward, certainly in quite a different direction\nfrom the path they should have followed. But that is no reason why we\nshould suspect the gipsy-woman of wanting to steal the children. In\nthe wild wood-path they met the forest bailiff, who knew Ib; and by\nhis help, Ib and Christine both arrived at home, where their friends\nhad been very anxious about them. They were pardoned and forgiven,\nalthough they had indeed both deserved \"to get into trouble;\" firstly,\nbecause they had let the sucking-pig fall into the water, and\nsecondly, because they had run away.\n\nChristine was taken back to her father on the heath, and Ib remained\nin the farmhouse on the margin of the wood by the great ridge. The\nfirst thing he did in the evening was to bring forth out of his pocket\nthe little black nut, in which \"the best thing of all\" was said to be\nenclosed. He placed it carefully in the crack of the door, and then\nshut the door so as to break the nut; but there was not much kernel in\nit. The nut looked as if it were filled with tobacco or black rich\nearth; it was what we call hollow, or worm-eaten.\n\n\"Yes, that's exactly what I thought,\" said Ib. \"How could the very\nbest thing be contained in this little nut? And Christine will get\njust as little out of her two nuts, and will have neither fine clothes\nnor the golden carriage.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd winter came on, and the new year began; indeed, several years went\nby.\n\nIb was at last to be confirmed; and for this reason he went during a\nwhole winter to the clergyman, far away in the nearest village, to\nprepare. About this time the boatman one day visited Ib's parents, and\ntold them that Christine was now going into service, and that she had\nbeen really fortunate in getting a remarkably good place, and falling\ninto worthy hands.\n\n\"Only think,\" he said; \"she is going to the rich innkeeper's, in the\ninn at Herning, far towards the west, many miles from here. She is to\nassist the hostess in keeping the house; and afterwards, if she takes\nto it well, and stays to be confirmed there, the people are going to\nadopt her as their own daughter.\"\n\nAnd Ib and Christine took leave of one another. People called them\n\"the betrothed;\" and at parting, the girl showed Ib that she had still\nthe two nuts which he had given her long ago, during their wanderings\nin the forest; and she told him, moreover, that in a drawer she had\ncarefully kept the little wooden shoes which he had carved as a\npresent for her in their childish days. And thereupon they parted.\n\nIb was confirmed. But he remained in his mother's house, for he had\nbecome a clever maker of wooden shoes, and in summer he looked after\nthe field. He did it all alone, for his mother kept no farm-servant,\nand his father had died long ago.\n\nOnly seldom he got news of Christine from some passing postillion or\neel-fisher. But she was well off at the rich innkeeper's; and after\nshe had been confirmed, she wrote a letter to her father, and sent a\nkind message to Ib and his mother; and in the letter there was mention\nmade of certain linen garments and a fine new gown, which Christine\nhad received as a present from her employers. This was certainly good\nnews.\n\nNext spring, there was a knock one day at the door of our Ibis old\nmother, and behold, the boatman and Christine stepped into the room.\nShe had come on a visit to spend a day: a carriage had to come from\nthe Herning Inn to the next village, and she had taken the opportunity\nto see her friends once again. She looked as handsome as a real lady,\nand she had a pretty gown on, which had been well sewn, and made\nexpressly for her. There she stood, in grand array, and Ib was in his\nworking clothes. He could not utter a word: he certainly seized her\nhand, and held it fast in his own, and was heartily glad; but he could\nnot get his tongue to obey him. Christine was not embarrassed,\nhowever, for she went on talking and talking, and, moreover, kissed Ib\non his mouth in the heartiest manner.\n\n\"Did you know me again directly, Ib?\" she asked; but even afterwards,\nwhen they were left quite by themselves, and he stood there still\nholding her hand in his, he could only say:\n\n\"You look quite like a real lady, and I am so uncouth. How often I\nhave thought of you, Christine, and of the old times!\"\n\nAnd arm in arm they sauntered up the great ridge, and looked across\nthe stream towards the heath, towards the great hills overgrown with\nbloom. It was perfectly silent; but by the time they parted it had\ngrown quite clear to him that Christine must be his wife. Had they\nnot, even in their childhood, been called the betrothed pair? To him\nthey seemed to be really engaged to each other, though neither of them\nhad spoken a word on the subject. Only for a few more hours could they\nremain together, for Christine was obliged to go back into the next\nvillage, from whence the carriage was to start early next morning for\nHerning. Her father and Ib escorted her as far as the village. It was\na fair moonlight evening, and when they reached their destination, and\nIb still held Christine's hand in his own, he could not make up his\nmind to let her go. His eyes brightened, but still the words came\nhalting over his lips. Yet they came from the depths of his heart,\nwhen he said:\n\n\"If you have not become too grand, Christine, and if you can make up\nyour mind to live with me in my mother's house as my wife, we must\nbecome a wedded pair some day; but we can wait awhile yet.\"\n\n\"Yes, let us wait for a time, Ib,\" she replied; and he kissed her\nlips. \"I confide in you, Ib,\" said Christine; \"and I think that I love\nyou--but I will sleep upon it.\"\n\nAnd with that they parted. And on the way home Ib told the boatman\nthat he and Christine were as good as betrothed; and the boatman\ndeclared he had always expected it would turn out so; and he went home\nwith Ib, and remained that night in the young man's house; but nothing\nfurther was said of the betrothal.\n\nA year passed by, in the course of which two letters were exchanged\nbetween Ib and Christine. The signature was prefaced by the words,\n\"Faithful till death!\" One day the boatman came into Ib, and brought\nhim a greeting from Christine. What he had further to say was brought\nout in somewhat hesitating fashion, but it was to the effect that\nChristine was almost more than prosperous, for she was a pretty girl,\ncourted and loved. The son of the host had been home on a visit; he\nwas employed in the office of some great institution in Copenhagen;\nand he was very much pleased with Christine, and she had taken a fancy\nto him: his parents were ready to give their consent, but Christine\nwas very anxious to retain Ib's good opinion; \"and so she had thought\nof refusing this great piece of good fortune,\" said the boatman.\n\nAt first Ib said not a word; but he became as white as the wall, and\nslightly shook his head. Then he said slowly:\n\n\"Christine must not refuse this advantageous offer.\"\n\n\"Then do you write a few words to her,\" said the boatman.\n\nAnd Ib sat down to write; but he could not manage it well: the words\nwould not come as he wished them; and first he altered, and then he\ntore up the page; but the next morning a letter lay ready to be sent\nto Christine, and it contained the following words:\n\n     \"I have read the letter you have sent to your father, and\n     gather from it that you are prospering in all things, and\n     that there is a prospect of higher fortune for you. Ask your\n     heart, Christine, and ponder well the fate that awaits you,\n     if you take me for your husband; what I possess is but\n     little. Do not think of me, or my position, but think of\n     your own welfare. You are bound to me by no promise, and if\n     in your heart you have given me one, I release you from it.\n     May all treasures of happiness be poured out upon you,\n     Christine. Heaven will console me in its own good time.\n\n                           \"Ever your sincere friend,\n\n                                                    \"IB\"\n\nAnd the letter was dispatched, and Christine duly received it.\n\nIn the course of that November her banns were published in the church\non the heath, and in Copenhagen, where her bridegroom lived; and to\nCopenhagen she proceeded, under the protection of her future\nmother-in-law, because the bridegroom could not undertake the journey\ninto Jutland on account of his various occupations. On the journey,\nChristine met her father in a certain village; and here the two took\nleave of one another. A few words were mentioned concerning this fact,\nbut Ib made no remark upon it: his mother said he had grown very\nsilent of late; indeed, he had become very pensive, and thus the three\nnuts came into his mind which the gipsy-woman had given him long ago,\nand of which he had given two to Christine. Yes, it seemed right--they\nwere wishing-nuts, and in one of them lay a golden carriage with two\nhorses, and in the other very elegant clothes; all those luxuries\nwould now be Christine's in the capital. Her part had thus come true.\nAnd to him, Ib, the nut had offered only black earth. The gipsy-woman\nhad said, this was \"the best of all for him.\" Yes, it was right, that\nalso was coming true. The black earth was the best for him. Now he\nunderstood clearly what had been the woman's meaning. In the black\nearth, in the dark grave, would be the best happiness for him.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd once again years passed by, not very many, but they seemed long\nyears to Ib. The old innkeeper and his wife died, one after the other;\nthe whole of their property, many thousands of dollars, came to the\nson. Yes, now Christine could have the golden carriage, and plenty of\nfine clothes.\n\nDuring the two long years that followed no letter came from Christine;\nand when her father at length received one from her, it was not\nwritten in prosperity, by any means. Poor Christine! neither she nor\nher husband had understood how to keep the money together; and there\nseemed to be no blessing with it, because they had not sought it.\n\nAnd again the weather bloomed and faded. The winter had swept for many\nyears across the heath, and over the ridge beneath which Ib dwelt,\nsheltered from the rough winds. The spring sun shone bright, and Ib\nguided the plough across his field, when one day it glided over what\nappeared to be a fire stone. Something like a great black ship came\nout of the ground, and when Ib took it up it proved to be a piece of\nmetal; and the place from which the plough had cut the stone gleamed\nbrightly with ore. It was a great golden armlet of ancient workmanship\nthat he had found. He had disturbed a \"Hun's Grave,\" and discovered\nthe costly treasure buried in it. Ib showed what he had found to the\nclergyman, who explained its value to him, and then he betook himself\nto the local judges, who reported the discovery to the keeper of the\nmuseum, and recommended Ib to deliver up the treasure in person.\n\n\"You have found in the earth the best thing you could find,\" said the\njudge.\n\n\"The best thing!\" thought Ib. \"The very best thing for me, and found\nin the earth! Well, if that is the best, the gipsy-woman was correct\nin what she prophesied to me.\"\n\nSo Ib travelled with the ferry-boat from Aarhus to Copenhagen. To him,\nwho had but once or twice passed beyond the river that rolled by his\nhome, this seemed like a voyage across the ocean. And he arrived in\nCopenhagen.\n\nThe value of the gold he had found was paid over to him; it was a\nlarge sum--six hundred dollars. And Ib of the heath wandered about in\nthe great capital.\n\nOn the day on which he had settled to go back with the captain, Ib\nlost his way in the streets, and took quite a different direction from\nthe one he intended to follow. He had wandered into the suburb of\nChristianhaven, into a poor little street. Not a human being was to be\nseen. At last a very little girl came out of one of the wretched\nhouses. Ib inquired of the little one the way to the street which he\nwanted; but she looked shyly at him, and began to cry bitterly. He\nasked her what ailed her, but could not understand what she said in\nreply. But as they went along the street together, they passed beneath\nthe light of a lamp; and when the light fell on the girl's face, he\nfelt a strange and sharp emotion, for Christine stood bodily before\nhim, just as he remembered her from the days of his childhood.\n\nAnd he went with the little maiden into the wretched house, and\nascended the narrow, crazy staircase, which led to a little attic\nchamber in the roof. The air in this chamber was heavy and almost\nsuffocating: no light was burning; but there was heavy sighing and\nmoaning in one corner. Ib struck a light with the help of a match. It\nwas the mother of the child who lay sighing on the miserable bed.\n\n\"Can I be of any service to you?\" asked Ib. \"This little girl has\nbrought me up here, but I am a stranger in this city. Are there no\nneighbours or friends whom I could call to you?\" And he raised the\nsick woman's head, and smoothed her pillow.\n\nIt was Christine of the heath!\n\nFor years her name had not been mentioned yonder, for the mention of\nher would have disturbed Ib's peace of mind, and rumour had told\nnothing good concerning her. The wealth which her husband had\ninherited from his parents had made him proud and arrogant. He had\ngiven up his certain appointment, had travelled for half a year in\nforeign lands, and on his return had incurred debts, and yet lived in\nan expensive fashion. His carriage had bent over more and more, so to\nspeak, until at last it turned over completely. The many merry\ncompanions and table-friends he had entertained declared it served him\nright, for he had kept house like a madman; and one morning his corpse\nwas found in the canal.\n\nThe icy hand of death was already on Christine. Her youngest child,\nonly a few weeks old, expected in prosperity and born in misery, was\nalready in its grave, and it had come to this with Christine herself,\nthat she lay, sick to death and forsaken, in a miserable room, amid a\npoverty that she might well have borne in her childish days, but which\nnow oppressed her painfully, since she had been accustomed to better\nthings. It was her eldest child, also a little Christine, that here\nsuffered hunger and poverty with her, and whom Ib had now brought\nhome.\n\n\"I am unhappy at the thought of dying and leaving the poor child here\nalone,\" she said. \"Ah, what is to become of the poor thing?\" And not a\nword more could she utter.\n\nAnd Ib brought out another match, and lighted up a piece of candle he\nfound in the room, and the flame illumined the wretched dwelling. And\nIb looked at the little girl, and thought how Christine had looked\nwhen she was young; and he felt that for her sake he would be fond of\nthis child, which was as yet a stranger to him. The dying woman gazed\nat him, and her eyes opened wider and wider--did she recognize him? He\nnever knew, for no further word passed over her lips.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAnd it was in the forest by the river Gudenau, in the region of the\nheath. The air was thick and dark, and there were no blossoms on the\nheath plant; but the autumn tempests whirled the yellow leaves from\nthe wood into the stream, and out over the heath towards the hut of\nthe boatman, in which strangers now dwelt; but beneath the ridge, safe\nbeneath the protection of the high trees, stood the little farm,\ntrimly whitewashed and painted, and within it the turf blazed up\ncheerily in the chimney; for within was sunlight, the beaming sunlight\nof a child's two eyes; and the tones of the spring birds sounded in\nthe words that came from the child's rosy lips: she sat on Ib's knee,\nand Ib was to her both father and mother, for her own parents were\ndead, and had vanished from her as a dream vanishes alike from\nchildren and grown men. Ib sat in the pretty neat house, for he was a\nprosperous man, while the mother of the little girl rested in the\nchurchyard at Copenhagen, where she had died in poverty.\n\n[Illustration: LITTLE CHRISTINE.]\n\nIb had money, and was said to have provided for the future. He had won\ngold out of the black earth, and he had a Christine for his own, after\nall.\n\n\n\n\nOLE THE TOWER-KEEPER.\n\n\n\"In the world it's always going up and down--and now I can't go up any\nhigher!\" So said Ole the tower-keeper. \"Most people have to try both\nthe ups and the downs; and, rightly considered, we all get to be\nwatchmen at last, and look down upon life from a height.\"\n\nSuch was the speech of Ole, my friend, the old tower-keeper, a strange\ntalkative old fellow, who seemed to speak out everything that came\ninto his head, and who for all that had many a serious thought deep in\nhis heart. Yes, he was the child of respectable people, and there were\neven some who said that he was the son of a privy councillor, or that\nhe might have been; he had studied too, and had been assistant teacher\nand deputy clerk; but of what service was all that to him? In those\ndays he lived in the clerk's house, and was to have everything in the\nhouse, to be at free quarters, as the saying is; but he was still, so\nto speak, a fine young gentleman. He wanted to have his boots cleaned\nwith patent blacking, and the clerk could only afford ordinary grease;\nand upon that point they split--one spoke of stinginess, the other of\nvanity, and the blacking became the black cause of enmity between\nthem, and at last they parted.\n\nThis is what he demanded of the world in general--namely, patent\nblacking--and he got nothing but grease. Accordingly he at last drew\nback from all men, and became a hermit; but the church tower is the\nonly place in a great city where hermitage, office, and bread can be\nfound together. So he betook himself up thither, and smoked his pipe\nas he made his solitary rounds. He looked upward and downward, and had\nhis own thoughts, and told in his way of what he read in books and in\nhimself. I often lent him books, good books; and you may know a man by\nthe company he keeps. He loved neither the English governess-novels,\nnor the French ones, which he called a mixture of empty wind and\nraisin-stalks: he wanted biographies and descriptions of the wonders\nof the world. I visited him at least once a year, generally directly\nafter New Year's-day, and then he always spoke of this and that which\nthe change of the year had put into his head.\n\nI will tell the story of three of these visits, and will reproduce his\nown words whenever I can remember them.\n\n\nFIRST VISIT.\n\nAmong the books which I had lately lent Ole, was one which had greatly\nrejoiced and occupied him. It was a geological book, containing an\naccount of the boulders.\n\n[Illustration: THE RIDE TO AMACK.]\n\n\"Yes, they're rare old fellows, those boulders!\" he said; \"and to\nthink that we should pass them without noticing them! And over the\nstreet pavement, the paving-stones, those fragments of the oldest\nremains of antiquity, one walks without ever thinking about them. I\nhave done the very thing myself. But now I look respectfully at every\npaving-stone. Many thanks for the book! It has filled me with thought,\nand has made me long to read more on the subject. The romance of the\nearth is, after all, the most wonderful of all romances. It's a pity\none can't read the first volumes of it, because they 're written in a\nlanguage that we don't understand. One must read in the different\nstrata, in the pebble-stones, for each separate period. Yes, it is a\nromance, a very wonderful romance, and we all have our place in it. We\ngrope and ferret about, and yet remain where we are, but the ball\nkeeps turning, without emptying the ocean over us; the clod on which\nwe move about, holds, and does not let us through. And then it's a\nstory that has been acting for thousands upon thousands of years, and\nis still going on. My best thanks for the book about the boulders.\nThose are fellows indeed! they could tell us something worth hearing,\nif they only knew how to talk. It's really a pleasure, now and then to\nbecome a mere nothing, especially when a man is as highly placed as I\nam. And then to think that we all, even with patent lacquer, are\nnothing more than insects of a moment on that ant-hill the earth,\nthough we may be insects with stars and garters, places and offices!\nOne feels quite a novice beside these venerable million-year-old\nboulders. On New Year's-eve I was reading the book, and had lost\nmyself in it so completely, that I forgot my usual New Year's\ndiversion, namely, the wild hunt to Amack. Ah, you don't know what\nthat is!\n\n\"The journey of the witches on broomsticks is well enough known--that\njourney is taken on St. John's-eve, to the Brocken; but we have a wild\njourney also, which is national and modern, and that is the journey to\nAmack on the night of the New Year. All indifferent poets and\npoetesses, musicians, newspaper writers and artistic notabilities, I\nmean those who are no good, ride in the New Year's-night through the\nair to Amack. They sit backwards on their painting brushes or quill\npens, for steel pens won't bear them, they're too stiff. As I told\nyou, I see that every New Year's night, and could mention the\nmajority of the riders by name, but I should not like to draw their\nenmity upon myself, for they don't like people to talk about their\nride to Amack on quill pens. I've a kind of niece, who is a fishwife,\nand who, as she tells me, supplies three respectable newspapers with\nthe terms of abuse and vituperation they use, and she has herself been\nat Amack as an invited guest; but she was carried out thither, for she\ndoes not own a quill pen, nor can she ride. She has told me all about\nit. Half of what she said is not true, but the other half gives us\ninformation enough. When she was out there, the festivities began with\na song: each of the guests had written his own song, and each one sung\nhis own song, for he thought that the best, and it was all one, all\nthe same melody. Then those came marching up, in little bands, who are\nonly busy with their mouths. There were ringing bells that sang\nalternately; and then came the little drummers that beat their tattoo\nin the family circle; and acquaintance was made with those who write\nwithout putting their names, which here means as much as using grease\ninstead of patent blacking; and then there was the beadle with his\nboy, and the boy was the worst off, for in general he gets no notice\ntaken of him; then too there was the good street-sweeper with his\ncart, who turns over the dust-bin, and calls it \"good, very good,\nremarkably good.\" And in the midst of the pleasure that was afforded\nby the mere meeting of these folks, there shot up out of the great\ndirt-heap at Amack a stem, a tree, an immense flower, a great\nmushroom, a perfect roof, which formed a sort of warehouse for the\nworthy company, for in it hung everything they had given to the world\nduring the Old Year. Out of the tree poured sparks like flames of\nfire; these were the ideas and thoughts, borrowed from others, which\nthey had used, and which now got free and rushed away like so many\nfireworks. They played at 'the stick burns,' and the young poets\nplayed at 'heart-burns,' and the witlings played off their jests, and\nthe jests rolled away with a thundering sound, as if empty pots were\nbeing shattered against doors. 'It was very amusing!' my niece said;\nin fact, she said many things that were very malicious but very\namusing, but I won't mention them, for a man must be good-natured and\nnot a carping critic. But you will easily perceive that when a man\nonce knows the rights of the journey to Amack, as I know them, it's\nquite natural that on the New Year's-night one should look out to see\nthe wild chase go by. If in the New Year I miss certain persons who\nused to be there, I am sure to notice others who are new arrivals: but\nthis year I omitted taking my look at the guests. I bowled away on the\nboulders, rolled back through millions of years, and saw the stones\nbreak loose high up in the North, saw them drifting about on icebergs,\nlong before Noah's ark was constructed, saw them sink down to the\nbottom of the sea, and reappear with a sand-bank, with that one that\npeered forth from the flood and said, 'This shall be Zealand!' I saw\nthem become the dwelling-place of birds that are unknown to us, and\nthen become the seat of wild chiefs of whom we know nothing, until\nwith their axes they cut their Runic signs into a few of these stones,\nwhich then came into the calendar of time. But as for me, I had gone\nquite beyond all lapse of time, and had become a cipher and a nothing.\nThen three or four beautiful falling stars came down, which cleared\nthe air, and gave my thoughts another direction. You know what a\nfalling star is, do you not? The learned men are not at all clear\nabout it. I have my own ideas about shooting stars, as the common\npeople in many parts call them, and my idea is this: How often are\nsilent thanksgivings offered up for one who has done a good and noble\naction! the thanks are often speechless, but they are not lost for all\nthat. I think these thanks are caught up, and the sunbeams bring the\nsilent, hidden thankfulness over the head of the benefactor; and if it\nbe a whole people that has been expressing its gratitude through a\nlong lapse of time, the thankfulness appears as a nosegay of flowers,\nand at length falls in the form of a shooting star upon the good man's\ngrave. I am always very much pleased when I see a shooting star,\nespecially in the New Year's-night, and then find out for whom the\ngift of gratitude was intended. Lately a gleaming star fell in the\nsouth-west, as a tribute of thanksgiving to many, many! 'For whom was\nthat star intended?' thought I. It fell, no doubt, on the hill by the\nBay of Flensberg, where the Danebrog waves over the graves of\nSchleppegrell, Laesloees, and their comrades. One star also fell in the\nmidst of the land, fell upon Soroe, a flower on the grave of Holberg,\nthe thanks of the year from a great many--thanks for his charming\nplays!\n\n\"It is a great and pleasant thought to know that a shooting star falls\nupon our graves; on mine certainly none will fall--no sunbeam brings\nthanks to me, for here there is nothing worthy of thanks. I shall not\nget the patent lacquer,\" said Ole; \"for my fate on earth is only\ngrease, after all.\"\n\n\nSECOND VISIT.\n\nIt was New Year's-day, and I went up on the tower. Ole spoke of the\ntoasts that were drunk on the transition from the old year into the\nnew, from one grave into the other, as he said. And he told me a story\nabout the glasses, and this story had a very deep meaning. It was\nthis:\n\n\"When on the New Year's-night the clock strikes twelve, the people at\nthe table rise up, with full glasses in their hands, and drain these\nglasses, and drink success to the New Year. They begin the year with\nthe glass in their hands; that is a good beginning for topers. They\nbegin the New Year by going to bed, and that's a good beginning for\ndrones. Sleep is sure to play a great part in the New Year, and the\nglass likewise. Do you know what dwells in the glass?\" asked Ole. \"I\nwill tell you--there dwell in the glass, first, health, and then\npleasure, then the most complete sensual delight: and misfortune and\nthe bitterest woe dwell in the glass also. Now suppose we count the\nglasses--of course I count the different degrees in the glasses for\ndifferent people.\n\n\"You see, the _first glass_, that's the glass of health, and in that\nthe herb of health is found growing; put it up on the beam in the\nceiling, and at the end of the year you may be sitting in the arbour\nof health.\n\n\"If you take the _second glass_--from this a little bird soars\nupwards, twittering in guileless cheerfulness, so that a man may\nlisten to his song and perhaps join in 'Fair is life! no downcast\nlooks! Take courage and march onward!'\n\n\"Out of the _third glass_ rises a little winged urchin, who cannot\ncertainly be called an angel-child, for there is goblin blood in his\nveins, and he has the spirit of a goblin; not wishing to hurt or harm\nyou, indeed, but very ready to play off tricks upon you. He'll sit at\nyour ear and whisper merry thoughts to you; he'll creep into your\nheart and warm you, so that you grow very merry and become a wit, so\nfar as the wits of the others can judge.\n\n\"In the _fourth glass_ is neither herb, bird, nor urchin: in that\nglass is the pause drawn by reason, and one may never go beyond that\nsign.\n\n\"Take the _fifth glass_, and you will weep at yourself, you will feel\nsuch a deep emotion; or it will affect you in a different way. Out of\nthe glass there will spring with a bang Prince Carnival, nine times\nand extravagantly merry: he'll draw you away with him, you'll forget\nyour dignity, if you have any, and you'll forget more than you should\nor ought to forget. All is dance, song, and sound; the masks will\ncarry you away with them, and the daughters of vanity, clad in silk\nand satin, will come with loose hair and alluring charms: but tear\nyourself away if you can!\n\n\"The _sixth glass_! Yes, in that glass sits a demon, in the form of a\nlittle, well-dressed, attractive and very fascinating man, who\nthoroughly understands you, agrees with you in everything, and becomes\nquite a second self to you. He has a lantern with him, to give you\nlight as he accompanies you home. There is an old legend about a saint\nwho was allowed to choose one of the seven deadly sins, and who\naccordingly chose drunkenness, which appeared to him the least, but\nwhich led him to commit all the other six. The man's blood is mingled\nwith that of the demon--it is the sixth glass, and with that the germ\nof all evil shoots up within us; and each one grows up with a strength\nlike that of the grains of mustard seed, and shoots up into a tree,\nand spreads over the whole world; and most people have no choice but\nto go into the oven, to be re-cast in a new form.\n\n\"That's the history of the glasses,\" said the tower-keeper Ole, \"and\nit can be told with lacquer or only with grease; but I give it you\nwith both!\"\n\n\nTHIRD VISIT.\n\nOn this occasion I chose the general \"moving-day\" for my visit to Ole,\nfor on that day it is anything but agreeable down in the streets in\nthe town; for they are full of sweepings, shreds, and remnants of all\nsorts, to say nothing of the cast-off bed straw in which one has to\nwade about. But this time I happened to see two children playing in\nthis wilderness of sweepings. They were playing at \"going to bed,\" for\nthe occasion seemed especially favourable for this sport: they crept\nunder the straw, and drew an old bit of ragged curtain over themselves\nby way of coverlet. \"It was splendid!\" they said; but it was a little\ntoo strong for me, and besides, I was obliged to mount up on my visit.\n\n\"It's moving-day to-day,\" he said; \"streets and houses are like a\ndust-bin, a large dust-bin; but I'm content with a cartload. I may get\nsomething good out of that, and I really did get something good out of\nit, once. Shortly after Christmas I was going up the street; it was\nrough weather, wet and dirty; the right kind of weather to catch cold\nin. The dustman was there with his cart, which was full, and looked\nlike a sample of streets on moving-day. At the back of the cart stood\na fir tree, quite green still, and with tinsel on its twigs: it had\nbeen used on Christmas-eve, and now it was thrown out into the street,\nand the dustman had stood it up at the back of his cart. It was droll\nto look at, or you may say it was mournful--all depends on what you\nthink of when you see it; and I thought about it, and thought this and\nthat of many things that were in the cart: or I might have done so,\nand that comes to the same thing. There was an old lady's glove too: I\nwonder what that was thinking of? Shall I tell you? The glove was\nlying there, pointing with its little finger at the tree. 'I'm sorry\nfor the tree,' it thought; 'and I was also at the feast, where the\nchandeliers glittered. My life was, so to speak, a ball-night: a\npressure of the hand, and I burst! My memory keeps dwelling upon that,\nand I have really nothing else to live for!' This is what the glove\nthought, or what it might have thought. 'That's a stupid affair with\nyonder fir tree,' said the potsherds. You see, potsherds think\neverything is stupid. 'When one is in the dust-cart,' they said, 'one\nought not to give one's self airs and wear tinsel. I know that I have\nbeen useful in the world, far more useful than such a green stick.'\nThat was a view that might be taken, and I don't think it quite a\npeculiar one; but for all that the fir tree looked very well: it was\nlike a little poetry in the dust-heap; and truly there is dust enough\nin the streets on moving-day. The way is difficult and troublesome\nthen, and I feel obliged to run away out of the confusion; or if I am\non the tower, I stay there and look down, and it is amusing enough.\n\n[Illustration: THE REJECTED TRAVELLER.]\n\n\"There are the good people below, playing at 'changing houses.' They\ntoil and tug away with their goods and chattels, and the household\ngoblin sits in an old tub and moves with them; all the little griefs\nof the lodging and the family, and the real cares and sorrows, move\nwith them out of the old dwelling into the new; and what gain is there\nfor them or for us in the whole affair? Yes, there was written long\nago the good old maxim: 'Think on the great moving-day of death!'\nThat is a serious thought; I hope it is not disagreeable to you that\nI should have touched upon it? Death is the most certain messenger\nafter all, in spite of his various occupations. Yes, Death is the\nomnibus conductor, and he is the passport writer, and he countersigns\nour service-book, and he is director of the savings bank of life. Do\nyou understand me? All the deeds of our life, the great and the little\nalike, we put into this savings bank; and when Death calls with his\nomnibus, and we have to step in, and drive with him into the land of\neternity, then on the frontier he gives us our service-book as a pass.\nAs a provision for the journey he takes this or that good deed we have\ndone, and lets it accompany us; and this may be very pleasant or very\nterrific. Nobody has ever escaped this omnibus journey: there is\ncertainly a talk about one who was not allowed to go--they call him\nthe Wandering Jew: he has to ride behind the omnibus. If he had been\nallowed to get in, he would have escaped the clutches of the poets.\n\n\"Just cast your mind's eye into that great omnibus. The society is\nmixed, for king and beggar, genius and idiot, sit side by side: they\nmust go without their property and money; they have only the\nservice-book and the gift out of the saving's bank with them. But\nwhich of our deeds is selected and given to us? Perhaps quite a little\none, one that we have forgotten, but which has been recorded--small as\na pea, but the pea can send out a blooming shoot. The poor bumpkin,\nwho sat on a low stool in the corner, and was jeered at and flouted,\nwill perhaps have his worn-out stool given him as a provision; and the\nstool may become a litter in the land of eternity, and rise up then as\na throne, gleaming like gold, and blooming as an arbour. He who always\nlounged about, and drank the spiced draught of pleasure, that he might\nforget the wild things he had done here, will have his barrel given to\nhim on the journey, and will have to drink from it as they go on; and\nthe drink is bright and clear, so that the thoughts remain pure, and\nall good and noble feelings are awakened, and he sees and feels what\nin life he could not or would not see; and then he has within him the\npunishment, the _gnawing worm_, which will not die through time\nincalculable. If on the glasses there stood written '_oblivion_,' on\nthe barrel '_remembrance_' is inscribed.\n\n\"When I read a good book, an historical work, I always think at last\nof the poetry of what I am reading, and of the omnibus of death, and\nwonder which of the hero's deeds Death took out of the savings bank\nfor him, and what provisions he got on the journey into eternity.\nThere was once a French king--I have forgotten his name, for the names\nof good people are sometimes forgotten, even by me, but it will come\nback some day; there was a king who, during a famine, became the\nbenefactor of his people; and the people raised to his memory a\nmonument of snow, with the inscription, 'Quicker than this melts didst\nthou bring help!' I fancy that Death, looking back upon the monument,\ngave him a single snow-flake as provision, a snow-flake that never\nmelts, and this flake floated over his royal head, like a white\nbutterfly, into the land of eternity. Thus too, there was a Louis\nXI.--I have remembered his name, for one remembers what is bad--a\ntrait of him often comes into my thoughts, and I wish one could say\nthe story is not true. He had his lord high constable executed, and he\ncould execute him, right or wrong; but he had the innocent children of\nthe constable, one seven and the other eight years old, placed under\nthe scaffold so that the warm blood of their father spurted over them,\nand then he had them sent to the Bastille, and shut up in iron cages,\nwhere not even a coverlet was given them to protect them from the\ncold. And King Louis sent the executioner to them every week, and had\na tooth pulled out of the head of each, that they might not be too\ncomfortable; and the elder of the boys said, 'My mother would die of\ngrief if she knew that my younger brother had to suffer so cruelly;\ntherefore pull out two of my teeth, and spare him.' The tears came\ninto the hangman's eyes, but the king's will was stronger than the\ntears; and every week two little teeth were brought to him on a silver\nplate; he had demanded them, and he had them. I fancy that Death took,\nthese two teeth out of the savings bank of life, and gave them to\nLouis XI., to carry with him on the great journey into the land of\nimmortality: they fly before him like two flames of fire; they shine\nand burn, and they bite him, the innocent children's teeth.\n\n\"Yes, that's a serious journey, the omnibus ride on the great\nmoving-day! And when is it to be undertaken? That's just the serious\npart of it. Any day, any how, any minute, the omnibus may draw up.\nWhich of our deeds will Death take out of the savings bank, and give\nto us as provision? Let us think of the moving-day that is not marked\nin the calendar.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE BOTTLE-NECK.\n\n\nIn a narrow crooked street, among other abodes of poverty, stood an\nespecially narrow and tall house built of timber, which time had\nknocked about in such fashion that it seemed to be out of joint in\nevery direction. The house was inhabited by poor people, and the\ndeepest poverty was apparent in the garret lodging in the gable,\nwhere, in front of the only window, hung an old bent birdcage, which\nhad not even a proper water-glass, but only a bottle-neck reversed,\nwith a cork stuck in the mouth, to do duty for one. An old maid stood\nby the window: she had hung the cage with green chickweed; and a\nlittle chaffinch hopped from perch to perch, and sang and twittered\nmerrily enough.\n\n\"Yes, it's all very well for you to sing,\" said the Bottle-neck; that\nis to say, it did not pronounce the words as we can speak them, for a\nbottle-neck can't speak; but that's what he thought to himself in his\nown mind, like when we people talk quietly to ourselves. \"Yes, it's\nall very well for you to sing, you that have all your limbs uninjured.\nYou ought to feel what it's like to lose one's body, and to have only\nmouth and neck left, and to be hampered with work into the bargain, as\nin my case; and then I'm sure you would not sing. But after all it is\nwell that there should be somebody at least who is merry. I've no\nreason to sing, and, moreover, I can't sing. Yes, when I was a whole\nbottle, I sung out well if they rubbed me with a cork. They used to\ncall me a perfect lark, a magnificent lark! Ah, when I was out at a\npicnic with the tanner's family, and his daughter was betrothed! Yes,\nI remember it as if it had happened only yesterday. I have gone\nthrough a great deal, when I come to recollect. I've been in the fire\nand the water, have been deep in the black earth, and have mounted\nhigher than most of the others; and now I'm hanging here, outside the\nbirdcage, in the air and the sunshine! Oh, it would be quite worth\nwhile to hear my history; but I don't speak aloud of it, because I\ncan't.\"\n\nAnd now the Bottle-neck told its story, which was sufficiently\nremarkable. It told the story to itself, or only thought it in its own\nmind; and the little bird sang his song merrily, and down in the\nstreet there was driving and hurrying, and every one thought of his\nown affairs, or perhaps of nothing at all; and only the Bottle-neck\nthought. It thought of the flaming furnace in the manufactory, where\nit had been blown into life; it still remembered that it had been\nquite warm, that it had glanced into the hissing furnace, the home of\nits origin, and had felt a great desire to leap directly back again;\nbut that gradually it had become cooler, and had been very comfortable\nin the place to which it was taken. It had stood in a rank with a\nwhole regiment of brothers and sisters, all out of the same furnace;\nsome of them had certainly been blown into champagne bottles, and\nothers into beer bottles, and that makes a difference. Later, out in\nthe world, it may well happen that a beer bottle may contain the most\nprecious wine, and a champagne bottle be filled with blacking; but\neven in decay there is always something left by which people can see\nwhat one has been--nobility is nobility, even when filled with\nblacking.\n\nAll the bottles were packed up, and our bottle was among them. At that\ntime it did not think to finish its career as a bottle-neck, or that\nit should work its way up to be a bird's glass, which is always an\nhonourable thing; for one is of some consequence, after all. The\nbottle did not again behold the light of day till it was unpacked with\nthe other bottles in the cellar of the wine merchant, and rinsed out\nfor the first time; and that was a strange sensation. There it lay,\nempty and without a cork, and felt strangely unwell, as if it wanted\nsomething, it could not tell what. At last it was filled with good\ncostly wine, and was provided with a cork, and sealed down. A ticket\nwas placed on it, marked \"first quality;\" and it felt as if it had\ncarried off the first prize at an examination; for, you see, the wine\nwas good and the bottle was good. When one is young, that's the time\nfor poetry! There was a singing and sounding within it, of things\nwhich it could not understand--of green sunny mountains, whereon the\ngrape grows, where many vine dressers, men and women, sing and dance\nand rejoice. \"Ah, how beautiful is life!\" There was a singing and\nsounding to all this in the bottle, as in a young poet's brain; and\nmany a young poet does not understand the meaning of the song that is\nwithin him.\n\nOne morning the bottle was bought, for the tanner's apprentice was\ndispatched for a bottle of wine--\"of the best.\" And now it was put in\nthe provision basket, with ham and cheese and sausages; the finest\nbutter and the best bread were put into the basket too, the tanner's\ndaughter herself packed it. She was young and pretty; her brown eyes\nlaughed, and round her mouth played a smile as elegant as that in her\neyes. She had delicate hands, beautifully white, and her neck was\nwhiter still; you saw at once that she was one of the most beautiful\ngirls in the town: and still she was not engaged.\n\nThe provision basket was in the lap of the young girl when the family\ndrove out into the forest. The bottle-neck looked out from the folds\nof the white napkin. There was red wax upon the cork, and the bottle\nlooked straight into the girl's face. It also looked at the young\nsailor who sat next to the girl. He was a friend of old days, the son\nof the portrait painter. Quite lately he had passed with honour\nthrough his examination as mate, and to-morrow he was to sail away in\na ship, far off to a distant land. There had been much talk of this\nwhile the basket was being packed; and certainly the eyes and mouth of\nthe tanner's pretty daughter did not wear a very joyous expression\njust then.\n\nThe young people sauntered through the green wood, and talked to one\nanother. What were they talking of? No, the bottle could not hear\nthat, for it was in the provision basket. A long time passed before it\nwas drawn forth; but when that happened, there had been pleasant\nthings going on, for all were laughing, and the tanner's daughter\nlaughed too; but she spoke less than before, and her cheeks glowed\nlike two roses.\n\nThe father took the full bottle and the corkscrew in his hand. Yes,\nit's a strange thing to be drawn thus, the first time! The bottle-neck\ncould never afterwards forget that impressive moment; and indeed there\nwas quite a convulsion within him when the cork flew out, and a great\nthrobbing as the wine poured forth into the glasses.\n\n\"Health to the betrothed pair!\" cried the papa; and every glass was\nemptied to the dregs, and the young mate kissed his beautiful bride.\n\n\"Happiness and blessing!\" said the two old people, the father and\nmother; and the young man filled the glasses again.\n\n\"Safe return, and a wedding this day next year!\" he cried; and when\nthe glasses were emptied, he took the bottle, raised it on high, and\nsaid, \"Thou hast been present at the happiest day of my life, thou\nshalt never serve another!\"\n\nAnd so saying he hurled it high into the air. The tanner's daughter\ndid not then think that she should see the bottle fly again; and yet\nit was to be so. It then fell into the thick reeds on the margin of a\nlittle woodland lake; and the bottle-neck could remember quite plainly\nhow it lay there for some time. \"I gave them wine, and they gave me\nmarsh-water,\" he said; \"but it was all meant for the best.\" He could\nno longer see the betrothed couple and the cheerful old people; but\nfor a long time he could hear them rejoicing and singing. Then at last\ncame two peasant boys, and looked into the reeds; they spied out the\nbottle, and took it up; and now it was provided for.\n\nAt their home, in the wood cottage, the eldest of these brothers, who\nwas a sailor, and about to start on a long voyage, had been the day\nbefore to take leave: the mother was just engaged packing up various\nthings he was to take with him on his journey, and which the father\nwas going to carry into the town that evening to see his son once\nmore, and to give him a farewell greeting for the lad's mother and\nhimself. A little bottle of medicated brandy had already been wrapped\nup in a parcel, when the boys came in with a larger and stronger\nbottle which they had found. This bottle would hold more than the\nlittle one, and they pronounced that the brandy would be capital for\na bad digestion, inasmuch as it was mixed with medical herbs. The\ndraught that was now poured into the bottle was not so good as the red\nwine with which it had once been filled; these were bitter drops, but\neven these are sometimes good. The new big bottle was to go, and not\nthe little one; and so the bottle went travelling again. It was taken\non board for Peter Jensen, in the very same ship in which the young\nmate sailed. But he did not see the bottle; and, indeed, he would not\nhave known it, or thought it was the same one out of which they had\ndrunk a health to the betrothed pair, and to his own happy return.\n\n[Illustration: THE BOTTLE IS PRESENT ON A JOYOUS OCCASION.]\n\nCertainly it had no longer wine to give, but still it contained\nsomething that was just as good. Accordingly, whenever Peter Jensen\nbrought it out, it was dubbed by his messmates The Apothecary. It\ncontained the best medicine, medicine that strengthened the weak, and\nit gave liberally so long as it had a drop left. That was a pleasant\ntime, and the bottle sang when it was rubbed with the cork; and it was\ncalled the Great Lark, \"Peter Jensen's Lark.\"\n\nLong days and months rolled on, and the bottle already stood empty in\na corner, when it happened--whether on the passage out or home the\nbottle could not tell, for it had never been ashore--that a storm\narose; great waves came careering along, darkly and heavily, and\nlifted and tossed the ship to and fro. The mainmast was shivered, and\na wave started one of the planks, and the pumps became useless. It was\nblack night. The ship sank; but at the last moment the young mate\nwrote on a leaf of paper, \"God's will be done! We are sinking!\" He\nwrote the name of his betrothed, and his own name, and that of the\nship, and put the leaf in an empty bottle that happened to be at hand:\nhe corked it firmly down, and threw it out into the foaming sea. He\nknew not that it was the very bottle from which the goblet of joy and\nhope had once been filled for him; and now it was tossing on the waves\nwith his last greeting and the message of death.\n\nThe ship sank, and the crew sank with her. The bottle sped on like a\nbird, for it bore a heart, a loving letter, within itself. And the sun\nrose and set; and the bottle felt as at the time when it first came\ninto being in the red gleaming oven--it felt a strong desire to leap\nback into the light.\n\nIt experienced calms and fresh storms; but it was hurled against no\nrock, and was devoured by no shark; and thus it drifted on for a year\nand a day, sometimes towards the north, sometimes towards the south,\njust as the current carried it. Beyond this it was its own master, but\none may grow tired even of that.\n\nThe written page, the last farewell of the bridegroom to his\nbetrothed, would only bring sorrow if it came into her hands; but\nwhere were the hands, so white and delicate, which had once spread the\ncloth on the fresh grass in the greenwood, on the betrothal day? Where\nwas the tanner's daughter? Yes, where was the land, and which land\nmight be nearest to her dwelling? The bottle knew not; it drove onward\nand onward, and was at last tired of wandering, because that was not\nin its way; but yet it had to travel until at last it came to land--to\na strange land. It understood not a word of what was spoken here, for\nthis was not the language it had heard spoken before; and one loses a\ngood deal if one does not understand the language.\n\nThe bottle was fished out and examined on all sides. The leaf of paper\nwithin it was discovered, and taken out, and turned over and over, but\nthe people did not understand what was written thereon. They saw that\nthe bottle must have been thrown overboard, and that something about\nthis was written on the paper, but what were the words? That question\nremained unanswered, and the paper was put back into the bottle, and\nthe latter was deposited in a great cupboard, in a great room, in a\ngreat house.\n\nWhenever strangers came the paper was brought out, and turned over and\nover, so that the inscription, which was only written in pencil,\nbecame more and more illegible, so that at last no one could see that\nthere were letters on it. And for a whole year more the bottle\nremained standing in the cupboard; and then it was put into the loft,\nwhere it became covered with dust and cobwebs. Ah, how often it\nthought of the better days, the times when it had poured forth red\nwine in the greenwood, when it had been rocked on the waves of the\nsea, and when it had carried a secret, a letter, a parting sigh,\nsafely enclosed in its bosom.\n\nFor full twenty years it stood up in the loft; and it might have\nremained there longer, but that the house was to be rebuilt. The roof\nwas taken off, and then the bottle was noticed, and they spoke about\nit, but it did not understand their language; for one cannot learn a\nlanguage by being shut up in a loft, even if one stays there for\ntwenty years.\n\n\"If I had been down in the room,\" thought the Bottle, \"I might have\nlearned it.\"\n\nIt was now washed and rinsed, and indeed this was requisite. It felt\nquite transparent and fresh, and as if its youth had been renewed in\nthis its old age; but the paper it had carried so faithfully had been\ndestroyed in the washing.\n\nThe bottle was filled with seeds, though it scarcely knew what they\nwere. It was corked, and well wrapped up. No light nor lantern was it\nvouchsafed to behold, much less the sun or the moon; and yet, it\nthought, when one goes on a journey one ought to see something; but\nthough it saw nothing, it did what was most important--it travelled to\nthe place of its destination, and was there unpacked.\n\n\"What trouble they have taken over yonder with that bottle!\" it heard\npeople say; \"and yet it is most likely broken.\" But it was not broken.\n\nThe bottle understood every word that was now said; this was the\nlanguage it had heard at the furnace, and at the wine merchant's, and\nin the forest, and in the ship, the only good old language it\nunderstood: it had come back home, and the language was as a\nsalutation of welcome to it. For very joy it felt ready to jump out of\npeople's hands; hardly did it notice that its cork had been drawn,\nand that it had been emptied and carried into the cellar, to be placed\nthere and forgotten. There's no place like home, even if it's in a\ncellar! It never occurred to the bottle to think how long it would lie\nthere, for it felt comfortable, and accordingly lay there for years.\nAt last people came down into the cellar to carry off all the bottles,\nand ours among the rest.\n\nOut in the garden there was a great festival. Flaming lamps hung like\ngarlands, and paper lanterns shone transparent, like great tulips. The\nevening was lovely, the weather still and clear, the stars twinkled;\nit was the time of the new moon, but in reality the whole moon could\nbe seen as a bluish grey disc with a golden rim round half its\nsurface, which was a very beautiful sight for those who had good eyes.\n\nThe illumination extended even to the most retired of the garden\nwalks; at least so much of it, that one could find one's way there.\nAmong the leaves of the hedges stood bottles, with a light in each;\nand among them was also the bottle we know, and which was destined one\nday to finish its career as a bottle-neck, a bird's drinking-glass.\nEverything here appeared lovely to our bottle, for it was once more in\nthe greenwood, amid joy and feasting, and heard song and music, and\nthe noise and murmur of a crowd, especially in that part of the garden\nwhere the lamps blazed and the paper lanterns displayed their many\ncolours. Thus it stood, in a distant walk certainly, but that made it\nthe more important; for it bore its light, and was at once ornamental\nand useful, and that is as it should be: in such an hour one forgets\ntwenty years spent in a loft, and it is right one should do so.\n\nThere passed close to it a pair, like the pair who had walked together\nlong ago in the wood, the sailor and the tanner's daughter; the bottle\nseemed to experience all that over again. In the garden were walking\nnot only the guests, but other people who were allowed to view all the\nsplendour; and among these latter came an old maid who seemed to stand\nalone in the world. She was just thinking, like the bottle, of the\ngreenwood, and of a young betrothed pair--of a pair which concerned\nher very nearly, a pair in which she had an interest, and of which she\nhad been a part, in that happiest hour of her life--the hour one never\nforgets, if one should become ever so old a maid. But she did not know\nour bottle, nor did the bottle recognize the old maid: it is thus we\npass each other in the world, meeting again and again, as these two\nmet, now that they were together again in the same town.\n\nFrom the garden the bottle was dispatched once more to the wine\nmerchant's, where it was filled with wine, and sold to the aeronaut,\nwho was to make an ascent in his balloon on the following Sunday. A\ngreat crowd had assembled to witness the sight; military music had\nbeen provided, and many other preparations had been made. The bottle\nsaw everything, from a basket in which it lay next to a live rabbit,\nwhich latter was quite bewildered because he knew he was to be taken\nup into the air, and let down again in a parachute; but the bottle\nknew nothing of the \"up\" or the \"down;\" it only saw the balloon\nswelling up bigger and bigger, and at last, when it could swell no\nmore, beginning to rise, and to grow more and more restless. The ropes\nthat held it were cut, and the huge machine floated aloft with the\naeronaut and the basket containing the bottle and the rabbit, and the\nmusic sounded, and all the people cried, \"Hurrah!\"\n\n\"This is a wonderful passage, up into the air!\" thought the Bottle;\n\"this is a new way of sailing; at any rate, up here we cannot strike\nupon anything.\"\n\nThousands of people gazed up at the balloon, and the old maid looked\nup at it also; she stood at the open window of the garret, in which\nhung the cage with the little chaffinch, who had no water-glass as\nyet, but was obliged to be content with an old cup. In the window\nstood a myrtle in a pot; and it had been put a little aside that it\nmight not fall out, for the old maid was leaning out of the window to\nlook, and she distinctly saw the aeronaut in the balloon, and how he\nlet down the rabbit in the parachute, and then drank to the health of\nall the spectators, and at length hurled the bottle high in the air;\nshe never thought that this was the identical bottle which she had\nalready once seen thrown aloft in honour of her and of her friend on\nthe day of rejoicing in the greenwood, in the time of her youth.\n\nThe bottle had no respite for thought; for it was quite startled at\nthus suddenly reaching the highest point in its career. Steeples and\nroofs lay far, far beneath, and the people looked like mites.\n\nBut now it began to descend with a much more rapid fall than that of\nthe rabbit; the bottle threw somersaults in the air, and felt quite\nyoung, and quite free and unfettered; and yet it was half full of\nwine, though it did not remain so long. What a journey! The sun shone\non the bottle, all the people were looking at it, the balloon was\nalready far away, and soon the bottle was far away too; for it fell\nupon a roof and broke; but the pieces had got such an impetus that\nthey could not stop themselves, but went jumping and rolling on till\nthey came down into the courtyard and lay there in smaller pieces yet;\nthe bottle-neck only managed to keep whole, and that was cut off as\nclean as if it had been done with a diamond.\n\n\"That would do capitally for a bird-glass,\" said the cellarmen; but\nthey had neither a bird nor a cage; and to expect them to provide both\nbecause they had found a bottle-neck that might be made available for\na glass, would have been expecting too much; but the old maid in the\ngarret, perhaps it might be useful to her; and now the bottle-neck was\ntaken up to her, and was provided with a cork. The part that had been\nuppermost was now turned downwards, as often happens when changes take\nplace; fresh water was poured into it, and it was fastened to the cage\nof the little bird, which sung and twittered right merrily.\n\n\"Yes, it's very well for you to sing,\" said the Bottle-neck; and it\nwas considered remarkable for having been in the balloon--for that was\nall they knew of its history. Now it hung there as a bird-glass, and\nheard the murmuring and noise of the people in the street below, and\nalso the words of the old maid in the room within. An old friend had\njust come to visit her, and they talked--not of the bottle-neck, but\nabout the myrtle in the window.\n\n\"No, you certainly must not spend a dollar for your daughter's bridal\nwreath,\" said the old maid. \"You shall have a beautiful little nosegay\nfrom me, full of blossoms. Do you see how splendidly that tree has\ncome on? yes, that has been raised from a spray of the myrtle you gave\nme on the day after my betrothal, and from which I was to have made my\nown wreath when the year was past; but that day never came! The eyes\nclosed that were to have been my joy and delight through life. In the\ndepths of the sea he sleeps sweetly, my dear one! The myrtle has\nbecome an old tree, and I become a yet older woman; and when it faded\nat last, I took the last green shoot, and planted it in the ground,\nand it has become a great tree; and now at length the myrtle will\nserve at the wedding--as a wreath for your daughter.\"\n\nThere were tears in the eyes of the old maid. She spoke of the beloved\nof her youth, of their betrothal in the wood; many thoughts came to\nher, but the thought never came, that quite close to her, before the\nvery window, was a remembrance of those times; the neck of the bottle\nwhich had shouted for joy when the cork flew out with a bang on the\nbetrothal day. But the bottle-neck did not recognize her, for he was\nnot listening to what this old maid said--and still that was because\nhe was thinking of her.\n\n\n\n\nGOOD HUMOUR.\n\n\nMy father left me the best inheritance; to wit--good humour. And who\nwas my father? Why, that has nothing to do with the humour. He was\nlively and stout, round and fat; and his outer and inner man were in\ndirect contradiction to his calling. And pray what was he by\nprofession and calling in civil society? Yes, if this were to be\nwritten down and printed in the very beginning of a book, it is\nprobable that many when they read it would lay the book aside, and\nsay, \"It looks so uncomfortable; I don't like anything of that sort.\"\nAnd yet my father was neither a horse slaughterer nor an executioner;\non the contrary, his office placed him at the head of the most\nrespectable gentry of the town; and he held his place by right, for it\nwas his right place. He had to go first before the bishop even, and\nbefore the princes of the blood. He always went first--for he was the\ndriver of the hearse!\n\nThere, now it's out! And I will confess that when people saw my father\nsitting perched up on the omnibus of death, dressed in his long, wide,\nblack cloak, with his black-bordered three-cornered hat on his\nhead--and then his face, exactly as the sun is drawn, round and\njocund--it was difficult for them to think of the grave and of sorrow.\nThe face said, \"It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter; it will be\nbetter than one thinks.\"\n\nYou see, I have inherited my good humour from him, and also the habit\nof going often to the churchyard, which is a good thing to do if it be\ndone in the right spirit; and then I take in the _Intelligencer_, just\nas he used to do.\n\nI am not quite young. I have neither wife, nor children, nor a\nlibrary; but, as aforesaid, I take in the _Intelligencer_, and that's\nmy favourite newspaper, as it was also my father's. It is very useful,\nand contains everything that a man needs to know--such as who preaches\nin the church and in the new books. And then what a lot of charity,\nand what a number of innocent, harmless verses are found in it!\nAdvertisements for husbands and wives, and requests for\ninterviews--all quite simple and natural. Certainly, one may live\nmerrily and be contentedly buried if one takes in the _Intelligencer_.\nAnd, as a concluding advantage, by the end of his life a man will have\nsuch a capital store of paper, that he may use it as a soft bed,\nunless he prefers to rest upon wood-shavings.\n\nThe newspaper and my walk to the churchyard were always my most\nexciting occupations--they were like bathing-places for my good\nhumour.\n\nThe newspaper every one can read for himself. But please come with me\nto the churchyard; let us wander there where the sun shines and the\ntrees grow green. Each of the narrow houses is like a closed book,\nwith the back placed uppermost, so that one can only read the title\nand judge what the book contains, but can tell nothing about it; but I\nknow something of them. I heard it from my father, or found it out\nmyself. I have it all down in my record that I wrote out for my own\nuse and pleasure: all that lie here, and a few more too, are\nchronicled in it.\n\nNow we are in the churchyard.\n\nHere, behind this white railing, where once a rose tree grew--it is\ngone now, but a little evergreen from the next grave stretches out its\ngreen fingers to make a show--there rests a very unhappy man; and yet,\nwhen he lived, he was in what they call a good position. He had enough\nto live upon, and something over; but worldly cares, or to speak more\ncorrectly, his artistic taste, weighed heavily upon him. If in the\nevening he sat in the theatre to enjoy himself thoroughly, he would be\nquite put out if the machinist had put too strong a light into one\nside of the moon, or if the sky-pieces hung down over the scenes when\nthey ought to have hung behind them, or when a palm tree was\nintroduced into a scene representing the Berlin Zoological Gardens, or\na cactus in a view of the Tyrol, or a beech tree in the far north of\nNorway. As if that was of any consequence. Is it not quite immaterial?\nWho would fidget about such a trifle? It's only make-believe, after\nall, and every one is expected to be amused. Then sometimes the public\napplauded too much to suit his taste, and sometimes too little.\n\"They're like wet wood this evening,\" he would say; \"they won't kindle\nat all!\" And then he would look round to see what kind of people they\nwere; and sometimes he would find them laughing at the wrong time,\nwhen they ought not to have laughed, and that vexed him; and he\nfretted, and was an unhappy man, and at last fretted himself into his\ngrave.\n\nHere rests a very happy man. That is to say, a very grand man. He was\nof high birth, and that was lucky for him, for otherwise he would\nnever have been anything worth speaking of; and nature orders all that\nvery wisely, so that it's quite charming when we think of it. He used\nto go about in a coat embroidered back and front, and appeared in the\nsaloons of society just like one of those costly, pearl-embroidered\nbell-pulls, which have always a good, thick, serviceable cord behind\nthem to do the work. He likewise had a good stout cord behind him, in\nthe shape of a substitute, who did his duty, and who still continues\nto do it behind another embroidered bell-pull. Everything is so nicely\nmanaged, it's enough to put one into a good humour.\n\n[Illustration: THE CHURCHYARD NARRATION.]\n\nHere rests--well, it's a very mournful reflection--here rests a man\nwho spent sixty-seven years considering how he should get a good idea.\nThe object of his life was to say a good thing, and at last he felt\nconvinced in his own mind that he had got one, and was so glad of it\nthat he died of pure joy at having caught an idea at last. Nobody\nderived any benefit from it, and no one even heard what the good thing\nwas. Now, I can fancy that this same good thing won't let him live\nquiet in his grave; for let us suppose that it is a good thing which\ncan only be brought out at breakfast if it is to make an effect, and\nthat he, according to the received opinion concerning ghosts, can only\nrise and walk at midnight. Why, then the good thing would not suit the\ntime, and the man must carry his good idea down with him again. What\nan unhappy man he must be!\n\nHere rests a remarkably stingy woman. During her lifetime she used to\nget up at night and mew, so that the neighbours might think she kept a\ncat--she was so remarkably stingy.\n\nHere is a maiden of another kind. When the canary bird of the heart\nbegins to chirp, reason puts her fingers in her ears. The maiden was\ngoing to be married, but--well, it's an every-day story, and we will\nlet the dead rest.\n\nHere sleeps a widow who carried melody in her mouth and gall in her\nheart. She used to go out for prey in the families round about; and\nthe prey she hunted was her neighbours' faults, and she was an\nindefatigable hunter.\n\nHere's a family sepulchre. Every member of this family held so firmly\nto the opinions of the rest, that if all the world, and the newspapers\ninto the bargain, said of a certain thing it is so and so, and the\nlittle boy came home from school and said, \"I've learned it thus and\nthus,\" they declared his opinion to be the only true one, because he\nbelonged to the family. And it is an acknowledged fact, that if the\nyard-cock of the family crowed at midnight, they would declare it was\nmorning, though the watchmen and all the clocks in the city were\ncrying out that it was twelve o'clock at night.\n\nThe great poet Goethe concludes his \"Faust\" with the words \"may be\ncontinued;\" and our wanderings in the churchyard may be continued too.\nIf any of my friends, or my non-friends, go on too fast for me, I go\nout to my favourite spot and select a mound, and bury him or her\nthere--bury that person who is yet alive; and there those I bury must\nstay till they come back as new and improved characters. I inscribe\ntheir life and their deeds, looked at in my fashion, in my record; and\nthat's what all people ought to do. They ought not to be vexed when\nany one goes on ridiculously, but bury him directly, and maintain\ntheir good humour, and keep to the _Intelligencer_, which is often a\nbook written by the people with its hand guided.\n\nWhen the time comes for me to be bound with my history in the boards\nof the grave, I hope they will put up as my epitaph, \"A good-humoured\none.\" And that's my story.\n\n\n\n\nA LEAF FROM THE SKY.\n\n\nHigh up yonder, in the thin clear air, flew an angel with a flower\nfrom the heavenly garden. As he was kissing the flower, a very little\nleaf fell down into the soft soil in the midst of the wood, and\nimmediately took root, and sprouted, and sent forth shoots among the\nother plants.\n\n\"A funny kind of slip that,\" said the plants.\n\nAnd neither thistle nor stinging-nettle would recognize the stranger.\n\n\"That must be a kind of garden plant,\" said they.\n\nAnd they sneered; and the plant was despised by them as being a thing\nout of the garden.\n\n\"Where are you coming?\" cried the lofty thistles, whose leaves are all\narmed with thorns.\n\n\"You give yourself a good deal of space. That's all nonsense--we are\nnot here to support you!\" they grumbled.\n\nAnd winter came, and snow covered the plant; but the plant imparted to\nthe snowy covering a lustre as if the sun was shining upon it from\nbelow as from above. When spring came, the plant appeared as a\nblooming object, more beautiful than any production of the forest.\n\nAnd now appeared on the scene the botanical professor, who could show\nwhat he was in black and white. He inspected the plant and tested it,\nbut found it was not included in his botanical system; and he could\nnot possibly find out to what class it belonged.\n\n\"That must be some subordinate species,\" he said. \"I don't know it.\nIt's not included in any system.\"\n\n\"Not included in any system!\" repeated the thistles and the nettles.\n\nThe great trees that stood round about saw and heard it; but they\nsaid not a word, good or bad, which is the wisest thing to do for\npeople who are stupid.\n\nThere came through the forest a poor innocent girl. Her heart was\npure, and her understanding was enlarged by faith. Her whole\ninheritance was an old Bible; but out of its pages a voice said to\nher, \"If people wish to do us evil, remember how it was said of\nJoseph. They imagined evil in their hearts, but God turned it to good.\nIf we suffer wrong--if we are misunderstood and despised--then we may\nrecall the words of Him who was purity and goodness itself, and who\nforgave and prayed for those who buffeted Him and nailed Him to the\ncross.\" The girl stood still in front of the wonderful plant, whose\ngreat leaves exhaled a sweet and refreshing fragrance, and whose\nflowers glittered like a coloured flame in the sun; and from each\nflower there came a sound as though it concealed within itself a deep\nfount of melody that thousands of years could not exhaust. With pious\ngratitude the girl looked on this beautiful work of the Creator, and\nbent down one of the branches towards herself to breathe in its\nsweetness; and a light arose in her soul. It seemed to do her heart\ngood; and gladly would she have plucked a flower, but she could not\nmake up her mind to break one off, for it would soon fade if she did\nso. Therefore the girl only took a single leaf, and laid it in her\nBible at home; and it lay there quite fresh, always green, and never\nfading.\n\nAmong the pages of the Bible it was kept; and, with the Bible, it was\nlaid under the young girl's head when, a few weeks afterwards, she lay\nin her coffin, with the solemn calm of death on her gentle face, as if\nthe earthly remains bore the impress of the truth that she now stood\nbefore her Creator.\n\nBut the wonderful plant still bloomed without in the forest. It was\nalmost like a tree to look upon; and all the birds of passage bowed\nbefore it.\n\n\"That's giving itself foreign airs now,\" said the thistles and the\nburdocks; \"we never behave like that here.\"\n\nAnd the black snails actually spat at the flower.\n\nThen came the swineherd. He was collecting thistles and shrubs, to\nburn them for the ashes. The wonderful plant was placed bodily in his\nbundle.\n\n\"It shall be made useful,\" he said; and so said, so done.\n\n[Illustration: THE POOR GIRL'S TREASURE.]\n\nBut soon afterwards, the king of the country was troubled with a\nterrible depression of spirits. He was busy and industrious, but that\ndid him no good. They read him deep and learned books, and then they\nread from the lightest and most superficial that they could find; but\nit was of no use. Then one of the wise men of the world, to whom they\nhad applied, sent a messenger to tell the king that there was one\nremedy to give him relief and to cure him. He said:\n\n\"In the king's own country there grows in a forest a plant of heavenly\norigin. Its appearance is thus and thus. It cannot be mistaken.\"\n\n\"I fancy it was taken up in my bundle, and burnt to ashes long ago,\"\nsaid the swineherd; \"but I did not know any better.\"\n\n\"You didn't know any better! Ignorance of ignorances!\"\n\nAnd those words the swineherd might well take to himself, for they\nwere meant for him, and for no one else.\n\nNot another leaf was to be found; the only one lay in the coffin of\nthe dead girl, and no one knew anything about that.\n\nAnd the king himself, in his melancholy, wandered out to the spot in\nthe wood.\n\n\"Here is where the plant stood,\" he said; \"it is a sacred place.\"\n\nAnd the place was surrounded with a golden railing, and a sentry was\nposted there.\n\nThe botanical professor wrote a long treatise upon the heavenly plant.\nFor this he was gilded all over, and this gilding suited him and his\nfamily very well. And indeed that was the most agreeable part of the\nwhole story. But the king remained as low-spirited as before; but that\nhe had always been, at least so the sentry said.\n\n\n\n\nTHE DUMB BOOK.\n\n\nBy the high-road in the forest lay a lonely peasant's hut; the road\nwent right through the farmyard. The sun shone down, and all the\nwindows were open. In the house was bustle and movement; but in the\ngarden, in an arbour of blossoming elder, stood an open coffin. A dead\nman had been carried out here, and he was to be buried this morning.\nNobody stood by the coffin and looked sorrowfully at the dead man; no\none shed a tear for him: his face was covered with a white cloth, and\nunder his head lay a great thick book, whose leaves consisted of whole\nsheets of blotting paper, and on each leaf lay a faded flower. It was\na complete herbanum, gathered by him in various places; it was to be\nburied with him, for so he had wished it. With each flower a chapter\nin his life was associated.\n\n[Illustration: THE POWER OF THE BOOK.]\n\n\"Who is the dead man?\" we asked; and the answer was:\n\n\"The Old Student. They say he was once a brisk lad, and studied the\nold languages, and sang, and even wrote poems. Then something happened\nto him that made him turn his thoughts to brandy, and take to it; and\nwhen at last he had ruined his health, he came out here into the\ncountry, where somebody paid for his board and lodging. He was as\ngentle as a child, except when the dark mood came upon him; but when\nit came he became like a giant, and then ran about in the woods like a\nhunted stag; but when we once got him home again, and prevailed with\nhim so far that he opened the book with the dried plants, he often sat\nwhole days, and looked sometimes at one plant and sometimes at\nanother, and at times the tears rolled over his cheeks: Heaven knows\nwhat he was thinking of. But he begged us to put the book into the\ncoffin, and now he lies there, and in a little while the lid will be\nnailed down, and he will have his quiet rest in the grave.\"\n\nThe face-cloth was raised, and there was peace upon the features of\nthe dead man, and a sunbeam played upon it; a swallow shot with arrowy\nflight into the arbour, and turned rapidly, and twittered over the\ndead man's head.\n\nWhat a strange feeling it is--and we have doubtless all experienced\nit--that of turning over old letters of the days of our youth! a new\nlife seems to come up with them, with all its hopes and sorrows. How\nmany persons with whom we were intimate in those days, are as it were\ndead to us! and yet they are alive, but for a long time we have not\nthought of them--of them whom we then thought to hold fast for ages,\nand with whom we were to share sorrow and joy.\n\nHere the withered oak-leaf in the book reminded the owner of the\nfriend, the school-fellow, who was to be a friend for life: he\nfastened the green leaf in the student's cap in the green wood, when\nthe bond was made \"for life:\" where does he live now? The leaf is\npreserved, but the friendship has perished! And here is a foreign\nhothouse plant, too delicate for the gardens of the North; the leaves\nalmost seem to keep their fragrance still. She gave it to him, the\nyoung lady in the nobleman's garden. Here is the water rose, which he\nplucked himself, and moistened with salt tears--the roses of the sweet\nwaters. And here is a nettle--what tale may its leaves have to tell?\nWhat were his thoughts when he plucked it and kept it? Here is a lily\nof the valley, from the solitudes of the forest. Here's an evergreen\nfrom the flower-pot of the tavern; and here's a naked sharp blade of\ngrass.\n\nThe blooming elder waves its fresh fragrant blossoms over the dead\nman's head, and the swallow flies past again. \"Pee-wit! pee-wit!\" And\nnow the men come with nails and hammers, and the lid is laid over the\ndead man, that his head may rest upon the dumb book--vanished and\nscattered!\n\n\n\n\nTHE JEWISH GIRL.\n\n\nAmong the children in a charity school sat a little Jewish girl. She\nwas a good, intelligent child, the quickest in all the school; but she\nhad to be excluded from one lesson, for she was not allowed to take\npart in the scripture-lesson, for it was a Christian school.\n\nIn that hour the girl was allowed to open the geography book, or to do\nher sum for the next day; but that was soon done; and when she had\nmastered her lesson in geography, the book indeed remained open before\nher, but the little one read no more in it; she listened silently to\nthe words of the Christian teacher, who soon became aware that she was\nlistening more intently than almost any of the other children.\n\n\"Read your book, Sara,\" the teacher said, in mild reproof; but her\ndark beaming eye remained fixed upon him; and once when he addressed a\nquestion to her, she knew how to answer better than any of the others\ncould have done. She had heard and understood, and had kept his words\nin her heart.\n\nWhen her father, a poor honest man, first brought the girl to the\nschool, he had stipulated that she should be excluded from the lessons\non the Christian faith. But it would have caused disturbance, and\nperhaps might have awakened discontent in the minds of the others, if\nshe had been sent from the room during the hours in question, and\nconsequently she stayed; but this could not go on any longer.\n\nThe teacher betook himself to the father, and exhorted him either to\nremove his daughter from the school, or to consent that Sara should\nbecome a Christian.\n\n\"I can no longer be a silent spectator of the gleaming eyes of the\nchild, and of her deep and earnest longing for the words of the\nGospel,\" said the teacher.\n\nThen the father burst into tears.\n\n\"I know but little of the commandment given to my fathers,\" he said;\n\"but Sara's mother was steadfast in the faith, a true daughter of\nIsrael, and I vowed to her as she lay dying that our child should\nnever be baptized. I must keep my vow, for it is even as a covenant\nwith God Himself.\"\n\nAnd accordingly the little Jewish maiden quitted the Christian\nschool.\n\nYears have rolled on.\n\nIn one of the smallest provincial towns there dwelt, as a servant in a\nhumble household, a maiden who held the Mosaic faith. Her hair was\nblack as ebony, her eye dark as night, and yet full of splendour and\nlight, as is usual with the daughters of Israel. It was Sara. The\nexpression in the countenance of the now grown-up maiden was still\nthat of the child sitting upon the school-room bench and listening\nwith thoughtful eyes to the words of the Christian teacher.\n\nEvery Sunday there pealed from the church the sounds of the organ and\nthe song of the congregation. The strains penetrated into the house\nwhere the Jewish girl, industrious and faithful in all things, stood\nat her work.\n\n\"Thou shalt keep holy the Sabbath-day,\" said a voice within her, the\nvoice of the Law; but her Sabbath-day was a working day among the\nChristians, and that seemed unfortunate to her. But then the thought\narose in her soul: \"Doth God reckon by days and hours?\" And when this\nthought grew strong within her, it seemed a comfort that on the Sunday\nof the Christians the hour of prayer remained undisturbed; and when\nthe sound of the organ and the songs of the congregation sounded\nacross to her as she stood in the kitchen at her work, then even that\nplace seemed to become a sacred one to her. Then she would read in the\nOld Testament, the treasure and comfort of her people, and it was only\nin this one she could read; for she kept faithfully in the depths of\nher heart the words the teacher had spoken when she left the school,\nand the promise her father had given to her dying mother, that she\nshould never receive Christian baptism, or deny the faith of her\nancestors. The New Testament was to be a sealed book to her; and yet\nshe knew much of it, and the Gospel echoed faintly among the\nrecollections of her youth.\n\n[Illustration: SARA LISTENING TO THE SINGING IN THE CHURCH.]\n\nOne evening she was sitting in a corner of the living-room. Her master\nwas reading aloud; and she might listen to him, for it was not the\nGospel that he read, but an old story-book, therefore she might stay.\nThe book told of a Hungarian knight who was taken prisoner by a\nTurkish pasha, who caused him to be yoked with his oxen to the plough,\nand driven with blows of the whip till the blood came, and he almost\nsank under the pain and ignominy he endured. The faithful wife of the\nknight at home parted with all her jewels, and pledged castle and\nland. The knight's friends amassed large sums, for the ransom demanded\nwas almost unattainably high: but it was collected at last, and the\nknight was freed from servitude and misery. Sick and exhausted, he\nreached his home. But soon another summons came to war against the\nfoes of Christianity: the knight heard the cry, and he could stay no\nlonger, for he had neither peace nor rest. He caused himself to be\nlifted on his war-horse; and the blood came back to his cheek, his\nstrength appeared to return, and he went forth to battle and to\nvictory. The very same pasha who had yoked him to the plough became\nhis prisoner, and was dragged to his castle. But not an hour had\npassed when the knight stood before the captive pasha, and said to\nhim:\n\n\"What dost thou suppose awaiteth thee?\"\n\n\"I know it,\" replied the Turk. \"Retribution.\"\n\n\"Yes, the retribution of the Christian!\" resumed the knight. \"The\ndoctrine of Christ commands us to forgive our enemies, and to love our\nfellow-man, for it teaches us that God is love. Depart in peace,\ndepart to thy home: I will restore thee to thy dear ones; but in\nfuture be mild and merciful to all who are unfortunate.\"\n\nThen the prisoner broke out into tears, and exclaimed:\n\n\"How could I believe in the possibility of such mercy! Misery and\ntorment seemed to await me, they seemed inevitable; therefore I took\npoison, which I secretly carried about me, and in a few hours its\neffects will slay me. I must die--there is no remedy! But before I\ndie, do thou expound to me the teaching which includes so great a\nmeasure of love and mercy, for it is great and godlike! Grant me to\nhear this teaching, and to die a Christian!\" And his prayer was\nfulfilled.\n\nThat was the legend which the master read out of the old story-book.\nAll the audience listened with sympathy and pleasure; but Sara, the\nJewish girl, sitting alone in her corner, listened with a burning\nheart; great tears came into her gleaming black eyes, and she sat\nthere with a gentle and lowly spirit as she had once sat on the school\nbench, and felt the grandeur of the Gospel; and the tears rolled down\nover her cheeks.\n\nBut again the dying words of her mother rose up within her:\n\n\"Let not my daughter become a Christian,\" the voice cried; and\ntogether with it arose the word of the Law: \"Thou shalt honour thy\nfather and thy mother.\"\n\n\"I am not admitted into the community of the Christians,\" she said;\n\"they abuse me for being a Jew girl--our neighbour's boys hooted me\nlast Sunday, when I stood at the open church-door, and looked in at\nthe flaming candles on the altar, and listened to the song of the\ncongregation. Ever since I sat upon the school bench I have felt the\nforce of Christianity, a force like that of a sunbeam, which streams\ninto my soul, however firmly I may shut my eyes against it. But I will\nnot pain thee in thy grave, O my mother, I will not be unfaithful to\nthe oath of my father, I will not read the Bible of the Christians. I\nhave the religion of my people, and to that will I hold!\"\n\nAnd years rolled on again.\n\nThe master died. His widow fell into poverty; and the servant girl was\nto be dismissed. But Sara refused to leave the house: she became the\nstaff in time of trouble, and kept the household together, working\ntill late in the night to earn the daily bread through the labour of\nher hands; for no relative came forward to assist the family, and the\nwidow become weaker every day, and lay for months together on the bed\nof sickness. Sara worked hard, and in the intervals sat kindly\nministering by the sick-bed: she was gentle and pious, an angel of\nblessing in the poverty-stricken house.\n\n\"Yonder on the table lies the Bible,\" said the sick woman to Sara.\n\"Read me something from it, for the night appears to be so long--oh,\nso long!--and my soul thirsts for the word of the Lord.\"\n\nAnd Sara bowed her head. She took the book, and folded her hands over\nthe Bible of the Christians, and opened it, and read to the sick\nwoman. Tears stood in her eyes, which gleamed and shone with ecstacy,\nand light shone in her heart.\n\n\"O my mother,\" she whispered to herself; \"thy child may not receive the\nbaptism of the Christians, or be admitted into the congregation--thou hast\nwilled it so, and I shall respect thy command: we will remain in union\ntogether here on earth; but beyond this earth there is a higher union, even\nunion in God! He will be at our side, and lead us through the valley of\ndeath. It is He that descendeth upon the earth when it is athirst, and\ncovers it with fruitfulness. I understand it--I know not how I came to\nlearn the truth; but it is through Him, through Christ!\"\n\nAnd she started as she pronounced the sacred name, and there came upon\nher a baptism as of flames of fire, and her frame shook, and her limbs\ntottered so that she sank down fainting, weaker even than the sick\nwoman by whose couch she had watched.\n\n\"Poor Sara!\" said the people; \"she is overcome with night watching and\ntoil!\"\n\nThey carried her out into the hospital for the sick poor. There she\ndied; and from thence they carried her to the grave, but not to the\nchurchyard of the Christians, for yonder was no room for the Jewish\ngirl; outside, by the wall, her grave was dug.\n\nBut God's sun, that shines upon the graves of the Christians, throws\nits beams also upon the grave of the Jewish girl beyond the wall; and\nwhen the psalms are sung in the churchyard of the Christians, they\necho likewise over her lonely resting-place; and she who sleeps\nbeneath is included in the call to the resurrection, in the name of\nHim who spake to his disciples:\n\n\"John baptized you with water, but I will baptize you with the Holy\nGhost!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE THORNY ROAD OF HONOUR\n\n\nAn old story yet lives of the \"Thorny Road of Honour,\" of a marksman,\nwho indeed attained to rank and office, but only after a lifelong and\nweary strife against difficulties. Who has not, in reading this story,\nthought of his own strife, and of his own numerous \"difficulties?\" The\nstory is very closely akin to reality; but still it has its harmonious\nexplanation here on earth, while reality often points beyond the\nconfines of life to the regions of eternity. The history of the world\nis like a magic lantern that displays to us, in light pictures upon\nthe dark ground of the present, how the benefactors of mankind, the\nmartyrs of genius, wandered along the thorny road of honour.\n\nFrom all periods, and from every country, these shining pictures\ndisplay themselves to us; each only appears for a few moments, but\neach represents a whole life, sometimes a whole age, with its\nconflicts and victories. Let us contemplate here and there one of the\ncompany of martyrs--the company which will receive new members until\nthe world itself shall pass away.\n\nWe look down upon a crowded amphitheatre. Out of the \"Clouds\" of\nAristophanes, satire and humour are pouring down in streams upon the\naudience; on the stage Socrates, the most remarkable man in Athens, he\nwho had been the shield and defence of the people against the thirty\ntyrants, is held up mentally and bodily to ridicule--Socrates, who\nsaved Alcibiades and Xenophon in the turmoil of battle, and whose\ngenius soared far above the gods of the ancients. He himself is\npresent; he has risen from the spectator's bench, and has stepped\nforward, that the laughing Athenians may well appreciate the likeness\nbetween himself and the caricature on the stage: there he stands\nbefore them, towering high above them all.\n\nThou juicy, green, poisonous hemlock, throw thy shadow over\nAthens--not thou, olive tree of fame!\n\nSeven cities contended for the honour of giving birth to Homer--that\nis to say, they contended after his death! Let us look at him as he\nwas in his lifetime. He wanders on foot through the cities, and\nrecites his verses for a livelihood; the thought for the morrow turns\nhis hair grey! He, the great seer, is blind, and painfully pursues his\nway--the sharp thorn tears the mantle of the king of poets. His song\nyet lives, and through that alone live all the heroes and gods of\nantiquity.\n\n[Illustration: THE KING OF POETS.]\n\nOne picture after another springs up from the east, from the west, far\nremoved from each other in time and place, and yet each one forming a\nportion of the thorny road of honour, on which the thistle indeed\ndisplays a flower, but only to adorn the grave.\n\nThe camels pass along under the palm trees; they are richly laden with\nindigo and other treasures of price, sent by the ruler of the land to\nhim whose songs are the delight of the people, the fame of the\ncountry: he whom envy and falsehood have driven into exile has been\nfound, and the caravan approaches the little town in which he has\ntaken refuge. A poor corpse is carried out of the town-gate, and the\nfuneral procession causes the caravan to halt. The dead man is he whom\nthey have been sent to seek--Firdusi--who has wandered the thorny road\nof honour even to the end.\n\nThe African, with blunt features, thick lips, and woolly hair, sits on\nthe marble steps of the palace in the capital of Portugal, and begs:\nhe is the submissive slave of Camoens, and but for him, and for the\ncopper coins thrown to him by the passers by, his master, the poet of\nthe \"Lusiad,\" would die of hunger. Now, a costly monument marks the\ngrave of Camoens.\n\nThere is a new picture.\n\nBehind the iron grating a man appears, pale as death, with long\nunkempt beard.\n\n\"I have made a discovery,\" he says, \"the greatest that has been made\nfor centuries; and they have kept me locked up here for more than\ntwenty years!\"\n\n\"Who is the man?\n\n\"A madman,\" replies the keeper of the madhouse. \"What whimsical ideas\nthese lunatics have! He imagines that one can propel things by means\nof steam. It is Solomon de Cares, the discoverer of the power of\nsteam, whose theory, expressed in dark words, is not understood by\nRichelieu--and he dies in the madhouse!\"\n\nHere stands Columbus, whom the street boys used once to follow and\njeer, because he wanted to discover a new world--and he has discovered\nit. Shouts of joy greet him from the breasts of all, and the clash of\nbells sounds to celebrate his triumphant return; but the clash of the\nbells of envy soon drowns the others. The discoverer of a world, he\nwho lifted the American gold land from the sea, and gave it to his\nking--he is rewarded with iron chains. He wishes that these chains may\nbe placed in his coffin, for they witness of the world, and of the way\nin which a man's contemporaries reward good service.\n\nOne picture after another comes crowding on; the thorny path of honour\nand of fame is over-filled.\n\nHere in dark night sits the man who measured the mountains in the\nmoon; he who forced his way out into the endless space, among stars\nand planets; he, the mighty man who understood the spirit of nature,\nand felt the earth moving beneath his feet--Galileo. Blind and deaf he\nsits--an old man thrust through with the spear of suffering, and amid\nthe torments of neglect, scarcely able to lift his foot--that foot\nwith which, in the anguish of his soul, when men denied the truth, he\nstamped upon the ground with the exclamation, \"_Yet_ it moves!\"\n\nHere stands a woman of childlike mind, yet full of faith and\ninspiration; she carries the banner in front of the combating army,\nand brings victory and salvation to her fatherland. The sound of\nshouting arises, and the pile flames up: they are burning the witch,\nJoan of Arc. Yes, and a future century jeers at the white lily.\nVoltaire, the satyr of human intellect, writes \"_La Pucelle_.\"\n\nAt the _Thing_ or assembly at Viborg, the Danish nobles burn the laws\nof the king--they flame up high, illuminating the period and the\nlawgiver, and throw a glory into the dark prison tower, where an old\nman is growing grey and bent. With his finger he marks out a groove in\nthe stone table. It is the popular king who sits there, once the ruler\nof three kingdoms, the friend of the citizen and the peasant: it is\nChristian the Second. Enemies wrote his history. Let us remember his\nimprovements of seven and twenty years, if we cannot forget his crime.\n\nA ship sails away, quitting the Danish shores; a man leans against the\nmast, casting a last glance towards the Island Hueen. It is Tycho\nBrahe. He raised the name of Denmark to the stars, and was rewarded\nwith injury, loss, and sorrow. He is going to a strange country.\n\n\"The vault of heaven is above me everywhere,\" he says, \"and what do I\nwant more?\" And away sails the famous Dane, the astronomer, to live\nhonoured and free in a strange land.\n\n\"Ay, free, if only from the unbearable sufferings of the body!\" comes\nin a sigh through time, and strikes upon our ear. What a picture!\nGriffenfeldt, a Danish Prometheus, bound to the rocky island of\nMunkholm.\n\nWe are in America, on the margin of one of the largest rivers; an\ninnumerable crowd has gathered, for it is said that a ship is to sail\nagainst wind and weather, bidding defiance to the elements; the man\nwho thinks he can solve the problem is named Robert Fulton. The ship\nbegins its passage, but suddenly it stops. The crowd begins to laugh\nand whistle and hiss--the very father of the man whistles with the\nrest.\n\n\"Conceit! Foolery!\" is the cry. \"It has happened just as he deserved:\nput the crack-brain under lock and key!\"\n\nThen suddenly a little nail breaks, which had stopped the machine for\na few moments; and now the wheels turn again, the floats break the\nforce of the waters, and the ship continues its course--and the beam\nof the steam-engine shortens the distance between far lands from hours\ninto minutes.\n\nO human race, canst thou grasp the happiness of such a minute of\nconsciousness, this penetration of the soul by its mission, the moment\nin which all dejection, and every wound--even those caused by own\nfault--is changed into health and strength and clearness--when discord\nis converted to harmony--the minute in which men seem to recognize the\nmanifestation of the heavenly grace in one man, and feel how this one\nimparts it to all?\n\nThus the thorny path of honour shows itself as a glory, surrounding\nthe earth with its beams: thrice happy he who is chosen to be a\nwanderer there, and, without merit of his own, to be placed between\nthe builder of the bridge and the earth, between Providence and the\nhuman race!\n\nOn mighty wings the spirit of history floats through the ages, and\nshows--giving courage and comfort, and awakening gentle thoughts--on\nthe dark nightly background, but in gleaming pictures, the thorny path\nof honour; which does not, like a fairy tale, end in brilliancy and\njoy here on earth, but stretches out beyond all time, even into\neternity!\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD GRAVESTONE\n\n\nIn a little provincial town, in the time of the year when people say\n\"the evenings are drawing in,\" there was one evening quite a social\ngathering in the home of a father of a family. The weather was still\nmild and warm. The lamp gleamed on the table; the long curtains hung\ndown in folds before the open windows, by which stood many\nflower-pots; and outside, beneath the dark blue sky, was the most\nbeautiful moonshine. But they were not talking about this. They were\ntalking about the old great stone which lay below in the courtyard,\nclose by the kitchen door, and on which the maids often laid the\ncleaned copper kitchen utensils that they might dry in the sun, and\nwhere the children were fond of playing. It was, in fact, an old\ngravestone.\n\n\"Yes,\" said the master of the house, \"I believe the stone comes from\nthe old convent churchyard; for from the church yonder, the pulpit,\nthe memorial boards, and the gravestones were sold. My father bought\nthe latter, and they were cut in two to be used as paving-stones; but\nthat old stone was kept back, and has been lying in the courtyard ever\nsince.\"\n\n[Illustration: PREBEN SCHWANE AND HIS WIFE MARTHA.]\n\n\"One can very well see that it is a gravestone,\" observed the eldest\nof the children; \"we can still decipher on it an hour-glass and a\npiece of an angel; but the inscription which stood below it is quite\neffaced, except that you may read the name of _Preben_, and a great\n_S_ close behind it, and a little farther down the name of _Martha_.\nBut nothing more can be distinguished, and even that is only plain\nwhen it has been raining, or when we have washed the stone.\n\n\"On my word, that must be the gravestone of Preben Schwane and his\nwife!\"\n\nThese words were spoken by an old man; so old, that he might well have\nbeen the grandfather of all who were present in the room.\n\n\"Yes, they were one of the last pairs that were buried in the old\nchurchyard of the convent. They were an honest old couple. I can\nremember them from the days of my boyhood. Every one knew them, and\nevery one esteemed them. They were the oldest pair here in the town.\nThe people declared that they had more than a tubful of gold; and yet\nthey went about very plainly dressed, in the coarsest stuffs, but\nalways with splendidly clean linen. They were a fine old pair, Preben\nand Martha! When both of them sat on the bench at the top of the steep\nstone stairs in front of the house, with the old linden tree spreading\nits branches above them, and nodded at one in their kind gentle way,\nit seemed quite to do one good. They were very kind to the poor; they\nfed them and clothed them; and there was judgment in their benevolence\nand true Christianity. The old woman died first: that day is still\nquite clear before my mind. I was a little boy, and had accompanied my\nfather over there, and we were just there when she fell asleep. The\nold man was very much moved, and wept like a child. The corpse lay in\nthe room next to the one where we sat; and he spoke to my father and\nto a few neighbours who were there, and said how lonely it would be\nnow in his house, and how good and faithful she (his dead wife) had\nbeen, how many years they had wandered together through life, and how\nit had come about that they came to know each other and to fall in\nlove. I was, as I have told you, a boy, and only stood by and listened\nto what the others said; but it filled me with quite a strange emotion\nto listen to the old man, and to watch how his cheeks gradually\nflushed red when he spoke of the days of their courtship, and told how\nbeautiful she was, and how many little innocent pretexts he had\ninvented to meet her. And then he talked of the wedding-day, and his\neyes gleamed; he seemed to talk himself back into that time of joy.\nAnd yet she was lying in the next room--dead--an old woman; and he was\nan old man, speaking of the past days of hope! Yes, yes, thus it is!\nThen I was but a child, and now I am old--as old as Preben Schwane was\nthen. Time passes away, and all things change. I can very well\nremember the day when she was buried, and how Preben Schwane walked\nclose behind the coffin. A few years before, the couple had caused\ntheir gravestone to be prepared, and their names to be engraved on it,\nwith the inscription, all but the date. In the evening the stone was\ntaken to the churchyard, and laid over the grave; and the year\nafterwards it was taken up, that old Preben Schwane might be laid to\nrest beside his wife. They did not leave behind them anything like the\nwealth people had attributed to them: what there was went to families\ndistantly related to them--to people of whom until then one had known\nnothing. The old wooden house, with the seat at the top of the steps,\nbeneath the lime tree, was taken down by the corporation; it was too\nold and rotten to be left standing. Afterwards, when the same fate\nbefell the convent church, and the graveyard was levelled, Preben's\nand Martha's tombstone was sold, like everything else, to any one who\nwould buy it; and that is how it has happened that this stone was not\nhewn in two, as many another has been, but that it still lies below in\nthe yard as a scouring-bench for the maids and a plaything for the\nchildren. The high-road now goes over the resting-place of old Preben\nand his wife. No one thinks of them any more.\"\n\nAnd the old man who had told all this shook his head scornfully.\n\n\"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!\" he said.\n\nAnd then they spoke in the room of other things; but the youngest\nchild, a boy with great serious eyes, mounted up on a chair behind the\nwindow-curtains, and looked out into the yard, where the moon was\npouring its radiance over the old stone--the old stone that had always\nappeared to him so tame and flat, but which lay there now like a great\nleaf out of a book of chronicles. All that the boy had heard about old\nPreben and his wife seemed concentrated in the stone; and he gazed at\nit, and looked at the pure bright moon and up into the clear air, and\nit seemed as though the countenance of the Creator was beaming over\nHis world.\n\n\"Forgotten! Everything will be forgotten!\" was repeated in the room.\n\nBut in that moment an invisible angel kissed the boy's forehead, and\nwhispered to him:\n\n\"Preserve the seed-corn that has been entrusted to thee, that it may\nbear fruit. Guard it well! Through thee, my child, the obliterated\ninscription on the old tombstone shall be chronicled in golden letters\nto future generations! The old pair shall wander again arm-in-arm\nthrough the streets, and smile, and sit with their fresh healthy faces\nunder the lime tree on the bench by the steep stairs, and nod at rich\nand poor. The seed-corn of this hour shall ripen in the course of time\nto a blooming poem. The beautiful and the good shall not be forgotten;\nit shall live on in legend and in song.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE OLD BACHELOR'S NIGHTCAP.\n\n\nThere is a street in Copenhagen that has this strange name--\"Hysken\nStraede.\" Whence comes this name, and what is its meaning? It is said\nto be German; but injustice has been done to the Germans in this\nmatter, for it would have to be \"Haeuschen,\" and not \"Hysken.\" For here\nstood, once upon a time, and indeed for a great many years, a few\nlittle houses, which were principally nothing more than wooden booths,\njust as we see now in the market-places at fair-time. They were,\nperhaps, a little larger, and had windows; but the panes consisted of\nhorn or bladder, for glass was then too expensive to be used in every\nhouse. But then we are speaking of a long time ago--so long since,\nthat grandfather and great-grandfather, when they talked about them,\nused to speak of them as \"the old times\"--in fact, it is several\ncenturies ago.\n\nThe rich merchants in Bremen and Lubeck carried on trade with\nCopenhagen. They did not reside in the town themselves, but sent their\nclerks, who lived in the wooden booths in the Haeuschen Street, and\nsold beer and spices. The German beer was good, and there were many\nkinds of it, as there were, for instance, Bremen, and Prussinger, and\nSous beer, and even Brunswick mumm; and quantities of spices were\nsold--saffron, and aniseed, and ginger, and especially pepper. Yes,\npepper was the chief article here, and so it happened that the German\nclerks got the nickname \"pepper gentry;\" and there was a condition\nmade with them in Lubeck and in Bremen, that they would not marry at\nCopenhagen, and many of them became very old. They had to care for\nthemselves, and to look after their own comforts, and to put out their\nown fires--when they had any; and some of them became very solitary\nold boys, with eccentric ideas and eccentric habits. From them all\nunmarried men, who have attained a certain age, are called in Denmark\n\"pepper gentry;\" and this must be understood by all who wish to\ncomprehend this history.\n\nThe \"pepper gentleman\" becomes a butt for ridicule, and is continually\ntold that he ought to put on his nightcap, and draw it down over his\neyes, and do nothing but sleep. The boys sing,\n\n    \"Cut, cut wood!\n    Poor bachelor so good.\n    Go, take your nightcap, go to rest,\n    For 'tis the nightcap suits you best!\"\n\nYes, that's what they sing about the \"pepperer\"--thus they make game\nof the poor bachelor and his nightcap, and turn it into ridicule, just\nbecause they know very little about either. Ah, that kind of nightcap\nno one should wish to earn! And why not?--We shall hear.\n\n[Illustration: THE PEPPERER'S BOOTH.]\n\nIn the old times the \"Housekin Street\" was not paved, and the people\nstumbled out of one hole into another, as in a neglected bye-way; and\nit was narrow too. The booths leaned side by side, and stood so close\ntogether that in the summer time a sail was often stretched from one\nbooth to its opposite neighbour, on which occasion the fragrance of\npepper, saffron, and ginger became doubly powerful. Behind the\ncounters young men were seldom seen. The clerks were generally old\nboys; but they did not look like what we should fancy them, namely,\nwith wig, and nightcap, and plush small-clothes, and with waistcoat\nand coat buttoned up to the chin. No, grandfather's great-grandfather\nmay look like that, and has been thus portrayed, but the \"pepper\ngentry\" had no superfluous means, and accordingly did not have their\nportraits taken; though, indeed, it would be interesting now to have a\npicture of one of them, as he stood behind the counter or went to\nchurch on holy days. His hat was high-crowned and broad-brimmed, and\nsometimes one of the youngest clerks would mount a feather. The\nwoollen shirt was hidden behind a broad linen collar, the close jacket\nwas buttoned up to the chin, and the cloak hung loose over it; and the\ntrousers were tucked into the broad-toed shoes, for the clerks did not\nwear stockings. In their girdles they sported a dinner-knife and\nspoon, and a larger knife was placed there also for the defence of the\nowner; and this weapon was often very necessary. Just so was Anthony,\none of the oldest clerks, clad on high days and holy days, except\nthat, instead of a high-crowned hat, he wore a low bonnet, and under\nit a knitted cap (a regular nightcap), to which he had grown so\naccustomed that it was always on his head; and he had two of\nthem--nightcaps, of course. The old fellow was a subject for a\npainter. He was as thin as a lath, had wrinkles clustering round his\neyes and mouth, and long bony fingers, and bushy grey eyebrows: over\nthe left eye hung quite a tuft of hair, and that did not look very\nhandsome, though it made him very noticeable. People knew that he came\nfrom Bremen; but that was not his native place, though his master\nlived there. His own native place was in Thuringia, the town of\nEisenach, close by the Wartburg. Old Anthony did not speak much of\nthis, but he thought of it all the more.\n\nThe old clerks of the Haeuschen Street did not often come together.\nEach one remained in his booth, which was closed early in the evening;\nand then it looked dark enough in the street: only a faint glimmer of\nlight forced its way through the little horn-pane in the roof; and in\nthe booth sat, generally on his bed, the old bachelor, his German\nhymn-book in his hand, singing an evening psalm in a low voice; or he\nwent about in the booth till late into the night, and busied himself\nabout all sorts of things. It was certainly not an amusing life. To be\na stranger in a strange land is a bitter lot: nobody cares for you,\nunless you happen to get in anybody's way.\n\nOften when it was dark night outside, with snow and rain, the place\nlooked very gloomy and lonely. No lamps were to be seen, with the\nexception of one solitary light hanging before the picture of the\nVirgin that was fastened against the wall. The plash of the water\nagainst the neighbouring rampart at the castle wharf could be plainly\nheard. Such evenings are long and dreary, unless people devise some\nemployment for themselves. There is not always packing or unpacking to\ndo, nor can the scales be polished or paper bags be made continually;\nand, failing these, people should devise other employment for\nthemselves. And that is just what old Anthony did; for he used to mend\nhis clothes and put pieces on his boots. When he at last sought his\ncouch, he used from habit to keep his nightcap on. He drew it down a\nlittle closer; but soon he would push it up again, to see if the light\nhad been properly extinguished. He would touch it, press the wick\ntogether, and then lie down on the other side, and draw his nightcap\ndown again; but then a doubt would come upon him, if every coal in the\nlittle fire-pan below had been properly deadened and put out--a tiny\nspark might have been left burning, and might set fire to something\nand cause damage. And therefore he rose from his bed, and crept down\nthe ladder, for it could scarcely be called a stair. And when he came\nto the fire-pan not a spark was to be discovered, and he might just go\nback again. But often, when he had gone half of the way back, it would\noccur to him that the shutters might not be securely fastened; yes,\nthen his thin legs must carry him downstairs once more. He was cold,\nand his teeth chattered in his mouth when he crept back again to bed;\nfor the cold seems to become doubly severe when it knows it cannot\nstay much longer. He drew up the coverlet closer around him, and\npulled down the nightcap lower over his brows, and turned his thoughts\naway from trade and from the labours of the day. But that did not\nprocure him agreeable entertainment; for now old thoughts came and put\nup their curtains, and these curtains have sometimes pins in them,\nwith which one pricks oneself, and one cries out \"Oh!\" and they prick\ninto one's flesh and burn so, that the tears sometimes come into one's\neyes; and that often happened to old Anthony--hot tears. The largest\npearls streamed forth, and fell on the coverlet or on the floor, and\nthen they sounded as if one of his heart-strings had broken. Sometimes\nagain they seemed to rise up in flame, illuminating a picture of life\nthat never faded out of his heart. If he then dried his eyes with his\nnightcap, the tear and the picture were indeed crushed, but the source\nof the tears remained, and welled up afresh from his heart. The\npictures did not come up in the order in which the scenes had occurred\nin reality, for very often the most painful would come together; then\nagain the most joyful would come, but these had the deepest shadows of\nall.\n\nThe beech woods of Denmark are acknowledged to be fine, but the woods\nof Thuringia arose far more beautiful in the eyes of Anthony. More\nmighty and more venerable seemed to him the old oaks around the proud\nknightly castle, where the creeping plants hung down over the stony\nblocks of the rock; sweeter there bloomed the flowers of the apple\ntree than in the Danish land. This he remembered very vividly. A\nglittering tear rolled down over his cheek; and in this tear he could\nplainly see two children playing--a boy and a girl. The boy had red\ncheeks, and yellow curling hair, and honest blue eyes. He was the son\nof the merchant Anthony--it was himself. The little girl had brown\neyes and black hair, and had a bright clever look. She was the\nburgomaster's daughter Molly. The two were playing with an apple. They\nshook the apple, and heard the pips rattling in it. Then they cut the\napple in two, and each of them took a half; they divided even the\npips, and ate them all but one, which the little girl proposed that\nthey should lay in the earth.\n\n\"Then you shall see,\" she said, \"what will come out. It will be\nsomething you don't at all expect. A whole apple tree will come out,\nbut not directly.\"\n\nAnd she put the pip in a flower-pot, and both were very busy and eager\nabout it. The boy made a hole in the earth with his finger, and the\nlittle girl dropped the pip in it, and they both covered it with\nearth.\n\n\"Now, you must not take it out to-morrow to see if it has struck\nroot,\" said Molly. \"That won't do at all. I did it with my flowers;\nbut only twice. I wanted to see if they were growing--and I didn't\nknow any better then--and the plants withered.\"\n\nAnthony took away the flower-pot, and every morning, the whole winter\nthrough, he looked at it; but nothing was to be seen but the black\nearth. At length, however, the spring came, and the sun shone warm\nagain; and two little green leaves came up out of the pot.\n\n\"Those are for me and Molly,\" said the boy. \"That's beautiful--that's\nmarvellously beautiful!\"\n\nSoon a third leaf made its appearance. Whom did that represent? Yes,\nand there came another, and yet another. Day by day and week by week\nthey grew larger, and the plant began to take the form of a real tree.\nAnd all this was now mirrored in a single tear, which was wiped away\nand disappeared; but it might come again from its source in the heart\nof old Anthony.\n\nIn the neighbourhood of Eisenach a row of stony mountains rises up.\nOne of these mountains is round in outline, and lifts itself above the\nrest, naked and without tree, bush, or grass. It is called the Venus\nMount. In this mountain dwells Lady Venus, one of the deities of the\nheathen times. She is also called Lady Holle; and every child in and\naround Eisenach has heard about her. She it was who lured Tannhauser,\nthe noble knight and minstrel, from the circle of the singers of the\nWartburg into her mountain.\n\n[Illustration: IMPERTINENT MOLLY.]\n\nLittle Molly and Anthony often stood by this mountain; and once Molly\nsaid:\n\n\"You may knock and say, 'Lady Holle, open the door--Tannhauser is\nhere!\"\n\nBut Anthony did not dare. Molly, however, did it, though she only said\nthe words \"Lady Holle, Lady Holle!\" aloud and distinctly; the rest she\nmuttered so indistinctly that Anthony felt convinced she had not\nreally said anything; and yet she looked as bold and saucy as\npossible--as saucy as when she sometimes came round him with other\nlittle girls in the garden, and all wanted to kiss him because he did\nnot like to be kissed and tried to keep them off; and she was the only\none who dared to kiss him in spite of his resistance.\n\n\"_I_ may kiss him!\" she would say proudly.\n\nThat was her vanity; and Anthony submitted, and thought no more about\nit.\n\nHow charming and how teasing Molly was! It was said that Lady Holle in\nthe mountain was beautiful also, but that her beauty was like that of\na tempting fiend. The greatest beauty and grace was possessed by Saint\nElizabeth, the patron of the country, the pious Princess of Thuringia,\nwhose good actions have been immortalized in many places in legends\nand stories. In the chapel her picture was hanging, surrounded by\nsilver lamps; but it was not in the least like Molly.\n\nThe apple tree which the two children had planted grew year by year,\nand became taller and taller--so tall, that it had to be transplanted\ninto the garden, into the fresh air, where the dew fell and the sun\nshone warm. And the tree developed itself strongly, so that it could\nresist the winter. And it seemed as if, after the rigour of the cold\nseason was past, it put forth blossoms in spring for very joy. In the\nautumn it brought two apples--one for Molly and one for Anthony. It\ncould not well have produced less.\n\nThe tree had grown apace, and Molly grew like the tree. She was as\nfresh as an apple-blossom; but Anthony was not long to behold this\nflower. All things change! Molly's father left his old home, and Molly\nwent with him, far away. Yes, in our time steam has made the journey\nthey took a matter of a few hours, but then more than a day and a\nnight were necessary to go so far eastward from Eisenach to the\nfurthest border of Thuringia, to the city which is still called\nWeimar.\n\nAnd Molly wept, and Anthony wept; but all their tears melted into one,\nand this tear had the rosy, charming hue of joy. For Molly told him\nshe loved him--loved him more than all the splendours of Weimar.\n\nOne, two, three years went by, and during this period two letters were\nreceived. One came by a carrier, and a traveller brought the other.\nThe way was long and difficult, and passed through many windings by\ntowns and villages.\n\nOften had Molly and Anthony heard of Tristram and Iseult, and often\nhad the boy applied the story to himself and Molly, though the name\nTristram was said to mean \"born in tribulation,\" and that did not\napply to Anthony, nor would he ever be able to think, like Tristram,\n\"She has forgotten me.\" But, indeed, Iseult did not forget her\nfaithful knight; and when both were laid to rest in the earth, one on\neach side of the church, the linden trees grew from their graves over\nthe church roof, and there encountered each other in bloom. Anthony\nthought that was beautiful, but mournful; but it could not become\nmournful between him and Molly: and he whistled a song of the old\nminne-singer, Walter of the Vogelverde:\n\n    \"Under the lindens\n    Upon the heath.\"\n\nAnd especially that passage appeared charming to him:\n\n    \"From the forest, down in the vale,\n    Sang her sweet song the nightingale.\"\n\nThis song was often in his mouth, and he sang and whistled it in the\nmoonlight nights, when he rode along the deep hollow way on horseback\nto get to Weimar and visit Molly. He wished to come unexpectedly, and\nhe came unexpectedly.\n\nHe was made welcome with full goblets of wine, with jovial company,\nfine company, and a pretty room and a good bed were provided for him;\nand yet his reception was not what he had dreamt and fancied it would\nbe. He could not understand himself--he could not understand the\nothers: but _we_ can understand it. One may be admitted into a house\nand associate with a family without becoming one of them. One may\nconverse together as one would converse in a post-carriage, and know\none another as people know each other on a journey, each incommoding\nthe other and wishing that either oneself or the good neighbour were\naway. Yes, this was the kind of thing Anthony felt.\n\n\"I am an honest girl,\" said Molly; \"and I myself will tell you what it\nis. Much has changed since we were children together--changed inwardly\nand outwardly. Habit and will have no power over our hearts. Anthony,\nI should not like to have an enemy in you, now that I shall soon be\nfar away from here. Believe me, I entertain the best wishes for you;\nbut to feel for you what I know now one may feel for a man, has never\nbeen the case with me. You must reconcile yourself to this. Farewell,\nAnthony!\"\n\nAnd Anthony bade her farewell. No tear came into his eye, but he felt\nthat he was no longer Molly's friend. Hot iron and cold iron alike\ntake the skin from our lips, and we have the same feeling when we kiss\nit: and he kissed himself into hatred as into love.\n\nWithin twenty-four hours Anthony was back in Eisenach, though\ncertainly the horse on which he rode was ruined.\n\n\"What matter!\" he said: \"I am ruined too; and I will destroy\neverything that can remind me of her, or of Lady Holle, or Venus the\nheathen woman! I will break down the apple tree and tear it up by the\nroots, so that it shall never bear flower or fruit more!\"\n\nBut the apple tree was not broken down, though he himself was broken\ndown, and bound on a couch by fever. What was it that raised him up\nagain? A medicine was presented to him which had strength to do\nthis--the bitterest of medicines, that shakes up body and spirit\ntogether. Anthony's father ceased to be the richest of merchants.\nHeavy days--days of trial--were at the door; misfortune came rolling\ninto the house like great waves of the sea. The father became a poor\nman. Sorrow and suffering took away his strength. Then Anthony had to\nthink of something else besides nursing his love-sorrows and his anger\nagainst Molly. He had to take his father's place--to give orders, to\nhelp, to act energetically, and at last to go out into the world and\nearn his bread.\n\nAnthony went to Bremen. There he learned what poverty and hard living\nmeant; and these sometimes make the heart hard, and sometimes soften\nit, even too much.\n\nHow different the world was, and how different the people were from\nwhat he had supposed them to be in his childhood! What were the\nminne-singer's songs to him now?--an echo, a vanishing sound! Yes,\nthat is what he thought sometimes; but again the songs would sound in\nhis soul, and his heart became gentle.\n\n\"God's will is best!\" he would say then. \"It was well that I was not\npermitted to keep Molly's heart--that she did not remain true to me.\nWhat would it have led to now, when fortune has turned away from me?\nShe quitted me before she knew of this loss of prosperity, or had any\nnotion of what awaited me. That was a mercy of Providence towards me.\nEverything has happened for the best. It was not her fault--and I have\nbeen so bitter, and have shown so much rancour towards her!\"\n\nAnd years went by. Anthony's father was dead, and strangers lived in\nthe old house. But Anthony was destined to see it again. His rich\nemployer sent him on commercial journeys, and his duty led him into\nhis native town of Eisenach. The old Wartburg stood unchanged on the\nmountain, with \"the monk and the nun\" hewn out in stone. The great\noaks gave to the scene the outlines it had possessed in his childish\ndays. The Venus Mount glimmered grey and naked over the valley. He\nwould have been glad to cry, \"Lady Holle, Lady Holle, unlock the door,\nand I shall enter and remain in my native earth!\"\n\nThat was a sinful thought, and he blessed himself to drive it away.\nThen a little bird out of the thicket sang clearly, and the old\nminne-song came into his mind:\n\n    \"From the forest, down in the vale,\n    Sang her sweet song the nightingale.\"\n\nAnd here in the town of his childhood, which he thus saw again through\ntears, much came back into his remembrance. The paternal house stood\nas in the old times; but the garden was altered, and a field-path led\nover a portion of the old ground, and the apple tree that he had not\nbroken down stood there, but outside the garden, on the farther side\nof the path. But the sun threw its rays on the apple tree as in the\nold days, the dew descended gently upon it as then, and it bore such a\nburden of fruit that the branches were bent down towards the earth.\n\n\"That flourishes!\" he said. \"The tree can grow!\"\n\nNevertheless, one of the branches of the tree was broken. Mischievous\nhands had torn it down towards the ground; for now the tree stood by\nthe public way.\n\n\"They break its blossoms off without a feeling of thankfulness--they\nsteal its fruit and break the branches. One might say of the tree as\nhas been said of some men--'It was not sung at his cradle that it\nshould come thus.' How brightly its history began, and what has it\ncome to? Forsaken and forgotten--a garden tree by the hedge, in the\nfield, and on the public way! There it stands unprotected, plundered,\nand broken! It has certainly not died, but in the course of years the\nnumber of blossoms will diminish; at last the fruit will cease\naltogether; and at last--at last all will be over!\"\n\nSuch were Anthony's thoughts under the tree; such were his thoughts\nduring many a night in the lonely chamber of the wooden house in the\ndistant land--in the Haeuschen Street in Copenhagen, whither his rich\nemployer, the Bremen merchant, had sent him, first making it a\ncondition that he should not marry.\n\n\"Marry! Ha, ha!\" he laughed bitterly to himself.\n\nWinter had set in early; it was freezing hard. Without, a snow-storm\nwas raging, so that every one who could do so remained at home; thus,\ntoo, it happened that those who lived opposite to Anthony did not\nnotice that for two days his house had not been unlocked, and that he\ndid not show himself; for who would go out unnecessarily in such\nweather?\n\nThey were grey, gloomy days; and in the house, whose windows were not\nof glass, twilight only alternated with dark night. Old Anthony had\nnot left his bed during the two days, for he had not the strength to\nrise; he had for a long time felt in his limbs the hardness of the\nweather. Forsaken by all, lay the old bachelor, unable to help\nhimself. He could scarcely reach the water-jug that he had placed by\nhis bedside, and the last drop it contained had been consumed. It was\nnot fever, nor sickness, but old age that had struck him down. Up\nyonder, where his couch was placed, he was overshadowed as it were by\ncontinual night. A little spider, which, however, he could not see,\nbusily and cheerfully span its web around him, as if it were weaving a\nlittle crape banner that should wave when the old man closed his eyes.\n\nThe time was very slow, and long, and dreary. Tears he had none to\nshed, nor did he feel pain. The thought of Molly never came into his\nmind. He felt as if the world and its noise concerned him no\nlonger--as if he were lying outside the world, and no one were\nthinking of him. For a moment he felt a sensation of hunger--of\nthirst. Yes, he felt them both. But nobody came to tend him--nobody.\nHe thought of those who had once suffered want; of Saint Elizabeth, as\nshe had once wandered on earth; of her, the saint of his home and of\nhis childhood, the noble Duchess of Thuringia, the benevolent lady who\nhad been accustomed to visit the lowliest cottages, bringing to the\ninmates refreshment and comfort. Her pious deeds shone bright upon his\nsoul. He thought of her as she had come to distribute words of\ncomfort, binding up the wounds of the afflicted, giving meat to the\nhungry; though her stern husband had chidden her for it. He thought of\nthe legend told of her, how she had been carrying the full basket\ncontaining food and wine, when her husband, who watched her footsteps,\ncame forth and asked angrily what she was carrying, whereupon she\nanswered, in fear and trembling, that the basket contained roses which\nshe had plucked in the garden; how he had torn away the white cloth\nfrom the basket, and a miracle had been performed for the pious lady;\nfor bread, and wine, and everything in the basket had been transformed\ninto roses!\n\nThus the saint's memory dwelt in Anthony's quiet mind; thus she stood\nbodily before his downcast face, before his warehouse in the simple\nbooth in the Danish land. He uncovered his head, and looked into her\ngentle eyes, and everything around him was beautiful and roseate. Yes,\nthe roses seemed to unfold themselves in fragrance. There came to him\na sweet, peculiar odour of apples, and he saw a blooming apple tree,\nwhich spread its branches above him--it was the tree which Molly and\nhe had planted together.\n\nAnd the tree strewed down its fragrant leaves upon him, cooling his\nburning brow. The leaves fell upon his parched lips, and were like\nstrengthening bread and wine; and they fell upon his breast, and he\nfelt reassured and calm, and inclined to sleep peacefully.\n\n\"Now I shall sleep,\" he whispered to himself. \"Sleep is refreshing.\nTo-morrow I shall be upon my feet again, and strong and\nwell--glorious, wonderful! That apple tree, planted in true affection,\nnow stands before me in heavenly radiance----\"\n\n[Illustration: THE OPPOSITE NEIGHBOUR LOOKS AFTER OLD ANTHONY.]\n\nAnd he slept.\n\nThe day afterwards--it was the third day that his shop had remained\nclosed--the snow-storm had ceased, and a neighbour from the opposite\nhouse came over towards the booth where dwelt old Anthony, who had not\nyet shown himself. Anthony lay stretched upon his bed--dead--with his\nold cap clutched tightly in his two hands! They did not put that cap\non his head in his coffin, for he had a new white one.\n\nWhere were now the tears that he had wept? What had become of the\npearls? They remained in the nightcap--and the true ones do not come\nout in the wash--they were preserved in the nightcap, and in time\nforgotten; but the old thoughts and the old dreams still remained in\nthe \"bachelor's nightcap.\" Don't wish for such a cap for yourself. It\nwould make your forehead very hot, would make your pulse beat\nfeverishly, and conjure up dreams which appear like reality. The first\nwho wore that identical cap afterwards felt all that at once, though\nit was half a century afterwards; and that man was the burgomaster\nhimself, who, with his wife and eleven children, was well and firmly\nestablished, and had amassed a very tolerable amount of wealth. He was\nimmediately seized with dreams of unfortunate love, of bankruptcy, and\nof heavy times.\n\n\"Hallo! how the nightcap burns!\" he cried out, and tore it from his\nhead.\n\nAnd a pearl rolled out, and another, and another, and they sounded and\nglittered.\n\n\"This must be gout,\" said the burgomaster. \"Something dazzles my\neyes!\"\n\nThey were tears, shed half a century before by old Anthony from\nEisenach.\n\nEvery one who afterwards put that nightcap upon his head had visions\nand dreams which excited him not a little. His own history was changed\ninto that of Anthony, and became a story; in fact, many stories. But\nsome one else may tell _them_. We have told the first. And our last\nword is--don't wish for \"The Old Bachelor's Nightcap.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE MARSH KING'S DAUGHTER.\n\n\nThe storks tell their little ones very many stories, all of the moor\nand the marsh. These stories are generally adapted to the age and\ncapacity of the hearers. The youngest are content if they are told\n\"Kribble-krabble, plurre-murre\" as a story, and find it charming; but\nthe older ones want something with a deeper meaning, or at any rate\nsomething relating to the family. Of the two oldest and longest\nstories that have been preserved among the storks, we are only\nacquainted with one, namely, that of Moses, who was exposed by his\nmother on the banks of the Nile, and whom the king's daughter found,\nand who afterwards became a great man and a prophet. That history is\nvery well known.\n\nThe second is not known yet, perhaps, because it is quite an inland\nstory. It has been handed down from mouth to mouth, from stork-mamma\nto stork-mamma, for thousands of years, and each of them has told it\nbetter and better; and now _we_'ll tell it best of all.\n\nThe first stork pair who told the story had their summer residence on\nthe wooden house of the Viking, which lay by the wild moor in\nWendsyssel; that is to say, if we are to speak out of the abundance of\nour knowledge, hard by the great moor in the circle of Hjoerring, high\nup by the Skagen, the northern point of Jutland. The wilderness there\nis still a great wide moor-heath, about which we can read in the\nofficial description of districts. It is said that in old times there\nwas here a sea, whose bottom was upheaved; now the moorland extends\nfor miles on all sides, surrounded by damp meadows, and unsteady\nshaking swamp, and turfy moor, with blueberries and stunted trees.\nMists are almost always hovering over this region, which seventy years\nago was still inhabited by wolves. It is certainly rightly called the\n\"wild moor;\" and one can easily think how dreary and lonely it must\nhave been, and how much marsh and lake there was here a thousand years\nago. Yes, in detail, exactly the same things were seen then that may\nyet be beheld. The reeds had the same height, and bore the same kind\nof long leaves and bluish-brown feathery plumes that they bear now;\nthe birch stood there, with its white bark and its fine\nloosely-hanging leaves, just as now; and as regards the living\ncreatures that dwelt here--why, the fly wore its gauzy dress of the\nsame cut that it wears now; and the favourite colours of the stork\nwere white picked out with black, and red stockings. The people\ncertainly wore coats of a different cut to those they now wear; but\nwhoever stepped out on the shaking moorland, be he huntsman or\nfollower, master or servant, met with the same fate a thousand years\nago that he would meet with to-day. He sank and went down to the\n\"marsh king,\" as they called him, who ruled below in the great\nmoorland empire. They also called him \"gungel king;\" but we like the\nname \"marsh king\" better, and by that we'll call him, as the storks\ndid. Very little is known of the marsh king's rule; but perhaps that\nis a good thing.\n\nIn the neighbourhood of the moorland, hard by the great arm of the\nGerman Ocean and the Cattegat, which is called the Luemfjorden, lay the\nwooden house of the Viking, with its stone water-tight cellars, with\nits tower and its three projecting stories. On the roof the stork had\nbuilt his nest; and stork-mamma there hatched the eggs, and felt sure\nthat her hatching would come to something.\n\nOne evening stork-papa stayed out very long; and when he came home he\nlooked very bustling and important.\n\n\"I've something very terrible to tell you,\" he said to the\nstork-mamma.\n\n\"Let that be,\" she replied. \"Remember that I'm hatching the eggs, and\nyou might agitate me, and I might do them a mischief.\"\n\n\"You must know it,\" he continued. \"She has arrived here--the daughter\nof our host in Egypt--she has dared to undertake the journey here--and\nshe's gone!\"\n\n\"She who came from the race of the fairies? Oh, tell me all about it!\nYou know I can't bear to be kept long in suspense when I'm hatching\neggs.\"\n\n\"You see, mother, she believed in what the doctor said, and you told\nme true. She believed that the moor flowers would bring healing to her\nsick father, and she has flown here in swan's plumage, in company with\nthe other swan-princesses, who come to the North every year to renew\ntheir youth. She has come here, and she is gone!\"\n\n\"You are much too long-winded!\" exclaimed the stork-mamma, \"and the\neggs might catch cold. I can't bear being kept in such suspense!\"\n\n\"I have kept watch,\" said the stork-papa; \"and to-night, when I went\ninto the reeds--there where the marsh ground will bear me--three swans\ncame. Something in their flight seemed to say to me, 'Look out! That's\nnot altogether swan; it's only swan's feathers!' Yes, mother, you have\na feeling of intuition just as I have; you know whether a thing is\nright or wrong.\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" she replied; \"but tell me about the princess. I'm\nsick of hearing of the swan's feathers.\"\n\n\"Well, you know that in the middle of the moor there is something like\na lake,\" continued stork-papa. \"You can see one corner of it if you\nraise yourself a little. There, by the reeds and the green mud, lay a\ngreat alder stump; and on this the three swans sat, flapping their\nwings and looking about them. One of them threw off her plumage, and I\nimmediately recognized her as our house princess from Egypt! There she\nsat, with no covering but her long black hair. I heard her tell the\nothers to pay good heed to the swan's plumage, while she dived down\ninto the water to pluck the flowers which she fancied she saw growing\nthere. The others nodded, and picked up the empty feather dress and\ntook care of it. 'I wonder what they will do with it?' thought I; and\nperhaps she asked herself the same question. If so, she got an\nanswer--a very practical answer--for the two rose up and flew away\nwith her swan's plumage. 'Do thou dive down,' they cried; 'thou shalt\nnever see Egypt again! Remain thou here in the moor!' And so saying,\nthey tore the swan's plumage into a thousand pieces, so that the\nfeathers whirled about like a snow-storm; and away they flew--the two\nfaithless princesses!\"\n\n[Illustration: THE PRINCESS LEFT IN THE MARSH.]\n\n\"Why, that is terrible!\" said stork-mamma. \"I can't bear to hear any\nmore of it. But now tell me what happened next.\"\n\n\"The princess wept and lamented aloud. Her tears fell fast on the\nalder stump, and the latter moved; for it was not a regular alder\nstump, but the marsh king--he who lives and rules in the depths of the\nmoor! I myself saw it--how the stump of the tree turned round, and\nceased to be a tree stump; long thin branches grew forth from it like\narms. Then the poor child was terribly frightened, and sprang up to\nflee away. She hurried across to the green slimy ground; but that\ncannot even carry me, much less her. She sank immediately, and the\nalder stump dived down too; and it was he who drew her down. Great\nblack bubbles rose up out of the moor-slime, and the last trace of\nboth of them vanished when these burst. Now the princess is buried in\nthe wild moor, and never more will she bear away a flower to Egypt.\nYour heart would have burst, mother, if you had seen it.\"\n\n\"You ought not to tell me anything of the kind at such a time as\nthis,\" said stork-mamma; \"the eggs might suffer by it. The princess\nwill find some way of escape; some one will come to help her. If it\nhad been you or I, or one of our people, it would certainly have been\nall over with us.\"\n\n\"But I shall go and look every day to see if anything happens,\" said\nstork-papa.\n\nAnd he was as good as his word.\n\nA long time had passed, when at last he saw a green stalk shooting up\nout of the deep moor-ground. When it reached the surface, a leaf\nspread out and unfolded itself broader and broader; close by it, a bud\ncame out. And one morning, when stork-papa flew over the stalk, the\nbud opened through the power of the strong sunbeams, and in the cup of\nthe flower lay a beautiful child--a little girl--looking just as if\nshe had risen out of the bath. The little one so closely resembled the\nprincess from Egypt, that at the first moment the stork thought it\nmust be the princess herself; but, on second thoughts, it appeared\nmore probable that it must be the daughter of the princess and of the\nmarsh king; and that also explained her being placed in the cup of the\nwater-lily.\n\n\"But she cannot possibly be left lying there,\" thought stork-papa;\n\"and in my nest there are so many persons already. But stay, I have a\nthought. The wife of the Viking has no children, and how often has she\nnot wished for a little one! People always say, 'The stork has brought\na little one;' and I will do so in earnest this time. I shall fly with\nthe child to the Viking's wife. What rejoicing there will be yonder!\"\n\nAnd the stork lifted the little girl out of the flower-cup, flew to\nthe wooden house, picked a hole with his beak in the bladder-covered\nwindow, laid the charming child on the bosom of the Viking's wife, and\nthen hurried up to the stork-mamma, and told her what he had seen and\ndone; and the little storks listened to the story, for they were big\nenough to do so now.\n\n\"So you see,\" he concluded, \"the princess is not dead, for she must\nhave sent the little one up here; and now that is provided for too.\"\n\n\"Ah, I said it would be so, from the very beginning!\" said the\nstork-mamma; \"but now think a little of your own family. Our\ntravelling time is drawing on; sometimes I feel quite restless in my\nwings already. The cuckoo and the nightingale have started; and I\nheard the quails saying that they were going too, so soon as the wind\nwas favourable. Our young ones will behave well at the exercising, or\nI am much deceived in them.\"\n\nThe Viking's wife was extremely glad when she woke next morning and\nfound the charming infant lying in her arms. She kissed and caressed\nit; but it cried violently, and struggled with its arms and legs, and\ndid not seem rejoiced at all. At length it cried itself to sleep; and\nas it lay there still and tranquil, it looked exceedingly beautiful.\nThe Viking's wife was in high glee: she felt light in body and soul;\nher heart leapt within her; and it seemed to her as if her husband and\nhis warriors, who were absent, must return quite as suddenly and\nunexpectedly as the little one had come.\n\nTherefore she and the whole household had enough to do in preparing\neverything for the reception of her lord. The long coloured curtains\nof tapestry, which she and her maids had worked, and on which they had\nwoven pictures of their idols, Odin, Thor, and Freya, were hung up;\nthe slaves polished the old shields, that served as ornaments; and\ncushions were placed on the benches, and dry wood laid on the\nfireplace in the midst of the hall, so that the flame might be fanned\nup at a moment's notice. The Viking's wife herself assisted in the\nwork, so that towards evening she was very tired, and went to sleep\nquickly and lightly.\n\nWhen she awoke towards morning, she was violently alarmed, for the\ninfant had vanished! She sprang from her couch, lighted a pine-torch,\nand searched all round about; and, behold, in the part of the bed\nwhere she had stretched her feet, lay, not the child, but a great ugly\nfrog! She was horror-struck at the sight, and seized a heavy stick to\nkill the frog; but the creature looked at her with such strange,\nmournful eyes, that she was not able to strike the blow. Once more she\nlooked round the room--the frog uttered a low, wailing croak, and she\nstarted, sprang from the couch, and ran to the window and opened it.\nAt that moment the sun shone forth, and flung its beams through the\nwindow on the couch and on the great frog; and suddenly it appeared as\nthough the frog's great mouth contracted and became small and red, and\nits limbs moved and stretched and became beautifully symmetrical, and\nit was no longer an ugly frog which lay there, but her pretty child!\n\n\"What is this?\" she said. \"Have I had a bad dream? Is it not my own\nlovely cherub lying there?\"\n\nAnd she kissed and hugged it; but the child struggled and fought like\na little wild cat.\n\nNot on this day nor on the morrow did the Viking return, although he\ncertainly was on his way home; but the wind was against him, for it\nblew towards the south, favourably for the storks. A good wind for one\nis a contrary wind for another.\n\nWhen one or two more days and nights had gone, the Viking's wife\nclearly understood how the case was with her child, that a terrible\npower of sorcery was upon it. By day it was charming as an angel of\nlight, though it had a wild, savage temper; but at night it became an\nugly frog, quiet and mournful, with sorrowful eyes. Here were two\nnatures changing inwardly as well as outwardly with the sunlight. The\nreason of this was that by day the child had the form of its mother,\nbut the disposition of its father; while, on the contrary, at night\nthe paternal descent became manifest in its bodily appearance, though\nthe mind and heart of the mother then became dominant in the child.\nWho might be able to loosen this charm that wicked sorcery had worked?\n\nThe wife of the Viking lived in care and sorrow about it; and yet her\nheart yearned towards the little creature, of whose condition she felt\nshe should not dare tell her husband on his return; for he would\nprobably, according to the custom which then prevailed, expose the\nchild on the public highway, and let whoever listed take it away. The\ngood Viking woman could not find it in her heart to allow this, and\nshe therefore determined that the Viking should never see the child\nexcept by daylight.\n\nOne morning the wings of storks were heard rushing over the roof; more\nthan a hundred pairs of those birds had rested from their exercise\nduring the previous night, and now they soared aloft, to travel\nsouthwards.\n\n\"All males here, and ready,\" they cried; \"and the wives and children\ntoo.\"\n\n\"How light we feel!\" screamed the young storks in chorus: \"it seems to\nbe creeping all over us, down into our very toes, as if we were filled\nwith frogs. Ah, how charming it is, travelling to foreign lands!\"\n\n\"Mind you keep close to us during your flight,\" said papa and mamma.\n\"Don't use your beaks too much, for that tires the chest.\"\n\nAnd the storks flew away.\n\nAt the same time the sound of the trumpets rolled across the heath,\nfor the Viking had landed with his warriors; they were returning\nhome, richly laden with spoil, from the Gallic coast, where the\npeople, as in the land of the Britons, sang in frightened accents:\n\n    \"Deliver us from the wild Northmen!\"\n\n[Illustration: THE VIKING'S FEAST.]\n\nAnd life and tumultuous joy came with them into the Viking's castle on\nthe moorland. The great mead tub was brought into the hall, the pile\nof wood was set ablaze, horses were killed, and a great feast was to\nbegin. The officiating priest sprinkled the slaves with the warm\nblood; the fire crackled, the smoke rolled along beneath the roof; but\nthey were accustomed to that. Guests were invited, and received\nhandsome gifts: all feuds and all malice were forgotten. And the\ncompany drank deep, and threw the bones of the feast in each others'\nfaces, and this was considered a sign of good humour. The bard, a kind\nof minstrel, but who was also a warrior, and had been on the\nexpedition with the rest, sang them a song, in which they heard all\ntheir warlike deeds praised, and everything remarkable specially\nnoticed. Every verse ended with the burden:\n\n    \"Goods and gold, friends and foes will die; every man must one day die;\n    But a famous name will never die!\"\n\nAnd with that they beat upon their shields, and hammered the table in\nglorious fashion with bones and knives.\n\nThe Viking's wife sat upon the high seat in the open hall. She wore a\nsilken dress, and golden armlets, and great amber beads: she was in\nher costliest garb. And the bard mentioned her in his song, and sang\nof the rich treasure she had brought her rich husband. The latter was\ndelighted with the beautiful child, which he had seen in the daytime\nin all its loveliness; and the savage ways of the little creature\npleased him especially. He declared that the girl might grow up to be\na stately heroine, strong and determined as a man. She would not wink\nher eyes when a practised hand cut off her eyebrows with a sword by\nway of a jest.\n\nThe full mead barrel was emptied, and a fresh one brought in; for\nthese were people who liked to enjoy all things plentifully. The old\nproverb was indeed well known, which says, \"The cattle know when they\nshould quit the pasture, but a foolish man knoweth not the measure of\nhis own appetite.\" Yes, they knew it well enough; but one _knows_ one\nthing, and one _does_ another. They also knew that \"even the welcome\nguest becomes wearisome when he sitteth long in the house;\" but for\nall that they sat still, for pork and mead are good things; and there\nwas high carousing, and at night the bondmen slept among the warm\nashes, and dipped their fingers in the fat grease and licked them.\nThose were glorious times!\n\nOnce more in the year the Viking sallied forth, though the storms of\nautumn already began to roar: he went with his warriors to the shores\nof Britain, for he declared that was but an excursion across the\nwater; and his wife stayed at home with the little girl. And thus\nmuch is certain, that the poor lady soon got to love the frog with its\ngentle eyes and its sorrowful sighs, almost better than the pretty\nchild that bit and beat all around her.\n\nThe rough damp mist of autumn, which devours the leaves of the forest,\nhad already descended upon thicket and heath. \"Birds feather-less,\" as\nthey called the snow, flew in thick masses, and winter was coming on\nfast. The sparrows took possession of the storks' nests, and talked\nabout the absent proprietors according to their fashion; but\nthese--the stork pair, with all the young ones--what had become of\nthem?\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe storks were now in the land of Egypt, where the sun sent forth\nwarm rays, as it does here on a fine midsummer day. Tamarinds and\nacacias bloomed in the country all around; the crescent of Mahomet\nglittered from the cupolas of the temples, and on the slender towers\nsat many a stork pair resting after the long journey. Great troops\ndivided the nests, built close together on venerable pillars and in\nfallen temple arches of forgotten cities. The date-palm lifted up its\nscreen as if it would be a sunshade; the greyish-white pyramids stood\nlike masses of shadow in the clear air of the far desert, where the\nostrich ran his swift career, and the lion gazed with his great grave\neyes at the marble sphinx which lay half buried in the sand. The\nwaters of the Nile had fallen, and the whole river bed was crowded\nwith frogs, and this spectacle was just according to the taste of the\nstork family. The young storks thought it was optical illusion, they\nfound everything so glorious.\n\n\"Yes, it's delightful here; and it's always like this in our warm\ncountry,\" said the stork-mamma; and the young ones felt quite frisky\non the strength of it.\n\n\"Is there anything more to be seen?\" they asked. \"Are we to go much\nfarther into the country?\"\n\n\"There's nothing further to be seen,\" answered stork-mamma. \"Behind\nthis delightful region there are luxuriant forests, whose branches are\ninterlaced with one another, while prickly climbing plants close up\nthe paths--only the elephant can force a way for himself with his\ngreat feet; and the snakes are too big, and the lizards too quick for\nus. If you go into the desert, you'll get your eyes full of sand when\nthere's a light breeze, but when it blows great guns you may get into\nthe middle of a pillar of sand. It is best to stay here, where there\nare frogs and locusts. I shall stay here, and you shall stay too.\"\n\nAnd there they remained. The parents sat in the nest on the slender\nminaret, and rested, and yet were busily employed smoothing and\ncleaning their feathers, and whetting their beaks against their red\nstockings. Now and then they stretched out their necks, and bowed\ngravely, and lifted their heads, with their high foreheads and fine\nsmooth feathers, and looked very clever with their brown eyes. The\nfemale young ones strutted about in the juicy reeds, looked slyly at\nthe other young storks, made acquaintances, and swallowed a frog at\nevery third step, or rolled a little snake to and fro in their bills,\nwhich they thought became them well, and, moreover, tasted nice. The\nmale young ones began a quarrel, beat each other with their wings,\nstruck with their beaks, and even pricked each other till the blood\ncame. And in this way sometimes one couple was betrothed, and\nsometimes another, of the young ladies and gentlemen, and that was\njust what they wanted, and their chief object in life: then they took\nto a new nest, and began new quarrels, for in hot countries people are\ngenerally hot-tempered and passionate. But it was pleasant for all\nthat, and the old people especially were much rejoiced, for all that\nyoung people do seems to suit them well. There was sunshine every day,\nand every day plenty to eat, and nothing to think of but pleasure. But\nin the rich castle at the Egyptian host's, as they called him, there\nwas no pleasure to be found.\n\nThe rich mighty lord reclined on his divan, in the midst of the great\nhall of the many-coloured walls, looking as if he were sitting in a\ntulip; but he was stiff and powerless in all his limbs, and lay\nstretched out like a mummy. His family and servants surrounded him,\nfor he was not dead, though one could not exactly say that he was\nalive. The healing moor flower from the North, which was to have been\nfound and brought home by her who loved him best, never appeared. His\nbeauteous young daughter, who had flown in the swan's plumage over sea\nand land, to the far North, was never to come back. \"She is dead!\" the\ntwo returning swan-maidens had said, and they had concocted a complete\nstory, which ran as follows:\n\n\"We three together flew high in the air: a hunter saw us, and shot his\narrow at us; it struck our young companion and friend; and slowly,\nsinging her farewell song, she sunk down, a dying swan, into the\nwoodland lake. By the shore of the lake, under a weeping birch tree,\nwe laid her in the cool earth. But we had our revenge. We bound fire\nunder the wings of the swallow who had her nest beneath the huntsman's\nthatch; the house burst into flames, the huntsman was burnt in the\nhouse, and the glare shone over the sea as far as the hanging birch\nbeneath which she sleeps. Never will she return to the land of Egypt.\"\n\nAnd then the two wept. And when stork-papa heard the story, he clapped\nwith his beak so that it could be heard a long way off.\n\n[Illustration: THE KING OF EGYPT DECEIVED BY THE PRINCESSES.]\n\n\"Treachery and lies!\" he cried. \"I should like to run my beak deep\ninto their chests.\"\n\n\"And perhaps break it off,\" interposed the stork-mamma; \"and then you\nwould look well. Think first of yourself, and then of your family, and\nall the rest does not concern you.\"\n\n\"But to-morrow I shall seat myself at the edge of the open cupola,\nwhen the wise and learned men assemble, to consult on the sick man's\nstate: perhaps they may come a little nearer the truth.\"\n\nAnd the learned and wise men came together and spoke a great deal, out\nof which the stork could make no sense--and it had no result, either\nfor the sick man or for the daughter in the swampy waste. But for all\nthat we may listen to what the people said, for we have to listen to a\ngreat deal of talk in the world.\n\nBut then it's an advantage to hear what went before, what has been\nsaid; and in this case we are well informed, for we know just as much\nabout it as stork-papa.\n\n\"Love gives life! the highest love gives the highest life! Only\nthrough love can his life be preserved.\" That is what they all said,\nand the learned men said it was very cleverly and beautifully spoken.\n\n\"That is a beautiful thought!\" stork-papa said immediately.\n\n\"I don't quite understand it,\" stork-mamma replied: \"and that's not my\nfault, but the fault of the thought. But let it be as it will, I've\nsomething else to think of.\"\n\nAnd now the learned men had spoken of love to this one and that one,\nand of the difference between the love of one's neighbour and love\nbetween parents and children, of the love of plants for the light,\nwhen the sunbeam kisses the ground and the germ springs forth from\nit,--everything was so fully and elaborately explained that it was\nquite impossible for stork-papa to take it in, much less to repeat it.\nHe felt quite weighed down with thought, and half shut his eyes, and\nthe whole of the following day he stood thoughtfully on one leg: it\nwas quite heavy for him to carry, all that learning.\n\nBut one thing stork-papa understood. All, high and low, had spoken out\nof their inmost hearts, and said that it was a great misfortune for\nthousands of people, yes, for the whole country, that this man was\nlying sick, and could not get well, and that it would spread joy and\npleasure abroad if he should recover. But where grew the flower that\ncould restore him to health? They had all searched for it, consulted\nlearned books, the twinkling stars, the weather and the wind; they had\nmade inquiries in every byway of which they could think; and at length\nthe wise men and the learned men had said, as we have already told,\nthat \"Love begets life--will restore a father's life;\" and on this\noccasion they had surpassed themselves, and said more than they\nunderstood. They repeated it, and wrote down as a recipe, \"Love\nbegets life.\" But how was the thing to be prepared according to the\nrecipe? that was a point they could not get over. At last they were\ndecided upon the point that help must come by means of the princess,\nthrough her who clave to her father with her whole soul; and at last a\nmethod had been devised whereby help could be procured in this\ndilemma. Yes, it was already more than a year ago since the princess\nhad sallied forth by night, when the brief rays of the new moon were\nwaning: she had gone out to the marble sphinx, had shaken the dust\nfrom her sandals, and gone onward through the long passage which leads\ninto the midst of one of the great pyramids, where one of the mighty\nkings of antiquity, surrounded by pomp and treasure, lay swathed in\nmummy cloths. There she was to incline her ear to the breast of the\ndead king; for thus, said the wise men, it should be made manifest to\nher where she might find life and health for her father. She had\nfulfilled all these injunctions, and had seen in a vision that she was\nto bring home from the deep lake in the northern moorland--the very\nplace had been accurately described to her--the lotos flower which\ngrows in the depths of the waters, and then her father would regain\nhealth and strength.\n\nAnd therefore she had gone forth in the swan's plumage out of the land\nof Egypt to the open heath, to the woodland moor. And the stork-papa\nand stork-mamma knew all this; and now we also know it more accurately\nthan we knew it before. We know that the marsh king had drawn her down\nto himself, and know that to her loved ones at home she is dead for\never. One of the wisest of them said, as the stork-mamma said too,\n\"She will manage to help herself;\" and at last they quieted their\nminds with that, and resolved to wait and see what would happen, for\nthey knew of nothing better that they could do.\n\n\"I should like to take away the swan's feathers from the two faithless\nprincesses,\" said the stork-papa; \"then, at any rate, they will not be\nable to fly up again to the wild moor and do mischief. I'll hide the\ntwo swan-feather suits up there, till somebody has occasion for them.\"\n\n\"But where do you intend to hide them?\" asked stork-mamma.\n\n\"Up in our nest in the moor,\" answered he. \"I and our young ones will\ntake turns in carrying them up yonder, on our return, and if that\nshould prove too difficult for us, there are places enough on the way\nwhere we can conceal them till our next journey. Certainly, one suit\nof swan's feathers would be enough for the princess, but two are\nalways better. In those northern countries no one can have too many\nwraps.\"\n\n\"No one will thank you for it,\" quoth stork-mamma; \"but you're the\nmaster. Except at breeding-time, I have nothing to say.\"\n\nIn the Viking's castle by the wild moor, whither the storks bent their\nflight when the spring approached, they had given the little girl the\nname of Helga; but this name was too soft for a temper like that which\nwas associated with her beauteous form. Every month this temper showed\nitself in sharper outlines; and in the course of years--during which\nthe storks made the same journey over and over again, in autumn to the\nNile, in spring back to the moorland lake--the child grew to be a\ngreat girl; and before people were aware of it, she was a beautiful\nmaiden in her sixteenth year. The shell was splendid, but the kernel\nwas harsh and hard; and she was hard, as indeed were most people in\nthose dark, gloomy times. It was a pleasure to her to splash about\nwith her white hands in the blood of the horse that had been slain in\nsacrifice. In her wild mood she bit off the neck of the black cock the\npriest was about to offer up; and to her father she said in perfect\nseriousness,\n\n\"If thy enemy should pull down the roof of thy house, while thou wert\nsleeping in careless safety; if I felt it or heard it, I would not\nwake thee even if I had the power. I should never do it, for my ears\nstill tingle with the blow that thou gavest me years ago--thou! I have\nnever forgotten it.\"\n\nBut the Viking took her words in jest; for, like all others, he was\nbewitched with her beauty, and he knew not how temper and form changed\nin Helga. Without a saddle she sat upon a horse, as if she were part\nof it, while it rushed along in full career; nor would she spring from\nthe horse when it quarrelled and fought with other horses. Often she\nwould throw herself, in her clothes, from the high shore into the sea,\nand swim to meet the Viking when his boat steered near home; and she\ncut the longest lock of her hair, and twisted it into a string for her\nbow.\n\n\"Self-achieved is well-achieved,\" she said.\n\nThe Viking's wife was strong of character and of will, according to\nthe custom of the times; but, compared to her daughter, she appeared\nas a feeble, timid woman; for she knew that an evil charm weighed\nheavily upon the unfortunate child.\n\nIt seemed as if, out of mere malice, when her mother stood on the\nthreshold or came out into the yard, Helga, would often seat herself\non the margin of the well, and wave her arms in the air; then suddenly\nshe would dive into the deep well, when her frog nature enabled her to\ndive and rise, down and up, until she climbed forth again like a cat,\nand came back into the hall dripping with water, so that the green\nleaves strewn upon the ground floated and turned in the streams that\nflowed from her garments.\n\n[Illustration: THE TRANSFORMED PRINCESS.]\n\nBut there was one thing that imposed a check upon Helga, and that was\nthe evening twilight. When that came she was quiet and thoughtful, and\nwould listen to reproof and advice; and then a secret feeling seemed\nto draw her towards her mother. And when the sun sank, and the usual\ntransformation of body and spirit took place in her, she would sit\nquiet and mournful, shrunk to the shape of the frog, her body indeed\nmuch larger than that of the animal whose likeness she took, and for\nthat reason much more hideous to behold; for she looked like a\nwretched dwarf with a frog's head and webbed fingers. Her eyes then\nassumed a very melancholy expression. She had no voice, and could only\nutter a hollow croaking that sounded like the stifled sob of a\ndreaming child. Then the Viking's wife took her on her lap, and forgot\nthe ugly form as she looked into the mournful eyes, and said,\n\n\"I could almost wish that thou wert always my poor dumb frog-child;\nfor thou art only the more terrible when thy nature is veiled in a\nform of beauty.\"\n\nAnd the Viking woman wrote Runic characters against sorcery and spells\nof sickness, and threw them over the wretched child; but she could not\nsee that they worked any good.\n\n\"One can scarcely believe that she was ever so small that she could\nlie in the cup of a water-lily,\" said stork-papa, \"now she's grown up\nthe image of her Egyptian mother. Ah, we shall never see that poor\nlady again! Probably she did not know how to help herself, as you and\nthe learned men said. Year after year I have flown to and fro, across\nand across the great moorland, and she has never once given a sign\nthat she was still alive. Yes, I may as well tell you, that every\nyear, when I came here a few days before you, to repair the nest and\nattend to various matters, I spent a whole night in flying to and fro\nover the lake, as if I had been an owl or a bat, but every time in\nvain. The two suits of swan feathers which I and the young ones\ndragged up here out of the land of the Nile have consequently not been\nused: we had trouble enough with them to bring them hither in three\njourneys; and now they lie down here in the nest, and if it should\nhappen that a fire broke out, and the wooden house were burned, they\nwould be destroyed.\"\n\n\"And our good nest would be destroyed too,\" said stork-mamma; \"but you\nthink less of that than of your plumage stuff and of your\nmoor-princess. You'd best go down into the mud and stay there with\nher. You're a bad father to your own children, as I said already when\nI hatched our first brood. I only hope neither we nor our children\nwill get an arrow in our wings through that wild girl. Helga doesn't\nknow in the least what she does. I wish she would only remember that\nwe have lived here longer than she, and that we have never forgotten\nour duty, and have given our toll every year, a feather, an egg, and a\nyoung one, as it was right we should do. Do you think I can now wander\nabout in the courtyard and everywhere, as I was wont in former days,\nand as I still do in Egypt, where I am almost the playfellow of the\npeople, and that I can press into pot and kettle as I can yonder? No,\nI sit up here and am angry at her, the stupid chit! And I am angry at\nyou too. You should have just left her lying in the water-lily, and\nshe would have been dead long ago.\"\n\n\"You are much better than your words,\" said stork-papa. \"I know you\nbetter than you know yourself.\"\n\nAnd with that he gave a hop, and flapped his wings heavily twice,\nstretched out his legs behind him, and flew away, or rather sailed\naway, without moving his wings. He had already gone some distance,\nwhen he gave a great _flap_! The sun shone upon his grand plumage, and\nhis head and neck were stretched forth proudly. There was power in it,\nand dash!\n\n\"After all, he's handsomer than any of them,\" said stork-mamma to\nherself; \"but I won't tell him so.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nEarly in that autumn the Viking came home, laden with booty, and\nbringing prisoners with him. Among these was a young Christian priest,\none of those who contemned the gods of the North.\n\nOften in those later times there had been a talk, in hall and chamber,\nof the new faith that was spreading far and wide in the South, and\nwhich, by means of Saint Ansgarius, had penetrated as far as Hedeby on\nthe Schlei. Even Helga had heard of this belief in One who, from love\nto men and for their redemption, had sacrificed His life; but with her\nall this had, as the saying is, gone in at one ear and come out at the\nother. It seemed as if she only understood the meaning of the word\n\"love,\" when she crouched in a corner of the chamber in the form of a\nmiserable frog; but the Viking's wife had listened to the mighty\nhistory that was told throughout the lands, and had felt strangely\nmoved thereby.\n\nOn their return from their voyage, the men told of the splendid\ntemples, of their hewn stones, raised for the worship of Him whose\nworship is love. Some massive vessels, made with cunning art, of gold,\nhad been brought home among the booty, and each one had a peculiar\nfragrance; for they were incense vessels, which had been swung by\nChristian priests before the altar.\n\nIn the deep cellars of the Viking's house the young priest had been\nimmured, his hands and feet bound with strips of bark. The Viking's\nwife declared that he was beautiful as Bulder to behold, and his\nmisfortune touched her heart; but Helga declared that it would be\nright to tie ropes to his heels, and fasten him to the tails of wild\noxen. And she exclaimed,\n\n\"Then I would let loose the dogs--hurrah! over the moor and across the\nswamp! That would be a spectacle for the gods! And yet finer would it\nbe to follow him in his career.\"\n\nBut the Viking would not suffer him to die such a death: he purposed\nto sacrifice the priest on the morrow, on the death-stone in the\ngrove, as a despiser and foe of the high gods.\n\nFor the first time a man was to be sacrificed here.\n\nHelga begged, as a boon, that she might sprinkle the image of the god\nand the assembled multitude with the blood of the priest. She\nsharpened her glittering knife, and when one of the great savage dogs,\nof whom a number were running about near the Viking's abode, ran by\nher, she thrust the knife into his side, \"merely to try its\nsharpness,\" as she said. And the Viking's wife looked mournfully at\nthe wild, evil-disposed girl; and when night came on and the maiden\nexchanged beauty of form for gentleness of soul, she spoke in eloquent\nwords to Helga of the sorrow that was deep in her heart.\n\nThe ugly frog, in its monstrous form, stood before her, and fixed its\nbrown eyes upon her face, listening to her words, and seeming to\ncomprehend them with human intelligence.\n\n\"Never, not even to my lord and husband, have I allowed my lips to\nutter a word concerning the sufferings I have to undergo through\nthee,\" said the Viking's wife; \"my heart is full of woe concerning\nthee: more powerful, and greater than I ever fancied it, is the love\nof a mother! But love never entered into thy heart--thy heart that is\nlike the wet, cold moorland plants.\"\n\nThen the miserable form trembled, and it was as though these words\ntouched an invisible bond between body and soul, and great tears came\ninto the mournful eyes.\n\n\"Thy hard time will come,\" said the Viking's wife; \"and it will be\nterrible to me too. It had been better if thou hadst been set out by\nthe high-road, and the night wind had lulled thee to sleep.\"\n\nAnd the Viking's wife wept bitter tears, and went away full of wrath\nand bitterness of spirit, vanishing behind the curtain of furs that\nhung loose over the beam and divided the hall.\n\nThe wrinkled frog crouched in the corner alone. A deep silence reigned\naround; but at intervals a half-stifled sigh escaped from its breast,\nfrom the breast of Helga. It seemed as though a painful new life were\narising in her inmost heart. She came forward and listened; and,\nstepping forward again, grasped with her clumsy hands the heavy pole\nthat was laid across before the door. Silently and laboriously she\npushed back the pole, silently drew back the bolt, and took up the\nflickering lamp which stood in the antechamber of the hall. It seemed\nas if a strong hidden will gave her strength. She drew back the iron\nbolt from the closed cellar door, and crept in to the captive. He was\nasleep; and when he awoke and saw the hideous form, he shuddered as\nthough he had beheld a wicked apparition. She drew her knife, cut the\nbonds that confined his hands and feet, and beckoned him to follow\nher.\n\n[Illustration: THE FLIGHT.]\n\nHe uttered some holy names, and made the sign of the cross; and when\nthe form remained motionless at his side, he said,\n\n\"Who art thou? Whence this animal shape that thou bearest, while yet\nthou art full of gentle mercy?\"\n\nThe frog-woman beckoned him to follow, and led him through corridors\nshrouded with curtains, into the stables, and there pointed to a\nhorse. He mounted on its back; but she also sprang up before him,\nholding fast by the horse's mane. The prisoner understood her meaning,\nand in a rapid trot they rode on a way which he would never have\nfound, out on to the open heath.\n\nHe thought not of her hideous form, but felt how the mercy and\nloving-kindness of the Almighty were working by means of this\nmonstrous apparition; he prayed pious prayers, and sang songs of\npraise. Then she trembled. Was it the power of song and of prayer that\nworked in her, or was she shuddering at the cold morning twilight that\nwas approaching? What were her feelings? She raised herself up, and\nwanted to stop the horse and to alight; but the Christian priest held\nher back with all his strength, and sang a pious song, as if that\nwould have the power to loosen the charm that turned her into the\nhideous semblance of a frog. And the horse gallopped on more wildly\nthan ever; the sky turned red, the first sunbeam pierced through the\nclouds, and as the flood of light came streaming down, the frog\nchanged its nature. Helga was again the beautiful maiden with the\nwicked, demoniac spirit. He held a beautiful maiden in his arms, but\nwas horrified at the sight: he swung himself from the horse, and\ncompelled it to stand. This seemed to him a new and terrible sorcery;\nbut Helga likewise leaped from the saddle, and stood on the ground.\nThe child's short garment reached only to her knee. She plucked the\nsharp knife from her girdle, and quick as lightning she rushed in upon\nthe astonished priest.\n\n\"Let me get at thee!\" she screamed; \"let me get at thee, and plunge\nthis knife in thy body! Thou art pale as straw, thou beardless slave!\"\n\nShe pressed in upon him. They struggled together in a hard strife, but\nan invisible power seemed given to the Christian captive. He held her\nfast; and the old oak tree beneath which they stood came to his\nassistance; for its roots, which projected over the ground, held fast\nthe maiden's feet that had become entangled in it. Quite close to them\ngushed a spring; and he sprinkled Helga's face and neck with the fresh\nwater, and commanded the unclean spirit to come forth, and blessed her\nin the Christian fashion; but the water of faith has no power when the\nwell-spring of faith flows not from within.\n\nAnd yet the Christian showed his power even now, and opposed more than\nthe mere might of a man against the evil that struggled within the\ngirl. His holy action seemed to overpower her: she dropped her hands,\nand gazed with frightened eyes and pale cheeks upon him who appeared\nto her a mighty magician learned in secret arts; he seemed to her to\nspeak in a dark Runic tongue, and to be making cabalistic signs in the\nair. She would not have winked had he swung a sharp knife or a\nglittering axe against her; but she trembled when he signed her with\nthe sign of the cross on her brow and her bosom, and she sat there\nlike a tame bird with bowed head.\n\n[Illustration: THE CHRISTIAN PRIEST'S SPELL.]\n\nThen he spoke to her in gentle words of the kindly deed she had done\nfor him in the past night, when she came to him in the form of the\nhideous frog, to loosen his bonds, and to lead him out to life and\nlight; and he told her that she too was bound in closer bonds than\nthose that had confined him, and that she should be released by his\nmeans. He would take her to Hedeby (Schleswig), to the holy Ansgarius,\nand yonder in the Christian city the spell that bound her would be\nloosed. But he would not let her sit before him on the horse, though\nof her own accord she offered to do so.\n\n\"Thou must sit behind me, not before me,\" he said. \"Thy magic beauty\nhath a power that comes of evil, and I fear it; and yet I feel that\nthe victory is sure to him who hath faith.\"\n\nAnd he knelt down and prayed fervently. It seemed as though the\nwoodland scenes were consecrated as a holy church by his prayer. The\nbirds sang as though they belonged to the new congregation, the wild\nflowers smelt sweet as incense; and while he spoke the horse that had\ncarried them both in headlong career stood still before the tall\nbramble bushes, and plucked at them, so that the ripe juicy berries\nfell down upon Helga's hands, offering themselves for her refreshment.\n\nPatiently she suffered the priest to lift her on the horse, and sat\nlike a somnambulist, neither completely asleep nor wholly awake. The\nChristian bound two branches together with bark, in the form of a\ncross, which he held up high as they rode through the forest. The wood\nbecame thicker as they went on, and at last became a trackless\nwilderness.\n\nThe wild sloe grew across the way, so that they had to ride round the\nbushes. The bubbling spring became not a stream but a standing marsh,\nround which likewise they were obliged to lead the horse. There was\nstrength and refreshment in the cool forest breeze; and no small power\nlay in the gentle words, which were spoken in faith and in Christian\nlove, from a strong inward yearning to lead the poor lost one into the\nway of light and life.\n\nThey say the rain-drops can hollow the hard stone, and the waves of\nthe sea can smooth and round the sharp edges of the rocks. Thus did\nthe dew of mercy, that dropped upon Helga, smooth what was rough, and\npenetrate what was hard in her. The effects did not yet appear, nor\nwas she aware of them herself; but doth the seed in the bosom of earth\nknow, when the refreshing dew and the quickening sunbeams fall upon\nit, that it hath within itself the power of growth and blossoming? As\nthe song of the mother penetrates into the heart of the child, and it\nbabbles the words after her, without understanding their import, until\nthey afterwards engender thought, and come forward in due time clearer\nand more clearly, so here also did the Word work, that is powerful to\ncreate.\n\nThey rode forth from the dense forest, across the heath, and then\nagain through pathless roads; and towards evening they encountered a\nband of robbers.\n\n[Illustration: HELGA AND THE PRIEST ATTACKED BY ROBBERS.]\n\n\"Where hast thou stolen that beauteous maiden?\" cried the robbers; and\nthey seized the horse's bridle, and dragged the two riders from its\nback. The priest had no weapon save the knife he had taken from\nHelga; and with this he tried to defend himself. One of the robbers\nlifted his axe to slay him, but the young priest sprang aside and\neluded the blow, which struck deep into the horse's neck, so that the\nblood spurted forth, and the creature sank down on the ground. Then\nHelga seemed suddenly to wake from her long reverie, and threw\nherself hastily upon the gasping animal. The priest stood before her\nto protect and defend her, but one of the robbers swung his iron\nhammer over the Christian's head, and brought it down with such a\ncrash that blood and brains were scattered around, and the priest sank\nto the earth, dead.\n\nThen the robber's seized beautiful Helga by her white arms and her\nslender waist; but the sun went down, and its last ray disappeared at\nthat moment, and she was changed into the form of a frog. A\nwhite-green mouth spread over half her face, her arms became thin and\nslimy, and broad hands with webbed fingers spread out upon them like\nfans. Then the robbers were seized with terror, and let her go. She\nstood, a hideous monster, among them; and as it is the nature of the\nfrog to do, she hopped up high, and disappeared in the thicket. Then\nthe robbers saw that this must be a bad prank of the spirit Loke, or\nthe evil power of magic, and in great affright they hurried away from\nthe spot.\n\nThe full moon was already rising. Presently it shone with splendid\nradiance over the earth, and poor Helga crept forth from the thicket\nin the wretched frog's shape. She stood still beside the corpse of the\npriest and the carcase of the slain horse. She looked at them with\neyes that appeared to weep, and from the frog-mouth came forth a\ncroaking like the voice of a child bursting into tears. She leant\nfirst over the one, then over the other, brought water in her hollow\nhand, which had become larger and more capacious by the webbed skin,\nand poured it over them; but dead they were, and dead they would\nremain, she at last understood. Soon wild beasts would come and tear\ntheir dead bodies; but no, that must not be! so she dug up the earth\nas well as she could, in the endeavour to prepare a grave for them.\nShe had nothing to work with but a stake and her two hands encumbered\nwith the webbed skin that grew between the fingers, and which were\ntorn by the labour, so that the blood flowed over them. At last she\nsaw that her endeavours would not succeed. Then she brought water and\nwashed the dead man's face, and covered it with fresh green leaves;\nshe brought green boughs and laid them upon him, scattering dead\nleaves in the spaces between. Then she brought the heaviest stones she\ncould carry and laid them over the dead body, stopping up the\ninterstices with moss. And now she thought the grave-hill would be\nstrong and secure. The night had passed away in this difficult\nwork--the sun broke through the clouds, and beautiful Helga stood\nthere in all her loveliness, with bleeding hands, and with the first\ntears flowing that had ever bedewed her maiden cheeks.\n\n[Illustration: HELGA IN THE TREE.]\n\nThen in this transformation it seemed as if two natures were striving\nwithin her. Her whole frame trembled, and she looked around, as if she\nhad just awoke from a troubled dream. Then she ran towards the slender\ntree, clung to it for support, and in another moment she had climbed\nto the summit of the tree, and held fast. There she sat like a\nstartled squirrel, and remained the whole day long in the silent\nsolitude of the wood, where everything is quiet, and, as they say,\ndead. Butterflies fluttered around in sport, and in the neighbourhood\nwere several ant-hills, each with its hundreds of busy little\noccupants moving briskly to and fro. In the air danced a number of\ngnats, swarm upon swarm, and hosts of buzzing flies, lady-birds, gold\nbeetles, and other little winged creatures; the worm crept forth from\nthe damp ground, the moles came out; but except these all was silent\naround--silent, and, as people say, dead--for they speak of things as\nthey understand them. No one noticed Helga, but some flocks of crows,\nthat flew screaming about the top of the tree on which she sat: the\nbirds hopped close up to her on the twigs with pert curiosity; but\nwhen the glance of her eye fell upon them, it was a signal for their\nflight. But they could not understand her--nor, indeed, could she\nunderstand herself.\n\nWhen the evening twilight came on, and the sun was sinking, the time\nof her transformation roused her to fresh activity. She glided down\nfrom the tree, and as the last sunbeam vanished she stood in the\nwrinkled form of the frog, with the torn webbed skin on her hands; but\nher eyes now gleamed with a splendour of beauty that had scarcely been\ntheirs when she wore her garb of loveliness, for they were a pair of\npure, pious, maidenly eyes that shone out of the frog-face. They bore\nwitness of depth of feeling, of the gentle human heart; and the\nbeauteous eyes overflowed in tears, weeping precious drops that\nlightened the heart.\n\nOn the sepulchral mound she had raised there yet lay the cross of\nboughs, the last work of him who slept beneath. Helga lifted up the\ncross, in pursuance of a sudden thought that came upon her. She\nplanted it upon the burial mound, over the priest and the dead horse.\nThe sorrowful remembrance of him called fresh tears into her eyes; and\nin this tender frame of mind she marked the same sign in the sand\naround the grave; and as she wrote the sign with both her hands, the\nwebbed skin fell from them like a torn glove; and when she washed her\nhands in the woodland spring, and gazed in wonder at their snowy\nwhiteness, she again made the holy sign in the air between herself and\nthe dead man; then her lips trembled, the holy name that had been\npreached to her during the ride from the forest came to her mouth, and\nshe pronounced it audibly.\n\nThen the frog-skin fell from her, and she was once more the beauteous\nmaiden. But her head sank wearily, her tired limbs required rest, and\nshe fell into a deep slumber.\n\nHer sleep, however, was short. Towards midnight she awoke. Before her\nstood the dead horse, beaming and full of life, which gleamed forth\nfrom his eyes and from his wounded neck; close beside the creature\nstood the murdered Christian priest, \"more beautiful than Bulder,\" the\nViking woman would have said; and yet he seemed to stand in a flame of\nfire.\n\nSuch gravity, such an air of justice, such a piercing look shone out\nof his great mild eyes, that their glance seemed to penetrate every\ncorner of her heart. Beautiful Helga trembled at the look, and her\nremembrance awoke as though she stood before the tribunal of\njudgment.\n\n[Illustration: HELGA IS TAKEN BACK TO THE MARSH.]\n\nEvery good deed that had been done for her, every loving word that had\nbeen spoken, seemed endowed with life: she understood that it had been\nlove that kept her here during the days of trial, during which the\ncreature formed of dust and spirit, soul and earth, combats and\nstruggles; she acknowledged that she had only followed the leading of\ntemper, and had done nothing for herself; everything had been given\nher, everything had happened as it were by the interposition of\nProvidence. She bowed herself humbly, confessing her own deep\nimperfection in the presence of the Power that can read every thought\nof the heart--and then the priest spoke.\n\n\"Thou daughter of the moorland,\" he said, \"out of the earth, out of\nthe moor, thou camest; but from the earth thou shalt arise. I come\nfrom the land of the dead. Thou, too, shalt pass through the deep\nvalleys into the beaming mountain region, where dwell mercy and\ncompleteness. I cannot lead thee to Hedeby, that thou mayest receive\nChristian baptism; for, first, thou must burst the veil of waters over\nthe deep moorland, and draw forth the living source of thy being and\nof thy birth; thou must exercise thy faculties in deeds before the\nconsecration can be given thee.\"\n\nAnd he lifted her upon the horse, and gave her a golden censer similar\nto the one she had seen in the Viking's castle. The open wound in the\nforehead of the slain Christian shone like a diadem. He took the cross\nfrom the grave and held it aloft. And now they rode through the air,\nover the rustling wood, over the hills where the old heroes lay\nburied, each on his dead war-horse; and the iron figures rose up and\ngallopped forth, and stationed themselves on the summits of the hills.\nThe golden hoop on the forehead of each gleamed in the moonlight, and\ntheir mantles floated in the night breeze. The dragon that guards\nburied treasures likewise lifted up his head and gazed after the\nriders. The gnomes and wood-spirits peeped forth from beneath the\nhills and from between the furrows of the fields, and flitted to and\nfro with red, blue, and green torches, like the sparks in the ashes of\na burnt paper.\n\nOver woodland and heath, over river and marsh they fled away, up to\nthe wild moor; and over this they hovered in wide circles. The\nChristian priest held the cross aloft; it gleamed like gold; and from\nhis lips dropped pious prayers. Beautiful Helga joined in the hymns he\nsang, like a child joining in its mother's song. She swung the censer,\nand a wondrous fragrance of incense streamed forth thence, so that the\nreeds and grass of the moor burst forth into blossom. Every germ came\nforth from the deep ground. All that had life lifted itself up. A veil\nof water-lilies spread itself forth like a carpet of wrought flowers,\nand upon this carpet lay a sleeping woman, young and beautiful. Helga\nthought it was her own likeness she saw upon the mirror of the calm\nwaters. But it was her mother whom she beheld, the moor king's wife,\nthe princess from the banks of the Nile.\n\nThe dead priest commanded that the slumbering woman should be lifted\nupon the horse; but the horse sank under the burden, as though its\nbody had been a cloth fluttering in the wind. But the holy sign gave\nstrength to the airy phantom, and then the three rode from the moor to\nthe firm land.\n\n[Illustration: HELGA MEETS WITH HER MOTHER IN THE MARSH.]\n\nThen the cock crowed in the Viking's castle, and the phantom shapes\ndissolved and floated away in air; but mother and daughter stood\nopposite each other.\n\n\"Am I really looking at my own image from beneath the deep waters?\"\nasked the mother.\n\n\"Is it myself that I see reflected on the clear mirror?\" exclaimed the\ndaughter.\n\nAnd they approached one another, and embraced. The heart of the mother\nbeat quickest, and she understood the quickening pulses.\n\n\"My child! thou flower of my own heart! my lotos-flower of the deep\nwaters!\"\n\nAnd she embraced her child anew, and wept; and the tears were as a new\nbaptism of life and love to Helga.\n\n\"In the swan's plumage came I hither,\" said the mother; \"and here also I\nthrew off my dress of feathers. I sank through the shaking moorland, far\ndown into the black slime, which closed like a wall around me. But soon I\nfelt a fresher stream; a power drew me down, deeper and ever deeper. I felt\nthe weight of sleep upon my eyelids; I slumbered, and dreams hovered round\nme. It seemed to me that I was again in the pyramid in Egypt, and yet the\nwaving willow trunk that had frightened me up in the moor was ever before\nme. I looked at the clefts and wrinkles in the stem, and they shone forth\nin colours, and took the form of hieroglyphics: it was the case of the\nmummy at which I was gazing; at last the case burst, and forth stepped the\nthousand-year-old king, the mummied form, black as pitch, shining black as\nthe wood-snail or the fat mud of the swamp; whether it was the marsh king\nor the mummy of the pyramids I knew not. He seized me in his arms, and I\nfelt as if I must die. When I returned to consciousness a little bird was\nsitting on my bosom, beating with its wings, and twittering and singing.\nThe bird flew away from me up towards the heavy, dark covering; but a long\ngreen band still fastened him to me. I heard and understood his longing\ntones: 'Freedom! Sunlight! to my father!' Then I thought of my father and\nthe sunny land of my birth, my life, and my love; and I loosened the band\nand let the bird soar away home to the father. Since that hour I have\ndreamed no more. I have slept a sleep, a long and heavy sleep, till within\nthis hour; harmony and incense awoke me and set me free.\"\n\nThe green band from the heart of the mother to the bird's wings, where\ndid it flutter now? whither had it been wafted? Only the stork had\nseen it. The band was the green stalk, the bow at the end, the\nbeauteous flower, the cradle of the child that had now bloomed into\nbeauty, and was once more resting on its mother's heart.\n\nAnd while the two were locked in each other's embrace, the old stork\nflew around them in smaller and smaller circles, and at length shot\naway in swift flight towards his nest, whence he brought out the\nswan-feather suits he had preserved there for years, throwing one to\neach of them, and the feathers closed around them, so that they soared\nup from the earth in the semblance of two white swans.\n\n\"And now we will speak with one another,\" quoth stork-papa, \"now we\nunderstand each other, though the beak of one bird is differently\nshaped from that of another. It happens more than fortunately that you\ncame to-night. To-morrow we should have been gone--mother, myself, and\nthe young ones; for we're flying southward. Yes, only look at me! I am\nan old friend from the land of the Nile, and mother has a heart larger\nthan her beak. She always declared the princess would find a way to\nhelp herself; and I and the young ones carried the swan's feathers up\nhere. But how glad I am! and how fortunate that I'm here still! At\ndawn of day we shall move hence, a great company of storks. We'll fly\nfirst, and do you follow us; thus you cannot miss your way; moreover,\nI and the youngsters will keep a sharp eye upon you.\"\n\n\"And the lotos-flower which I was to bring with me,\" said the Egyptian\nprincess, \"she is flying by my side in the swan's plumage! I bring\nwith me the flower of my heart; and thus the riddle has been read.\nHomeward! homeward!\"\n\nBut Helga declared she could not quit the Danish land before she had\nonce more seen her foster-mother, the affectionate Viking woman. Every\nbeautiful recollection, every kind word, every tear that her\nfoster-mother had wept for her, rose up in her memory, and in that\nmoment she almost felt as if she loved the Viking woman best of all.\n\n\"Yes, we must go to the Viking's castle,\" said stork-papa; \"mother and\nthe youngsters are waiting for us there. How they will turn up their\neyes and flap their wings! Yes, you see mother doesn't speak\nmuch--she's short and dry, but she means all the better. I'll begin\nclapping at once, that they may know we're coming.\" And stork-papa\nclapped in first-rate style, and they all flew away towards the\nViking's castle.\n\nIn the castle every one was sunk in deep sleep. The Viking's wife had\nnot retired to rest until it was late. She was anxious about Helga,\nwho had vanished with a Christian priest three days before: she knew\nHelga must have assisted him in his flight, for it was the girl's\nhorse that had been missed from the stables; but how all this had been\neffected was a mystery to her. The Viking woman had heard of the\nmiracles told of the Christian priest, and which were said to be\nwrought by him and by those who believed in his words and followed\nhim. Her passing thoughts formed themselves into a dream, and it\nseemed to her that she was still lying awake on her couch, and that\ndeep darkness reigned without. The storm drew near: she heard the sea\nroaring and rolling to the east and to the west, like the waves of the\nNorth Sea and the Cattegat. The immense snake which was believed to\nsurround the span of the earth in the depths of the ocean was\ntrembling in convulsions; she dreamed that the night of the fall of\nthe gods had come--Ragnarok, as the heathen called the last day, when\neverything was to pass away, even the great gods themselves. The\nwar-trumpet sounded, and the gods rode over the rainbow, clad in\nsteel, to fight the last battle. The winged Valkyrs rode before them,\nand the dead warriors closed the train. The whole firmament was ablaze\nwith northern lights, and yet the darkness seemed to predominate. It\nwas a terrible hour.\n\nAnd close by the terrified Viking woman Helga seemed to be crouching\non the floor in the hideous frog form, trembling and pressing close to\nher foster-mother, who took her on her lap and embraced her\naffectionately, hideous though she was. The air resounded with the\nblows of clubs and swords, and with the hissing of arrows, as if a\nhailstorm were passing across it. The hour was come when earth and sky\nwere to burst, the stars to fall, and all things to be swallowed up in\nSurtur's sea of fire; but she knew that there would be a new heaven\nand a new earth, that the corn fields then would wave where now the\nocean rolled over the desolate tracts of sand, and that the\nunutterable God would reign; and up to Him rose Bulder the gentle, the\naffectionate, delivered from the kingdom of the dead; he came; the\nViking woman saw him, and recognized his countenance; it was that of\nthe captive Christian priest. \"White Christian!\" she cried aloud, and\nwith these words she pressed a kiss upon the forehead of the hideous\nfrog-child. Then the frog-skin fell off, and Helga stood revealed in\nall her beauty, lovely and gentle as she had never appeared, and with\nbeaming eyes. She kissed her foster-mother's hands, blessed her for\nall the care and affection lavished during the days of bitterness and\ntrial, for the thought she had awakened and cherished in her, for\nnaming the name, which she repeated, \"White Christian;\" and beauteous\nHelga arose in the form of a mighty swan, and spread her white wings\nwith a rushing like the sound of a troop of birds of passage winging\ntheir way through the air.\n\nThe Viking woman woke; and she heard the same noise without still\ncontinuing. She knew it was the time for the storks to depart, and\nthat it must be those birds whose wings she heard. She wished to see\nthem once more, and to bid them farewell as they set forth on their\njourney. Therefore she rose from her couch and stepped out upon the\nthreshold, and on the top of the gable she saw stork ranged behind\nstork, and around the castle, over the high trees, flew bands of\nstorks wheeling in wide circles; but opposite the threshold where she\nstood, by the well where Helga had often sat and alarmed her with her\nwildness, sat two white swans gazing at her with intelligent eyes. And\nshe remembered her dream, which still filled her soul as if it were\nreality. She thought of Helga in the shape of a swan, and of the\nChristian priest; and suddenly she felt her heart rejoice within her.\n\n[Illustration: THE DISGUISED PRINCESSES BID FAREWELL TO THE VIKING\nWOMAN.]\n\nThe swans flapped their wings and arched their necks, as if they would\nsend her a greeting, and the Viking's wife spread out her arms\ntowards them, as if she felt all this; and smiled through her tears,\nand then stood sunk in deep thought.\n\nThen all the storks arose, flapping their wings and clapping with\ntheir beaks, to start on their voyage towards the South.\n\n\"We will not wait for the swans,\" said stork-mamma: \"if they want to\ngo with us they had better come. We can't sit here till the plovers\nstart. It is a fine thing, after all, to travel in this way, in\nfamilies, not like the finches and partridges, where the male and\nfemale birds fly in separate bodies, which appears to me a very\nunbecoming thing. What are yonder swans flapping their wings for?\"\n\n\"Well, everyone flies in his own fashion,\" said stork-papa: \"the swans\nin an oblique line, the cranes in a triangle, and the plovers in a\nsnake's line.\"\n\n\"Don't talk about snakes while we are flying up here,\" said\nstork-mamma. \"It only puts ideas into the children's heads which can't\nbe gratified.\"\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Are those the high mountains of which I heard tell?\" asked Helga, in\nthe swan's plumage.\n\n\"They are storm clouds driving on beneath us,\" replied her mother.\n\n\"What are yonder white clouds that rise so high?\" asked Helga again.\n\n\"Those are the mountains covered with perpetual snow which you see\nyonder,\" replied her mother.\n\nAnd they flew across the lofty Alps towards the blue Mediterranean.\n\n\"Africa's land! Egypt's strand!\" sang, rejoicingly, in her swan's\nplumage, the daughter of the Nile, as from the lofty air she saw her\nnative land looming in the form of a yellowish wavy stripe of shore.\n\nAnd all the birds caught sight of it, and hastened their flight.\n\n\"I can scent the Nile mud and wet frogs,\" said stork-mamma; \"I begin\nto feel quite hungry. Yes; now you shall taste something nice; and you\nwill see the maraboo bird, the crane, and the ibis. They all belong to\nour family, though they are not nearly so beautiful as we. They give\nthemselves great airs, especially the ibis. He has been quite spoilt\nby the Egyptians, for they make a mummy of him and stuff him with\nspices. I would rather be stuffed with live frogs, and so would you,\nand so you shall. Better have something in one's inside while one is\nalive than to be made a fuss with after one is dead. That's my\nopinion, and I am always right.\"\n\n\"Now the storks are come,\" said the people in the rich house on the\nbanks of the Nile, where the royal lord lay in the open hall on the\ndowny cushions, covered with a leopard skin, not alive and yet not\ndead, but waiting and hoping for the lotos-flower from the deep\nmoorland, in the far North. Friends and servants stood around his\ncouch.\n\n[Illustration: THE KING OF EGYPT'S RECOVERY.]\n\nAnd into the hall flew two beauteous swans. They had come with the\nstorks. They threw off their dazzling white plumage, and two lovely\nfemale forms were revealed, as like each other as two dewdrops. They\nbent over the old, pale, sick man, they put back their long hair, and\nwhile Helga bent over her grandfather, his white cheeks reddened, his\neyes brightened, and life came back to his wasted limbs. The old man\nrose up cheerful and well; and daughter and granddaughter embraced him\njoyfully, as if they were giving him a morning greeting after a long\nheavy dream.\n\nAnd joy reigned through the whole house, and likewise in the stork's\nnest, though there the chief cause was certainly the good food,\nespecially the numberless frogs, which seemed to spring up in heaps\nout of the ground; and while the learned men wrote down hastily, in\nflying characters, a sketch of the history of the two princesses, and\nof the flower of health that had been a source of joy for the home and\nthe land, the stork pair told the story to their family in their own\nfashion, but not till all had eaten their fill, otherwise the\nyoungsters would have found something more interesting to do than to\nlisten to stories.\n\n\"Now, at last, you will become something,\" whispered stork-mamma,\n\"there's no doubt about that.\"\n\n\"What should I become?\" asked stork-papa. \"What have I done? Nothing\nat all!\"\n\n\"You have done more than the rest! But for you and the youngsters the\ntwo princesses would never have seen Egypt again, or have effected the\nold man's cure. You will turn out something! They must certainly give\nyou a doctor's degree, and our youngsters will inherit it, and so will\ntheir children after them, and so on. You already look like an\nEgyptian doctor; at least in my eyes.\"\n\n\"I cannot quite repeat the words as they were spoken,\" said\nstork-papa, who had listened from the roof to the report of these\nevents, made by the learned men, and was now telling it again to his\nown family. \"What they said was so confused, it was so wise and\nlearned, that they immediately received rank and presents--even the\nhead cook received an especial mark of distinction--probably for the\nsoup.\"\n\n\"And what did you receive?\" asked stork-mamma. \"Surely they ought not\nto forget the most important person of all, and you are certainly he!\nThe learned men have done nothing throughout the whole affair but used\ntheir tongues; but you will doubtless receive what is due to you.\"\n\nLate in the night, when the gentle peace of sleep rested upon the now\nhappy house, there was one who still watched. It was not stork-papa,\nthough he stood upon one leg, and slept on guard--it was Helga who\nwatched. She bowed herself forward over the balcony, and looked into\nthe clear air, gazed at the great gleaming stars, greater and purer in\ntheir lustre than she had ever seen them in the North, and yet the\nsame orbs. She thought of the Viking woman in the wild moorland, of\nthe gentle eyes of her foster-mother, and of the tears which the kind\nsoul had wept over the poor frog-child that now lived in splendour\nunder the gleaming stars, in the beauteous spring air on the banks of\nthe Nile. She thought of the love that dwelt in the breast of the\nheathen woman, the love that had been shown to a wretched creature,\nhateful in human form, and hideous in its transformation. She looked\nat the gleaming stars, and thought of the glory that had shone upon\nthe forehead of the dead man, when she flew with him through the\nforest and across the moorland; sounds passed through her memory,\nwords she had heard pronounced as they rode onward, and when she was\nborne wondering and trembling through the air, words from the great\nFountain of love that embraces all human kind.\n\nYes, great things had been achieved and won! Day and night beautiful\nHelga was absorbed in the contemplation of the great sum of her\nhappiness, and stood in the contemplation of it like a child that\nturns hurriedly from the giver to gaze on the splendours of the gifts\nit has received. She seemed to lose herself in the increasing\nhappiness, in contemplation of what might come, of what would come.\nHad she not been borne by miracle to greater and greater bliss? And in\nthis idea she one day lost herself so completely, that she thought no\nmore of the Giver. It was the exuberance of youthful courage,\nunfolding its wings for a bold flight! Her eyes were gleaming with\ncourage, when suddenly a loud noise in the courtyard below recalled\nher thoughts from their wandering flight. There she saw two great\nostriches running round rapidly in a narrow circle. Never before had\nshe seen such creatures--great clumsy things they were, with wings\nthat looked as if they had been clipped, and the birds themselves\nlooking as if they had suffered violence of some kind; and now for the\nfirst time she heard the legend which the Egyptians tell of the\nostrich.\n\nOnce, they say, the ostriches were a beautiful, glorious race of\nbirds, with strong large wings; and one evening the larger birds of\nthe forest said to the ostrich, \"Brother, shall we fly to-morrow, _God\nwilling_, to the river to drink?\" And the ostrich answered, \"I will.\"\nAt daybreak, accordingly, they winged their flight from thence, flying\nfirst up on high, towards the sun, that gleamed like the eye of\nGod--higher and higher, the ostrich far in advance of all the other\nbirds. Proudly the ostrich flew straight towards the light, boasting\nof his strength, and not thinking of the Giver or saying, \"God\nwilling!\" Then suddenly the avenging angel drew aside the veil from\nthe flaming ocean of sunlight, and in a moment the wings of the proud\nbird were scorched and shrivelled up, and he sank miserably to the\nground. Since that time, the ostrich has never again been able to\nraise himself in the air, but flees timidly along the ground, and runs\nround in a narrow circle. And this is a warning for us men, that in\nall our thoughts and schemes, in all our doings and devices, we should\nsay, \"God willing.\" And Helga bowed her head thoughtfully and gravely,\nand looked at the circling ostrich, noticing its timid fear, and its\nstupid pleasure at sight of its own great shadow cast upon the white\nsunlit wall. And seriousness struck its roots deep into her mind and\nheart. A rich life in present and future happiness was given and won;\nand what was yet to come? the best of all, \"_God willing_.\"\n\nIn early spring, when the storks flew again towards the North,\nbeautiful Helga took off her golden bracelet, and scratched her name\nupon it; and beckoning to the stork-father, she placed the golden hoop\naround his neck, and begged him to deliver it to the Viking woman, so\nthat the latter might see that her adopted daughter was well, and had\nnot forgotten her.\n\n\"That's heavy to carry,\" thought the stork-papa, when he had the\ngolden ring round his neck; \"but gold and honour are not to be flung\ninto the street. The stork brings good fortune; they'll be obliged to\nacknowledge that over yonder.\"\n\n\"You lay gold and I lay eggs,\" said the stork-mamma. \"But with you\nit's only once in a way, whereas I lay eggs every year; but neither of\nus is appreciated--that's very disheartening.\"\n\n\"Still one has one's inward consciousness, mother,\" replied\nstork-papa.\n\n\"But you can't hang that round your neck,\" stork-mamma retorted; \"and\nit won't give you a good wind or a good meal.\"\n\nThe little nightingale, singing yonder in the tamarind tree, will soon\nbe going north too. Helga the fair had often heard the sweet bird sing\nup yonder by the wild moor; now she wanted to give it a message to\ncarry, for she had learned the language of birds when she flew in the\nswan's plumage; she had often conversed with stork and with swallow,\nand she knew the nightingale would understand her. So she begged the\nlittle bird to fly to the beech wood, on the peninsula of Jutland,\nwhere the grave-hill had been reared with stones and branches, and\nbegged the nightingale to persuade all other little birds that they\nmight build their nests around the place, so that the song of birds\nshould resound over that sepulchre for evermore. And the nightingale\nflew away--and time flew away.\n\n[Illustration: A MESSAGE TO THE VIKING WOMAN.]\n\nIn autumn the eagle stood upon the pyramid and saw a stately train of\nrichly laden camels approaching, and richly attired armed men on\nfoaming Arab steeds, shining white as silver, with pink trembling\nnostrils, and great thick manes hanging down almost over their slender\nlegs. Wealthy guests, a royal prince of Arabia, handsome as a prince\nshould be, came into the proud mansion on whose roof the stork's nests\nnow stood empty: those who had inhabited the nest were away now, in\nthe far north; but they would soon return. And, indeed, they returned\non that very day that was so rich in joy and gladness. Here a marriage\nwas celebrated, and fair Helga was the bride, shining in jewels and\nsilk. The bridegroom was the young Arab prince, and bride and\nbridegroom sat together at the upper end of the table, between mother\nand grandfather.\n\nBut her gaze was not fixed upon the bridegroom, with his manly\nsun-browned cheeks, round which a black beard curled; she gazed not at\nhis dark fiery eyes that were fixed upon her--but far away at a\ngleaming star that shone down from the sky.\n\nThen strong wings were heard beating the air. The storks were coming\nhome, and however tired the old stork pair might be from the journey,\nand however much they needed repose, they did not fail to come down at\nonce to the balustrades of the verandah; for they knew what feast was\nbeing celebrated. Already on the frontier of the land they had heard\nthat Helga had caused their figures to be painted on the wall--for did\nthey not belong to her history?\n\n\"That's very pretty and suggestive,\" said stork-papa.\n\n\"But it's very little,\" observed stork-mamma. \"They could not possibly\nhave done less.\"\n\nAnd when Helga saw them, she rose and came on to the verandah, to\nstroke the backs of the storks. The old pair waved their heads and\nbowed their necks, and even the youngest among the young ones felt\nhighly honoured by the reception.\n\nAnd Helga looked up to the gleaming star, which seemed to glow purer\nand purer; and between the star and herself there floated a form,\npurer than the air, and visible through it: it floated quite close to\nher. It was the spirit of the dead Christian priest; he too was coming\nto her wedding feast--coming from heaven.\n\n\"The glory and brightness yonder outshines everything that is known on\nearth!\" he said.\n\nAnd fair Helga begged so fervently, so beseechingly, as she had never\nyet prayed, that it might be permitted her to gaze in there for one\nsingle moment, that she might be allowed to cast but a single glance\ninto the brightness that beamed in the kingdom.\n\nThen he bore her up amid splendour and glory. Not only around her, but\nwithin her, sounded voices and beamed a brightness that words cannot\nexpress.\n\n\"Now we must go back; thou wilt be missed,\" he said.\n\n\"Only one more look!\" she begged. \"But one short minute more!\"\n\n\"We must go back to the earth. The guests will all depart.\"\n\n\"Only one more look--the last.\"\n\nAnd Helga stood again in the verandah; but the marriage lights without\nhad vanished, and the lamps in the hall were extinguished, and the\nstorks were gone--nowhere a guest to be seen--no bridegroom--all\nseemed to have been swept away in those few short minutes!\n\nThen a great dread came upon her. Alone she went through the empty\ngreat hall into the next chamber. Strange warriors slept yonder. She\nopened a side door which led into her own chamber; and, as she thought\nto step in there, she suddenly found herself in the garden; but yet it\nhad not looked thus here before--the sky gleamed red--the morning dawn\nwas come.\n\nThree minutes only in heaven and a whole night on earth had passed\naway!\n\nThen she saw the storks again. She called to them, spoke their\nlanguage; and stork-papa turned his head towards her, listened to her\nwords, and drew near.\n\n\"You speak our language,\" he said; \"what do you wish? Why do you\nappear here--you, a strange woman?\"\n\n\"It is I--it is Helga--dost thou not know me? Three minutes ago we\nwere speaking together yonder in the verandah!\"\n\n\"That's a mistake,\" said the stork; \"you must have dreamt all that!\"\n\n\"No, no!\" she persisted. And she reminded him of the Viking's castle,\nand of the great ocean, and of the journey hither.\n\nThen stork-papa winked with his eyes, and said:\n\n\"Why, that's an old story, which I heard from the time of my\ngreat-grandfather. There certainly was here in Egypt a princess of\nthat kind from the Danish land, but she vanished on the evening of her\nwedding-day, many hundred years ago, and never came back! You may read\nabout it yourself yonder on the monument in the garden; there you'll\nfind swans and storks sculptured, and at the top you are yourself in\nwhite marble!\"\n\nAnd thus it was. Helga saw it, and understood it, and sank on her\nknees.\n\nThe sun burst forth in glory; and as, in time of yore, the frog-shape\nhad vanished in its beams, and the beautiful form had stood displayed,\nso now in the light a beauteous form, clearer, purer than air--a beam\nof brightness--flew up into heaven!\n\nThe body crumbled to dust; and a faded lotos-flower lay on the spot\nwhere Helga had stood.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Well, that's a new ending to the story,\" said stork-papa. \"I had\ncertainly not expected it. But I like it very well.\"\n\n\"But what will the young ones say to it?\" said stork-mamma.\n\n\"Yes, certainly, that's the important point,\" replied he.\n\n\n\n\nTHE LAST DREAM OF THE OLD OAK TREE.\n\nA CHRISTMAS TALE.\n\n\nIn the forest, high up on the steep shore, hard by the open sea coast,\nstood a very old oak tree. It was exactly three hundred and sixty-five\nyears old, but that long time was not more for the tree than just as\nmany days would be to us men. We wake by day and sleep through the\nnight, and then we have our dreams: it is different with the tree,\nwhich keeps awake through three seasons of the year, and does not get\nits sleep till winter comes. Winter is its time for rest, its night\nafter the long day which is called spring, summer, and autumn.\n\nOn many a warm summer day the Ephemera, the fly that lives but for a\nday, had danced around his crown--had lived, enjoyed, and felt happy;\nand then rested for a moment in quiet bliss the tiny creature, on one\nof the great fresh oak leaves; and then the tree always said:\n\n\"Poor little thing! Your whole life is but a single day! How very\nshort! It's quite melancholy!\"\n\n\"Melancholy! Why do you say that?\" the Ephemera would then always\nreply. \"It's wonderfully bright, warm, and beautiful all around me,\nand that makes me rejoice!\"\n\n\"But only one day, and then it's all done!\"\n\n\"Done!\" repeated the Ephemera. \"What's the meaning of _done_? Are you\n_done_, too?\"\n\n\"No; I shall perhaps live for thousands of your days, and my day is\nwhole seasons long! It's something so long, that you can't at all\nmanage to reckon it out.\"\n\n\"No? then I don't understand you. You say you have thousands of my\ndays; but I have thousands of moments, in which I can be merry and\nhappy. Does all the beauty of this world cease when you die?\"\n\n\"No,\" replied the Tree; \"it will certainly last much longer--far\nlonger than I can possibly think.\"\n\n\"Well, then, we have the same time, only that we reckon differently.\"\n\nAnd the Ephemera danced and floated in the air, and rejoiced in her\ndelicate wings of gauze and velvet, and rejoiced in the balmy breezes\nladen with the fragrance of meadows and of wild roses and\nelder-flowers, of the garden hedges, wild thyme, and mint, and\ndaisies; the scent of these was all so strong that the Ephemera was\nalmost intoxicated. The day was long and beautiful, full of joy and of\nsweet feeling, and when the sun sank low the little fly felt very\nagreeably tired of all its happiness and enjoyment. The delicate wings\nwould not carry it any more, and quietly and slowly it glided down\nupon the soft grass blade, nodded its head as well as it could nod,\nand went quietly to sleep--and was dead.\n\n\"Poor little Ephemera!\" said the Oak. \"That was a terribly short\nlife!\"\n\nAnd on every summer day the same dance was repeated, the same question\nand answer, and the same sleep. The same thing was repeated through\nwhole generations of ephemera, and all of them felt equally merry and\nequally happy.\n\nThe Oak stood there awake through the spring morning, the noon of\nsummer, and the evening of autumn; and its time of rest, its night,\nwas coming on apace. Winter was approaching.\n\nAlready the storms were singing their \"good night, good night!\" Here\nfell a leaf, and there fell a leaf.\n\n\"We'll rock you, and dandle you! Go to sleep, go to sleep! We sing you\nto sleep, we shake you to sleep, but it does you good in your old\ntwigs, does it not? They seem to crack for very joy! Sleep sweetly,\nsleep sweetly! It's your three hundred and sixty-fifth night. Properly\nspeaking, you're only a stripling as yet! Sleep sweetly! The clouds\nstrew down snow, there will be quite a coverlet, warm and protecting,\naround your feet. Sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams!\"\n\nAnd the Oak Tree stood there, denuded of all its leaves, to sleep\nthrough the long winter, and to dream many a dream, always about\nsomething that had happened to it, just as in the dreams of men.\n\nThe great Oak had once been small--indeed, an acorn had been its\ncradle. According to human computation, it was now in its fourth\ncentury. It was the greatest and best tree in the forest; its crown\ntowered far above all the other trees, and could be descried from\nafar across the sea, so that it served as a landmark to the sailors:\nthe tree had no idea how many eyes were in the habit of seeking it.\nHigh up in its green summit the wood-pigeon built her nest, and the\ncuckoo sat in its boughs, and sang his song; and in autumn, when the\nleaves looked like thin plates of copper, the birds of passage came\nand rested there, before they flew away across the sea; but now it was\nwinter, and the tree stood there leafless, so that every one could see\nhow gnarled and crooked the branches were that shot forth from its\ntrunk. Crows and rooks came and took their seat by turns in the\nboughs, and spoke of the hard times which were beginning, and of the\ndifficulty of getting a living in winter.\n\nIt was just at the holy Christmas time, when the tree dreamed its most\nglorious dream.\n\nThe tree had a distinct feeling of the festive time, and fancied he\nheard the bells ringing from the churches all around; and yet it\nseemed as if it were a fine summer's day, mild and warm. Fresh and\ngreen he spread out his mighty crown; the sunbeams played among the\ntwigs and the leaves; the air was full of the fragrance of herbs and\nblossoms; gay butterflies chased each other to and fro. The ephemeral\ninsects danced as if all the world were created merely for them to\ndance and be merry in. All that the tree had experienced for years and\nyears, and that had happened around him, seemed to pass by him again,\nas in a festive pageant. He saw the knights of ancient days ride by\nwith their noble dames on gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their\nbonnets and falcons on their wrists. The hunting horn sounded, and the\ndogs barked. He saw hostile warriors in coloured jerkins and with\nshining weapons, with spear and halbert, pitching their tents and\nstriking them again. The watch-fires flamed up anew, and men sang and\nslept under the branches of the tree. He saw loving couples meeting\nnear his trunk, happily, in the moonshine; and they cut the initials\nof their names in the grey-green bark of his stem. Once--but long\nyears had rolled by since then--citherns and AEolian harps had been\nhung up on his boughs by merry wanderers, now they hung there again,\nand once again they sounded in tones of marvellous sweetness. The\nwood-pigeons cooed, as if they were telling what the tree felt in all\nthis, and the cuckoo called out to tell him how many summer days he\nhad yet to live.\n\nThen it appeared to him as if new life were rippling down into the\nremotest fibre of his root, and mounting up into his highest branches,\nto the tops of the leaves. The tree felt that he was stretching and\nspreading himself, and through his root he felt that there was life\nand motion even in the ground itself. He felt his strength increase,\nhe grew higher, his stem shot up unceasingly, and he grew more and\nmore, his crown became fuller, and spread out; and in proportion as\nthe tree grew, he felt his happiness increase, and his joyous hope\nthat he should reach even higher--quite up to the warm brilliant sun.\n\n[Illustration: THE LOVERS AT THE OLD OAK TREE.]\n\nAlready had he grown high above the clouds, which floated past beneath\nhis crown like dark troops of passage-birds, or like great white\nswans. And every leaf of the tree had the gift of sight, as if it had\neyes wherewith to see; the stars became visible in broad daylight,\ngreat and sparkling; each of them sparkled like a pair of eyes, mild\nand clear. They recalled to his memory well-known gentle eyes, eyes of\nchildren, eyes of lovers who had met beneath his boughs.\n\nIt was a marvellous spectacle, and one full of happiness and joy! And\nyet amid all this happiness the tree felt a longing, a yearning desire\nthat all other trees of the wood beneath him, and all the bushes, and\nherbs, and flowers, might be able to rise with him, that they too\nmight see this splendour, and experience this joy. The great majestic\noak was not quite happy in his happiness, while he had not them all,\ngreat and little, about him; and this feeling of yearning trembled\nthrough his every twig, through his every leaf, warmly and fervently\nas through a human heart.\n\nThe crown of the tree waved to and fro, as if he sought something in\nhis silent longing, and he looked down. Then he felt the fragrance of\nthyme, and soon afterwards the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and\nviolets; and he fancied he heard the cuckoo answering him.\n\nYes, through the clouds the green summits of the forest came peering\nup, and under himself the Oak saw the other trees, as they grew and\nraised themselves aloft. Bushes and herbs shot up high, and some tore\nthemselves up bodily by the roots to rise the quicker. The birch was\nthe quickest of all. Like a white streak of lightning, its slender\nstem shot upwards in a zigzag line, and the branches spread around it\nlike green gauze and like banners; the whole woodland natives, even to\nthe brown plumed rushes, grew up with the rest, and the birds came\ntoo, and sang; and on the grass blade that fluttered aloft like a long\nsilken ribbon into the air, sat the grasshopper cleaning his wings\nwith his leg; the May beetles hummed, and the bees murmured, and every\nbird sang in his appointed manner; all was song and sound of gladness\nup into the high heaven.\n\n\"But the little blue flower by the water-side, where is that?\" said\nthe Oak; \"and the purple bell-flower and the daisy?\" for, you see, the\nold Oak Tree wanted to have them all about him.\n\n\"We are here--we are here!\" was shouted and sung in reply.\n\n\"But the beautiful thyme of last summer--and in the last year there\nwas certainly a place here covered with lilies of the valley! and the\nwild apple tree that blossomed so splendidly! and all the glory of the\nwood that came year by year--if that had only just been born, it might\nhave been here now!\"\n\n\"We are here, we are here!\" replied voices still higher in the air. It\nseemed as if they had flown on before.\n\n\"Why, that is beautiful, indescribably beautiful!\" exclaimed the old\nOak Tree, rejoicingly. \"I have them all around me, great and small;\nnot one has been forgotten! How can so much happiness be imagined? How\ncan it be possible?\"\n\n\"In heaven, in the better land, it can be imagined, and it is\npossible!\" the reply sounded through the air.\n\nAnd the old tree, who grew on and on, felt how his roots were tearing\nthemselves free from the ground.\n\n\"That's right, that's better than all!\" said the tree. \"Now no fetters\nhold me! I can fly up now, to the very highest, in glory and in light!\nAnd all my beloved ones are with me, great and small--all of them,\nall!\"\n\nThat was the dream of the old Oak Tree; and while he dreamt thus a\nmighty storm came rushing over land and sea--at the holy Christmas\ntide. The sea rolled great billows towards the shore; there was a\ncracking and crashing in the tree--his root was torn out of the ground\nin the very moment while he was dreaming that his root freed itself\nfrom the earth. He fell. His three hundred and sixty-five years were\nnow as the single day of the Ephemera.\n\nOn the morning of the Christmas festival, when the sun rose, the storm\nhad subsided. From all the churches sounded the festive bells, and\nfrom every hearth, even from the smallest hut, arose the smoke in blue\nclouds, like the smoke from the altars of the druids of old at the\nfeast of thanks offerings. The sea became gradually calm, and on board\na great ship in the offing, that had fought successfully with the\ntempest, all the flags were displayed, as a token of joy suitable to\nthe festive day.\n\n\"The tree is down--the old Oak Tree, our landmark on the coast!\" said\nthe sailors. \"It fell in the storm of last night. Who can replace it?\nNo one can.\"\n\nThis was the funeral oration, short but well meant, that was given to\nthe tree, which lay stretched on the snowy covering on the sea shore;\nand over its prostrate form sounded the notes of a song from the ship,\na carol of the joys of Christmas, and of the redemption of the soul of\nman by His blood, and of eternal life.\n\n    \"Sing, sing aloud, this blessed morn--\n    It is fulfilled--and He is born,\n    Oh, joy without compare!\n        Hallelujah! Hallelujah!\"\n\nThus sounded the old psalm tune, and every one on board the ship felt\nlifted up in his own way, through the song and the prayer, just as the\nold tree had felt lifted up in its last, its most beauteous dream in\nthe Christmas night.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BELL-DEEP.\n\n\n\"Ding-dong! ding-dong!\" It sounds up from the \"bell-deep,\" in the\nOdense-Au. Every child in the old town of Odense, on the island of\nFuenen, knows the Au, which washes the gardens round about the town,\nand flows on under the wooden bridges from the dam to the water-mill.\nIn the Au grow the yellow water-lilies and brown feathery reeds; the\ndark velvety flag grows there, high and thick; old, decayed willows,\nslanting and tottering, hang far out over the stream beside the monks'\nmeadow and by the bleaching-ground; but opposite there are gardens\nupon gardens, each different from the rest, some with pretty flowers\nand bowers like little dolls' pleasure-grounds, often displaying only\ncabbage and other kitchen plants; and here and there the gardens\ncannot be seen at all, for the great elder trees that spread\nthemselves out by the bank, and hang far out over the streaming\nwaters, which are deeper here and there than an oar can fathom.\nOpposite the old nunnery is the deepest place, which is called the\n\"bell-deep,\" and there dwells the old water spirit, the \"Au-mann.\"\nThis spirit sleeps through the day while the sun shines down upon the\nwater; but in starry and moonlit nights he shows himself. He is very\nold: grandmother says that she has heard her own grandmother tell of\nhim; he is said to lead a solitary life, and to have nobody with whom\nhe can converse save the great old church bell. Once the bell hung in\nthe church tower; but now there is no trace left of the tower or of\nthe church, which was called St. Alban's.\n\n\"Ding-dong! ding-dong!\" sounded the bell, when the tower still stood\nthere; and one evening, while the sun was setting, and the bell was\nswinging away bravely, it broke loose and came flying down through the\nair, the brilliant metal shining in the ruddy beam.\n\n\"Ding-dong! ding-dong! Now I'll retire to rest!\" sang the bell, and\nflew down into the Odense-Au where it is deepest; and that is why the\nplace is called the \"bell-deep.\" But the bell got neither rest nor\nsleep. Down in the Au-mann's haunt it sounds and rings, so that the\ntones sometimes pierce upward through the waters; and many people\nmaintain that its strains forebode the death of some one; but that is\nnot true, for then the bell is only talking with the Au-mann, who is\nnow no longer alone.\n\nAnd what is the bell telling? It is old, very old, as we have already\nobserved; it was there long before grandmother's grandmother was born;\nand yet it is but a child in comparison with the Au-mann, who is an\nold quiet personage, an oddity, with his hose of eel-skin, and his\nscaly jacket with the yellow lilies for buttons, and a wreath of reed\nin his hair and seaweed in his beard; but he looks very pretty for all\nthat.\n\n[Illustration: THE AU-MANN LISTENING TO THE BELL.]\n\nWhat the bell tells? To repeat it all would require years and days;\nfor year by year it is telling the old stories, sometimes short ones,\nsometimes long ones, according to its whim; it tells of old times, of\nthe dark hard times, thus:\n\n\"In the church of St. Alban, the monk mounted up into the tower. He\nwas young and handsome, but thoughtful exceedingly. He looked through\nthe loophole out upon the Odense-Au, when the bed of the water was yet\nbroad, and the monks' meadow was still a lake; he looked out over it,\nand over the rampart, and over the nuns' hill opposite, where the\nconvent lay, and the light gleamed forth from the nun's cell; he had\nknown the nun right well, and he thought of her, and his heart beat\nquicker as he thought. Ding-dong! ding-dong!\"\n\nYes, this was the story the bell told.\n\n\"Into the tower came also the dapper man-servant of the bishop; and\nwhen I, the bell, who am made of metal, rang hard and loud, and swung\nto and fro, I might have beaten out his brains. He sat down close\nunder me, and played with two little sticks as if they had been a\nstringed instrument; and he sang to it. 'Now I may sing it out aloud,\nthough at other times I may not whisper it. I may sing of everything\nthat is kept concealed behind lock and bars. Yonder it is cold and\nwet. The rats are eating her up alive! Nobody knows of it! Nobody\nhears of it! Not even now, for the bell is ringing and singing its\nloud Ding-dong! ding-dong.'\n\n\"There was a king in those days; they called him Canute. He bowed\nhimself before bishop and monk; but when he offended the free peasants\nwith heavy taxes and hard words, they seized their weapons and put him\nto flight like a wild beast. He sought shelter in the church, and shut\ngate and door behind him. The violent band surrounded the church; I\nheard tell of it. The crows, ravens, and magpies started up in terror\nat the yelling and shouting that sounded around. They flew into the\ntower and out again, they looked down upon the throng below, and they\nalso looked into the windows of the church, and screamed out aloud\nwhat they saw there. King Canute knelt before the altar in prayer, his\nbrothers Eric and Benedict stood by him as a guard with drawn swords;\nbut the king's servant, the treacherous Blake, betrayed his master;\nthe throng in front of the church knew where they could hit the king,\nand one of them flung a stone through a pane of glass, and the king\nlay there dead! The cries and screams of the savage horde and of the\nbirds sounded through the air, and I joined in it also; for I sang\n'Ding-dong! ding-dong!'\n\n\"The church bell hangs high and looks far around, and sees the birds\naround it, and understands their language; the wind roars in upon it\nthrough windows and loopholes; and the wind knows everything, for he\ngets it from the air, which encircles all things, and the church bell\nunderstands his tongue, and rings it out into the world, 'Ding-dong!\nding-dong!'\n\n\"But it was too much for me to hear and to know; I was not able any\nlonger to ring it out. I became so tired, so heavy, that the beam\nbroke, and I flew out into the gleaming Au where the water is\ndeepest, and where the Au-mann lives, solitary and alone; and year by\nyear I tell him what I have heard and what I know. Ding-dong!\nding-dong!\"\n\nThus it sounds complainingly out of the bell-deep in the Odense-Au:\nthat is what grandmother told us.\n\nBut the schoolmaster says that there was not any bell that rung down\nthere, for that it could not do so; and that no Au-mann dwelt yonder,\nfor there was no Au-mann at all! And when all the other church bells\nare sounding sweetly, he says that it is not really the bells that are\nsounding, but that it is the air itself which sends forth the notes;\nand grandmother said to us that the bell itself said it was the air\nwho told it him, consequently they are agreed on that point, and this\nmuch is sure. \"Be cautious, cautious, and take good heed to thyself,\"\nthey both say.\n\nThe air knows everything. It is around us, it is in us, it talks of\nour thoughts and of our deeds, and it speaks longer of them than does\nthe bell down in the depths of the Odense-Au where the Au-mann dwells;\nit rings it out into the vault of heaven, far, far out, for ever and\never, till the heaven bells sound \"Ding-dong! ding-dong!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PUPPET SHOWMAN.\n\n\nOn board the steamer was an elderly man with such a merry face that,\nif it did not belie him, he must have been the happiest fellow in\ncreation. And, indeed, he declared he was the happiest man; I heard it\nout of his own mouth. He was a Dane, a travelling theatre director. He\nhad all his company with him in a large box, for he was proprietor of\na puppet-show. His inborn cheerfulness, he said, had been _purified_\nby a Polytechnic candidate, and the experiment had made him completely\nhappy. I did not at first understand all this, but afterwards he\nexplained the whole story to me, and here it is. He told me:\n\n[Illustration: THE ANIMATED PUPPETS.]\n\n\"It was in the little town of Slagelse I gave a representation in the\nhall of the posting-house, and had a brilliant audience, entirely a\njuvenile one, with the exception of two respectable matrons. All at\nonce a person in black, of student-like appearance, came into the room\nand sat down; he laughed aloud at the telling parts, and applauded\nquite appropriately. That was quite an unusual spectator for me! I\nfelt anxious to know who he was, and I heard he was a candidate from\nthe Polytechnic Institution in Copenhagen, who had been sent out to\ninstruct the folks in the provinces. Punctually at eight o'clock my\nperformance closed; for children must go early to bed, and a manager\nmust consult the convenience of his public. At nine o'clock the\ncandidate commenced his lecture, with experiments, and now I formed\npart of _his_ audience. It was wonderful to hear and to see. The\ngreater part of it was beyond my scope; but still it made me think\nthat if we men can find out so much, we must be surely intended to\nlast longer than the little span until we are hidden away in the\nearth. They were quite miracles in a small way that he showed, and yet\neverything flowed as naturally as water! At the time of Moses and the\nprophets such a man would have been received among the sages of the\nland; in the middle ages they would have burned him at a stake. All\nnight long I could not go to sleep. And the next evening, when I gave\nanother performance, and the candidate was again present, I felt\nfairly overflowing with humour. I once heard from a player that when\nhe acted a lover he always thought of one particular lady among the\naudience; he only played for her, and forgot all the rest of the\nhouse; and now the Polytechnic candidate was my 'she,' my only\nauditor, for whom alone I played. And when the performance was over,\nall the puppets were called before the curtain, and the Polytechnic\ncandidate invited me into his room to take a glass of wine; and he\nspoke of my comedies, and I of his science; and I believe we were both\nequally pleased. But I had the best of it, for there was much in what\nhe did of which he could not always give me an explanation. For\ninstance, that a piece of iron that falls through a spiral should\nbecome magnetic. Now, how does that happen? The spirit comes upon it;\nbut whence does it come? It is as with people in this world; they are\nmade to tumble through the spiral of this world, and the spirit comes\nupon them, and there stands a Napoleon, or a Luther, or a person of\nthat kind. 'The whole world is a series of miracles,' said the\ncandidate; 'but we are so accustomed to them that we call them\nevery-day matters.' And he went on explaining things to me until my\nskull seemed lifted up over my brain, and I declared that if I were\nnot an old fellow I would at once visit the Polytechnic Institution,\nthat I might learn to look at the sunny side of the world, though I am\none of the happiest of men. 'One of the happiest!' said the candidate,\nand he seemed to take real pleasure in it. 'Are you happy?' 'Yes,' I\nreplied, 'and they welcome me in all the towns where I come with my\ncompany; but I certainly have _one_ wish, which sometimes lies like\nlead, like an Alp, upon my good humour: I should like to become a real\ntheatrical manager, the director of a real troupe of men and women!'\n'I see,' he said, 'you would like to have life breathed into your\npuppets, so that they might be real actors, and you their director;\nand would you then be quite happy?' He did not believe it; but I\nbelieved it, and we talked it over all manner of ways without coming\nany nearer to an agreement; but we clanked our glasses together, and\nthe wine was excellent. There was some magic in it, or I should\ncertainly have become tipsy. But that did not happen; I retained my\nclear view of things, and somehow there was sunshine in the room, and\nsunshine beamed out of the eyes of the Polytechnic candidate. It made\nme think of the old stories of the gods, in their eternal youth, when\nthey still wandered upon earth and paid visits to the mortals; and I\nsaid so to him, and he smiled, and I could have sworn he was one of\nthe ancient gods in disguise, or that, at any rate, he belonged to the\nfamily! and certainly he must have been something of the kind, for my\nhighest wish was to have been fulfilled, the puppets were to be gifted\nwith life, and I was to be director of a real company. We drank to my\nsuccess and clinked our glasses. He packed all my dolls into a box,\nbound the box on my back, and then let me fall through a spiral. I\nheard myself tumbling, and then I was lying on the floor--I know that\nquite well--and the whole company sprang out of the box. The spirit\nhad come upon all of us: all the puppets had become distinguished\nartists, so they said themselves, and I was the director. All was\nready for the first representation; the whole company wanted to speak\nto me, and the public also. The dancing lady said the house would fall\ndown if she did not keep it up by standing on one leg; for she was the\ngreat genius, and begged to be treated as such. The lady who acted the\nqueen wished to be treated off the stage as a queen, or else she\nshould get out of practice. The man who was only employed to deliver a\nletter gave himself just as many airs as the first lover, for he\ndeclared the little ones were just as important as the great ones, and\nthat all were of equal consequence, considered as an artistic whole.\nThe hero would only play parts composed of nothing but points; for\nthose brought him down the applause. The prima donna would only play\nin a red light; for she declared that a blue one did not suit her\ncomplexion. It was like a company of flies in a bottle; and I was in\nthe bottle with them, for I was the director. My breath stopped and my\nhead whirled round; I was as miserable as a man can be. It was quite a\nnovel kind of men among whom I now found myself. I only wished I had\nthem all in the box again, and that I had never been a director at\nall; so I told them roundly that after all they were nothing but\npuppets; and then they killed me. I found myself lying on my bed in my\nroom; and how I got there, and how I got away at all from the\nPolytechnic candidate, he may perhaps know, for I don't. The moon\nshone upon the floor where the box lay open, and the dolls all in a\nconfusion together--great and small all scattered about; but I was not\nidle. Out of bed I jumped, and into the box they had all to go, some\non their heads, some on their feet, and I shut down the lid and seated\nmyself upon the box. 'Now you'll just have to stay there,' said I,\n'and I shall beware how I wish you flesh and blood again.' I felt\nquite light, my good humour had come back, and I was the happiest of\nmortals. The Polytechnic student had fully purified me. I sat as happy\nas a king, and went to sleep on the box. The next morning--strictly\nspeaking it was noon, for I slept wonderfully late that day--I was\nstill sitting there, happy and conscious that my former wish had been\na foolish one. I inquired for the Polytechnic candidate, but he was\ngone, like the Greek and Roman gods; and from that time I've been the\nhappiest of men. I am a happy director: none of my company ever\ngrumble, nor my public either, for they are always merry. I can put my\npieces together just as I please. I take out of every comedy what\npleases me best, and no one is angry at it. Pieces that are neglected\nnow-a-days by the great public, but which it used to run after thirty\nyears ago, and at which it used to cry till the tears ran down its\ncheeks, these pieces I now take up; I put them before the little ones,\nand the little ones cry just as papa and mamma used to cry thirty\nyears ago; but I shorten them, for the youngsters don't like a long\npalaver; what they want is something mournful, but quick.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PIGS.\n\n\nCharles Dickens once told us about a pig, and since that time we are\nin a good humour if we only hear one grunt. St. Antony took the pig\nunder his protection; and when we think of the prodigal son we always\nassociate with him the idea of feeding swine; and it was in front of a\npig-sty that a certain carriage stopped in Sweden, about which I am\ngoing to talk. The farmer had his pig-sty built out towards the high\nroad, close by his house, and it was a wonderful pig-sty. It was an\nold state carriage. The seats had been taken out and the wheels taken\noff, and so the body of the old coach lay on the ground, and four pigs\nwere shut up inside it. I wonder if these were the first that had ever\nbeen there? That point could not certainly be determined; but that it\nhad been a real state coach everything bore witness, even to the\ndamask rag that hung down from the roof; everything spoke of better\ndays.\n\n\"Humph! humph!\" said the occupants, and the coach creaked and groaned;\nfor it had come to a mournful end. \"The beautiful has departed,\" it\nsighed--or at least it might have done so.\n\nWe came back in autumn. The coach was there still, but the pigs were\ngone. They were playing the grand lords out in the woods. Blossoms\nand leaves were gone from all the trees, and storm and rain ruled, and\ngave them neither peace nor rest; and the birds of passage had flown.\n\"The beautiful has departed! This was the glorious green wood, but the\nsong of the birds and the warm sunshine are gone! gone!\" Thus said the\nmournful voice that creaked in the lofty branches of the trees, and it\nsounded like a deep-drawn sigh, a sigh from the bosom of the wild rose\ntree, and of him who sat there; it was the rose king. Do you know him?\nHe is all beard, the finest reddish-green beard; he is easily\nrecognized. Go up to the wild rose bushes, and when in autumn all the\nflowers have faded from them, and only the wild hips remain, you will\noften find under them a great red-green moss flower; and that is the\nrose king. A little green leaf grows up out of his head, and that's\nhis feather. He is the only man of his kind on the rose bush; and he\nit was who sighed.\n\n[Illustration: THE PIGS AT HOME IN THE OLD STATE COACH.]\n\n\"Gone! gone! The beautiful is gone! The roses have faded, and the\nleaves fall down! It's wet here! it's boisterous here! The birds who\nused to sing are dumb, and the pigs go out hunting for acorns, and the\npigs are the lords of the forest!\"\n\nThe nights were cold and the days were misty; but, for all that, the\nraven sat on the branch and sang, \"Good! good!\" Raven and crow sat on\nthe high bough; and they had a large family, who all said, \"Good!\ngood!\" and the majority is always right.\n\nUnder the high trees, in the hollow, was a great puddle, and here the\npigs reclined, great and small. They found the place so inexpressibly\nlovely! \"Oui! oui!\" they all exclaimed. That was all the French they\nknew, but even that was something; and they were so clever and so fat!\n\nThe old ones lay quite still, and reflected; the young ones were very\nbusy, and were not quiet a moment. One little porker had a twist in\nhis tail like a ring, and this ring was his mothers's pride: she\nthought all the rest were looking at the ring, and thinking only of\nthe ring; but that they were not doing; they were thinking of\nthemselves and of what was useful, and what was the use of the wood.\nThey had always heard that the acorns they ate grew at the roots of\nthe trees, and accordingly they had grubbed up the ground; but there\ncame quite a little pig--it's always the young ones who come out with\ntheir new-fangled notions--who declared that the acorns fell down from\nthe branches, for one had just fallen down on his head, and the idea\nhad struck him at once, afterwards he had made observations, and now\nwas quite certain on the point. The old ones put their heads together.\n\"Umph!\" they said, \"umph! The glory has departed: the twittering of\nthe birds is all over: we want fruit; whatever's good to eat is good,\nand we eat everything.\"\n\n\"Oui! oui!\" chimed in all the rest.\n\nBut the mother now looked at her little porker, the one with the ring\nin his tail, \"One must not overlook the beautiful,\" she said. \"Good!\ngood!\" cried the crow, and flew down from the tree to try and get an\nappointment as nightingale; for some one must be appointed; and the\ncrow obtained the office directly.\n\n\"Gone! gone!\" sighed the rose king. \"All the beautiful is gone!\"\n\nIt was boisterous, it was grey, cold, and windy; and through the\nforest and over the field swept the rain in long dark streaks. Where\nis the bird who sang, where are the flowers upon the meadow, and the\nsweet berries of the wood? Gone! gone!\n\nThen a light gleamed from the forester's house. It was lit up like a\nstar, and threw its long ray among the trees. A song sounded forth\nout of the house! Beautiful children played there round the old\ngrandfather. He sat with the Bible on his knee, and read of the\nCreator and of a better world, and spoke of spring that would return,\nof the forest that would array itself in fresh green, of the roses\nthat would bloom, the nightingale that would sing, and of the\nbeautiful that would reign in its glory again.\n\nBut the rose king heard it not, for he sat in the cold, damp weather,\nand sighed, \"Gone! gone!\" And the pigs were the lords of the forest,\nand the old mother sow looked proudly at her little porker with the\ntwist in his tail. \"There is always somebody who has a soul for the\nbeautiful!\" she said.\n\n\n\n\nANNE LISBETH.\n\n\nAnne Lisbeth had a colour like milk and blood; young, fresh, and\nmerry, she looked beautiful, with gleaming white teeth and clear eyes;\nher footstep was light in the dance, and her mind was lighter still.\nAnd what came of it all? Her son was an ugly brat! Yes, he was not\npretty; so he was put out to be nursed by the labourer's wife. Anne\nLisbeth was taken into the count's castle, and sat there in the\nsplendid room arrayed in silks and velvets; not a breath of wind might\nblow upon her, and no one was allowed to speak a harsh word to her.\nNo, that might not be; for she was nurse to the count's child, which\nwas delicate and fair as a prince, and beautiful as an angel; and how\nshe loved this child! Her own boy was provided for at the labourer's,\nwhere the mouth boiled over more frequently than the pot, and where,\nin general, no one was at home to take care of the child. Then he\nwould cry; but what nobody knows, that nobody cares for, and he would\ncry till he was tired, and then he fell asleep; and in sleep one feels\nneither hunger nor thirst. A capital invention is sleep.\n\nWith years, just as weeds shoot up, Anne Lisbeth's child grew, but yet\nthey said his growth was stunted; but he had quite become a member of\nthe family in which he dwelt; they had received money to keep him.\nAnne Lisbeth was rid of him for good. She had become a town lady, and\nhad a comfortable home of her own; and out of doors she wore a bonnet,\nwhen she went out for a walk; but she never walked out to see the\nlabourer--that was too far from the town; and indeed she had nothing\nto go for; the boy belonged to the labouring people, and she said he\ncould eat his food, and he should do something to earn his food, and\nconsequently he kept Matz's red cow. He could already tend cattle and\nmake himself useful.\n\nThe big dog, by the yard gate of the nobleman's mansion, sits proudly\nin the sunshine on the top of the kennel, and barks at every one who\ngoes by: if it rains he creeps into his house, and there he is warm\nand dry. Ann Lisbeth's boy sat in the sunshine on the fence of the\nfield, and cut out a pole-pin. In the spring he knew of three\nstrawberry plants that were in blossom, and would certainly bear\nfruit, and that was his most hopeful thought; but they came to\nnothing. He sat out in the rain in foul weather, and was wet to the\nskin, and afterwards the cold wind dried the clothes on his back. When\nhe came to the lordly farmyard he was hustled and cuffed, for the men\nand maids declared he was horribly ugly; but he was used to\nthat--loved by nobody!\n\nThat was how it went with Anne Lisbeth's boy; and how could it go\notherwise? It was, once for all, his fate to be beloved by nobody.\n\nTill now a \"land crab,\" the land at last threw him overboard. He went\nto sea in a wretched vessel, and sat by the helm, while the skipper\nsat over the grog-can. He was dirty and ugly, half frozen and half\nstarved: one would have thought he had never had enough; and that\nreally was the case.\n\nIt was late in autumn, rough, wet, windy weather; the wind cut cold\nthrough the thickest clothing, especially at sea; and out to sea went\na wretched boat, with only two men on board, or, properly speaking,\nwith only a man and a half, the skipper and his boy. It had only been\na kind of twilight all day, and now it became dark; and it was bitter\ncold. The skipper drank a dram, which was to warm him from within. The\nbottle was old, and the glass too; it was whole at the top, but the\nfoot was broken off, and therefore it stood upon a little carved block\nof wood painted blue. \"A dram comforts one, and two are better still,\"\nthought the skipper. The boy sat at the helm, which he held fast in\nhis hard seamed hands: he was ugly, and his hair was matted, and he\nlooked crippled and stunted; he was the field labourer's boy, though\nin the church register he was entered as Anne Lisbeth's son.\n\nThe wind cut its way through the rigging, and the boat cut through the\nsea. The sail blew out, filled by the wind, and they drove on in wild\ncareer. It was rough and wet around and above, and it might come worse\nstill. Hold! what was that? what struck there? what burst yonder? what\nseized the boat? It heeled, and lay on its beam ends! Was it a\nwaterspout? Was it a heavy sea coming suddenly down? The boy at the\nhelm cried out aloud, \"Heaven help us!\" The boat had struck on a\ngreat rock standing up from the depths of the sea, and it sank like an\nold shoe in a puddle; it sank \"with man and mouse,\" as the saying is;\nand there were mice on board, but only one man and a half, the skipper\nand the labourer's boy. No one saw it but the swimming seagulls, and\nthe fishes down yonder, and even they did not see it rightly, for they\nstarted back in terror when the water rushed into the ship, and it\nsank. There it lay scarce a fathom below the surface, and those two\nwere provided for, buried and forgotten! Only the glass with the foot\nof blue wood did not sink; for the wood kept it up; the glass drifted\naway, to be broken and cast upon the shore--where and when? But,\nindeed, that is of no consequence. It had served its time, and it had\nbeen loved, which Anne Lisbeth's boy had not been. But in heaven no\nsoul will be able to say, \"Never loved!\"\n\nAnne Lisbeth had lived in the city for many years. She was called\nMadame, and felt her dignity, when she remembered the old \"noble\" days\nin which she had driven in the carriage, and had associated with\ncountesses and baronesses. Her beautiful noble-child was the dearest\nangel, the kindest heart; he had loved her so much, and she had loved\nhim in return; they had kissed and loved each other, and the boy had\nbeen her joy, her second life. Now he was so tall, and was fourteen\nyears old, handsome and clever: she had not seen him since she carried\nhim in her arms; for many years she had not been in the count's\npalace, for indeed it was quite a journey thither.\n\n\"I must once make an effort and go,\" said Anne Lisbeth. \"I must go to\nmy darling, to my sweet count's child. Yes, he certainly must long to\nsee me too, the young count; he thinks of me and loves me as in those\ndays when he flung his angel arms round my neck and cried 'Anne Liz.!'\nIt sounded like music. Yes, I must make an effort and see him again.\"\n\nShe drove across the country in a grazier's cart, and then got out and\ncontinued her journey on foot, and thus reached the count's castle. It\nwas great and magnificent as it had always been, and the garden looked\nthe same as ever; but all the people there were strangers to her; not\none of them knew Anne Lisbeth, and they did not know of what\nconsequence she had once been there, but she felt sure the countess\nwould let them know it, and her darling boy too. How she longed to see\nhim!\n\nNow, Anne Lisbeth was at her journey's end. She was kept waiting a\nconsiderable time, and for those who wait time passes slowly. But\nbefore the great people went to table she was called in and accosted\nvery graciously. She was to see her sweet boy after dinner, and then\nshe was to be called in again.\n\nHow tall and slender and thin he had grown! But he had still his\nbeautiful eyes, and the angel-sweet mouth! He looked at her, but he\nsaid not a word: certainly he did not know her. He turned round, and\nwas about to go away, but she seized his hand and pressed it to her\nmouth. \"Good, good!\" said he; and with that he went out of the\nroom--he who filled her every thought--he whom she had loved best, and\nwho was her whole earthly pride. Anne Lisbeth went out of the castle\ninto the open highway, and she felt very mournful; he had been so cold\nand strange to her, had not a word nor a thought for her, he whom she\nhad once carried day and night, and whom she still carried in her\ndreams.\n\n[Illustration: ANNE LISBETH'S BOY.]\n\nA great black raven shot down in front of her on to the high road, and\ncroaked and croaked again. \"Ha!\" she said, \"what bird of ill omen art\nthou?\"\n\nShe came past the hut of the labourer; the wife stood at the door, and\nthe two women spoke to one another.\n\n\"You look well,\" said the woman. \"You are plump and fat; you're well\noff.\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" answered Anne Lisbeth.\n\n\"The boat went down with them,\" continued the woman. \"Hans skipper and\nthe boy were both drowned. There's an end of them. I always thought\nthe boy would be able to help me out with a few dollars. He'll never\ncost _you_ anything more, Anne Lisbeth.\"\n\n\"So they were drowned?\" Anne Lisbeth repeated; and then nothing more\nwas said on the subject.\n\nAnne Lisbeth was very low-spirited because her count-child had shown\nno disposition to talk with her who loved him so well, and who had\njourneyed all that way to get a sight of him; and the journey had cost\nmoney too, though the pleasure she had derived from it was not great.\nStill she said not a word about this. She would not relieve her heart\nby telling the labourer's wife about it, lest the latter should think\nshe did not enjoy her former position at the castle. Then the raven\nscreamed again, and flew past over her once more.\n\n\"The black wretch!\" said Anne Lisbeth; \"he'll end by frightening me\nto-day.\"\n\nShe had brought coffee and chicory with her, for she thought it would\nbe a charity towards the poor woman to give them to her to boil a cup\nof coffee, and then she herself would take a cup too. The woman\nprepared the coffee, and in the meantime Anne Lisbeth sat down upon a\nchair and fell asleep. There she dreamed of something she had never\ndreamed before; singularly enough, she dreamed of her own child that\nhad wept and hungered there in the labourer's hut, had been hustled\nabout in heat and in cold, and was now lying in the depths of the sea,\nHeaven knows where. She dreamed she was sitting in the hut, where the\nwoman was busy preparing the coffee--she could smell the roasting\ncoffee beans. But suddenly it seemed to her that there stood on the\nthreshold a beautiful young form, as beautiful as the count's child;\nand this apparition said to her, \"The world is passing away! Hold fast\nto me, for you are my mother after all. You have an angel in heaven.\nHold me fast!\" And the child-angel stretched out its hand to her; and\nthere was a terrible crash, for the world was going to pieces, and the\nangel was raising himself above the earth, and holding her by the\nsleeve so tightly, it seemed to her, that she was lifted up from the\nground; but, on the other hand, something heavy hung at her feet and\ndragged her down, and it seemed to her that hundreds of women clung to\nher, and cried, \"If thou art to be saved, we must be saved too! Hold\nfast, hold fast!\" And then they all hung on to her; but there were too\nmany of them, and--_ritsch, ratsch!_--the sleeve tore, and Anne\nLisbeth fell down in horror--and awoke. And indeed she was on the\npoint of falling over, with the chair on which she sat; she was so\nstartled and alarmed that she could not recollect what it was she had\ndreamed, but she remembered that it had been something dreadful.\n\n[Illustration: ANNE LISBETH AT THE LABOURER'S COTTAGE.]\n\nThe coffee was taken, and they had a chat together; and then Anne\nLisbeth went away towards the little town where she was to meet the\ncarrier, and to drive back with him to her own home. But when she came\nto speak to him, he said he should not be ready to start before the\nevening of the next day. She began to think about the expense and the\nlength of the way, and when she considered that the route by the sea\nshore was shorter by two miles than the other, and that the weather\nwas clear and the moon shone, she determined to make her way on foot,\nand to start at once, that she might be at home by next day.\n\nThe sun had set, and the evening bells, tolled in the towers of the\nvillage churches, still sounded through the air; but no, it was not\nthe bells, but the cry of the frogs in the marshes. Now they were\nsilent, and all around was still; not a bird was heard, for they were\nall gone to rest; and even the owl seemed to be at home; deep silence\nreigned on the margin of the forest and by the sea shore: as Anne\nLisbeth walked on she could hear her own footsteps on the sand; there\nwas no sound of waves in the sea; everything out in the deep waters\nhad sunk to silence. All was quiet there, the living and the dead\ncreatures of the sea.\n\nAnne Lisbeth walked on \"thinking of nothing at all,\" as the saying is,\nor rather, her thoughts wandered; but thoughts had not wandered away\nfrom her, for they are never absent from us, they only slumber. But\nthose that have not yet stirred come forth at their time, and begin to\nstir sometimes in the heart and sometimes in the head, and seem to\ncome upon us as if from above.\n\nIt is written that a good deed bears its fruit of blessing, and it is\nalso written that sin is death. Much has been written and much has\nbeen said which one does not know or think of in general; and thus it\nwas with Anne Lisbeth. But it may happen that a light arises within\none, and that the forgotten things may approach.\n\nAll virtues and all vices lie in our hearts. They are in mine and in\nthine; they lie there like little grains of seed; and then from\nwithout comes a ray of sunshine or the touch of an evil hand, or maybe\nyou turn the corner and go to the right or to the left, and that may\nbe decisive; for the little seed-corn perhaps is stirred, and it\nswells and shoots up, and it bursts, and pours its sap into all your\nblood, and then your career has commenced. There are tormenting\nthoughts, which one does not feel when one walks on with slumbering\nsenses, but they are there, fermenting in the heart. Anne Lisbeth\nwalked on thus with her senses half in slumber, but the thoughts were\nfermenting within her. From one Shrove Tuesday to the next there comes\nmuch that weighs upon the heart--the reckoning of a whole year: much\nis forgotten, sins against Heaven in word and in thought, against our\nneighbour, and against our own conscience. We don't think of these\nthings, and Anne Lisbeth did not think of them. She had committed no\ncrime against the law of the land, she was very respectable, an\nhonoured and well-placed person, that she knew. And as she walked\nalong by the margin of the sea, what was it she saw lying there? An\nold hat, a man's hat. Now, where might that have been washed\noverboard? She came nearer, and stopped to look at the hat. Ha! what\nwas lying yonder? She shuddered; but it was nothing save a heap of sea\ngrass and tangle flung across a long stone; but it looked just like a\ncorpse: it was only sea grass and tangle, and yet she was frightened\nat it, and as she turned away to walk on much came into her mind that\nshe had heard in her childhood; old superstitions of spectres by the\nsea shore, of the ghosts of drowned but unburied people whose corpses\nhave been washed up on to the desert shore. The body, she had heard,\ncould do harm to none, but the spirit could pursue the lonely\nwanderer, and attach itself to him, and demand to be carried to the\nchurchyard that it might rest in consecrated ground. \"Hold fast! hold\nfast!\" the spectre would then cry; and while Anne Lisbeth murmured the\nwords to herself, her whole dream suddenly stood before her just as\nshe had dreamed it, when the mothers clung to her and had repeated\nthis word, amid the crash of the world, when her sleeve was torn and\nshe slipped out of the grasp of her child, who wanted to hold her up\nin that terrible hour. Her child, her own child, which she had never\nloved, lay now buried in the sea, and might rise up like a spectre\nfrom the waters, and cry \"Hold fast! carry me to consecrated earth.\"\nAnd as these thoughts passed through her mind, fear gave speed to her\nfeet, so that she walked on faster and faster; fear came upon her like\nthe touch of a cold wet hand that was laid upon her heart, so that she\nalmost fainted; and as she looked out across the sea, all there grew\ndarker and darker; a heavy mist came rolling onward, and clung round\nbush and tree, twisting them into fantastic shapes. She turned round,\nand glanced up at the moon, which had risen behind her. It looked like\na pale, rayless surface; and a deadly weight appeared to cling to her\nlimbs. \"Hold fast!\" thought she; and when she turned round a second\ntime and looked at the moon, its white face seemed quite close to her,\nand the mist hung like a pale garment from her shoulders. \"Hold fast!\ncarry me to consecrated earth!\" sounded in her ears in strange hollow\ntones. The sound did not come from frogs or ravens; she saw no sign of\nany such creatures. \"A grave, dig me a grave!\" was repeated quite\nloud. Yes, it was the spectre of her child, the child that lay in the\nocean, and whose spirit could have no rest until it was carried to the\nchurchyard, and until a grave had been dug for it in consecrated\nground. Thither she would go, and there she would dig; and she went on\nin the direction of the church, and the weight on her heart seemed to\ngrow lighter, and even to vanish altogether; but when she turned to go\nhome by the shortest way, it returned. \"Hold fast! hold fast!\" and the\nwords came quite clear, though they were like the croak of a frog or\nthe wail of a bird, \"A grave! dig me a grave!\"\n\nThe mist was cold and damp; her hands and face were cold and damp with\nhorror; a heavy weight again seized her and clung to her, and in her\nmind a great space opened for thoughts that had never before been\nthere.\n\nHere in the North the beech wood often buds in a single night, and in\nthe morning sunlight it appears in its full glory of youthful green;\nand thus in a single instant can the consciousness unfold itself of\nthe sin that has been contained in the thoughts, words, and works of\nour past life. It springs up and unfolds itself in a single second\nwhen once the conscience is awakened; and God wakens it when we least\nexpect it. Then we find no excuse for ourselves--the deed is there,\nand bears witness against us; the thoughts seem to become words, and\nto sound far out into the world. We are horrified at the thought of\nwhat we have carried within us, and have not stifled over what we have\nsown in our thoughtlessness and pride. The heart hides within itself\nall the virtues and likewise all the vices, and they grow even in the\nshallowest ground.\n\nAnne Lisbeth now experienced all the thoughts we have clothed in\nwords. She was overpowered by them, and sank down, and crept along for\nsome distance on the ground. \"A grave! dig me a grave!\" it sounded\nagain in her ears; and she would gladly have buried herself if in the\ngrave there had been forgetfulness of every deed. It was the first\nhour of her awakening; full of anguish and horror. Superstition\nalternately made her shudder with cold and made her blood burn with\nthe heat of fever. Many things of which she had never liked to speak\ncame into her mind. Silent as the cloud shadows in the bright\nmoonshine, a spectral apparition flitted by her: she had heard of it\nbefore. Close by her gallopped four snorting steeds, with fire\nspurting from their eyes and nostrils; they dragged a red-hot coach,\nand within it sat the wicked proprietor who had ruled here a hundred\nyears ago. The legend said that every night at twelve o'clock he drove\ninto his castle yard and out again. There! there! He was not pale as\ndead men are said to be, but black as a coal. He nodded at Anne\nLisbeth and beckoned to her. \"Hold fast! hold fast! then you may ride\nagain in a nobleman's carriage, and forget your child!\"\n\nShe gathered herself up, and hastened to the churchyard; but the black\ncrosses and the black ravens danced before her eyes, and she could not\ndistinguish one from the other. The ravens croaked, as the raven had\ndone that she saw in the daytime, but now she understood what they\nsaid. \"I am the raven-mother! I am the raven-mother!\" each raven\ncroaked, and Anne Lisbeth now understood that the name also applied\nto her; and she fancied she should be transformed into a black bird,\nand be obliged to cry what they cried if she did not dig the grave.\n\n[Illustration: ANNE LISBETH FOUND ON THE SEA SHORE.]\n\nAnd she threw herself on the earth, and with her hands dug a grave in\nthe hard ground, so that the blood ran from her fingers.\n\n\"A grave! dig me a grave!\" it still sounded; she was fearful that the\ncock might crow, and the first red streak appear in the east, before\nshe had finished her work, and then she would be lost.\n\nAnd the cock crowed, and day dawned in the east, and the grave was\nonly half dug. An icy hand passed over her head and face, and down\ntowards her heart. \"Only half a grave!\" a voice wailed, and fled away.\nYes, it fled away over the sea--it was the ocean spectre; and\nexhausted and overpowered, Anne Lisbeth sunk to the ground, and her\nsenses forsook her.\n\nIt was bright day when she came to herself, and two men were raising\nher up; but she was not lying in the churchyard, but on the sea shore,\nwhere she had dug a deep hole in the sand, and cut her hand against a\nbroken glass, whose sharp stem was stuck in a little painted block of\nwood. Anne Lisbeth was in a fever. Conscience had shuffled the cards\nof superstition, and had laid out these cards, and she fancied she had\nonly half a soul, and that her child had taken the other half down\ninto the sea. Never would she be able to swing herself aloft to the\nmercy of Heaven, till she had recovered this other half, which was now\nheld fast in the deep water. Anne Lisbeth got back to her former home,\nbut was no longer the woman she had been: her thoughts were confused\nlike a tangled skein; only one thread, only one thought she had\ndisentangled, namely, that she must carry the spectre of the sea shore\nto the churchyard, and dig a grave for him, that thus she might win\nback her soul.\n\nMany a night she was missed from her home; and she was always found on\nthe sea shore, waiting for the spectre. In this way a whole year\npassed by; and then one night she vanished again, and was not to be\nfound; the whole of the next day was wasted in fruitless search.\n\nTowards evening, when the clerk came into the church to toll the\nvesper bell, he saw by the altar Anne Lisbeth, who had spent the whole\nday there. Her physical forces were almost exhausted, but her eyes\ngleamed brightly, and her cheeks had a rosy flush. The last rays of\nthe sun shone upon her, and gleamed over the altar on the bright\nbuckles of the Bible which lay there, opened at the words of the\nprophet Joel: \"Bend your hearts, and not your garments, and turn unto\nthe Lord!\" That was just a chance, the people said; as many things\nhappen by chance.\n\nIn the face of Anne Lisbeth, illumined by the sun, peace and rest were\nto be seen. She said she was happy, for now she had conquered. Last\nnight the spectre of the shore, her own child, had come to her, and\nhad said to her, \"Thou hast dug me only half a grave, but thou hast\nnow, for a year and a day, buried me altogether in thy heart, and it\nis there that a mother can best hide her child!\" And then he gave her\nher lost soul back again, and brought her here into the church.\n\n\"Now I am in the house of God,\" she said, \"and in that house we are\nhappy.\"\n\nAnd when the sun had set, Anne Lisbeth's soul had risen to that region\nwhere there is no more anguish, and Anne Lisbeth's troubles were over.\n\n\n\n\nCHARMING.\n\n\nAlfred the sculptor--you know him? We all know him: he won the great\ngold medal, and got a travelling scholarship, went to Italy, and then\ncame back to his native land. He was young in those days, and indeed\nhe is young yet, though he is ten years older than he was then.\n\nAfter his return he visited one of the little provincial towns on the\nisland of Seeland. The whole town knew who the stranger was, and one\nof the richest persons gave a party in honour of him, and all who were\nof any consequence, or possessed any property, were invited. It was\nquite an event, and all the town knew of it without its being\nannounced by beat of drum. Apprentice boys, and children of poor\npeople, and even some of the poor people themselves, stood in front of\nthe house, and looked at the lighted curtain; and the watchman could\nfancy that _he_ was giving a party, so many people were in the\nstreets. There was quite an air of festivity about, and in the house\nwas festivity also, for Mr. Alfred the sculptor was there.\n\nHe talked, and told anecdotes, and all listened to him with pleasure\nand a certain kind of awe; but none felt such respect for him as did\nthe elderly widow of an official: she seemed, so far as Mr. Alfred was\nconcerned, like a fresh piece of blotting paper, that absorbed all\nthat was spoken, and asked for more. She was very appreciative, and\nincredibly ignorant--a kind of female Caspar Hauser.\n\n\"I should like to see Rome,\" she said. \"It must be a lovely city, with\nall the strangers who are continually arriving there. Now, do give us\na description of Rome. How does the city look when you come in by the\ngate?\"\n\n\"I cannot very well describe it,\" replied the sculptor. \"A great open\nplace, and in the midst of it an obelisk, which is a thousand years\nold.\"\n\n\"An organist!\" exclaimed the lady, who had never met with the word\n_obelisk_. A few of the guests could hardly keep from laughing, nor\ncould the sculptor quite keep his countenance; but the smile that rose\nto his lips faded away, for he saw, close by the inquisitive dame, a\npair of dark blue eyes--they belonged to the daughter of the speaker,\nand any one who has such a daughter cannot be silly! The mother was\nlike a fountain of questions, and the daughter, who listened, but\nnever spoke, might pass for the beautiful Naiad of the fountain. How\ncharming she was! She was a study for the sculptor to contemplate, but\nnot to converse with; and, indeed, she did not speak, or only very\nseldom.\n\n\"Has the Pope a large family?\" asked the lady.\n\nAnd the young man considerately answered, as if the question had been\nbetter put, \"No, he does not come of a great family.\"\n\n\"That's not what I mean,\" the widow persisted. \"I mean, has he a wife\nand children?\"\n\n\"The Pope is not allowed to marry,\" said the gentleman.\n\n\"I don't like that,\" was the lady's comment.\n\nShe certainly might have put more sensible questions; but if she had\nnot spoken in just the manner she used, would her daughter have leant\nso gracefully on her shoulder, looking straight out with the almost\nmournful smile upon her face?\n\nThen Mr. Alfred spoke again, and told of the glory of colour in Italy,\nof the purple hills, the blue Mediterranean, the azure sky of the\nSouth, whose brightness and glory was only surpassed in the North by a\nmaiden's deep blue eyes. And this he said with a peculiar application;\nbut she who should have understood his meaning, looked as if she were\nquite unconscious of it, and that again was charming!\n\n\"Italy!\" sighed a few of the guests. \"Oh, to travel!\" sighed others.\n\"Charming, charming!\" chorused they all.\n\n\"Yes, if I win a hundred thousand dollars in the lottery,\" said the\nhead tax-collector's lady, \"then we will travel. I and my daughter,\nand you, Mr. Alfred; you must be our guide. We'll all three travel\ntogether, and one or two good friends more.\" And she nodded in such a\nfriendly way at the company, that each one might imagine he or she was\nthe person who was to be taken to Italy. \"Yes, we will go to Italy!\nbut not to those parts where there are robbers--we'll keep to Rome,\nand to the great high roads where one is safe.\"\n\nAnd the daughter sighed very quietly. And how much may lie in one\nlittle sigh, or be placed in it! The young man placed a great deal in\nit. The two blue eyes, lit up that evening in honour of him, must\nconceal treasures--treasures of the heart and mind--richer than all\nthe glories of Rome; and when he left the party that night he had lost\n_his_ heart--lost it completely, to the young lady.\n\nThe house of the head tax-collector's widow was the one which Mr.\nAlfred the sculptor most assiduously frequented; and it was understood\nthat his visits were not intended for that lady, though he and she\nwere the people who kept up the conversation; he came for the\ndaughter's sake. They called her Kala. Her name was really Calen\nMalena, and these two names had been contracted into the one name,\nKala. She was beautiful; but a few said she was rather dull, and\nprobably slept late of a morning.\n\n\"She has been always accustomed to that,\" her mother said. \"She's a\nbeauty, and they always are easily tired. She sleeps rather late, but\nthat makes her eyes so clear.\"\n\nWhat a power lay in the depths of these dark blue eyes! \"Still waters\nrun deep.\" The young man felt the truth of this proverb; and his heart\nhad sunk into the depths. He spoke and told his adventures, and the\nmamma was as simple and eager in her questioning as on the first\nevening of their meeting.\n\nIt was a pleasure to hear Alfred describe anything. He spoke of\nNaples, of excursions to Mount Vesuvius, and showed coloured prints of\nseveral of the eruptions. And the head tax-collector's widow had never\nheard of them before, or taken time to consider the question.\n\n\"Good heavens!\" she exclaimed. \"So that is a burning mountain! But is\nit not dangerous to the people round about?\"\n\n\"Whole cities have been destroyed,\" he answered; \"for instance,\nPompeii and Herculaneum.\"\n\n\"But the poor people!--And you saw all that with your own eyes?\"\n\n\"No, I did not see any of the eruptions represented in these pictures,\nbut I will show you a picture of my own, of an eruption I saw.\"\n\nHe laid a pencil sketch upon the table, and mamma, who had been\nabsorbed in the contemplation of the highly coloured prints, threw a\nglance at the pale drawing, and cried in astonishment,\n\n\"Did you see it throw up white fire?\"\n\nFor a moment Alfred's respect for Kala's mamma suffered a sudden\ndiminution; but, dazzled by the light that illumined Kala, he soon\nfound it quite natural that the old lady should have no eye for\ncolour. After all, it was of no consequence, for Kala's mamma had the\nbest of all things--namely, Kala herself.\n\nAnd Alfred and Kala were betrothed, which was natural enough, and the\nbetrothal was announced in the little newspaper of the town. Mamma\npurchased thirty copies of the paper, that she might cut out the\nparagraph and send it to friends and acquaintances. And the betrothed\npair were happy, and the mother-in-law elect was happy too; for it\nseemed like connecting herself with Thorwaldsen.\n\n\"For you are a continuation of Thorwaldsen,\" she said to Alfred. And\nit seemed to Alfred that mamma had in this instance said a clever\nthing. Kala said nothing; but her eyes shone, her lips smiled, her\nevery movement was graceful: yes, she was beautiful; that cannot be\ntoo often repeated.\n\nAlfred undertook to take a bust of Kala and of his mother-in-law. They\nsat to him accordingly, and saw how he moulded and smoothed the soft\nclay with his fingers.\n\n\"I suppose it's only on our account,\" said mamma-in-law, \"that you\nundertake this commonplace work, and don't leave your servant to do\nall that sticking together.\"\n\n\"It is highly necessary that I should mould the clay myself,\" he\nreplied.\n\n\"Ah, yes, you are so very polite,\" retorted mamma; and Kala silently\npressed his hand, still soiled by the clay.\n\nAnd he unfolded to both of them the loveliness of nature in creation,\npointing out how the living stood higher in the scale than the dead\ncreature, how the plant was developed beyond the mineral, the animal\nbeyond the plant, and man beyond the animal. He strove to show them\nhow mind and beauty become manifest in outward form, and how it was\nthe sculptor's task to seize that beauty and to manifest it in his\nworks.\n\nKala stood silent, and nodded approbation of the expressed thought,\nwhile mamma-in-law made the following confession:\n\n\"It's difficult to follow all that. But I manage to hobble after you\nwith my thoughts, though they whirl round and round, but I contrive to\nhold them fast.\"\n\nAnd Kala's beauty held Alfred fast, filled his soul, and seized and\nmastered him. Beauty gleamed forth from Kala's every feature--gleamed\nfrom her eyes, lurked in the corners of her mouth, and in every\nmovement of her fingers. Alfred the sculptor saw this: he spoke only\nof her, thought only of her, and the two became one; and thus it may\nbe said that she spoke much, for he and she were one, and he was\nalways talking of her.\n\nSuch was the betrothal; and now came the wedding, with bridesmaids and\nwedding presents, all duly mentioned in the wedding speech.\n\nMamma-in-law had set up Thorwaldsen's bust at the end of the table,\nattired in a dressing-gown, for he was to be a guest; such was her\nwhim. Songs were sung and cheers were given, for it was a gay wedding,\nand they were a handsome pair. \"Pygmalion received his Galatea,\" so\none of the songs said.\n\n[Illustration: KALA'S BUST.]\n\n\"Ah, that's your mythologies,\" said mamma-in-law.\n\nNext day the youthful pair started for Copenhagen, where they were to\nlive. Mamma-in-law accompanied them, \"to take care of the\ncommonplace,\" as she said, meaning the domestic economy. Kala was\nlike a doll in a doll's house, all was so bright, so new, and so fine.\nThere they sat, all three; and as for Alfred, to use a proverb that\nwill describe his position, we may say that he sat like the friar in\nthe goose-yard.\n\nThe magic of form had enchanted him. He had looked at the case, and\ncared not to inquire what the case contained, and that omission brings\nunhappiness, much unhappiness, into married life; for the case may be\nbroken, and the gilt may come off; and then the purchaser may repent\nhis bargain. In a large party it is very disagreeable to observe that\none's buttons are giving way, and that there are no buckles to fall\nback upon; but it is worse still in a great company to become aware\nthat wife and mother-in-law are talking nonsense, and that one cannot\ndepend upon oneself for a happy piece of wit to carry off the\nstupidity of the thing.\n\nThe young married pair often sat hand in hand, he speaking and she\nletting fall a word here and there--the same melody, the same clear,\nbell-like sounds. It was a mental relief when Sophy, one of her\nfriends, came to pay a visit.\n\nSophy was not pretty. She was certainly free from bodily deformity,\nthough Kala always asserted she was a little crooked; but no eye save\na friend's would have remarked it. She was a very sensible girl, and\nit never occurred to her that she might become at all dangerous here.\nHer appearance was like a pleasant breath of air in the doll's house;\nand air was certainly required here, as they all acknowledged. They\nfelt they wanted airing, and consequently they came out into the air,\nand mamma-in-law and the young couple travelled to Italy.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\"Thank Heaven that we are in our own four walls again,\" was the\nexclamation of mother and daughter when they came home, a year after.\n\n\"There's no pleasure in travelling,\" said mamma-in-law. \"To tell the\ntruth, it's very wearisome--I beg pardon for saying so. I found the\ntime hang heavy, though I had my children with me; and it's expensive\nwork, travelling, very expensive! And all those galleries one has to\nsee, and the quantity of things you are obliged to run after! You must\ndo it for decency's sake, for you're sure to be asked when you come\nback; and then you're sure to be told that you've omitted to see what\nwas best worth seeing. I got tired at last of those endless Madonnas;\none seemed to be turning a Madonna oneself!\"\n\n\"And what bad living you get!\" said Kala.\n\n\"Yes,\" replied mamma, \"no such thing as an honest meat soup. It's\nmiserable trash, their cookery.\"\n\nAnd the travelling fatigued Kala: she was always fatigued, that was\nthe worst of it. Sophy was taken into the house, where her presence\nwas a real advantage.\n\nMamma-in-law acknowledged that Sophy understood both housewifery and\nart, though a knowledge of the latter could not be expected from a\nperson of her limited means; and she was, moreover, an honest,\nfaithful girl; she showed that thoroughly while Kala lay sick--fading\naway.\n\nWhere the case is everything, the case should be strong, or else all\nis over. And all _was_ over with the case--Kala died.\n\n\"She was beautiful,\" said mamma, \"she was quite different from the\nantiques, for they are so damaged. A beauty ought to be perfect, and\nKala was a perfect beauty.\"\n\nAlfred wept, and mamma wept, and both of them wore mourning. The black\ndress suited mamma very well, and she wore mourning the longest.\nMoreover, she had to experience another grief in seeing Alfred marry\nagain--marry Sophy, who had no appearance at all.\n\n\"He's gone to the very extreme,\" cried mamma-in-law; \"he has gone from\nthe most beautiful to the ugliest, and he has forgotten his first\nwife. Men have no endurance. My husband was of a different stamp, and\nhe died before me.\"\n\n\"Pygmalion received his Galatea,\" said Alfred: \"yes, that's what they\nsaid in the wedding song. I had once really fallen in love with the\nbeautiful statue, which awoke to life in my arms; but the kindred soul\nwhich Heaven sends down to us, the angel who can feel and sympathise\nwith and elevate us, I have not found and won till now. You came,\nSophy, not in the glory of outward beauty, though you are fair, fairer\nthan is needful. The chief thing remains the chief. You came to teach\nthe sculptor that his work is but clay and dust, only an outward form\nin a fabric that passes away, and that we must seek the essence, the\ninternal spirit. Poor Kala! ours was but wayfarers' life. Yonder,\nwhere we shall know each other by sympathy, we shall be half\nstrangers.\"\n\n\"That was not lovingly spoken,\" said Sophy, \"not spoken like a\nChristian. Yonder, where there is no giving in marriage, but where, as\nyou say, souls attract each other by sympathy; there where everything\nbeautiful develops itself and is elevated, her soul may acquire such\ncompleteness that it may sound more harmoniously than mine; and you\nwill then once more utter the first raptured exclamation of your love,\nBeautiful--most beautiful!\"\n\n\n\n\nIN THE DUCK-YARD.\n\n\nA duck arrived from Portugal. Some said she came from Spain, but\nthat's all the same. At any rate she was called the Portuguese, and\nlaid eggs, and was killed and cooked, and that was _her_ career. But\nthe ducklings which crept forth from her eggs were afterwards also\ncalled Portuguese, and there is something in that. Now, of the whole\nfamily there was only one left in the duck-yard, a yard to which the\nchickens had access likewise, and where the cock strutted about in a\nvery aggressive manner.\n\n\"He annoys me with his loud crowing!\" observed the Portuguese duck.\n\"But he's a handsome bird, there's no denying that, though he is not a\ndrake. He ought to moderate his voice, but that's an art inseparable\nfrom polite education, like that possessed by the little singing birds\nover in the lime trees in the neighbour's garden. How charmingly they\nsing! There's something quite pretty in their warbling. I call it\nPortugal. If I had only such a little singing bird, I'd be a mother to\nhim, kind and good, for that's in my blood, my Portuguese blood!\"\n\nAnd while she was still speaking, a little singing bird came head over\nheels from the roof into the yard. The cat was behind him, but the\nbird escaped with a broken wing, and that's how he came tumbling into\nthe yard.\n\n\"That's just like the cat; she's a villain!\" said the Portuguese duck.\n\"I remember her ways when I had children of my own. That such a\ncreature should be allowed to live, and to wander about upon the\nroofs! I don't think they do such things in Portugal!\"\n\nAnd she pitied the little singing bird, and the other ducks who were\nnot of Portuguese descent pitied him too.\n\n\"Poor little creature!\" they said, as one after another came up. \"We\ncertainly can't sing,\" they said, \"but we have a sounding board, or\nsomething of the kind, within us; we can feel that, though we don't\ntalk of it.\"\n\n\"But I can talk of it,\" said the Portuguese duck; \"and I'll do\nsomething for the little fellow, for that's my duty!\" And she stepped\ninto the water-trough, and beat her wings upon the water so heartily,\nthat the little singing bird was almost drowned by the bath she got,\nbut the duck meant it kindly. \"That's a good deed,\" she said: \"the\nothers may take example by it.\"\n\n\"Piep!\" said the little bird; one of his wings was broken, and he\nfound it difficult to shake himself; but he quite understood that the\nbath was kindly meant. \"You are very kind-hearted, madam,\" he said;\nbut he did not wish for a second bath.\n\n\"I have never thought about my heart,\" continued the Portuguese duck,\n\"but I know this much, that I love all my fellow-creatures except the\ncat; but nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my\nducklings. But pray make yourself at home, for one can make oneself\ncomfortable. I myself am from a strange country, as you may see from\nmy bearing, and from my feathery dress. My drake is a native of these\nparts, he's not of my race; but for all that I'm not proud! If any one\nhere in the yard can understand you, I may assert that I am that\nperson.\"\n\n\"She's quite full of Portulak,\" said a little common duck, who was\nwitty; and all the other common ducks considered the word _Portulak_\nquite a good joke, for it sounded like Portugal; and they nudged each\nother and said \"Rapp!\" It was too witty! And all the other ducks now\nbegan to notice the little singing bird.\n\n\"The Portuguese has certainly a greater command of language,\" they\nsaid. \"For our part, we don't care to fill our beaks with such long\nwords, but our sympathy is just as great. If we don't do anything for\nyou, we march about with you everywhere; and we think that the best\nthing we can do.\"\n\n\"You have a lovely voice,\" said one of the oldest. \"It must be a great\nsatisfaction to be able to give so much pleasure as you are able to\nimpart. I certainly am no great judge of your song, and consequently I\nkeep my beak shut; and even that is better than talking nonsense to\nyou, as others do.\"\n\n\"Don't plague him so,\" interposed the Portuguese duck: \"he requires\nrest and nursing. My little singing bird, do you wish me to prepare\nanother bath for you?\"\n\n\"Oh no! pray let me be dry!\" was the little bird's petition.\n\n\"The water-cure is the only remedy for me when I am unwell,\" quoth the\nPortuguese. \"Amusement is beneficial too! The neighbouring fowls will\nsoon come to pay their visit. There are two Cochin Chinese among them.\nThey wear feathers on their legs, are well educated, and have been\nbrought from afar, consequently they stand higher than the others in\nmy regard.\"\n\nAnd the fowls came, and the cock came; to-day he was polite enough to\nabstain from being rude.\n\n\"You are a true singing bird,\" he said, \"and you do as much with your\nlittle voice as can possibly be done with it. But one requires a\nlittle more shrillness, that every hearer may hear that one is a\nmale.\"\n\nThe two Chinese stood quite enchanted with the appearance of the\nsinging bird. He looked very much rumpled after his bath, so that he\nseemed to them to have quite the appearance of a little Cochin China\nfowl. \"He's charming,\" they cried, and began a conversation with him,\nspeaking in whispers, and using the most aristocratic Chinese dialect.\n\n[Illustration: THE LITTLE SINGING BIRD RECEIVES DISTINGUISHED\nPATRONAGE.]\n\n\"We are of your race,\" they continued. \"The ducks, even the\nPortuguese, are swimming birds, as you cannot fail to have noticed.\nYou do not know us yet; very few know us, or give themselves the\ntrouble to make our acquaintance--not even any of the fowls, though we\nare born to occupy a higher grade on the ladder than most of the rest.\nBut that does not disturb us: we quietly pursue our path amid the\nothers, whose principles are certainly not ours; for we look at things\non the favourable side, and only speak of what is good, though it is\ndifficult sometimes to find something when nothing exists. Except us\ntwo and the cock, there's no one in the whole poultry-yard who is at\nonce talented and polite. It cannot even be said of the inhabitants of\nthe duck-yard. We warn you, little singing bird: don't trust that one\nyonder with the short tail feathers, for she's cunning. The pied one\nthere, with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a strife-seeker, and\nlets nobody have the last word, though she's always in the wrong. The\nfat duck yonder speaks evil of every one, and that's against our\nprinciples: if we have nothing good to tell, we should hold our beaks.\nThe Portuguese is the only one who has any education, and with whom\none can associate, but she is passionate, and talks too much about\nPortugal.\"\n\n\"I wonder what those two Chinese are always whispering to one another\nabout,\" whispered one duck to her friend. \"They annoy me--we have\nnever spoken to them.\"\n\nNow the drake came up. He thought the little singing bird was a\nsparrow.\n\n\"Well, I don't understand the difference,\" he said; \"and indeed it's\nall the same thing. He's only a plaything, and if one has them, why,\none has them.\"\n\n\"Don't attach any value to what he says,\" the Portuguese whispered.\n\"He's very respectable in business matters; and with him business\ntakes precedence of everything. But now I shall lie down for a rest.\nOne owes that to oneself, that one may be nice and fat when one is to\nbe embalmed with apples and plums.\"\n\nAnd accordingly she lay down in the sun, and winked with one eye; and\nshe lay very comfortably, and she felt very comfortable, and she slept\nvery comfortably.\n\nThe little singing bird busied himself with his broken wing. At last\nhe lay down too, and pressed close to his protectress: the sun shone\nwarm and bright, and he had found a very good place.\n\nBut the neighbour's fowls were awake. They went about scratching up\nthe earth; and, to tell the truth, they had paid the visit simply and\nsolely to find food for themselves. The Chinese were the first to\nleave the duck-yard; and the other fowls soon followed them. The witty\nlittle duck said of the Portuguese that the old lady was becoming a\nducky dotard. At this the other ducks laughed and cackled aloud.\n\"Ducky dotard,\" they whispered; \"that's too witty!\" and then they\nrepeated the former joke about Portulak, and declared that it was\nvastly amusing. And then they lay down.\n\nThey had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly something was\nthrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down with such a thwack,\nthat the whole company started up from sleep and clapped their wings.\nThe Portuguese awoke too, and threw herself over on the other side,\npressing the little singing bird very hard as she did so.\n\n\"Piep!\" he cried; \"you trod very hard upon me, madam.\"\n\n\"Well, why do you lie in my way?\" the duck retorted. \"You must not be\nso touchy. I have nerves of my own, but yet I never called out 'Piep!'\n\n\"Don't be angry,\" said the little bird \"the 'piep' came out of my beak\nunawares.\"\n\nThe Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she\ncould, and made a good meal. When this was ended, and she lay down\nagain, the little bird came up, and wanted to be amiable, and sang:\n\n      \"Tillee-lilly lee,\n    Of the good spring time,\n    I'll sing so fine\n      As far away I flee.\"\n\n\"Now I want to rest after my dinner,\" said the Portuguese. \"You must\nconform to the rules of the house while you're here. I want to sleep\nnow.\"\n\nThe little singing bird was quite taken aback, for he had meant it\nkindly. When Madam afterwards awoke, he stood before her again with a\nlittle corn that he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had\nnot slept well, she was naturally in a very bad humour.\n\n\"Give that to a chicken!\" she said, \"and don't be always standing in\nmy way.\"\n\n\"Why are you angry with me?\" replied the little singing bird. \"What\nhave I done?\"\n\n\"Done!\" repeated the Portuguese duck: \"your mode of expression is not\nexactly genteel; a fact to which I must call your attention.\"\n\n\"Yesterday it was sunshine here,\" said the little bird, \"but to-day\nit's cloudy and the air is close.\"\n\n\"You don't know much about the weather, I fancy,\" retorted the\nPortuguese. \"The day is not done yet. Don't stand there looking so\nstupid.\"\n\n\"But you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when I fell\ninto the yard yesterday.\"\n\n\"Impertinent creature!\" exclaimed the Portuguese duck, \"would you\ncompare me with the cat, that beast of prey? There's not a drop of\nmalicious blood in me. I've taken your part, and will teach you good\nmanners.\"\n\nAnd so saying, she bit off the singing bird's head, and he lay dead on\nthe ground.\n\n\"Now, what's the meaning of this?\" she said, \"could he not bear even\nthat? Then certainly he was not made for this world. I've been like a\nmother to him I know that, for I've a good heart.\"\n\nThen the neighbour's cock stuck his head into the yard, and crowed\nwith steam-engine power.\n\n\"You'll kill me with your crowing!\" she cried. \"It's all your fault.\nHe's lost his head, and I am very near losing mine.\"\n\n\"There's not much lying where he fell!\" observed the cock.\n\n\"Speak of him with respect,\" retorted the Portuguese duck, \"for he had\nsong, manners, and education. He was affectionate and soft, and that's\nas good in animals, as in your so-called human beings.\"\n\nAnd all the ducks came crowding round the little dead singing bird.\nDucks have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity; and as\nthere was nothing here to envy, pity manifested itself, even in the\ntwo Chinese.\n\n\"We shall never get such a singing bird again; he was almost a\nChinese,\" they whispered, and they wept with a mighty clucking sound,\nand all the fowls clucked too; but the ducks went about with the\nredder eyes.\n\n\"We've hearts of our own,\" they said; \"nobody can deny that.\"\n\n\"Hearts!\" repeated the Portuguese, \"yes, that we have, almost as much\nas in Portugal.\"\n\n\"Let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger,\" said the\ndrake, \"for that's the most important point. If one of our toys is\nbroken, why, we have plenty more!\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE GIRL WHO TROD ON THE LOAF.\n\n\nThe story of the girl who trod on the loaf, to avoid soiling her\nshoes, and of the misfortunes that befell this girl, is well known. It\nhas been written, and even printed.\n\nThe girl's name was Inge; she was a poor child, but proud and\npresumptuous; there was a bad foundation in her, as the saying is.\nWhen she was quite a little child, it was her delight to catch flies,\nand tear off their wings, so as to convert them into creeping things.\nGrown older, she would take cockchafers and beetles, and spit them on\npins. Then she pushed a green leaf or a little scrap of paper towards\ntheir feet, and the poor creatures seized it, and held it fast, and\nturned it over and over, struggling to get free from the pin.\n\n\"The cockchafer is reading,\" Inge would say. \"See how he turns the\nleaf round and round!\"\n\nWith years she grew worse rather than better; but she was pretty, and\nthat was her misfortune; otherwise she would have been more sharply\nreproved than she was.\n\n\"Your headstrong will requires something strong to break it!\" her own\nmother often said. \"As a little child, you used to trample on my\napron; but I fear you will one day trample on my heart.\"\n\nAnd that is what she really did.\n\nShe was sent into the country, into service in the house of rich\npeople, who kept her as their own child, and dressed her in\ncorresponding style. She looked well, and her presumption increased.\n\nWhen she had been there about a year, her mistress said to her, \"You\nought once to visit your parents, Inge.\"\n\nAnd Inge set out to visit her parents, but it was only to show herself\nin her native place, and that the people there might see how grand she\nhad become; but when she came to the entrance of the village, and the\nyoung husbandmen and maids stood there chatting, and her own mother\nappeared among them, sitting on a stone to rest, and with a faggot of\nsticks before her that she had picked up in the wood, then Inge turned\nback, for she felt ashamed that she, who was so finely dressed, should\nhave for a mother a ragged woman, who picked up wood in the forest.\nShe did not turn back out of pity for her mother's poverty, she was\nonly angry.\n\nAnd another half-year went by, and her mistress said again, \"You ought\nto go to your home, and visit your old parents, Inge. I'll make you a\npresent of a great wheaten loaf that you may give to them; they will\ncertainly be glad to see you again.\"\n\nAnd Inge put on her best clothes, and her new shoes, and drew her\nskirts around her, and set out, stepping very carefully, that she\nmight be clean and neat about the feet; and there was no harm in that.\nBut when she came to the place where the footway led across the moor,\nand where there was mud and puddles, she threw the loaf into the mud,\nand trod upon it to pass over without wetting her feet. But as she\nstood there with one foot upon the loaf and the other uplifted to step\nfarther, the loaf sank with her, deeper and deeper, till she\ndisappeared altogether, and only a great puddle, from which the\nbubbles rose, remained where she had been.\n\nAnd that's the story.\n\n[Illustration: INGE TURNS BACK AT THE SIGHT OF HER POOR MOTHER.]\n\nBut whither did Inge go? She sank into the moor ground, and went down to\nthe moor woman, who is always brewing there. The moor woman is cousin to\nthe elf maidens, who are well enough known, of whom songs are sung, and\nwhose pictures are painted; but concerning the moor woman it is only known\nthat when the meadows steam in summer-time it is because she is brewing.\nInto the moor woman's brewery did Inge sink down; and no one can endure\nthat place long. A box of mud is a palace compared with the moor woman's\nbrewery. Every barrel there has an odour that almost takes away one's\nsenses; and the barrels stand close to each other; and wherever there is a\nlittle opening among them, through which one might push one's way, the\npassage becomes impracticable from the number of damp toads and fat snakes\nwho sit out their time there. Among this company did Inge fall; and all the\nhorrible mass of living creeping things was so icy cold, that she shuddered\nin all her limbs, and became stark and stiff. She continued fastened to the\nloaf, and the loaf drew her down as an amber button draws a fragment of\nstraw.\n\nThe moor woman was at home, and on that day there were visitors in the\nbrewery. These visitors were old Bogey and his grandmother, who came\nto inspect it; and Bogey's grandmother is a venomous old woman, who is\nnever idle: she never rides out to pay a visit without taking her work\nwith her; and, accordingly, she had brought it on the day in question.\nShe sewed biting-leather to be worked into men's shoes, and which\nmakes them wander about unable to settle anywhere. She wove webs of\nlies, and strung together hastily-spoken words that had fallen to the\nground; and all this was done for the injury and ruin of mankind. Yes,\nindeed, she knew how to sew, to weave, and to string, this old\ngrandmother!\n\nCatching sight of Inge, she put up her double eye-glass, and took\nanother look at the girl. \"That's a girl who has ability!\" she\nobserved, \"and I beg you will give me the little one as a memento of\nmy visit here. She'll make a capital statue to stand in my grandson's\nantechamber.\"\n\nAnd Inge was given up to her, and this is how Inge came into Bogey's\ndomain. People don't always go there by the direct path, but they can\nget there by roundabout routes if they have a tendency in that\ndirection.\n\nThat was a never-ending antechamber. The visitor became giddy who\nlooked forward, and doubly giddy when he looked back, and saw a whole\ncrowd of people, almost utterly exhausted, waiting till the gate of\nmercy should be opened to them--they had to wait a long time! Great\nfat waddling spiders spun webs of a thousand years over their feet,\nand these webs cut like wire, and bound them like bronze fetters; and,\nmoreover, there was an eternal unrest working in every heart--a\nmiserable unrest. The miser stood there, and had forgotten the key of\nhis strong box, and he knew the key was sticking in the lock. It would\ntake too long to describe the various sorts of torture that were\nfound there together. Inge felt a terrible pain while she had to\nstand there as a statue, for she was tied fast to the loaf.\n\n\"That's the fruit of wishing to keep one's feet neat and tidy,\" she\nsaid to herself. \"Just look how they're all staring at me!\" Yes,\ncertainly, the eyes of all were fixed upon her, and their evil\nthoughts gleamed forth from their eyes, and they spoke to one another,\nmoving their lips, from which no sound whatever came forth: they were\nvery horrible to behold.\n\n\"It must be a great pleasure to look at me!\" thought Inge, \"and indeed\nI have a pretty face and fine clothes.\" And she turned her eyes, for\nshe could not turn her head; her neck was too stiff for that. But she\nhad not considered how her clothes had been soiled in the moor woman's\nbrewhouse. Her garments were covered with mud; a snake had fastened in\nher hair, and dangled down her back; and out of each fold of her frock\na great toad looked forth, croaking like an asthmatic poodle. That was\nvery disconcerting. \"But all the rest of them down here look\nhorrible,\" she observed to herself, and derived consolation from the\nthought.\n\nThe worst of all was the terrible hunger that tormented her. But could\nshe not stoop and break off a piece of the loaf on which she stood?\nNo, her back was too stiff, her hands and arms were benumbed, and her\nwhole body was like a pillar of stone; only she was able to turn her\neyes in her head, to turn them quite round so that she could see\nbackwards: it was an ugly sight. And then the flies came up, and crept\nto and fro over her eyes, and she blinked her eyes, but the flies\nwould not go away, for they could not fly: their wings had been pulled\nout, so that they were converted into creeping insects: it was\nhorrible torment added to the hunger, for she felt empty, quite,\nentirely empty. \"If this lasts much longer,\" she said, \"I shall not be\nable to bear it.\" But she had to bear it, and it lasted on and on.\n\nThen a hot tear fell down upon her head, rolled over her face and\nneck, down on to the loaf on which she stood; and then another tear\nrolled down, followed by many more. Who might be weeping for Inge? Had\nshe not still a mother in the world? The tears of sorrow which a\nmother weeps for her child always make their way to the child; but\nthey do not relieve it, they only increase its torment. And now to\nbear this unendurable hunger, and yet not to be able to touch the loaf\non which she stood! She felt as if she had been feeding on herself,\nand had become like a thin, hollow reed that takes in every sound, for\nshe heard everything that was said of her up in the world, and all\nthat she heard was hard and evil. Her mother, indeed, wept much and\nsorrowed for her, but for all that she said, \"A haughty spirit goes\nbefore a fall. That was thy ruin, Inge. Thou hast sorely grieved thy\nmother.\"\n\nHer mother and all on earth knew of the sin she had committed; knew\nthat she had trodden upon the loaf, and had sunk and disappeared; for\nthe cowherd had seen it from the hill beside the moor.\n\n\"Greatly hast thou grieved thy mother, Inge,\" said the mother; \"yes,\nyes, I thought it would be thus.\"\n\n\"Oh that I never had been born!\" thought Inge; \"it would have been far\nbetter. But what use is my mother's weeping now?\"\n\nAnd she heard how her master and mistress, who had kept and cherished\nher like kind parents, now said she was a sinful child, and did not\nvalue the gifts of God, but trampled them under her feet, and that the\ngates of mercy would only open slowly to her.\n\n\"They should have punished me,\" thought Inge, \"and have driven out the\nwhims I had in my head.\"\n\nShe heard how a complete song was made about her, a song of the proud\ngirl who trod upon the loaf to keep her shoes clean, and she heard how\nthe song was sung everywhere.\n\n\"That I should have to bear so much evil for this!\" thought Inge; \"the\nothers ought to be punished, too, for their sins. Yes, then there\nwould be plenty of punishing to do. Ah, how I'm being tortured!\" And\nher heart became harder than her outward form.\n\n\"Here in this company one can't even become better,\" she said, \"and I\ndon't want to become better! Look, how they're all staring at me!\"\n\nAnd her heart was full of anger and malice against all men. \"Now\nthey've something to talk about at last up yonder. Ah, how I'm being\ntortured!\"\n\nAnd then she heard how her story was told to the little children, and\nthe little ones called her the godless Inge, and said she was so\nnaughty and ugly that she must be well punished.\n\nThus, even the children's mouths spoke hard words of her.\n\nBut one day, while grief and hunger gnawed her hollow frame, and she\nheard her name mentioned and her story told to an innocent child, a\nlittle girl, she became aware that the little one burst into tears at\nthe tale of the haughty, vain Inge.\n\n\"But will Inge never come up here again?\" asked the little girl.\n\nAnd the reply was, \"She will never come up again.\"\n\n\"But if she were to say she was sorry, and to beg pardon, and say she\nwould never do so again?\"\n\n\"Yes, then she might come; but she will not beg pardon,\" was the\nreply.\n\n\"I should be so glad if she would,\" said the little girl; and she was\nquite inconsolable. \"I'll give my doll and all my playthings if she\nmay only come up. It's too dreadful--poor Inge!\"\n\nAnd these words penetrated to Inge's inmost heart, and seemed to do\nher good. It was the first time any one had said, \"Poor Inge,\" without\nadding anything about her faults: a little innocent child was weeping\nand praying for mercy for her. It made her feel quite strangely, and\nshe herself would gladly have wept, but she could not weep, and that\nwas a torment in itself.\n\nWhile years were passing above her, for where she was there was no\nchange, she heard herself spoken of more and more seldom. At last, one\nday a sigh struck on her ear: \"Inge, Inge, how you have grieved me! I\nsaid how it would be!\" It was the last sigh of her dying mother.\n\nOccasionally she heard her name spoken by her former employers, and\nthey were pleasant words when the woman said, \"Shall I ever see thee\nagain, Inge? One knows not what may happen.\"\n\nBut Inge knew right well that her good mistress would never come to\nthe place where she was.\n\nAnd again time went on--a long, bitter time. Then Inge heard her name\npronounced once more, and saw two bright stars that seemed gleaming\nabove her. They were two gentle eyes closing upon earth. So many years\nhad gone by since the little girl had been inconsolable and wept about\n\"poor Inge,\" that the child had become an old woman, who was now to be\ncalled home to heaven; and in the last hour of existence, when the\nevents of the whole life stand at once before us, the old woman\nremembered how as a child she had cried heartily at the story of Inge.\n\nAnd the eyes of the old woman closed, and the eye of her soul was\nopened to look upon the hidden things. She, in whose last thoughts\nInge had been present so vividly, saw how deeply the poor girl had\nsunk, and burst into tears at the sight; in heaven she stood like a\nchild, and wept for poor Inge. And her tears and prayers sounded like\nan echo in the dark empty space that surrounded the tormented captive\nsoul, and the unhoped-for love from above conquered her, for an angel\nwas weeping for her. Why was this vouchsafed to her? The tormented\nsoul seemed to gather in her thoughts every deed she had done on\nearth, and she, Inge, trembled and wept such tears as she had never\nyet wept. She was filled with sorrow about herself: it seemed as\nthough the gate of mercy could never open to her; and while in deep\npenitence she acknowledged this, a beam, of light shot radiantly down\ninto the depths to her, with a greater force than that of the sunbeam\nwhich melts the snow man the boys have built up; and quicker than the\nsnow-flake melts, and becomes a drop of water that falls on the warm\nlips of a child, the stony form of Inge was changed to mist, and a\nlittle bird soared with the speed of lightning upward into the world\nof men. But the bird was timid and shy towards all things around; he\nwas ashamed of himself, ashamed to encounter any living thing, and\nhurriedly sought to conceal himself in a dark hole in an old crumbling\nwall; there he sat cowering, trembling through his whole frame, and\nunable to utter a sound, for he had no voice. Long he sat there,\nbefore he could rightly see all the beauty around him; for it was\nbeautiful. The air was fresh and mild, the moon cast its mild radiance\nover the earth; trees and bushes exhaled fragrance, and it was right\npleasant where he sat, and his coat of feathers was clean and pure.\nHow all creation seemed to speak of beneficence and love! The bird\nwanted to sing of the thoughts that stirred in his breast, but he\ncould not; gladly would he have sung as the cuckoo and the nightingale\nsung in spring-time. But Heaven, that hears the mute song of praise of\nthe worm, could hear the notes of praise which now trembled in the\nbreast of the bird, as David's psalms were heard before they had\nfashioned themselves into words and song.\n\nFor weeks these toneless songs stirred within the bird; at last, the\nholy Christmas-time approached. The peasant who dwelt near set up a\npole by the old wall with, some ears of corn bound to the top, that\nthe birds of heaven might have a good meal, and rejoice in the happy,\nblessed time.\n\nAnd on Christmas morning the sun arose and shone upon the ears of\ncorn, which were surrounded by a number of twittering birds. Then out\nof the hole in the wall streamed forth the voice of another bird, and\nthe bird soared forth from its hiding-place; and in heaven it was well\nknown what bird this was.\n\nIt was a hard winter. The ponds were covered with ice, and the beasts\nof the field and the birds of the air were stinted for food. Our\nlittle bird soared away over the high road, and in the ruts of the\nsledges he found here and there a grain of corn, and at the\nhalting-places some crumbs. Of these he ate only a few, but he called\nall the other hungry sparrows around him, that they, too, might have\nsome food. He flew into the towns, and looked round about; and\nwherever a kind hand had strewn bread on the window-sill for the\nbirds, he only ate a single crumb himself, and gave all the rest to\nthe other birds.\n\nIn the course of the winter, the bird had collected so many bread\ncrumbs, and given them to the other birds, that they equalled the\nweight of the loaf on which Inge had trod to keep her shoes clean; and\nwhen the last bread crumb had been found and given, the grey wings of\nthe bird became white, and spread far out.\n\n\"Yonder is a sea-swallow, flying away across the water,\" said the\nchildren when they saw the white bird. Now it dived into the sea, and\nnow it rose again into the clear sunlight. It gleamed white; but no\none could tell whither it went, though some asserted that it flew\nstraight into the sun.\n\n\n\n\nA STORY FROM THE SAND-DUNES.\n\n\nThis is a story from the sand-dunes or sand-hills of Jutland; though\nit does not begin in Jutland, the northern peninsula, but far away in\nthe south, in Spain. The ocean is the high road between the\nnations--transport thyself thither in thought to sunny Spain. There it\nis warm and beautiful, there the fiery pomegranate blossoms flourish\namong the dark laurels; from the mountains a cool refreshing wind\nblows down, upon, and over the orange gardens, over the gorgeous\nMoorish halls with their golden cupolas and coloured walls: through\nthe streets go children in procession, with candles and with waving\nflags, and over them, lofty and clear, rises the sky with its gleaming\nstars. There is a sound of song and of castagnettes, and youths and\nmaidens join in the dance under the blooming acacias, while the\nmendicant sits upon the hewn marble stone, refreshing himself with the\njuicy melon, and dreamily enjoying life. The whole is like a glorious\ndream. And there was a newly married couple who completely gave\nthemselves up to its charm; moreover, they possessed the good things\nof this life, health and cheerfulness of soul, riches and honour.\n\n\"We are as happy as it is possible to be,\" exclaimed the young couple,\nfrom the depths of their hearts They had indeed but one step more to\nmount in the ladder of happiness, in the hope that God would give them\na child; a son like them in form and in spirit.\n\nThe happy child would be welcomed with rejoicing, would be tended with\nall care and love, and enjoy every advantage that wealth and ease\npossessed by an influential family could give.\n\nAnd the days went by like a glad festival.\n\n\"Life is a gracious gift of Providence, an almost inappreciable gift!\"\nsaid the young wife, \"and yet they tell us that fulness of joy is\nfound only in the future life, for ever and ever. I cannot compass the\nthought.\"\n\n\"And perhaps the thought arises from the arrogance of men,\" said the\nhusband. \"It seems a great pride to believe that we shall live for\never, that we shall be as gods. Were these not the words of the\nserpent, the origin of falsehood?\"\n\n\"Surely you do not doubt the future life?\" exclaimed the young wife;\nand it seemed as if one of the first shadows flitted over the sunny\nheaven of her thoughts.\n\n\"Faith promises it, and the priests tells us so!\" replied the man;\n\"but amid all my happiness, I feel that it is arrogance to demand a\ncontinued happiness, another life after this. Has not so much been\ngiven us in this state of existence, that we ought to be, that we\n_must_ be, contented with it?\"\n\n\"Yes, it has been given to _us_,\" said the young wife, \"but to how\nmany thousands is not this life one scene of hard trial? How many have\nbeen thrown into this world, as if only to suffer poverty and shame\nand sickness and misfortune? If there were no life after this,\neverything on earth would be too unequally distributed, and the\nAlmighty would not be justice itself.\"\n\n\"Yonder beggar,\" replied the man, \"has his joys which seem to him\ngreat, and which rejoice him as much as the king is rejoiced in the\nsplendour of his palace. And then, do you not think that the beast of\nburden, which suffers blows and hunger, and works itself to death,\nsuffers from its heavy fate? The dumb beast might likewise demand a\nfuture life, and declare the decree unjust that does not admit it into\na higher place of creation.\"\n\n\"HE has said, 'In my Father's house are many mansions,'\" replied the\nyoung wife: \"heaven is immeasurable, as the love of our Maker is\nimmeasurable. Even the dumb beast is His creature; and I firmly\nbelieve that no life will be lost, but that each will receive that\namount of happiness which he can enjoy, and which is sufficient for\nhim.\"\n\n\"This world is sufficient for me!\" said the man, and he threw his arms\nround his beautiful, amiable wife, and then smoked his cigarette on\nthe open balcony, where the cool air was filled with the fragrance of\noranges and pinks. The sound of music and the clatter of castagnettes\ncame up from the road, the stars gleamed above, and two eyes full of\naffection, the eyes of his wife, looked on him with the undying glance\nof love.\n\n[Illustration: IN SPAIN.]\n\n\"Such a moment,\" he said, \"makes it worth while to be born, to fall,\nand to disappear!\" and he smiled. The young wife raised her hand in\nmild reproach, and the shadow passed away from her world, and they\nwere happy--quite happy.\n\nEverything seemed to work together for them. They advanced in honour,\nin prosperity, and in joy. There was a change, indeed, but only a\nchange of place; not in enjoyment of life and of happiness. The young\nman was sent by his sovereign as ambassador to the court of Russia.\nThis was an honourable office, and his birth and his acquirements gave\nhim a title to be thus honoured. He possessed a great fortune, and his\nwife had brought him wealth equal to his own, for she was the daughter\nof a rich and respected merchant. One of this merchant's largest and\nfinest ships was to be dispatched during that year to Stockholm, and\nit was arranged that the dear young people, the daughter and the\nson-in-law, should travel in it to St. Petersburg. And all the\narrangements on board were princely--rich carpets for the feet, and\nsilk and luxury on all sides.\n\nIn an old heroic song, \"The King's Son of England,\" it says,\n\"Moreover, he sailed in a gallant ship, and the anchor was gilded with\nruddy gold, and each rope was woven through with silk,\" And this ship\ninvoluntarily rose in the mind of him who saw the vessel from Spain,\nfor here was the same pomp, and the same parting thought naturally\narose--the thought:\n\n    \"God grant that we all in joy\n    Once more may meet again.\"\n\nAnd the wind blew fairly seaward from the Spanish shore, and the\nparting was to be but a brief one, for in a few weeks the voyagers\nwould reach their destination; but when they came out upon the high\nseas, the wind sank, the sea became calm and shining, the stars of\nheaven gleamed brightly, and they were festive evenings that were\nspent in the sumptuous cabin.\n\nAt length the voyagers began to wish for wind, for a favouring breeze;\nbut the breeze would not blow, or, if it did arise, it was contrary.\nThus weeks passed away, two full months; and then at last the fair\nwind blew--it blew from the south-west. The ship sailed on the high\nseas between Scotland and Jutland, and the wind increased just as in\nthe old song of \"The King's Son of England.\"\n\n    \"And it blew a storm, and the rain came down,\n    And they found not land nor shelter,\n    And forth they threw their anchor of gold,\n    As the wind blew westward, toward Denmark.\"\n\nThis all happened a long, long while ago. King Christian VII. then sat\non the Danish throne, and he was still a young man. Much has happened\nsince that time, much has changed or has been changed. Sea and\nmoorland have been converted into green meadows, heath has become\narable land, and in the shelter of the West Jute huts grow apple trees\nand rose bushes, though they certainly require to be sought for, as\nthey bend beneath the sharp west wind. In Western Jutland one may go\nback in thought to the old times, farther back than the days when\nChristian VII. bore rule. As it did then, in Jutland, the brown heath\nnow also extends for miles, with its \"Hun's Graves,\" its aerial\nspectacles, and its crossing, sandy, uneven roads; westward, where\nlarge rivulets run into the bays, extend marshes and meadow land,\ngirdled with lofty sand-hills, which, like a row of Alps, raise their\npeaked summits towards the sea, only broken by the high clayey ridges,\nfrom which the waves year by year bite out huge mouthfuls, so that the\nimpending shores fall down as if by the shock of an earthquake. Thus\nit is there to-day, and thus it was many, many years ago, when the\nhappy pair were sailing in the gorgeous ship.\n\nIt was in the last days of September, a Sunday, and sunny weather; the\nchiming of the church bells in the bay of Nissum was wafted along like\na chain of sounds. The churches there are erected almost entirely of\nhewn boulder stones, each like a piece of rock; the North Sea might\nfoam over them, and they would not be overthrown. Most of them are\nwithout steeples, and the bells are hung between two beams in the open\nair. The service was over, and the congregation thronged out into the\nchurchyard, where then, as now, not a tree nor a bush was to be seen;\nnot a single flower had been planted there, nor had a wreath been laid\nupon the graves. Rough mounds show where the dead had been buried, and\nrank grass, tossed by the wind, grows thickly over the whole\nchurchyard. Here and there a grave had a monument to show, in the\nshape of a half-decayed block of wood rudely shaped into the form of a\ncoffin, the said block having been brought from the forest of West\nJutland; but the forest of West Jutland is the wild sea itself, where\nthe inhabitants find the hewn beams and planks and fragments which the\nbreakers cast ashore. The wind and the sea fog soon destroy the wood.\nOne of these blocks had been placed by loving hands on a child's\ngrave, and one of the women, who had come out of the church, stepped\ntowards it. She stood still in front of it, and let her glance rest on\nthe discoloured memorial. A few moments afterwards her husband stepped\nup to her. Neither of them spoke a word, but he took her hand, and\nthey wandered across the brown heath, over moor and meadow, towards\nthe sand-hills; for a long time they thus walked silently side by\nside.\n\n\"That was a good sermon to-day,\" the man said at length. \"If we had\nnot God to look to, we should have nothing!\"\n\n\"Yes,\" observed the woman, \"He sends joy and sorrow, and He has a\nright to send them. To-morrow our little boy would have been five\nyears old, if we had been allowed to keep him.\"\n\n\"You will gain nothing by fretting, wife,\" said the man. \"The boy is\nwell provided for. He is there whither we pray to go.\"\n\nAnd they said nothing more, but went forward to their house among the\nsand-hills. Suddenly, in front of one of the houses where the sea\ngrass did not keep the sand down with its twining roots, there arose\nwhat appeared to be a column of smoke rising into the air. A gust of\nwind swept in among the hills, whirling the particles of sand high in\nthe air. Another, and the strings of fish hung up to dry flapped and\nbeat violently against the wall of the hut; and then all was still\nagain, and the sun shone down hotly.\n\nMan and wife stepped into the house. They had soon taken off their\nSunday clothes, and emerging again, they hurried away over the dunes,\nwhich stood there like huge waves of sand suddenly arrested in their\ncourse, while the sandweeds and the dunegrass with its bluish stalks\nspread a changing colour over them. A few neighbours came up, and\nhelped one another to draw the boats higher up on the sand. The wind\nnow blew more sharply than before; it was cutting and cold: and when\nthey went back over the sand-hills, sand and little pointed stones\nblew into their faces. The waves reared themselves up with their white\ncrowns of foam, and the wind cut off their crests, flinging the foam\nfar around.\n\nThe evening came on. In the air was a swelling roar, moaning and\ncomplaining like a troop of despairing spirits, that sounded above the\nhoarse rolling of the sea; for the fisher's little hut was on the very\nmargin. The sand rattled against the window panes, and every now and\nthen came a violent gust of wind, that shook the house to its\nfoundations. It was dark, but towards midnight the moon would rise.\n\nThe air became clearer, but the storm swept in all its gigantic force\nover the perturbed sea. The fisher people had long gone to bed, but in\nsuch weather there was no chance of closing an eye. Presently there\nwas a knocking at the window, and the door was opened, and a voice\nsaid:\n\n\"There's a great ship fast stranded on the outermost reef.\"\n\nIn a moment the fish people had sprung from their couch, and hastily\narrayed themselves.\n\nThe moon had risen, it was light enough to make the surrounding\nobjects visible, to those who could open their eyes for the blinding\nclouds of sand. The violence of the wind was terrible; and only by\ncreeping forward between the gusts was it possible to pass among the\nsand-hills; and now the salt spray flew up from the sea like down,\nwhile the ocean foamed like a roaring cataract towards the beach. It\nrequired a practised eye to descry the vessel out in the offing. The\nvessel was a noble brig. The billows now lifted it over the reef,\nthree or four cables' lengths out of the usual channel. It drove\ntowards the land, struck against the second reef, and remained fixed.\n\n[Illustration: SAVED FROM THE WRECK.]\n\nTo render assistance was impossible; the sea rolled fairly in upon the\nvessel, making a clean breach over her. Those on shore fancied they\nheard the cries of help from on board, and could plainly descry the\nbusy useless efforts made by the stranded crew. Now a wave came\nrolling onward, falling like a rock upon the bowsprit, and tearing it\nfrom the brig. The stern was lifted high above the flood. Two people\nwere seen to embrace and plunge together into the sea; in a moment\nmore, and one of the largest waves that rolled towards the sand-hills\nthrew a body upon the shore. It was a woman, and appeared quite dead,\nsaid the sailors; but some women thought they discerned signs of life\nin her, and the stranger was carried across the sand-hills into the\nfisherman's hut. How beautiful and fair she was! certainly she must\nbe a great lady.\n\nThey laid her upon the humble bed that boasted not a yard of linen;\nbut there was a woollen coverlet, and that would keep the occupant\nwarm.\n\nLife returned to her, but she was delirious, and knew nothing of what\nhad happened, or where she was; and it was better so, for everything\nshe loved and valued lay buried in the sea. It was with her ship as\nwith the vessel in the song of \"The King's Son of England.\"\n\n    \"Alas, it was a grief to see\n    How the gallant ship sank speedily.\"\n\nPortions of wreck and fragments of wood drifted ashore, and they were\nall that remained of what had been the ship. The wind still drove\nhowling over the coast. For a few moments the strange lady seemed to\nrest; but she awoke in pain, and cries of anguish and fear came from\nher lips. She opened her wonderfully beautiful eyes, and spoke a few\nwords, but none understood her.\n\nAnd behold, as a reward for the pain and sorrow she had undergone, she\nheld in her arms a new-born child, the child that was to have rested\nupon a gorgeous couch, surrounded by silken curtains, in the sumptuous\nhome. It was to have been welcomed with joy to a life rich in all the\ngoods of the earth; and now Providence had caused it to be born in\nthis humble retreat, and not even a kiss did it receive from its\nmother.\n\nThe fisher's wife laid the child upon the mother's bosom, and it\nrested on a heart that beat no more, for she was dead. The child who\nwas to be nursed by wealth and fortune, was cast into the world,\nwashed by the sea among the sand-hills, to partake the fate and heavy\ndays of the poor. And here again comes into our mind the old song of\nthe English king's son, in which mention is made of the customs\nprevalent at that time, when knights and squires plundered those who\nhad been saved from shipwreck.\n\nThe ship had been stranded some distance south of Nissum Bay. The\nhard, inhuman days in which, as we have stated, the inhabitants of the\nJutland shores did evil to the shipwrecked, were long past. Affection\nand sympathy and self-sacrifice for the unfortunate were to be found,\nas they are to be found in our own time, in many a brilliant example.\nThe dying mother and the unfortunate child would have found succour\nand help wherever the wind blew them; but nowhere could they have\nfound more earnest care than in the hut of the poor fisherwife; who\nhad stood but yesterday, with a heavy heart, beside the grave which\ncovered her child, which would have been five years old that day, if\nGod had spared it to her.\n\nNo one knew who the dead stranger was, or could even form a\nconjecture. The pieces of wreck said nothing on the subject.\n\nInto the rich house in Spain no tidings penetrated of the fate of the\ndaughter and the son-in-law. They had not arrived at their destined\npost, and violent storms had raged during the past weeks. At last the\nverdict was given, \"Foundered at sea--all lost.\"\n\nBut in the sand-hills near Hunsby, in the fisherman's hut, lived a\nlittle scion of the rich Spanish family.\n\nWhere Heaven sends food for two, a third can manage to make a meal,\nand in the depths of the sea is many a dish of fish for the hungry.\n\nAnd they called the boy Juergen.\n\n\"It must certainly be a Jewish child,\" the people said, \"it looks so\nswarthy.\"\n\n\"It might be an Italian or a Spaniard,\" observed the clergyman.\n\nBut to the fisherwoman these three nations seemed all the same, and\nshe consoled herself with the idea that the child was baptized as a\nChristian.\n\nThe boy throve. The noble blood in his veins was warm, and he became\nstrong on his homely fare. He grew apace in the humble house, and the\nDanish dialect spoken by the West Jutes became his language. The\npomegranate seed from Spanish soil became a hardy plant on the coast\nof West Jutland. Such may be a man's fate! To this home he clung with\nthe roots of his whole being. He was to have experience of cold and\nhunger, and the misfortunes and hardships that surrounded the humble;\nbut he tasted also of the poor man's joys.\n\nChildhood has sunny heights for all, whose memory gleams through the\nwhole after life. The boy had many opportunities for pleasure and\nplay. The whole coast, for miles and miles, was full of playthings;\nfor it was a mosaic of pebbles, red as coral, yellow as amber, and\nothers again white and rounded like birds' eggs; and all smoothed and\nprepared by the sea. Even the bleached fish skeletons, the water\nplants dried by the wind, seaweed, white, gleaming, and long\nlinen-like bands, waving among the stones, all these seemed made to\ngive pleasure and amusement to the eye and the thoughts; and the boy\nhad an intelligent mind--many and great faculties lay dormant in him.\nHow readily he retained in his mind the stories and songs he heard,\nand how neat-handed he was! With stones and mussel shells he put\ntogether pictures and ships with which one could decorate the room;\nand he could cut out his thoughts wonderfully on a stick, his\nfoster-mother said, though the boy was still so young and little! His\nvoice sounded sweetly; every melody flowed at once from his lips. Many\nchords were attained in his heart which might have sounded out into\nthe world, if he had been placed elsewhere than in the fisherman's hut\nby the North Sea.\n\nOne day another ship was stranded there. Among other things, a chest\nof rare flower bulbs floated ashore. Some were put into the cooking\npots, for they were thought to be eatable, and others lay and\nshrivelled in the sand, but they did not accomplish their purpose, or\nunfold the richness of colour whose germ was within them. Would it be\nbetter with Juergen? The flower bulbs had soon played their part, but\nhe had still years of apprenticeship before him.\n\nNeither he nor his friends remarked in what a solitary and uniform way\none day succeeded another; for there was plenty to do and to see. The\nsea itself was a great lesson book, unfolding a new leaf every day,\nsuch as calm and storm, breakers and waifs. The visits to the church\nwere festal visits. But among the festal visits in the fisherman's\nhouse, one was particularly distinguished. It was repeated twice in\nthe year, and was, in fact, the visit of the brother of Juergen's\nfoster-mother, the eel breeder from Zjaltring, upon the neighbourhood\nof the \"Bow Hill.\" He used to come in a cart painted red, and filled\nwith eels. The cart was covered and locked like a box, and painted all\nover with blue and white tulips. It was drawn by two dun oxen, and\nJuergen was allowed to guide them.\n\nThe eel breeder was a witty fellow, a merry guest, and brought a\nmeasure of brandy with him. Every one received a small glassful, or a\ncupful when there was a scarcity of glasses: even Juergen had as much\nas a large thimbleful, that he might digest the fat eel, the eel\nbreeder said, who always told the same story over again, and when his\nhearers laughed he immediately told it over again to the same\naudience. As, during his childhood, and even later, Juergen used many\nexpressions from this story of the eel breeder's, and made use of it\nin various ways, it is as well that we should listen to it too. Here\nit is:\n\n\"The eels went into the bay; and the mother-eel said to her daughters,\nwho begged leave to go a little way up the bay, 'Don't go too far: the\nugly eel spearer might come and snap you all up.' But they went too\nfar; and of eight daughters only three came back to the eel-mother,\nand these wept and said, 'We only went a little way before the door,\nand the ugly eel spearer came directly, and stabbed five of our party\nto death.' 'They'll come again,' said the mother-eel. 'Oh no,'\nexclaimed the daughters, 'for he skinned them, and cut them in two,\nand fried them.' 'Oh, they'll come again,' the mother-eel persisted.\n'No,' replied the daughters, 'for he ate them up.' 'They'll come\nagain,' repeated the mother-eel. 'But he drank brandy after them,'\ncontinued the daughters. 'Ah, then they'll never come back,' said the\nmother, and she burst out crying, 'It's the brandy that buries the\neels.'\n\n\"And therefore,\" said the eel breeder, in conclusion, \"it is always\nright to take brandy after eating eels.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE EEL BREEDER'S VISIT.]\n\nAnd this story was the tinsel thread, the most humorous recollection\nof Juergen's life. _He_ likewise wanted to go a little way outside the\ndoor, and up the bay--that is to say, out into the world in a ship;\nand his mother said, like the eel breeder, \"There are so many bad\npeople--eel spearers!\" But he wished to go a little way past the\nsand-hills, a little way into the dunes, and he succeeded in doing so.\nFour merry days, the happiest of his childhood, unrolled themselves,\nand the whole beauty and splendour of Jutland, all the joy and\nsunshine of his home, was concentrated in these. He was to go to a\nfestival--though it was certainly a burial feast.\n\nA wealthy relative of the fisherman's family had died. The farm lay\ndeep in the country, eastward, and a point towards the north, as the\nsaying is. Juergen's foster-parents were to go, and he was to accompany\nthem from the dunes, across heath and moor. They came to the green\nmeadows where the river Skjaern rolls its course, the river of many\neels, where mother-eels dwell with their daughters, who are caught and\neaten up by wicked people. But men were said sometimes to have acted\nno better towards their own fellow men; for had not the knight, Sir\nBugge, been murdered by wicked people? and though he was well spoken\nof, had he not wanted to kill the architect, as the legend tells us,\nwho had built for him the castle, with the thick walls and tower,\nwhere Juergen and his parents now stood, and where the river falls into\nthe bay? The wall on the ramparts still remained, and red crumbling\nfragments lay strewn around. Here it was that Sir Bugge, after the\narchitect had left him, said to one of his men, \"Go thou after him,\nand say, 'Master, the tower shakes.' If he turns round, you are to\nkill him, and take from him the money I paid him; but if he does not\nturn round, let him depart in peace.\" The man obeyed, and the\narchitect never turned round, but called back, \"The tower does not\nshake in the least, but one day there will come a man from the west,\nin a blue cloak, who will cause it to shake!\" And indeed so it\nchanced, a hundred years later; for the North Sea broke in, and the\ntower was cast down, but the man who then possessed the castle,\nPrebjoern Gyldenstjerne, built a new castle higher up, at the end of\nthe meadow, and that stands to this day, and is called Noerre Vosborg.\n\nPast this castle went Juergen and his foster-parents. They had told him\nits story during the long winter evenings, and now he saw the lordly\ncastle, with its double moat, and trees, and bushes; the wall, covered\nwith ferns, rose within the moat; but most beautiful of all were the\nlofty lime trees, which grew up to the highest windows, and filled the\nair with sweet fragrance. In a corner of the garden towards the\nnorth-west stood a great bush full of blossom like winter snow amid\nthe summer's green: it was a juniper bush, the first that Juergen had\nseen thus in bloom. He never forgot it, nor the lime tree: the child's\nsoul treasured up these remembrances of beauty and fragrance to\ngladden the old man.\n\nFrom Noerre Vosborg, where the juniper blossomed, the way went more\neasily; for they encountered other guests who were also bound for the\nburial, and were riding in waggons. Our travellers had to sit all\ntogether on a little box at the back of the waggon, but even this was\npreferable to walking, they thought. So they pursued their journey in\nthe waggon across the rugged heath. The oxen which drew the vehicle\nslipped every now and then, where a patch of fresh grass appeared amid\nthe heather. The sun shone warm, and it was wonderful to behold how in\nthe far distance something like smoke seemed to be rising; and yet\nthis smoke was clearer than the mist; it was transparent, and looked\nlike rays of light rolling and dancing afar over the heath.\n\n\"That is Lokeman driving his sheep,\" said some one; and this was\nenough to excite the fancy of Juergen. It seemed to him as if they were\nnow going to enter fairyland, though everything was still real.\n\nHow quiet it was! Far and wide the heath extended around them like a\nbeautiful carpet. The heather bloomed; the juniper bushes and the\nfresh oak saplings stood up like nosegays from the earth. An inviting\nplace for a frolic, if it were not for the number of poisonous adders\nof which the travellers spoke, as they did also of the wolves which\nformerly infested the place, from which circumstance the region was\nstill called the Wolfsborg region. The old man who guided the oxen\nrelated how, in the lifetime of his father, the horses had to sustain\nmany a hard fight with the wild beasts that were now extinct; and how\nhe himself, when he went out one morning to bring in the horses, had\nfound one of them standing with its fore-feet on a wolf it had killed,\nafter the savage beast had torn and lacerated the legs of the brave\nhorse.\n\nThe journey over the heath and the deep sand was only too quickly\naccomplished. They stopped before the house of mourning, where they\nfound plenty of guests within and without. Waggon after waggon stood\nranged in a row, and horses and oxen went out to crop the scanty\npasture. Great sand-hills, like those at home in the North Sea, rose\nbehind the house, and extended far and wide. How had they come here,\nmiles into the interior of the land, and as large and high as those on\nthe coast? The wind had lifted and carried them hither, and to them\nalso a history was attached.\n\nPsalms were sung, and a few of the old people shed tears; beyond this,\nthe guests were cheerful enough, as it appeared to Juergen, and there\nwas plenty to eat and drink. Eels there were of the fattest, upon\nwhich brandy should be poured to bury them, as the eel breeder said;\nand certainly his maxim was here carried out.\n\nJuergen went to and fro in the house. On the third day he felt quite at\nhome, like as in the fisherman's hut on the sand-hills where he had\npassed his early days. Here on the heath there was certainly an\nunheard-of wealth, for the flowers and blackberries and bilberries\nwere to be found in plenty, so large and sweet, that when they were\ncrushed beneath the tread of the passers by, the heath was coloured\nwith their red juice.\n\nHere was a Hun's Grave, and yonder another. Columns of smoke rose into\nthe still air; it was a heath-fire, he was told, that shone so\nsplendidly in the dark evening.\n\nNow came the fourth day, and the funeral festivities were to conclude,\nand they were to go back from the land-dunes to the sand-dunes.\n\n\"Ours are the best,\" said the old fisherman, Juergen's foster-father;\n\"these have no strength.\"\n\nAnd they spoke of the way in which the sand-dunes had come into the\ncountry, and it seemed all very intelligible. This was the explanation\nthey gave:\n\nA corpse had been found on the coast, and the peasants had buried it\nin the churchyard; and from that time the sand began to fly, and the\nsea broke in violently. A wise man in the parish advised them to open\nthe grave and to look if the buried man was not lying sucking his\nthumb; for if so, he was a man of the sea, and the sea would not rest\nuntil it had got him back. So the grave was opened, and he really was\nfound with his thumb in his mouth. So they laid him upon a cart and\nharnessed two oxen before it; and as if stung by an adder, the oxen\nran away with the man of the sea over heath and moorland to the ocean;\nand then the sand ceased flying inland, but the hills that had been\nheaped up still remained there. All this Juergen heard and treasured in\nhis memory from the happiest days of his childhood, the days of the\nburial feast. How glorious it was to get out into strange regions, and\nto see strange people! And he was to go farther still. He was not yet\nfourteen years old when he went out in a ship to see what the world\ncould show him: bad weather, heavy seas, malice, and hard men--these\nwere his experiences, for he became a ship boy. There were cold\nnights, and bad living, and blows to be endured; then he felt as if\nhis noble Spanish blood boiled within him, and bitter wicked words\nseethed up to his lips; but it was better to gulp them down, though he\nfelt as the eel must feel when it is flayed and cut up, and put into\nthe frying-pan.\n\n\"I shall come again!\" said a voice within him. He saw the Spanish\ncoast, the native land of his parents. He even saw the town where they\nhad lived in happiness and prosperity; but he knew nothing of his home\nor race, and his race knew just as little about him.\n\nThe poor ship boy was not allowed to land; but on the last day of\ntheir stay he managed to get ashore. There were several purchases to\nbe made, and he was to carry them on board.\n\nThere stood Juergen in his shabby clothes, which looked as if they had\nbeen washed in the ditch and dried in the chimney: for the first time\nhe, the inhabitant of the dunes, saw a great city. How lofty the\nhouses seemed, and how full of people were the streets! some pushing\nthis way, some that--a perfect maelstrom of citizens and peasants,\nmonks and soldiers--a calling and shouting, and jingling of\nbell-harnessed asses and mules, and the church bells chiming between\nsong and sound, hammering and knocking, all going on at once. Every\nhandicraft had its home in the basements of the houses or in the\nlanes; and the sun shone so hotly, and the air was so close, that one\nseemed to be in an oven full of beetles, cockchafers, bees, and flies,\nall humming and murmuring together. Juergen hardly knew where he was or\nwhich way he went. Then he saw just in front of him the mighty portal\nof the cathedral; the lights were gleaming in the dark aisles, and a\nfragrance of incense was wafted towards him. Even the poorest beggar\nventured up the steps into the temple. The sailor with whom Juergen\nwent took his way through the church; and Juergen stood in the\nsanctuary. Coloured pictures gleamed from their golden ground. On the\naltar stood the figure of the Virgin with the child Jesus, surrounded\nby lights and flowers; priests in festive garb were chanting, and\nchoir boys, beautifully attired, swung the silver censer. What\nsplendour, what magnificence did he see here! It streamed through his\nsoul and overpowered him; the church and the faith of his parents\nsurrounded him, and touched a chord in his soul, so that the tears\noverflowed his eyes.\n\nFrom the church they went to the market-place. Here a quantity of\nprovisions were given him to carry. The way to the harbour was long,\nand, tired and overpowered by various emotions, he rested for a few\nmoments before a splendid house, with marble pillars, statues, and\nbroad staircases. Here he rested his burden against the wall. Then a\nliveried porter came out, lifted up a silver-headed cane, and drove\nhim away--him, the grandson of the house. But no one there knew that,\nand he just as little as any one. And afterwards he went on board\nagain, and there were hard words and cuffs, little sleep and much\nwork; such were his experiences. They say that it is well to suffer in\nyouth, if age brings something to make up for it.\n\nHis time of servitude on shipboard had expired, and the vessel lay\nonce more at Ringkjoebing, in Jutland: he came ashore and went home to\nthe sand-dunes by Hunsby; but his foster-mother had died while he was\naway on his voyage.\n\nA hard winter followed that summer. Snowstorms swept over land and\nsea, and there was a difficulty in getting about. How variously things\nwere distributed in the world! here biting cold and snowstorms, while\nin the Spanish land there was burning sunshine and oppressive heat.\nAnd yet, when here at home there came a clear frosty day, and Juergen\nsaw the swans flying in numbers from the sea towards the land, and\nacross to Vosborg, it appeared to him that people could breathe most\nfreely here; and here too was a splendid summer! In imagination he saw\nthe heath bloom and grow purple with rich juicy berries, and saw the\nelder trees and the lime trees at Vosborg in blossom. He determined to\ngo there once more.\n\nSpring came on, and the fishery began. Juergen was an active assistant\nin this; he had grown in the last year, and was quick at work. He was\nfull of life, he understood how to swim, to tread water, to turn over\nand tumble in the flood. They often warned him to beware of the troops\nof dogfish, which could seize the best swimmer, and draw him down, and\ndevour him; but such was not Juergen's fate.\n\nAt the neighbour's on the dune was a boy named Martin, with whom\nJuergen was very friendly, and the two took service in the same ship to\nNorway, and also went together to Holland; and they had never had any\nquarrel; but a quarrel can easily come, for when a person is hot by\nnature, he often uses strong gestures, and that is what Juergen did one\nday on board when they had a quarrel about nothing at all. They were\nsitting behind the cabin door, eating out of a delf plate which they\nhad placed between them. Juergen held his pocket-knife in his hand, and\nlifted it against Martin, and at the same time became ashy pale in the\nface, and his eyes had an ugly look. Martin only said,\n\n\"Ah! ha! you 're one of that sort, who are fond of using the knife!\"\n\nHardly were the words spoken, when Juergen's hand sank down. He\nanswered not a syllable, but went on eating, and afterwards walked\naway to his work. When they were resting again, he stepped up to\nMartin, and said,\n\n\"You may hit me in the face! I have deserved it. But I feel as if I\nhad a pot in me that boiled over.\"\n\n\"There let the thing rest,\" replied Martin; and after that they were\nalmost doubly as good friends as before; and when afterwards they got\nback to the dunes and began telling their adventures, this was told\namong the rest; and Martin said that Juergen was certainly passionate,\nbut a good fellow for all that.\n\nThey were both young and strong, well-grown and stalwart; but Juergen\nwas the cleverer of the two.\n\nIn Norway the peasants go into the mountains, and lead out the cattle\nthere to pasture. On the west coast of Jutland, huts have been erected\namong the sand-hills; they are built of pieces of wreck, and roofed\nwith turf and heather. There are sleeping-places around the walls, and\nhere the fisher people live and sleep during the early spring. Every\nfisherman has his female helper, his manager, as she is called, whose\nbusiness consists in baiting the hooks, preparing the warm beer for\nthe fishermen when they come ashore, and getting their dinners cooked\nwhen they come back into the hut tired and hungry. Moreover, the\nmanagers bring up the fish from the boat, cut them open, prepare them,\nand have generally a great deal to do.\n\nJuergen, his father, and several other fishermen and their managers\ninhabited the same hut; Martin lived in the next one.\n\nOne of the girls, Else by name, had known Juergen from childhood: they\nwere glad to see each other, and in many things were of the same mind;\nbut in outward appearance they were entirely opposite; for he was\nbrown, whereas she was pale and had flaxen hair, and eyes as blue as\nthe sea in sunshine.\n\nOne day as they were walking together, and Juergen held her hand in his\nvery firmly and warmly, she said to him,\n\n\"Juergen, I have something weighing upon my heart! Let me be your\nmanager, for you are like a brother to me, whereas Martin, who has\nengaged me--he and I are lovers----but you need not tell that to the\nrest.\"\n\nAnd it seemed to Juergen as if the loose sand were giving way under his\nfeet. He spoke not a word, but only nodded his head, which signified\n\"yes.\" More was not required; but suddenly he felt in his heart that\nhe detested Martin; and the longer he considered of this--for he had\nnever thought of Else in this way before--the more did it become clear\nto him that Martin had stolen from him the only being he loved; and\nnow it was all at once plain to him, that Else was the being in\nquestion.\n\nWhen the sea is somewhat disturbed, and the fishermen come home in\ntheir great boat, it is a sight to behold how they cross the reefs.\nOne of the men stands upright in the bow of the boat, and the others\nwatch him, sitting with the oars in their hands. Outside the reef they\nappear to be rowing not towards the land, but backing out to sea, till\nthe man standing in the boat gives them the sign that the great wave\nis coming which is to float them across the reef; and accordingly the\nboat is lifted--lifted high in the air, so that its keel is seen from\nthe shore; and in the next minute the whole boat is hidden from the\neye; neither mast nor keel nor people can be seen, as though the sea\nhad devoured them; but in a few moments they emerge like a great sea\nanimal climbing up the waves, and the oars move as if the creature had\nlegs. The second and the third reef are passed in the same manner; and\nnow the fishermen jump into the water; every wave helps them, and\npushes the boat well forward, till at length they have drawn it beyond\nthe range of the breakers.\n\nA wrong order given in front of the reef--the slightest\nhesitation--and the boat must founder.\n\n\"Then it would be all over with me, and Martin too!\" This thought\nstruck Juergen while they were out at sea, where his foster-father had\nbeen taken alarmingly ill. The fever had seized him. They were only a\nfew oars' strokes from the reef, and Juergen sprang from his seat, and\nstood up in the bow.\n\n\"Father--let me come!\" he said; and his eye glanced towards Martin,\nand across the waves: but while every oar bent with the exertions of\nthe rowers, as the great wave came towering towards them, he beheld\nthe pale face of his father, and dare not obey the evil impulse that\nhad seized him. The boat came safely across the reef to land, but the\nevil thought remained in his blood, and roused up every little fibre\nof bitterness which had remained in his memory since he and Martin had\nbeen comrades. But he could not weave the fibres together, nor did he\nendeavour to do so. He felt that Martin had despoiled him, and this\nwas enough to make him detest his former friend. Several of the\nfishermen noticed this, but not Martin, who continued obliging and\ntalkative--the latter a little too much.\n\nJuergen's adopted father had to keep his bed, which became his\ndeathbed, for in the next week he died; and now Juergen was installed\nas heir in the little house behind the sand-hills. It was but a little\nhouse, certainly, but still it was something, and Martin had nothing\nof the kind.\n\n\"You will not take sea service again, Juergen?\" observed one of the old\nfishermen. \"You will always stay with us, now.\"\n\nBut this was not Juergen's intention, for he was just thinking of\nlooking about him a little in the world. The eel breeder of Zjaltring\nhad an uncle in Alt-Skage, who was a fisherman, but at the same time a\nprosperous merchant, who had ships upon the sea; he was said to be a\ngood old man, and it would not be amiss to enter his service.\nAlt-Skage lies in the extreme north of Jutland, as far removed from\nthe Hunsby dunes as one can travel in that country; and this is just\nwhat pleased Juergen, for he did not want to remain till the wedding of\nMartin and Else, which was to be celebrated in a few weeks.\n\n[Illustration: ELSE AFFIRMS HER PREFERENCE FOR MARTIN.]\n\nThe old fisherman asserted that it was foolish now to quit the\nneighbourhood; for that Juergen had a home, and Else would probably be\ninclined to take him rather than Martin.\n\nJuergen answered so much at random, that it was not easy to understand\nwhat he meant; but the old man brought Else to him, and she said, \"You\nhave a home now; that ought to be well considered.\"\n\nAnd Juergen thought of many things.\n\nThe sea has heavy waves, but there are heavier waves in the human\nheart. Many thoughts, strong and weak, thronged through Juergen's\nbrain; and he said to Else,\n\n\"If Martin had a house like mine, whom would you rather have?\"\n\n\"But Martin has no house, and cannot get one.\"\n\n\"But let us suppose he had one.\"\n\n\"Why then I would certainly take Martin, for that's what my heart\ntells me; but one can't live upon that.\"\n\nAnd Juergen thought of these things all night through. Something was\nworking within him, he could not understand what it was, but he had a\nthought that was stronger than his love for Else; and so he went to\nMartin, and what he said and did there was well considered. He let the\nhouse to Martin on the most liberal terms, saying that he wished to go\nto sea again, because it pleased him to do so. And Else kissed him on\nthe mouth when she heard that, for she loved Martin best.\n\nIn the early morning Juergen purposed to start. On the evening before\nhis departure, when it was already growing late, he felt a wish to\nvisit Martin once more; he started, and among the dunes the old fisher\nmet him, who was angry at his going. The old man made jokes about\nMartin, and declared there must be some magic about that fellow, \"of\nwhom all the girls were so fond.\" Juergen paid no heed to this speech,\nbut said farewell to the old man, and went on towards the house where\nMartin dwelt. He heard loud talking within. Martin was not alone, and\nthis made Juergen waver in his determination, for he did not wish to\nencounter Else; and on second consideration, he thought it better not\nto hear Martin thank him again, and therefore turned back.\n\nOn the following morning, before break of day, he fastened his\nknapsack, took his wooden provision box in his hand, and went away\namong the sand-hills towards the coast path. The way was easier to\ntraverse than the heavy sand road, and moreover shorter; for he\nintended to go in the first instance to Zjaltring, by Bowberg, where\nthe eel breeder lived, to whom he had promised a visit.\n\nThe sea lay pure and blue before him, and mussel shells and sea\npebbles, the playthings of his youth, crunched under his feet. While\nhe was thus marching on, his nose suddenly began to bleed: it was a\ntrifling incident, but little things can have great significances. A\nfew large drops of blood fell upon one of his sleeves. He wiped them\noff and stopped the bleeding, and it seemed to him as if this had\ncleared and lightened his brain. In the sand the sea-eringa was\nblooming here and there. He broke off a stalk and stuck it in his hat;\nhe determined to be merry and of good cheer, for he was going into the\nwide world--\"a little way outside the door, in front of the hay,\" as\nthe young eels had said. \"Beware of bad people, who will catch you and\nflay you, cut you in two, and put you in the frying-pan!\" he repeated\nin his mind, and smiled, for he thought he should find his way through\nthe world--good courage is a strong weapon!\n\nThe sun already stood high when he approached the narrow entrance to\nNissum Bay. He looked back, and saw a couple of horsemen gallopping a\nlong distance behind him, and they were accompanied by other people.\nBut this concerned him nothing.\n\nThe ferry was on the opposite side of the bay. Juergen called to the\nferryman; and when the latter came over with the boat, Juergen stepped\nin; but before they had gone half-way across, the men whom he had seen\nriding so hastily behind him, hailed the ferryman, and summoned him to\nreturn in the name of the law. Juergen did not understand the reason of\nthis, but he thought it would be best to turn back, and therefore\nhimself took an oar and returned. The moment the boat touched the\nshore, the men sprang on board, and, before he was aware, they had\nbound his hands with a rope.\n\n\"Thy wicked deed will cost thee thy life,\" they said. \"It is well that\nwe caught thee.\"\n\nHe was accused of nothing less than murder. Martin had been found\ndead, with a knife thrust through his neck. One of the fishermen had\n(late on the previous evening) met Juergen going towards Martin's\nhouse; and this was not the first time Juergen had raised his knife\nagainst Martin--so they knew that he was the murderer. The town in\nwhich the prison was built was a long way off, and the wind was\ncontrary for going there; but not half an hour would be required to\nget across the bay, and a quarter of an hour would bring them from\nthence to Noerre Vosborg, a great castle with walls and ditches. One of\nJuergen's captors was a fisherman, a brother of the keeper of the\ncastle; and he declared it might be managed that Juergen should for the\npresent be put into the dungeon at Vosborg, where Long Martha the\ngipsy had been shut up till her execution.\n\nNo attention was paid to the defence made by Juergen; the few drops of\nblood upon his shirt-sleeve bore heavy witness against him. But Juergen\nwas conscious of innocence; and as there was no chance of immediately\nrighting himself, he submitted to his fate.\n\nThe party landed just at the spot where Sir Bugge's castle had stood\nand where Juergen had walked with his foster-parents after the burial\nfeast, during the four happiest days of his childhood. He was led by\nthe old path over the meadow to Vosborg; and again the elder\nblossomed and the lofty lindens smelt sweet, and it seemed but\nyesterday that he had left the spot.\n\nIn the two wings of the castle a staircase leads down to a spot below\nthe entrance, and from thence there is access to a low vaulted cellar.\nHere Long Martha had been imprisoned, and hence she had been led away\nto the scaffold. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and had\nbeen under the delusion that if she could obtain two more, she would\nbe able to fly and to make herself invisible. In the midst of the\ncellar roof was a little narrow air-hole, but no window. The blooming\nlindens could not waft a breath of comforting fragrance into that\nabode, where all was dark and mouldy. Only a rough bench stood in the\nprison; but \"a good conscience is a soft pillow,\" and consequently\nJuergen could sleep well.\n\nThe thick oaken door was locked, and secured on the outside by an iron\nbar; but the goblin of superstition can creep through a keyhole into\nthe baron's castle just as into the fisherman's hut; and wherefore\nshould he not creep in here, where Juergen sat thinking of Long Martha\nand her evil deeds? Her last thought on the night before her execution\nhad filled this space; and all the magic came into Juergen's mind which\ntradition asserted to have been practised there in the old times, when\nSir Schwanwedel dwelt there. All this passed through Juergen's mind,\nand made him shudder; but a sunbeam--a refreshing thought from\nwithout--penetrated his heart even here; it was the remembrance of the\nblooming elder and the fragrant lime trees.\n\nHe was not left there long. They carried him off to the town of\nRingkjoebing, where his imprisonment was just as hard.\n\nThose times were not like ours. Hard measure was dealt out to the\n\"common\" people; and it was just after the days when farms were\nconverted into knights' estates, on which occasions coachmen and\nservants were often made magistrates, and had it in their power to\nsentence a poor man, for a small offence, to lose his property and to\ncorporal punishment. Judges of this kind were still to be found; and\nin Jutland, far from the capital and from the enlightened well-meaning\nhead of the government, the law was still sometimes very loosely\nadministered; and the smallest grievance that Juergen had to expect was\nthat his case would be protracted.\n\nCold and cheerless was his abode--and when would this state of things\nend? He had innocently sunk into misfortune and sorrow--that was his\nfate. He had leisure now to ponder on the difference of fortune on\nearth, and to wonder why this fate had been allotted to him; and he\nfelt sure that the question would be answered in the next life--the\nexistence that awaits us when this is over. This faith had grown\nstrong in him in the poor fisherman's hut; that which had never shone\ninto his father's mind, in all the richness and sunshine of Spain, was\nvouchsafed as a light of comfort in his poverty and distress--a sign\nof mercy from God that never deceives.\n\nThe spring storms began to blow. The rolling and moaning of the North\nSea could be heard for miles inland when the wind was lulled; for then\nit sounded like the rushing of a thousand waggons over a hard road\nwith a mine beneath. Juergen, in his prison, heard these sounds, and it\nwas a relief to him. No melody could have appealed so directly to his\nheart as did these sounds of the sea--the rolling sea, the boundless\nsea, on which a man can be borne across the world before the wind,\ncarrying his own house with him wherever he is driven, just as the\nsnail carries its home even into a strange land.\n\nHow he listened to the deep moaning, and how the thought arose in\nhim--\"Free! free! How happy to be free, even without shoes and in\nragged clothes!\" Sometimes, when such thoughts crossed his mind, the\nfiery nature rose within him, and he beat the wall with his clenched\nfists.\n\nWeeks, months, a whole year had gone by, when a vagabond--Niels, the\nthief, called also the horse couper--was arrested; and now the better\ntimes came, and it was seen what wrong Juergen had endured.\n\nIn the neighbourhood of Ringkjoebing, at a beer-house, Niels, the\nthief, had met Martin on the afternoon before Juergen's departure from\nhome and before the murder. A few glasses were drunk--not enough to\ncloud any one's brain, but yet enough to loosen Martin's tongue; and\nhe began to boast, and to say that he had obtained a house, and\nintended to marry; and when Niels asked where he intended to get the\nmoney, Martin shook his pocket proudly, and said,\n\n\"The money is there, where it ought to be.\"\n\nThis boast cost him his life; for when he went home, Niels went after\nhim, and thrust a knife through his throat, to rob the murdered man of\nthe expected gold, which did not exist.\n\nThis was circumstantially explained; but for us it is enough to know\nthat Juergen was set at liberty. But what amends did he get for having\nbeen imprisoned a whole year, and shut out from all communion with\nmen? They told him he was fortunate in being proved innocent, and that\nhe might go. The burgomaster gave him two dollars for travelling\nexpenses, and many citizens offered him provisions and beer--there\nwere still good men, not all \"grind and flay.\" But the best of all\nwas, that the merchant Broenne of Skjagen, the same into whose service\nJuergen intended to go a year since, was just at that time on business\nin the town of Ringkjoebing. Broenne heard the whole story; and the man\nhad a good heart, and understood what Juergen must have felt and\nsuffered. He therefore made up his mind to make it up to the poor lad,\nand convince him that there were still kind folks in the world.\n\nSo Juergen went forth from the prison as if to Paradise, to find\nfreedom, affection, and trust. He was to travel this road now; for no\ngoblet of life is all bitterness: no good man would pour out such\nmeasure to his fellow man, and how should He do it, who is love\nitself?\n\n\"Let all that be buried and forgotten,\" said Broenne the merchant. \"Let\nus draw a thick line through last year; and we will even burn the\ncalendar. And in two days we'll start for dear, friendly, peaceful\nSkjagen. They call Skjagen an out-of-the-way corner; but it's a good\nwarm chimney-corner, and its windows open towards every part of the\nworld.\"\n\nThat was a journey!--it was like taking fresh breath--out of the cold\ndungeon air into the warm sunshine! The heath stood blooming in its\ngreatest pride, and the herd-boy sat on the Hun's Grave and blew his\npipe, which he had carved for himself out of the sheep's bone. Fata\nMorgana, the beautiful aerial phenomenon of the desert, showed itself\nwith hanging gardens and swaying forests, and the wonderful cloud\nphenomenon, called here the \"Lokeman driving his flock,\" was seen\nlikewise.\n\nUp through the land of the Wendels, up towards Skjagen, they went,\nfrom whence the men with the long beards (the Longobardi, or Lombards)\nhad emigrated in the days when, in the reign of King Snio, all the\nchildren and the old people were to have been killed, till the noble\nDame Gambaruk proposed that the young people had better emigrate. All\nthis was known to Juergen--thus much knowledge he had; and even if he\ndid not know the land of the Lombards beyond the high Alps, he had an\nidea how it must be there, for in his boyhood he had been in the\nsouth, in Spain. He thought of the southern fruits piled up there; of\nthe red pomegranate blossoms; of the humming, murmuring, and toiling\nin the great beehive of a city he had seen; but, after all, home is\nbest; and Juergen's home was Denmark.\n\n[Illustration: JUeRGEN'S BETTER FORTUNE.]\n\nAt length they reached \"Wendelskajn,\" as Skjagen is called in the old\nNorwegian and Icelandic writings. Then already Old Skjagen, with the\nwestern and eastern town, extended for miles, with sand-hills and\narable land, as far as the lighthouse near the \"Skjagenzweig.\" Then,\nas now, the houses were strewn among the wind-raised sand-hills--a\ndesert where the wind sports with the sand, and where the voices of\nthe seamen and the wild swans strike harshly on the ear. In the\nsouth-west, a mile from the sea, lies Old Skjagen; and here dwelt\nmerchant Broenne, and here Juergen was henceforth to dwell. The great\nhouse was painted with tar; the smaller buildings had each an\noverturned boat for a roof; the pig-sty had been put together of\npieces of wreck. There was no fence here, for indeed there was nothing\nto fence in; but long rows of fishes were hung upon lines, one above\nthe other, to dry in the wind. The whole coast was strewn with spoilt\nherrings; for there were so many of those fish, that a net was\nscarcely thrown into the sea before they were caught by cartloads;\nthere were so many, that often they were thrown back into the sea, or\nleft to lie on the shore.\n\nThe old man's wife and daughter, and his servants too, came\nrejoicingly to meet him. There was a great pressing of hands, and\ntalking, and questioning. And the daughter, what a lovely face and\nbright eyes she had!\n\nThe interior of the house was roomy and comfortable. Fritters that a\nking would have looked upon as a dainty dish, were placed on the\ntable; and there was wine from the vineyard of Skjagen--that is, the\nsea; for there the grapes come ashore ready pressed and prepared in\nbarrels and in bottles.\n\nWhen the mother and daughter heard who Juergen was, and how innocently\nhe had suffered, they looked at him in a still more friendly way; and\nthe eyes of the charming Clara were the friendliest of all. Juergen\nfound a happy home in Old Skjagen. It did his heart good; and his\nheart had been sorely tried, and had drunk the bitter goblet of love,\nwhich softens or hardens according to circumstances. Juergen's heart\nwas still soft--it was young, and there was still room in it; and\ntherefore it was well that Mistress Clara was going in three weeks in\nher father's ship to Christiansand, in Norway, to visit an aunt, and\nto stay there the whole winter.\n\nOn the Sunday before her departure they all went to church, to the\nholy Communion. The church was large and handsome, and had been built\ncenturies before by Scotchmen and Hollanders; it lay at a little\ndistance from the town. It was certainly somewhat ruinous, and the\nroad to it was heavy, through the deep sand; but the people gladly\nwent through the difficulties to get to the house of God, to sing\npsalms and hear the sermon. The sand had heaped itself up round the\nwalls of the church; but the graves were kept free from it.\n\nIt was the largest church north of the Limfjord. The Virgin Mary, with\nthe golden crown on her head and the child Jesus in her arms, stood\nlife-like upon the altar; the holy Apostles had been carved in the\nchoir; and on the wall hung portraits of the old burgomasters and\ncouncillors of Skjagen; the pulpit was of carved work. The sun shone\nbrightly into the church, and its radiance fell on the polished brass\nchandelier, and on the little ship that hung from the vaulted roof.\n\nJuergen felt as if overcome by a holy, childlike feeling, like that\nwhich possessed him when, as a boy, he had stood in the splendid\nSpanish cathedral; but here the feeling was different, for he felt\nconscious of being one of the congregation.\n\nAfter the sermon followed the holy Communion. He partook of the bread\nand wine, and it happened that he knelt beside Mistress Clara; but his\nthoughts were so fixed upon Heaven and the holy service, that he did\nnot notice his neighbour until he rose from his knees, and then he saw\ntears rolling down her cheeks.\n\nTwo days later she left Skjagen and went to Norway. He stayed behind,\nand made himself useful in the house and in the business. He went out\nfishing, and at that time fish were more plentiful and larger than\nnow. Every Sunday when he sat in the church, and his eye rested on the\nstatue of the Virgin on the altar, his glance rested for a time on the\nspot where Mistress Clara had knelt beside him, and he thought of her,\nhow hearty and kind she had been to him.\n\nAnd so the autumn and the winter time passed away. There was wealth\nhere, and a real family life; even down to the domestic animals, who\nwere all well kept. The kitchen glittered with copper and tin and\nwhite plates, and from the roof hung hams and beef, and winter stores\nin plenty. All this is still to be seen in many rich farms of the west\ncoast of Jutland: plenty to eat and drink, clean decorated rooms,\nclever heads, happy tempers, and hospitality prevail there as in an\nArab tent.\n\nNever since the famous burial feast had Juergen spent such a happy\ntime; and yet Mistress Clara was absent, except in the thoughts and\nmemory of all.\n\nIn April a ship was to start for Norway, and Juergen was to sail in it.\nHe was full of life and spirits, and looked so stout and jovial that\nDame Broenne declared it did her good to see him.\n\n\"And it's a pleasure to see you too, old wife,\" said the old merchant.\n\"Juergen has brought life into our winter evenings, and into you too,\nmother. You look younger this year, and you seem well and bonny. But\nthen you were once the prettiest girl in Wiborg, and that's saying a\ngreat deal, for I have always found the Wiborg girls the prettiest of\nany.\"\n\nJuergen said nothing to this, but he thought of a certain maiden of\nSkjagen; and he sailed to visit that maiden, for the ship steered to\nChristiansand, in Norway, and a favouring wind bore it rapidly to that\ntown.\n\nOne morning merchant Broenne went out to the lighthouse that stands far\naway from Old Skjagen: the coal fire had long gone out, and the sun\nwas already high when he mounted the tower. The sand-banks extend\nunder the water a whole mile from the shore. Outside these banks many\nships were seen that day; and with the help of his telescope the old\nman thought he descried his own vessel, the \"Karen Broenne.\"\n\nYes, surely there she was; and the ship was sailing up with Juergen and\nClara on board. The church and the lighthouse appeared to them as a\nheron and a swan rising from the blue waters. Clara sat on deck, and\nsaw the sand-hills gradually looming forth: if the wind held she might\nreach her home in about an hour--so near were they to home and its\njoys--so near were they to death and its terrors. For a plank in the\nship gave way, and the water rushed in. The crew flew to the pumps,\nand attempted to stop the leak. A signal of distress was hoisted; but\nthey were still a full mile from the shore. Fishing boats were in\nsight, but they were still far distant. The wind blew shoreward, and\nthe tide was in their favour too; but all was insufficient, for the\nship sank. Juergen threw his right arm about Clara, and pressed her\nclose to him.\n\nWith what a look she gazed in his face! As he threw himself in God's\nname into the water with her, she uttered a cry; but still she felt\nsafe, certain that he would not let her sink.\n\nAnd now, in the hour of terror and danger, Juergen experienced what the\nold song told:\n\n    \"And written it stood, how the brave king's son\n    Embraced the bride his valour had won.\"\n\nHow rejoiced he felt that he was a good swimmer! He worked his way\nonward with his feet and with one hand, while with the other he\ntightly held the young girl. He rested upon the waves, he trod the\nwater, he practised all the arts he knew, so as to reserve strength\nenough to reach the shore. He heard how Clara uttered a sigh, and felt\na convulsive shudder pass through her, and he pressed her to him\ncloser than ever. Now and then a wave rolled over her; and he was\nstill a few cables' lengths from the land, when help came in the shape\nof an approaching boat. But under the water--he could see it\nclearly--stood a white form gazing at him: a wave lifted him up, and\nthe form approached him: he felt a shock, and it grew dark, and\neverything vanished from his gaze.\n\nOn the sand-reef lay the wreck of a ship, the sea washed over it; the\nwhite figure-head leant against an anchor, the sharp iron extended\njust to the surface. Juergen had come in contact with this, and the\ntide had driven him against it with double force. He sank down\nfainting with his load; but the next wave lifted him and the young\ngirl aloft again.\n\nThe fishermen grasped them, and lifted them into the boat. The blood\nstreamed down over Juergen's face; he seemed dead, but he still\nclutched the girl so tightly that they were obliged to loosen her by\nforce from his grasp. And Clara lay pale and lifeless in the boat,\nthat now made for the shore.\n\nAll means were tried to restore Clara to life; but she was dead! For\nsome time he had been swimming onward with a corpse, and had exerted\nhimself to exhaustion for one who was dead.\n\nJuergen was still breathing. The fishermen carried him into the nearest\nhouse upon the sand-hills. A kind of surgeon who lived there, and was\nat the same time a smith and a general dealer, bound up Juergen's\nwounds in a temporary way, till a physician could be got next day from\nthe nearest town.\n\nThe brain of the sick man was affected. In delirium he uttered wild\ncries; but on the third day he lay quiet and exhausted on his couch,\nand his life seemed to hang by a thread, and the physician said it\nwould be best if this string snapped.\n\n\"Let us pray that God may take him to Himself; he will never be a sane\nman again!\"\n\nBut life would not depart from him--the thread would not snap; but the\nthread of memory broke: the thread of all his mental power had been\ncut through; and, what was most terrible, a body remained--a living\nhealthy body--that wandered about like a spectre.\n\nJuergen remained in the house of the merchant Broenne.\n\n\"He contracted his illness in his endeavour to save our child,\" said\nthe old man, \"and now he is our son.\"\n\nPeople called Juergen imbecile; but that was not the right expression.\nHe was like an instrument, in which the strings are loose and will\nsound no more; only at times for a few minutes they regained their\npower, and then they sounded anew: old melodies were heard, snatches\nof song; pictures unrolled themselves, and then disappeared again in\nthe mist, and once more he sat staring before him, without a thought.\nWe may believe that he did not suffer, but his dark eyes lost their\nbrightness, and looked only like black clouded glass.\n\n\"Poor imbecile Juergen!\" said the people.\n\nHe it was whose life was to have been so pleasant that it would be\n\"presumption and pride\" to expect or believe in a higher existence\nhereafter. All his great mental faculties had been lost; only hard\ndays, pain, and disappointment had been his lot. He was like a rare\nplant torn from its native soil, and thrown upon the sand, to wither\nthere. And was the image, fashioned in God's likeness, to have no\nbetter destination? Was it to be merely the sport of chance? No. The\nall-loving God would certainly repay him in the life to come, for\nwhat he had suffered and lost here. \"The Lord is good to all; and His\nmercy is over all His works.\" These words from the Psalms of David,\nthe old pious wife of the merchant repeated in patience and hope, and\nthe prayer of her heart was that Juergen might soon be summoned to\nenter into the life eternal.\n\nIn the churchyard where the sand blows across the walls, Clara lay\nburied. It seemed as if Juergen knew nothing of this--it did not come\nwithin the compass of his thoughts, which comprised only fragments of\na past time. Every Sunday he went with the old people to church, and\nsat silent there with vacant gaze. One day, while the Psalms were\nbeing sung, he uttered a deep sigh, and his eyes gleamed: they were\nfixed upon the altar, upon the place where he had knelt with his\nfriend who was dead. He uttered her name, and became pale as death,\nand tears rolled over his cheeks.\n\nThey led him out of the church; and he said to the bystanders that he\nwas well, and had never been ill: he, the heavily afflicted, the waif\ncast forth upon the world, remembered nothing of his sufferings. And\nthe Lord our Creator is wise and full of loving-kindness--who can\ndoubt it?\n\nIn Spain, where the warm breezes blow over the Moorish cupola, among\nthe orange trees and laurels, where song and the sound of castagnettes\nare always heard, sat in the sumptuous house a childish old man, the\nrichest merchant in the place, while children marched in procession\nthrough the streets, with waving flags and lighted tapers. How much of\nhis wealth would the old man not have given to be able to press his\nchildren to his heart! his daughter, or her child, that had perhaps\nnever seen the light in this world, far less a Paradise.\n\n\"Poor child!\"\n\nYes, poor child--a child still, and yet more than thirty years old;\nfor to that age Juergen had attained in Old Skjagen.\n\nThe drifting sand had covered the graves in the churchyard quite up to\nthe walls of the church; but yet the dead must be buried among their\nrelations and loved ones who had gone before them. Merchant Broenne and\nhis wife now rested here with their children, under the white sand.\n\nIt was spring-time, the season of storms. The sand-hills whirled up in\nclouds, and the sea ran high, and flocks of birds flew like clouds in\nthe storms, shrieking across the dunes; and shipwreck followed\nshipwreck on the reefs of \"Skjagenzweig\" from towards the Hunsby\ndunes. One evening Juergen was sitting alone in the room. Suddenly his\nmind seemed to become clearer, and a feeling of unrest came upon him,\nwhich in his younger years had often driven him forth upon the heath\nand the sand-hills.\n\n\"Home! home!\" he exclaimed. No one heard him. He went out of the house\ntowards the dunes. Sand and stones blew into his face and whirled\naround him. He went on farther and farther, towards the church: the\nsand lay high around the walls, half over the windows; but the heap\nhad been shovelled away from the door, and the entrance was free and\neasy to open; and Juergen went into the church.\n\nThe storm went howling over the town of Skjagen. Within the memory of\nman the sea had not run so high--a terrible tempest! but Juergen was in\nthe temple of God, and while black night reigned without, a light\narose in his soul, a light that was never to be extinguished; he felt\nthe heavy stone which seemed to weigh upon his head burst asunder. He\nthought he heard the sound of the organ, but it was the storm and the\nmoaning of the sea. He sat down on one of the seats; and behold, the\ncandles were lighted up one by one; a richness was displayed such as\nhe had only seen in the church in Spain; and all the pictures of the\nold councillors were endued with life, and stepped forth from the\nwalls against which they had stood for centuries, and seated\nthemselves in the entrance of the church. The gates and doors flew\nopen, and in came all the dead people, festively clad, and sat down to\nthe sound of beautiful music, and filled the seats in the church. Then\nthe psalm tune rolled forth like a sounding sea; and his old\nfoster-parents from the Hunsby dunes were here, and the old merchant\nBroenne and his wife; and at their side, close to Juergen, sat their\nfriendly, lovely daughter Clara, who gave her hand to Juergen, and they\nboth went to the altar, where they had once knelt together, and the\npriest joined their hands and joined them together for life. Then the\nsound of music was heard again, wonderful, like a child's voice full\nof joy and expectation, and it swelled on to an organ's sound, to a\ntempest of full, noble sounds, lovely and elevating to hear, and yet\nstrong enough to burst the stone tombs.\n\nAnd the little ship that hung down from the roof of the choir came\ndown, and became wonderfully large and beautiful, with silken sails\nand golden yards, \"and every rope wrought through with silk,\" as the\nold song said. The married pair went on board, and the whole\ncongregation with them, for there was room and joyfulness for all. And\nthe walls and arches of the church bloomed like the juniper and the\nfragrant lime trees, and the leaves and branches waved and distributed\ncoolness; then they bent and parted, and the ship sailed through the\nmidst of them, through the sea, and through the air; and every church\ntaper became a star, and the wind sang a psalm tune, and all sang\nwith the wind:\n\n\"In love, to glory--no life shall be lost. Full of blessedness and\njoy. Hallelujah!\"\n\nAnd these words were the last that Juergen spoke in this world. The\nthread snapped that bound the immortal soul, and nothing but a dead\nbody lay in the dark church, around which the storm raged, covering it\nwith loose sand.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe next morning was Sunday, and the congregation and their pastor\nwent forth to the service. The road to church had been heavy; the sand\nmade the way almost impassable; and now, when they at last reached\ntheir goal, a great hill of sand was piled up before the entrance, and\nthe church itself was buried. The priest spoke a short prayer, and\nsaid that God had closed the door of this house, and the congregation\nmust go and build a new one for Him elsewhere.\n\nSo they sang a psalm under the open sky, and went back to their homes.\n\nJuergen was nowhere to be found in the town of Skjagen, or in the\ndunes, however much they sought for him. It was thought that the\nwaves, which had rolled far up on the sand, had swept him away.\n\nHis body lay buried in a great sepulchre, in the church itself. In the\nstorm the Lord's hand had thrown a handful of earth on his grave; and\nthe heavy mound of sand lay upon it, and lies there to this day.\n\nThe whirling sand had covered the high vaulted passages; whitethorn\nand wild rose trees grow over the church, over which the wanderer now\nwalks; while the tower, standing forth like a gigantic tombstone over\na grave, is to be seen for miles around: no king has a more splendid\ntombstone. No one disturbs the rest of the dead; no one knew of this,\nand we are the first who know of this grave--the storm sang the tale\nto me among the sand-hills.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BISHOP OF BOeRGLUM AND HIS WARRIORS.\n\n\nOur scene is in Northern Jutland, in the so called \"wild moor.\" We\nhear what is called the \"Wester-wow-wow\"--the peculiar roar of the\nNorth Sea as it breaks against the western coast of Jutland. It rolls\nand thunders with a sound that penetrates for miles into the land; and\nwe are quite near the roaring. Before us rises a great mound of\nsand--a mountain we have long seen, and towards which we are wending\nour way, driving slowly along through the deep sand. On this mountain\nof sand is a lofty old building--the convent of Boerglum. In one of its\nwings (the larger one) there is still a church. And at this convent we\nnow arrive in the late evening hour; but the weather is clear in the\nbright June night around us. The eye can range far, far over field and\nmoor to the bay of Aalborg, over heath and meadow, and far across the\ndark blue sea.\n\nNow we are there, and roll past between barns and other farm\nbuildings; and at the left of the gate we turn aside to the old Castle\nFarm, where the lime trees stand in lines along the walls, and,\nsheltered from the wind and weather, grow so luxuriously that their\ntwigs and leaves almost conceal the windows.\n\nWe mount the winding staircase of stone, and march through the long\npassages under the heavy roof-beams. The wind moans very strangely\nhere, both within and without. It is hardly known how, but people\nsay--yes, people say a great many things when they are frightened or\nwant to frighten others--they say that the old dead choir-men glide\nsilently past us into the church, where mass is sung. They can be\nheard in the rushing of the storm, and their singing brings up strange\nthoughts in the hearers--thoughts of the old times into which we are\ncarried back.\n\nOn the coast a ship is stranded; and the bishop's warriors are there,\nand spare not those whom the sea has spared. The sea washes away the\nblood that has flowed from cloven skulls. The stranded goods belong to\nthe bishop, and there is a store of goods here. The sea casts up tubs\nand barrels filled with costly wine for the convent cellar; and in the\nconvent is already good store of beer and mead. There is plenty in the\nkitchen--dead game and poultry, hams and sausages; and fat fish swim\nin the ponds without.\n\nThe Bishop of Boerglum is a mighty lord. He has great possessions, but\nstill he longs for more--everything must bow before the mighty Olaf\nGlob. His rich cousin at Thyland is dead, and his widow is to have the\nrich inheritance. But how comes it that one relation is always harder\ntowards another than even strangers would be? The widow's husband had\npossessed all Thyland, with the exception of the Church property. Her\nson was not at home. In his boyhood he had already started on a\njourney, for his desire was to see foreign lands and strange people.\nFor years there had been no news of him. Perhaps he had long been\nlaid in the grave, and would never come back to his home to rule where\nhis mother then ruled.\n\n\"What has a woman to do with rule?\" said the bishop.\n\nHe summoned the widow before a court; but what did he gain thereby?\nThe widow had never been disobedient to the law, and was strong in her\njust rights.\n\nBishop Olaf, of Boerglum, what dost thou purpose? What writest thou on\nyonder smooth parchment, sealing it with thy seal, and intrusting it\nto the horsemen and servants, who ride away--far away--to the city of\nthe Pope?\n\nIt is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon icy\nwinter will come.\n\nTwice had icy winter returned before the bishop welcomed the horsemen\nand servants back to their home. They came from Rome with a papal\ndecree--a ban, or bull, against the widow who had dared to offend the\npious bishop. \"Cursed be she, and all that belongs to her. Let her be\nexpelled from the congregation and the Church. Let no man stretch\nforth a helping hand to her, and let friends and relations avoid her\nas a plague and a pestilence!\"\n\n\"What will not bend must break,\" said the Bishop of Boerglum.\n\nAnd all forsake the widow; but she holds fast to her God. He is her\nhelper and defender.\n\nOne servant only--an old maid--remained faithful to her; and, with the\nold servant, the widow herself followed the plough; and the crop grew,\nthough the land had been cursed by the Pope and the bishop.\n\n\"Thou child of hell, I will yet carry out my purpose!\" cries the\nBishop of Boerglum. \"Now will I lay the hand of the Pope upon thee, to\nsummon thee before the tribunal that shall condemn thee!\"\n\n[Illustration: JENS GLOB MEETS HIS MOTHER.]\n\nThen did the widow yoke the two last oxen that remained to her to a\nwaggon, and mounted upon the waggon, with her old servant, and\ntravelled away across the heath out of the Danish land. As a stranger\nshe came into a foreign country, where a strange tongue was spoken and\nwhere new customs prevailed. Farther and farther she journeyed, to\nwhere green hills rise into mountains, and the vine clothes their\nsides. Strange merchants drive by her, and they look anxiously after\ntheir waggons laden with merchandise. They fear an attack from the\narmed followers of the robber-knights. The two poor women, in their\nhumble vehicle drawn by two black oxen, travel fearlessly through the\ndangerous sunken road and through the darksome forest. And now they\nwere in Franconia. And there met them a stalwart knight, with a train\nof twelve armed followers. He paused, gazed at the strange vehicle,\nand questioned the women as to the goal of their journey and the\nplace whence they came. Then one of them mentioned Thyland, in\nDenmark, and spoke of her sorrows--of her woes--which were soon to\ncease; for so Divine Providence had willed it. For the stranger knight\nis the widow's son. He seized her hand, he embraced her, and the\nmother wept. For years she had not been able to weep, but had only\nbitten her lips till the blood started.\n\nIt is the time of falling leaves and of stranded ships, and soon will\nicy winter come.\n\nThe sea rolled wine-tubs to the shore for the bishop's cellar. In the\nkitchen the deer roasted on the spit before the fire. At Boerglum it\nwas warm and cheerful in the heated rooms, while cold winter raged\nwithout, when a piece of news was brought to the bishop: \"Jens Glob,\nof Thyland, has come back, and his mother with him.\" Jens Glob laid a\ncomplaint against the bishop, and summoned him before the temporal and\nthe spiritual court.\n\n\"That will avail him little,\" said the bishop. \"Best leave off thy\nefforts, knight Jens.\"\n\nAgain it is the time of falling leaves, of stranded ships--icy winter\ncomes again, and the \"white bees\" are swarming, and sting the\ntraveller's face till they melt.\n\n\"Keen weather to-day,\" say the people, as they step in.\n\nJens Glob stands so deeply wrapped in thought that he singes the skirt\nof his wide garment.\n\n\"Thou Boerglum bishop,\" he exclaims, \"I shall subdue thee after all!\nUnder the shield of the Pope, the law cannot reach thee; but Jens Glob\nshall reach thee!\"\n\nThen he writes a letter to his brother-in-law, Olaf Hase, in\nSallingland, and prays that knight to meet him on Christmas Eve, at\nmass, in the church at Widberg. The bishop himself is to read the\nmass, and consequently will journey from Boerglum to Thyland; and this\nis known to Jens Glob.\n\nMoorland and meadow are covered with ice and snow. The marsh will bear\nhorse and rider, the bishop with his priests, and armed men. They ride\nthe shortest way, through the waving reeds, where the wind moans\nsadly.\n\nBlow thy brazen trumpet, thou trumpeter clad in foxskin! it sounds\nmerrily in the clear air. So they ride on over heath and\nmoorland--over what is the garden of Fata Morgana in the hot summer,\nthough now icy, like all the country--towards the church of Widberg.\n\nThe wind is blowing his trumpet too--blowing it harder and harder. He\nblows up a storm--a terrible storm--that increases more and more.\nTowards the church they ride, as fast as they may through the storm.\nThe church stands firm, but the storm careers on over field and\nmoorland, over land and sea.\n\nBoerglum's bishop reaches the church; but Olaf Hase will scarce do so,\nhard as he may ride. He journeys with his warriors on the farther side\nof the bay, to help Jens Glob, now that the bishop is to be summoned\nbefore the judgment seat of the Highest.\n\nThe church is the judgment hall; the altar is the council table. The\nlights burn clear in the heavy brass candelabra. The storm reads out\nthe accusation and the sentence, roaming in the air over moor and\nheath, and over the rolling waters. No ferry-boat can sail over the\nbay in such weather as this.\n\nOlaf Hase makes halt at Ottesworde. There he dismisses his warriors,\npresents them with their horses and harness, and gives them leave to\nride home and greet his wife. He intends to risk his life alone in the\nroaring waters; but they are to bear witness for him that it is not\nhis fault if Jens Glob stands without reinforcement in the church at\nWidberg. The faithful warriors will not leave him, but follow him out\ninto the deep waters. Ten of them are carried away; but Olaf Hase and\ntwo of the youngest men reach the farther side. They have still four\nmiles to ride.\n\nIt is past midnight. It is Christmas. The wind has abated. The church\nis lighted up; the gleaming radiance shines through the window-frames,\nand pours out over meadow and heath. The mass has long been finished,\nsilence reigns in the church, and the wax is heard dropping from the\ncandles to the stone pavement. And now Olaf Hase arrives.\n\nIn the forecourt Jens Glob greets him kindly, and says,\n\n\"I have just made an agreement with the bishop.\"\n\n\"Sayest thou so?\" replied Olaf Hase. \"Then neither thou nor the bishop\nshall quit this church alive.\"\n\nAnd the sword leaps from the scabbard, and Olaf Hase deals a blow that\nmakes the panel of the church-door, which Jens Glob hastily closes\nbetween them, fly in fragments.\n\n\"Hold, brother! First hear what the agreement was that I made. I have\nslain the bishop and his warriors and priests. They will have no word\nmore to say in the matter, nor will I speak again of all the wrong\nthat my mother has endured.\"\n\nThe long wicks of the altar lights glimmer red; but there is a redder\ngleam upon the pavement, where the bishop lies with cloven skull, and\nhis dead warriors around him, in the quiet of the holy Christmas\nnight.\n\nAnd four days afterwards the bells toll for a funeral in the convent\nof Boerglum. The murdered bishop and the slain warriors and priests\nare displayed under a black canopy, surrounded by candelabra decked\nwith crape. There lies the dead man, in the black cloak wrought with\nsilver; the crosier in the powerless hand that was once so mighty. The\nincense rises in clouds, and the monks chant the funeral hymn. It\nsounds like a wail--it sounds like a sentence of wrath and\ncondemnation that must be heard far over the land, carried by the\nwind--sung by the wind--the wail that sometimes is silent, but never\ndies; for ever again it rises in song, singing even into our own time\nthis legend of the Bishop of Boerglum and his hard nephew. It is heard\nin the dark night by the frightened husbandman, driving by in the\nheavy sandy road past the convent of Boerglum. It is heard by the\nsleepless listener in the thickly-walled rooms at Boerglum. And not\nonly to the ear of superstition is the sighing and the tread of\nhurrying feet audible in the long echoing passages leading to the\nconvent-door that has long been locked. The door still seems to open,\nand the lights seem to flame in the brazen candlesticks; the fragrance\nof incense arises; the church gleams in its ancient splendour; and the\nmonks sing and say the mass over the slain bishop, who lies there in\nthe black silver-embroidered mantle, with the crozier in his powerless\nhand; and on his pale proud forehead gleams the red wound like fire,\nand there burn the worldly mind and the wicked thoughts.\n\nSink down into his grave--into oblivion--ye terrible shapes of the\ntimes of old!\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nHark to the raging of the angry wind, sounding above the rolling sea.\nA storm approaches without, calling aloud for human lives. The sea has\nnot put on a new mind with the new time. This night it is a horrible\npit to devour up lives, and to-morrow, perhaps, it may be a glassy\nmirror--even as in the old time that we have buried. Sleep sweetly, if\nthou canst sleep!\n\nNow it is morning.\n\nThe new time flings sunshine into the room. The wind still keeps up\nmightily. A wreck is announced--as in the old time.\n\nDuring the night, down yonder by Loekken, the little fishing village\nwith the red-tiled roofs--we can see it up here from the window--a\nship has come ashore. It has struck, and is fast imbedded in the sand;\nbut the rocket apparatus has thrown a rope on board, and formed a\nbridge from the wreck to the mainland; and all on board were saved,\nand reached the land, and were wrapped in warm blankets; and to-day\nthey are invited to the farm at the convent of Boerglum. In\ncomfortable rooms they encounter hospitality and friendly faces. They\nare addressed in the language of their country, and the piano sounds\nfor them with melodies of their native land; and before these have\ndied away, and the chord has been struck, the wire of thought, that\nreaches to the land of the sufferers, announces that they are rescued.\nThen their anxieties are dispelled; and at even they join in the dance\nat the feast given in the great hall at Boerglum. Waltzes and Styrian\ndances are given, and Danish popular songs, and melodies of foreign\nlands in these modern times.\n\nBlessed be thou, new time! Speak thou of summer and of purer gales!\nSend thy sunbeams gleaming into our hearts and thoughts! On thy\nglowing canvas let them be painted--the dark legends of the rough hard\ntimes that are past!\n\n\n\n\nTHE SNOW MAN.\n\n\n\"It's so wonderfully cold that my whole body crackles!\" said the Snow\nMan. \"This is a kind of wind that can blow life into one; and how the\ngleaming one up yonder is staring at me.\" He meant the sun, which was\njust about to set. \"It shall not make _me_ wink--I shall manage to\nkeep the pieces.\"\n\nHe had two triangular pieces of tile in his head instead of eyes. His\nmouth was made of an old rake, and consequently was furnished with\nteeth.\n\nHe had been born amid the joyous shouts of the boys, and welcomed by\nthe sound of sledge bells and the slashing of whips.\n\nThe sun went down, and the full moon rose, round, large, clear, and\nbeautiful in the blue air.\n\n\"There it comes again from the other side,\" said the Snow Man. He\nintended to say the sun is showing himself again. \"Ah! I have cured\nhim of staring. Now let him hang up there and shine, that I may see\nmyself. If I only knew how I could manage to move from this place, I\nshould like so much to move. If I could, I would slide along yonder on\nthe ice, just as I see the boys slide; but I don't understand it; I\ndon't know how to run.\"\n\n\"Away! away!\" barked the old Yard Dog. He was quite hoarse, and could\nnot pronounce the genuine \"bow, wow.\" He had got the hoarseness from\nthe time when he was an indoor dog, and lay by the fire. \"The sun will\nteach you to run! I saw that last winter, in your predecessor, and\nbefore that in _his_ predecessor. Away! away!--and away they all go.\"\n\n\"I don't understand you, comrade,\" said the Snow Man. \"That thing up\nyonder is to teach me to run?\" He meant the moon. \"Yes, it was running\nitself, when I saw it a little while ago, and now it comes creeping\nfrom the other side.\"\n\n\"You know nothing at all,\" retorted the Yard Dog. \"But then you've\nonly just been patched up. What you see yonder is the moon, and the\none that went before was the sun. It will come again to-morrow, and\nwill teach you to run down into the ditch by the wall. We shall soon\nhave a change of weather; I can feel that in my left hind leg, for it\npricks and pains me: the weather is going to change.\"\n\n\"I don't understand him,\" said the Snow Man; \"but I have a feeling\nthat he's talking about something disagreeable. The one who stared so\njust now, and whom he called the sun, is not my friend. I can feel\nthat too.\"\n\n\"Away! away!\" barked the Yard Dog; and he turned round three times,\nand then crept into his kennel to sleep.\n\nThe weather really changed. Towards morning, a thick damp fog lay over\nthe whole region; later there came a wind, an icy wind. The cold\nseemed quite to seize upon one; but when the sun rose, what splendour!\nTrees and bushes were covered with hoar frost, and looked like a\ncomplete forest of coral, and every twig seemed covered with gleaming\nwhite buds. The many delicate ramifications, concealed in summer by\nthe wreath of leaves, now made their appearance: it seemed like a\nlace-work, gleaming white. A snowy radiance sprang from every twig.\nThe birch waved in the wind--it had life, like the rest of the trees\nin summer. It was wonderfully beautiful. And when the sun shone, how\nit all gleamed and sparkled, as if diamond dust had been strewn\neverywhere, and big diamonds had been dropped on the snowy carpet of\nthe earth! or one could imagine that countless little lights were\ngleaming, whiter than even the snow itself.\n\n\"That is wonderfully beautiful,\" said a young girl, who came with a\nyoung man into the garden. They both stood still near the Snow Man,\nand contemplated the glittering trees. \"Summer cannot show a more\nbeautiful sight,\" said she; and her eyes sparkled.\n\n\"And we can't have such a fellow as this in summer-time,\" replied the\nyoung man, and he pointed to the Snow Man. \"He is capital.\"\n\nThe girl laughed, nodded at the Snow Man, and then danced away over\nthe snow with her friend--over the snow that cracked and crackled\nunder her tread as if she were walking on starch.\n\n\"Who were those two?\" the Snow Man inquired of the Yard Dog. \"You've\nbeen longer in the yard than I. Do you know them?\"\n\n\"Of course I know them,\" replied the Yard Dog. \"She has stroked me,\nand he has thrown me a meat bone. I don't bite those two.\"\n\n\"But what are they?\" asked the Snow Man.\n\n\"Lovers!\" replied the Yard Dog. \"They will go to live in the same\nkennel, and gnaw at the same bone. Away! away!\"\n\n[Illustration: THE SNOW MAN AND THE YARD DOG.]\n\n\"Are they the same kind of beings as you and I?\" asked the Snow Man.\n\n\"Why, they belong to the master,\" retorted the Yard Dog. \"People\ncertainly know very little who were only born yesterday. I can see\nthat in you. I have age, and information. I know every one here in the\nhouse, and I know a time when I did not lie out here in the cold,\nfastened to a chain. Away! away!\"\n\n\"The cold is charming,\" said the Snow Man. \"Tell me, tell me.--But you\nmust not clank with your chain, for it jars within me when you do\nthat.\"\n\n\"Away! away!\" barked the Yard Dog. \"They told me I was a pretty\nlittle fellow: then I used to lie in a chair covered with velvet, up\nin master's house, and sit in the lap of the mistress of all. They\nused to kiss my nose, and wipe my paws with an embroidered\nhandkerchief. I was called 'Ami--dear Ami--sweet Ami.' But afterwards\nI grew too big for them, and they gave me away to the housekeeper. So\nI came to live in the basement storey. You can look into that from\nwhere you are standing, and you can see into the room where I was\nmaster; for I was master at the housekeeper's. It was certainly a\nsmaller place than upstairs, but I was more comfortable, and was not\ncontinually taken hold of and pulled about by children as I had been.\nI received just as good food as ever, and even better. I had my own\ncushion, and there was a stove, the finest thing in the world at this\nseason. I went under the stove, and could lie down quite beneath it.\nAh! I still dream of that stove. Away! away!\"\n\n\"Does a stove look so beautiful?\" asked the Snow Man. \"Is it at all\nlike me?\"\n\n\"It's just the reverse of you. It's as black as a crow, and has a long\nneck and a brazen drum. It eats firewood, so that the fire spurts out\nof its mouth. One must keep at its side, or under it, and there one is\nvery comfortable. You can see it through the window from where you\nstand.\"\n\nAnd the Snow Man looked and saw a bright polished thing with a brazen\ndrum, and the fire gleamed from the lower part of it. The Snow Man\nfelt quite strangely: an odd emotion came over him, he knew not what\nit meant, and could not account for it; but all people who are not\nsnow men know the feeling.\n\n\"And why did you leave her?\" asked the Snow Man, for it seemed to him\nthat the stove must be of the female sex. \"How could you quit such a\ncomfortable place?\"\n\n\"I was obliged,\" replied the Yard Dog. \"They turned me out of doors,\nand chained me up here. I had bitten the youngest young master in the\nleg, because he kicked away the bone I was gnawing. 'Bone for bone,' I\nthought. They took that very much amiss, and from that time I have\nbeen fastened to a chain and have lost my voice. Don't you hear how\nhoarse I am? Away! away! I can't talk any more like other dogs. Away!\naway! that was the end of the affair.\"\n\nBut the Snow Man was no longer listening to him. He was looking in at\nthe housekeeper's basement lodging, into the room where the stove\nstood on its four iron legs, just the same size as the Snow Man\nhimself.\n\n\"What a strange crackling within me!\" he said. \"Shall I ever get in\nthere? It is an innocent wish, and our innocent wishes are certain to\nbe fulfilled. I must go in there and lean against her, even if I have\nto break through the window.\"\n\n\"You will never get in there,\" said the Yard Dog; \"and if you approach\nthe stove you'll melt away--away!\"\n\n\"I am as good as gone,\" replied the Snow Man. \"I think I am breaking\nup.\"\n\nThe whole day the Snow Man stood looking in through the window. In the\ntwilight hour the room became still more inviting: from the stove came\na mild gleam, not like the sun nor like the moon; no, it was only as\nthe stove can glow when he has something to eat. When the room-door\nopened, the flame started out of his mouth; this was a habit the stove\nhad. The flame fell distinctly on the white face of the Snow Man, and\ngleamed red upon his bosom.\n\n\"I can endure it no longer,\" said he; \"how beautiful it looks when it\nstretches out its tongue!\"\n\nThe night was long; but it did not appear long to the Snow Man, who\nstood there lost in his own charming reflections, crackling with the\ncold.\n\nIn the morning the window-panes of the basement lodging were covered\nwith ice. They bore the most beautiful ice-flowers that any snow man\ncould desire; but they concealed the stove. The window-panes would not\nthaw; he could not see the stove, which he pictured to himself as a\nlovely female being. It crackled and whistled in him and around him;\nit was just the kind of frosty weather a snow man must thoroughly\nenjoy. But he did not enjoy it; and, indeed, how could he enjoy\nhimself when he was stove-sick?\n\n\"That's a terrible disease for a Snow Man,\" said the Yard Dog. \"I have\nsuffered from it myself, but I got over it. Away! away!\" he barked;\nand he added, \"the weather is going to change.\"\n\nAnd the weather did change; it began to thaw.\n\nThe warmth increased, and the Snow Man decreased. He said nothing, and\nmade no complaint--and that's an infallible sign.\n\nOne morning he broke down. And behold, where he had stood, something\nlike a broomstick remained sticking up out of the ground. It was the\npole round which the boys had built him up.\n\n\"Ah! now I can understand why he had such an intense longing,\" said\nthe Yard Dog. \"Why, there's a shovel for cleaning out the stove\nfastened to the pole. The Snow Man had a stove-rake in his body, and\nthat's what moved within him. Now he has got over that too. Away!\naway!\"\n\nAnd soon they had got over the winter.\n\n\"Away! away!\" barked the hoarse Yard Dog; but the girls in the house\nsang:\n\n    \"Green thyme! from your house come out;\n    Willow, your woolly fingers stretch out;\n    Lark and cuckoo cheerfully sing,\n    For in February is coming the spring.\n    And with the cuckoo I'll sing too,\n    Come thou, dear sun, come out, cuckoo!\"\n\nAnd nobody thought any more of the Snow Man.\n\n\n\n\nTWO MAIDENS.\n\n\nHave you ever seen a maiden? I mean what our paviours call a maiden, a\nthing with which they ram down the paving-stones in the roads. A\nmaiden of this kind is made altogether of wood, broad below, and girt\nround with iron rings; at the top she is narrow, and has a stick\npassed across through her waist; and this stick forms the arms of the\nmaiden.\n\nIn the shed stood two maidens of this kind. They had their place among\nshovels, hand-carts, wheelbarrows, and measuring tapes; and to all\nthis company the news had come that the maidens were no longer to be\ncalled \"maidens,\" but \"hand-rammers;\" which word was the newest and\nthe only correct designation among the paviours for the thing we all\nknow from the old times by the name of \"the maiden.\"\n\nNow, there are among us human creatures certain individuals who are\nknown as \"emancipated women;\" as, for instance, principals of\ninstitutions, dancers who stand professionally on one leg, milliners,\nand sick nurses; and with this class of emancipated women the two\nmaidens in the shed associated themselves. They were \"maidens\" among\nthe paviour folk, and determined not to give up this honourable\nappellation, and let themselves be miscalled rammers.\n\n\"Maiden is a human name, but hand-rammer is a _thing_, and we won't be\ncalled _things_--that's insulting us.\"\n\n\"My lover would be ready to give up his engagement,\" said the\nyoungest, who was betrothed to a paviour's hammer; and the hammer is\nthe thing which drives great piles into the earth, like a machine, and\ntherefore does on a large scale what ten maidens effect in a smaller\nway. \"He wants to marry me as a maiden, but whether he would have me,\nwere I a hand-rammer, is a question; so I won't have my name changed.\"\n\n\"And I,\" said the elder one, \"would rather have both my arms broken\noff.\"\n\nBut the wheelbarrow was of a different opinion; and the wheelbarrow\nwas looked upon as of some consequence, for he considered himself a\nquarter of a coach, because he went about upon one wheel.\n\n\"I must submit to your notice,\" he said, \"that the name 'maiden' is\ncommon enough, and not nearly so refined as 'hand-rammer,' or\n'stamper,' which latter has also been proposed, and through which you\nwould be introduced into the category of seals; and only think of the\ngreat stamp of state, which impresses the royal seal that gives effect\nto the laws! No, in your case I would surrender my maiden name.\"\n\n\"No, certainly not!\" exclaimed the elder. \"I am too old for that.\"\n\n\"I presume you have never heard of what is called 'European\nnecessity?'\" observed the honest Measuring Tape. \"One must be able to\nadapt oneself to time and circumstances, and if there is a law that\nthe 'maiden' is to be called 'hand-rammer,' why, she must be called\n'hand-rammer,' and no pouting will avail, for everything has its\nmeasure.\"\n\n\"No; if there must be a change,\" said the younger, \"I should prefer to\nbe called 'Missy,' for that reminds one a little of maidens.\"\n\n\"But I would rather be chopped to chips,\" said the elder.\n\nAt last they all went to work. The maidens rode--that is, they were\nput in a wheelbarrow, and that was a distinction; but still they were\ncalled \"hand-rammers.\" \"Mai----!\" they said, as they were bumped upon\nthe pavement. \"Mai----!\" and they were very nearly pronouncing the\nwhole word \"maiden;\" but they broke off short, and swallowed the last\nsyllable; for after mature deliberation they considered it beneath\ntheir dignity to protest. But they always called each other \"maiden,\"\nand praised the good old days in which everything had been called by\nits right name, and those who were maidens were called maidens. And\nthey remained as they were; for the hammer really broke off his\nengagement with the younger one, for nothing would suit him but he\nmust have a maiden for his bride.\n\n\n\n\nTHE FARMYARD COCK AND THE WEATHERCOCK.\n\n\nThere were two Cocks--one on the dunghill, the other on the roof. Both\nwere conceited; but which of the two effected most? Tell us your\nopinion; but we shall keep our own nevertheless.\n\nThe poultry-yard was divided by a partition of boards from another\nyard, in which lay a manure-heap, whereon lay and grew a great\nCucumber, which was fully conscious of being a forcing-bed plant.\n\n\"That's a privilege of birth,\" the Cucumber said to herself. \"Not all\ncan be born cucumbers; there must be other kinds too. The fowls, the\nducks, and all the cattle in the neighbouring yard are creatures too.\nI now look up to the Yard Cock on the partition. He certainly is of\nmuch greater consequence than the Weathercock, who is so highly\nplaced, and who can't even creak, much less crow; and he has neither\nhens nor chickens, and thinks only of himself, and perspires\nverdigris. But the Yard Cock--he's something like a cock! His gait is\nlike a dance, his crowing is music; and wherever he comes, it is known\ndirectly. What a trumpeter he is! If he would only come in here! Even\nif he were to eat me up, stalk and all, it would be a blissful death,\"\nsaid the Cucumber.\n\nIn the night the weather became very bad. Hens, chickens, and even the\nCock himself sought shelter. The wind blew down the partition between\nthe two yards with a crash; the tiles came tumbling down, but the\nWeathercock sat firm. He did not even turn round; he could not turn\nround, and yet he was young and newly cast, but steady and sedate. He\nhad been \"born old,\" and did not at all resemble the birds that fly\nbeneath the vault of heaven, such as the sparrows and the swallows. He\ndespised those, considering them piping birds of trifling\nstature--ordinary song birds. The pigeons, he allowed, were big and\nshining, and gleamed like mother-o'-pearl, and looked like a kind of\nweathercocks; but then they were fat and stupid, and their whole\nendeavour was to fill themselves with food. \"Moreover, they are\ntedious things to converse with,\" said the Weathercock.\n\nThe birds of passage had also paid a visit to the Weathercock, and\ntold him tales of foreign lands, of airy caravans, and exciting robber\nstories; of encounters with birds of prey; and that was interesting\nfor the first time, but the Weathercock knew that afterwards they\nalways repeated themselves, and that was tedious. \"They are tedious,\nand all is tedious,\" he said. \"No one is fit to associate with, and\none and all of them are wearisome and stupid.\"\n\n\"The world is worth nothing,\" he cried. \"The whole thing is a\nstupidity.\"\n\nThe Weathercock was what is called \"used up;\" and that quality would\ncertainly have made him interesting in the eyes of the Cucumber if she\nhad known it; but she had only eyes for the Yard Cock, who had now\nactually come into her own yard.\n\nThe wind had blown down the plank, but the storm had passed over.\n\n[Illustration: THE WEATHERCOCK.]\n\n\"What do you think of _that_ crowing?\" the Yard Cock inquired of his\nhens and chickens. \"It was a little rough--the elegance was wanting.\"\n\nAnd hens and chickens stepped upon the muck-heap, and the Cock\nstrutted to and fro on it like a knight.\n\n\"Garden plant!\" he cried out to the Cucumber; and in this one word she\nunderstood his deep feeling, and forgot that he was pecking at her and\neating her up--a happy death!\n\nAnd the hens came, and the chickens came, and when one of them runs\nthe rest run also; and they clucked and chirped, and looked at the\nCock, and were proud that he was of their kind.\n\n\"Cock-a-doodle-doo!\" he crowed. \"The chickens will grow up large fowls\nif I make a noise in the poultry-yard of the world.\"\n\nAnd hens and chickens clucked and chirped, and the Cock told them a\ngreat piece of news:\n\n\"A cock can lay an egg; and do you know what there is in that egg? In\nthat egg lies a basilisk. No one can stand the sight of a basilisk.\nMen know that, and now you know it too--you know what is in me, and\nwhat a cock of the world I am.\"\n\nAnd with this the Yard Cock flapped his wings, and made his comb swell\nup, and crowed again; and all of them shuddered--all the hens and the\nchickens; but they were proud that one of their people should be such\na cock of the world. They clucked and chirped, so that the Weathercock\nheard it; and he heard it, but he never stirred.\n\n\"It's all stupid stuff!\" said a voice within the Weathercock. \"The\nYard Cock does not lay eggs, and I am too lazy to lay any. If I liked,\nI could lay a wind-egg; but the world is not worth a wind-egg. And now\nI don't like even to sit here any longer.\"\n\nAnd with this the Weathercock broke off; but he did not kill the Yard\nCock, though he intended to do so, as the hens declared. And what does\nthe moral say?--\"Better to crow than to be 'used up' and break off.\"\n\n\n\n\nTHE PEN AND INKSTAND.\n\n\nIn the room of a poet, where his inkstand stood upon the table, it was\nsaid, \"It is wonderful what can come out of an inkstand. What will the\nnext thing be? It is wonderful!\"\n\n\"Yes, certainly,\" said the Inkstand. \"It's extraordinary--that's what\nI always say,\" he exclaimed to the pen and to the other articles on\nthe table that were near enough to hear. \"It is wonderful what a\nnumber of things can come out of me. It's quite incredible. And I\nreally don't myself know what will be the next thing, when that man\nbegins to dip into me. One drop out of me is enough for half a page of\npaper; and what cannot be contained in half a page? From me all the\nworks of the poet go forth--all these living men, whom people can\nimagine they have met--all the deep feeling, the humour, the vivid\npictures of nature. I myself don't understand how it is, for I am not\nacquainted with nature, but it certainly is in me. From me all these\nthings have gone forth, and from me proceed the troops of charming\nmaidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds, and all the lame and\nthe blind, and I don't know what more--I assure you I don't think of\nanything.\"\n\n\"There you are right,\" said the Pen; \"you don't think at all; for if\nyou did, you would comprehend that you only furnish the fluid. You\ngive the fluid, that I may exhibit upon the paper what dwells in me,\nand what I would bring to the day. It is the pen that writes. No man\ndoubts that; and, indeed, most people have about as much insight into\npoetry as an old inkstand.\"\n\n\"You have but little experience,\" replied the Inkstand. \"You've hardly\nbeen in service a week, and are already half worn out. Do you fancy\nyou are the poet? You are only a servant; and before you came I had\nmany of your sort, some of the goose family, and others of English\nmanufacture. I know the quill as well as the steel pen. Many have been\nin my service, and I shall have many more when _he_ comes--the man who\ngoes through the motions for me, and writes down what he derives from\nme. I should like to know what will be the next thing he'll take out\nof me.\"\n\n\"Inkpot!\" exclaimed the Pen.\n\nLate in the evening the poet came home. He had been to a concert,\nwhere he had heard a famous violinist, with whose admirable\nperformances he was quite enchanted. The player had drawn a wonderful\nwealth of tone from the instrument: sometimes it had sounded like\ntinkling water-drops, like rolling pearls, sometimes like birds\ntwittering in chorus, and then again it went swelling on like the wind\nthrough the fir trees. The poet thought he heard his own heart\nweeping, but weeping melodiously, like the sound of woman's voice. It\nseemed as though not only the strings sounded, but every part of the\ninstrument. It was a wonderful performance; and difficult as the piece\nwas, the bow seemed to glide easily to and fro over the strings, and\nit looked as though every one might do it. The violin seemed to sound\nof itself, and the bow to move of itself--those two appeared to do\neverything; and the audience forgot the master who guided them and\nbreathed soul and spirit into them. The master was forgotten; but the\npoet remembered him, and named him, and wrote down his thoughts\nconcerning the subject:\n\n\"How foolish it would be of the violin and the bow to boast of their\nachievements. And yet we men often commit this folly--the poet, the\nartist, the labourer in the domain of science, the general--we all do\nit. We are only the instruments which the Almighty uses: to Him alone\nbe the honour! We have nothing of which we should be proud.\"\n\nYes, that is what the poet wrote down. He wrote it in the form of a\nparable, which he called \"The Master and the Instruments.\"\n\n\"That is what you get, madam,\" said the Pen to the Inkstand, when the\ntwo were alone again. \"Did you not hear him read aloud what I have\nwritten down?\"\n\n\"Yes, what I gave you to write,\" retorted the Inkstand. \"That was a\ncut at you, because of your conceit. That you should not even have\nunderstood that you were being quizzed! I gave you a cut from within\nme--surely I must know my own satire!\"\n\n\"Ink-pipkin!\" cried the Pen.\n\n\"Writing-stick!\" cried the Inkstand.\n\nAnd each of them felt a conviction that he had answered well; and it\nis a pleasing conviction to feel that one has given a good answer--a\nconviction on which one can sleep; and accordingly they slept upon it.\nBut the poet did not sleep. Thoughts welled up from within him, like\nthe tones from the violin, falling like pearls, rushing like the\nstorm-wind through the forests. He understood his own heart in these\nthoughts, and caught a ray from the Eternal Master.\n\nTo _Him_ be all the honour!\n\n\n\n\nTHE CHILD IN THE GRAVE.\n\n\nThere was mourning in the house, sorrow in every heart. The youngest\nchild, a boy four years old, the joy and hope of his parents, had\ndied. There still remained to them two daughters, the elder of whom\nwas about to be confirmed--good, charming girls both; but the child\nthat one has lost always seems the dearest; and here it was the\nyoungest, and a son. It was a heavy trial. The sisters mourned as\nyoung hearts can, and were especially moved at the sight of their\nparents' sorrow. The father was bowed down, and the mother completely\nstruck down by the great grief. Day and night she had been busy about\nthe sick child, and had tended, lifted, and carried it; she had felt\nhow it was a part of herself. She could not realize that the child was\ndead, and that it must be laid in a coffin and sleep in the ground.\nShe thought God _could not_ take this child from her; and when it was\nso, nevertheless, and there could be no more doubt on the subject, she\nsaid in her feverish pain:\n\n\"God did not know it. He has heartless servants here on earth, who do\naccording to their own liking, and hear not the prayers of a mother.\"\n\nIn her grief she fell away from God, and then there came dark\nthoughts, thoughts of death, of everlasting death, that man was but\ndust in the dust, and that with this life all was ended. But these\nthoughts gave her no stay, nothing on which she could take hold; and\nshe sank into the fathomless abyss of despair.\n\nIn her heaviest hours she could weep no more, and she thought not of\nthe young daughters who were still left to her. The tears of her\nhusband fell upon her forehead, but she did not look at him. Her\nthoughts were with the dead child; her whole thought and being were\nfixed upon it, to call back every remembrance of the little one, every\ninnocent childish word it had uttered.\n\nThe day of the funeral came. For nights before the mother had not\nslept; but in the morning twilight she now slept, overcome by\nweariness; and in the meantime the coffin was carried into a distant\nroom, and there nailed down, that she might not hear the blows of the\nhammer.\n\nWhen she awoke, and wanted to see her child, the husband said,\n\n\"We have nailed down the coffin. It was necessary to do so.\"\n\n\"When God is hard towards me, how should men be better?\" she said,\nwith sobs and groans.\n\nThe coffin was carried to the grave. The disconsolate mother sat with\nher young daughters. She looked at her daughters, and yet did not see\nthem, for her thoughts were no longer busy at the domestic hearth. She\ngave herself up to her grief, and grief tossed her to and fro as the\nsea tosses a ship without compass or rudder. So the day of the funeral\npassed away, and similar days followed, of dark, wearying pain. With\nmoist eyes and mournful glances, the sorrowing daughters and the\nafflicted husband looked upon her who would not hear their words of\ncomfort; and, indeed, what words of comfort could they speak to her,\nwhen they themselves were heavily bowed down?\n\nIt seemed as though she knew sleep no more; and yet he would now have\nbeen her best friend, who would have strengthened her body, and poured\npeace into her soul. They persuaded her to seek her couch, and she lay\nstill there, like one who slept. One night her husband was listening,\nas he often did, to her breathing, and fully believed that she had now\nfound rest and relief. He folded his arms and prayed, and soon sank\ninto a deep healthy sleep; and thus he did not notice that his wife\nrose, threw on her clothes, and silently glided from the house, to go\nwhere her thoughts always lingered--to the grave which held her child.\nShe stepped through the garden of the house, and over the fields,\nwhere a path led to the churchyard. No one saw her on her walk--she\nhad seen nobody, for her eyes were fixed upon the one goal of her\njourney.\n\nIt was a lovely starlight night; the air was still mild; it was in the\nbeginning of September. She entered the churchyard, and stood by the\nlittle grave, which looked like a great nosegay of fragrant flowers.\nShe sat down, and bowed her head low over the grave, as if she could\nhave seen her child through the intervening earth, her little boy,\nwhose smile rose so vividly before her--the gentle expression of whose\neyes, even on the sick bed, she could never forget. How eloquent had\nthat glance been, when she had bent over him, and seized his delicate\nhand, which he had no longer strength to raise! As she had sat by his\ncrib, so she now sat by his grave, but here her tears had free course,\nand fell thick upon the grave.\n\n\"Thou wouldst gladly go down and be with thy child,\" said a voice\nquite close to her, a voice that sounded so clear and deep, it went\nstraight to her heart. She looked up; and near her stood a man wrapped\nin a black cloak, with a hood drawn closely down over his face. But\nshe glanced keenly up, and saw his face under his hood. It was stern,\nbut yet awakened confidence, and his eyes beamed with the radiance of\nyouth.\n\n\"Down to my child!\" she repeated; and a despairing supplication spoke\nout of her words.\n\n\"Darest thou follow me?\" asked the form. \"I am Death.\"\n\nAnd she bowed her head in acquiescence. Then suddenly it seemed as\nthough all the stars were shining with the radiance of the full moon;\nshe saw the varied colours of the flowers on the grave, and the\ncovering of earth was gradually withdrawn like a floating drapery; and\nshe sank down, and the apparition covered her with a black cloak;\nnight closed around her, the night of death, and she sank deeper than\nthe sexton's spade can penetrate; and the churchyard was as a roof\nover her head.\n\nA corner of the cloak was removed, and she stood in a great hall which\nspread wide and pleasantly around. It was twilight. But in a moment\nher child appeared, and was pressed to her heart, smiling at her in\ngreater beauty than he had ever possessed. She uttered a cry, but it\nwas inaudible. A glorious swelling strain of music sounded in the\ndistance, and then near to her, and then again in the distance: never\nhad such tones fallen on her ear; they came from beyond the great dark\ncurtain which separated the hall from the great land of eternity\nbeyond.\n\n\"My sweet darling mother,\" she heard her child say. It was the\nwell-known, much-loved voice, and kiss followed kiss in boundless\nfelicity; and the child pointed to the dark curtain.\n\n\"It is not so beautiful on earth. Do you see, mother--do you see them\nall? Oh, that is happiness!\"\n\n[Illustration: THE MOTHER AT THE GRAVE.]\n\nBut the mother saw nothing which the child pointed out--nothing but\nthe dark night. She looked with earthly eyes, and could not see as the\nchild saw, which God had called to Himself. She could hear the sounds\nof the music, but she heard not the word--_the Word_ in which she was\nto believe.\n\n\"Now I can fly, mother--I can fly with all the other happy children\ninto the presence of the Almighty. I would fain fly; but, if you weep\nas you are weeping now, I might be lost to you--and yet I would go so\ngladly. May I not fly? And you will come to me soon--will you not,\ndear mother?\"\n\n\"Oh, stay! stay!\" entreated the mother. \"Only one moment more--only\nonce more I should wish to look at thee, and kiss thee, and press thee\nin my arms.\"\n\nAnd she kissed and fondled the child. Then her name was called from\nabove--called in a plaintive voice. What might this mean?\n\n\"Hearest thou?\" asked the child. \"It is my father who calls thee.\"\n\nAnd in a few moments deep sighs were heard, as of weeping children.\n\n\"They are my sisters,\" said the child. \"Mother, you surely have not\nforgotten them?\"\n\nAnd then she remembered those she had left behind. A great terror came\nupon her. She looked out into the night, and above her dim forms were\nflitting past. She seemed to recognize a few more of these. They\nfloated through the Hall of Death towards the dark curtain, and there\nthey vanished. Would her husband and her daughter thus flit past? No,\ntheir sighs and lamentations still sounded from above:--and she had\nbeen nearly forgetting them for the sake of him who was dead!\n\n\"Mother, now the bells of heaven are ringing,\" said the child.\n\"Mother, now the sun is going to rise.\"\n\nAnd an overpowering light streamed in upon her. The child had\nvanished, and she was borne upwards. It became cold round about her,\nand she lifted up her head, and saw that she was lying in the\nchurchyard, on the grave of her child.\n\nBut the Lord had been a stay unto her feet, in a dream, and a light to\nher spirit; and she bowed her knees and prayed for forgiveness that\nshe had wished to keep back a soul from its immortal flight, and that\nshe had forgotten her duties towards the living who were left to her.\n\nAnd when she had spoken those words, it was as if her heart were\nlightened. Then the sun burst forth, and over her head a little bird\nsang out, and the church bells sounded for early service. Everything\nwas holy around her, and her heart was chastened. She acknowledged the\ngoodness of God, she acknowledged the duties she had to perform, and\neagerly she went home. She bent over her husband, who still slept; her\nwarm devoted kiss awakened him, and heart-felt words of love came from\nthe lips of both. And she was gentle and strong, as a wife can be; and\nfrom her came the consoling words,\n\n    \"God's will is always the best.\"\n\nThen her husband asked her,\n\n\"From whence hast thou all at once derived this strength--this feeling\nof consolation?\"\n\nAnd she kissed him, and kissed her children, and said, \"They came from\nGod, through the child in the grave.\"\n\n\n\n\nSOUP ON A SAUSAGE-PEG.\n\n\nI.\n\n\"That was a remarkably fine dinner yesterday,\" observed an old Mouse\nof the female sex to another who had not been at the festive\ngathering. \"I sat number twenty-one from the old mouse king, so that I\nwas not badly placed. Should you like to hear the order of the\nbanquet? The courses were very well arranged--mouldy bread,\nbacon-rind, tallow candle, and sausage--and then the same dishes over\nagain from the beginning: it was just as good as having two banquets\nin succession. There was as much joviality and agreeable jesting as in\nthe family circle. Nothing was left but the pegs at the ends of the\nsausages. And the discourse turned upon these; and at last the\nexpression, 'Soup on sausage-rinds,' or, as they have the proverb in\nthe neighbouring country, 'Soup on a sausage-peg,' was mentioned.\nEvery one had heard the proverb, but no one had ever tasted the\nsausage-peg soup, much less prepared it. A capital toast was drunk to\nthe inventor of the soup, and it was said he deserved to be a\nrelieving officer. Was not that witty? And the old mouse king stood\nup, and promised that the young female mouse who could best prepare\nthat soup should be his queen; and a year was allowed for the trial.\"\n\n\"That was not at all bad,\" said the other Mouse; \"but how does one\nprepare this soup?\"\n\n\"Ah, how is it prepared? That is just what all the young female mice,\nand the old ones too, are asking. They would all very much like to be\nqueen; but they don't want to take the trouble to go out into the\nworld to learn how to prepare the soup, and that they would certainly\nhave to do. But every one has not the gift of leaving the family\ncircle and the chimney corner. In foreign parts one can't get\ncheese-rinds and bacon every day. No, one must bear hunger, and\nperhaps be eaten up alive by a cat.\"\n\nSuch were probably the considerations by which the majority were\ndeterred from going out into the wide world and gaining information.\nOnly four mice announced themselves ready to depart. They were young\nand brisk, but poor. Each of them wished to proceed to one of the four\nquarters of the globe, and then it would become manifest which of them\nwas favoured by fortune. Every one took a sausage-peg, so as to keep\nin mind the object of the journey. The stiff sausage-peg was to be to\nthem as a pilgrim's staff.\n\nIt was at the beginning of May that they set out, and they did not\nreturn till the May of the following year; and then only three of them\nappeared. The fourth did not report herself, nor was there any\nintelligence of her, though the day of trial was close at hand.\n\n\"Yes, there's always some drawback in even the pleasantest affair,\"\nsaid the Mouse King.\n\nAnd then he gave orders that all mice within a circuit of many miles\nshould be invited. They were to assemble in the kitchen, where the\nthree travelled mice would stand up in a row, while a sausage-peg,\nshrouded in crape, was set up as a memento of the fourth, who was\nmissing. No one was to proclaim his opinion till the mouse king had\nsettled what was to be said. And now let us hear.\n\n\nII.\n\n_What the first little Mouse had seen and learnt in her travels._\n\n\"When I went out into the wide world,\" said the little Mouse, \"I\nthought, as many think at my age, that I had already learnt\neverything; but that was not the case. Years must pass before one gets\nso far. I went to sea at once. I went in a ship that steered towards\nthe north. They had told me that the ship's cook must know how to\nmanage things at sea; but it is easy enough to manage things when one\nhas plenty of sides of bacon, and whole tubs of salt pork, and mouldy\nflour. One has delicate living on board; but one does not learn to\nprepare soup on a sausage-peg. We sailed along for many days and\nnights; the ship rocked fearfully, and we did not get off without a\nwetting. When we at last reached the port to which we were bound, I\nleft the ship; and it was high up in the far north.\n\n\"It is a wonderful thing, to go out of one's own corner at home, and\nsail in a ship, where one has a sort of corner too, and then suddenly\nto find oneself hundreds of miles away in a strange land. I saw great\npathless forests of pine and birch, which smelt so strong that I\nsneezed, and thought of sausage. There were great lakes there too.\nWhen I came close to them the waters were quite clear, but from a\ndistance they looked black as ink. Great swans floated upon them: I\nthought at first they were spots of foam, they lay so still; but then\nI saw them walk and fly, and I recognized them. They belong to the\ngoose family--one can see that by their walk; for no one can deny his\nparentage. I kept with my own kind. I associated with the forest and\nfield mice, who, by the way, know very little, especially as regards\ncookery, though this was the very subject that had brought me abroad.\nThe thought that soup might be boiled on a sausage-peg was such a\nstartling statement to them, that it flew at once from mouth to mouth\nthrough the whole forest. They declared the problem could never be\nsolved; and little did I think that there, in the very first night, I\nshould be initiated into the method of its preparation. It was in the\nheight of summer, and that, the mice said, was the reason why the wood\nsmelt so strongly, and why the herbs were so fragrant, and the lakes\nso transparent and yet so dark, with their white swimming swans.\n\n\"On the margin of the wood, among three or four houses, a pole as tall\nas the mainmast of a ship had been erected, and from its summit hung\nwreaths and fluttering ribbons: this was called a maypole. Men and\nmaids danced round the tree, and sang as loudly as they could, to the\nviolin of the fiddler. There were merry doings at sundown and in the\nmoonlight, but I took no part in them--what has a little mouse to do\nwith a May dance? I sat in the soft moss and held my sausage-peg fast.\nThe moon threw its beams especially upon one spot, where a tree stood,\ncovered with moss so exceedingly fine, I may almost venture to say it\nwas as fine as the skin of the mouse king; but it was of a green\ncolour, and that is a great relief to the eye.\n\n\"All at once, the most charming little people came marching forth.\nThey were only tall enough to reach to my knee. They looked like men,\nbut were better proportioned: they called themselves elves, and had\ndelicate clothes on, of flower leaves trimmed with the wings of flies\nand gnats, which had a very good appearance. Directly they appeared,\nthey seemed to be seeking for something--I know not what; but at last\nsome of them came towards me, and the chief pointed to my sausage-peg,\nand said, 'That is just such a one as we want--it is pointed--it is\ncapital!' and the longer he looked at my pilgrim's staff the more\ndelighted he became.\n\n\"'I will lend it,' I said, 'but not to keep.'\n\n\"'Not to keep!' they all repeated; and they seized the sausage-peg,\nwhich I gave up to them, and danced away to the spot where the fine\nmoss grew; and here they set up the peg in the midst of the green.\nThey wanted to have a maypole of their own, and the one they now had\nseemed cut out for them; and they decorated it so that it was\nbeautiful to behold.\n\n\"First, little spiders spun it round with gold thread, and hung it all\nover with fluttering veils and flags, so finely woven, bleached so\nsnowy white in the moonshine, that they dazzled my eyes. They took\ncolours from the butterfly's wing, and strewed these over the white\nlinen, and flowers and diamonds gleamed upon it, so that I did not\nknow my sausage-peg again: there is not in all the world such a\nmaypole as they had made of it. And now came the real great party of\nelves. They were quite without clothes, and looked as genteel as\npossible; and they invited me to be present at the feast; but I was to\nkeep at a certain distance, for I was too large for them.\n\n\"And now began such music! It sounded like thousands of glass bells,\nso full, so rich, that I thought the swans were singing. I fancied\nalso that I heard the voice of the cuckoo and the blackbird, and at\nlast the whole forest seemed to join in. I heard children's voices,\nthe sound of bells, and the song of birds; the most glorious\nmelodies--and all came from the elves' maypole, namely, my\nsausage-peg. I should never have believed that so much could come out\nof it; but that depends very much upon the hands into which it falls.\nI was quite touched. I wept, as a little mouse may weep, with pure\npleasure.\n\n\"The night was far too short; but it is not longer up yonder at that\nseason. In the morning dawn the breeze began to blow, the mirror of\nthe forest lake was covered with ripples, and all the delicate veils\nand flags fluttered away in the air. The waving garlands of spider's\nweb, the hanging bridges and balustrades, and whatever else they are\ncalled, flew away as if they were nothing at all. Six elves brought me\nback my sausage-peg, and asked me at the same time if I had any wish\nthat they could gratify; so I asked them if they could tell me how\nsoup was made on a sausage-peg.\n\n\"'How _we_ do it?' asked the chief of the elves, with a smile. 'Why,\nyou have just seen it. I fancy you hardly knew your sausage-peg\nagain?'\n\n\"'You only mean that as a joke,\" I replied. And then I told them in so\nmany words, why I had undertaken a journey, and what great hopes were\nfounded on the operation at home. 'What advantage,' I asked, 'can\naccrue to our mouse king, and to our whole powerful state, from the\nfact of my having witnessed all this festivity? I cannot shake it out\nof the sausage-peg, and say, \"Look, here is the peg, now the soup will\ncome.\" That would be a dish that could only be put on the table when\nthe guests had dined.'\n\n[Illustration: THE ELVES APPLY FOR THE LOAN OF THE SAUSAGE-PEG.]\n\n\"Then the elf dipped his little finger into the cup of a blue violet,\nand said to me:\n\n\"'See here! I will anoint your pilgrim's staff; and when you go back\nto your country, and come to the castle of the mouse king, you have\nbut to touch him with the staff, and violets will spring forth and\ncover its whole surface, even in the coldest winter-time. And so I\nthink I've given you something to carry home, and a little more than\nsomething!'\"\n\nBut before the little Mouse said what this \"something more\" was, she\nstretched her staff out towards the king, and in very truth the most\nbeautiful bunch of violets burst forth; and the scent was so powerful,\nthat the mouse king incontinently ordered the mice who stood nearest\nthe chimney to thrust their tails into the fire and create a smell of\nburning, for the odour of the violets was not to be borne, and was not\nof the kind he liked.\n\n\"But what was the 'something more,' of which you spoke?\" asked the\nMouse King.\n\n\"Why,\" the little Mouse answered, \"I think it is what they call\neffect!\" and herewith she turned the staff round, and lo! there was\nnot a single flower to be seen upon it; she only held the naked\nskewer, and lifted this up, as a musical conductor lifts his _baton_.\n\n\"'Violets,' the elf said to me, 'are for sight, and smell, and touch.\nTherefore it yet remains to provide for hearing and taste!'\" And now\nthe little Mouse began to beat time; and music was heard, not such as\nsounded in the forest among the elves, but such as is heard in the\nkitchen. There was a bubbling sound of boiling and roasting; and all\nat once it seemed as if the sound were rushing through every chimney,\nand pots and kettles were boiling over. The fire-shovel hammered upon\nthe brass kettle, and then, on a sudden, all was quiet again. They\nheard the quiet subdued song of the tea-kettle, and it was wonderful\nto hear--they could not quite tell if the kettle were beginning to\nsing or leaving off; and the little pot simmered, and the big pot\nsimmered, and neither cared for the other: there seemed to be no\nreason at all in the pots. And the little Mouse flourished her _baton_\nmore and more wildly; the pots foamed, threw up large bubbles, boiled\nover, and the wind roared and whistled through the chimney. Oh! it\nbecame so terrible, that the little Mouse lost her stick at last.\n\n\"That was a heavy soup!\" said the Mouse King. \"Shall we not soon hear\nabout the preparation?\"\n\n\"That was all,\" said the little Mouse, with a bow.\n\n\"That is all! Then we should be glad to hear what the next has to\nrelate,\" said the Mouse King.\n\n\nIII.\n\n_What the second little Mouse had to tell._\n\n\"I was born in the palace library,\" said the second Mouse. \"I and\nseveral members of our family never knew the happiness of getting into\nthe dining-room, much less into the store-room; on my journey, and\nhere to-day, are the only times I have seen a kitchen. We have indeed\noften been compelled to suffer hunger in the library, but we got a\ngood deal of knowledge. The rumour penetrated even to us, of the royal\nprize offered to those who could cook soup upon a sausage-peg; and it\nwas my old grandmother who thereupon ferreted out a manuscript, which\nshe certainly could not read, but which she had heard read out, and in\nwhich it was written: 'Those who are poets can boil soup upon a\nsausage-peg.' She asked me if I were a poet. I felt quite innocent on\nthe subject, and then she told me I must go out, and manage to become\none. I again asked what was requisite in that particular, for it was\nas difficult for me to find that out, as to prepare the soup; but\ngrandmother had heard a good deal of reading, and she said that three\nthings were especially necessary: 'Understanding, imagination,\nfeeling--if you can manage to obtain these three, you are a poet, and\nthe sausage-wide peg affair will be quite easy to you.'\n\n\"And I went forth, and marched towards the west, away into the world,\nto become a poet.\n\n\"Understanding is the most important thing in every affair. I knew\nthat, for the two other things are not held in half such respect, and\nconsequently I went out first to seek understanding. Yes, where does\nhe dwell? 'Go to the ant and be wise,' said the great King of the\nJews; I knew that from my library experience; and I never stopped till\nI came to the first great ant-hill, and there I placed myself on the\nwatch, to become wise.\n\n\"The ants are a respectable people. They are understanding itself.\nEverything with them is like a well-worked sum, that comes right. To\nwork and to lay eggs, they say, is to live while you live, and to\nprovide for posterity; and accordingly that is what they do. They were\ndivided into the clean and the dirty ants. The rank of each is\nindicated by a number, and the ant queen is number ONE; and her view\nis the only correct one, she is the receptacle of all wisdom; and that\nwas important for me to know. She spoke so much, and it was all so\nclever, that it sounded to me like nonsense. She declared her ant-hill\nwas the loftiest thing in the world; though close by it grew a tree,\nwhich was certainly loftier, much loftier, that could not be denied,\nand therefore it was never mentioned. One evening an ant had lost\nherself upon the tree: she had crept up the stem--not up to the crown,\nbut higher than any ant had climbed until then; and when she turned,\nand came back home, she talked of something far higher than the\nant-hill that she had found in her travels; but the other ants\nconsidered that an insult to the whole community, and consequently she\nwas condemned to wear a muzzle, and to continual solitary confinement.\nBut a short time afterwards another ant got on the tree, and made the\nsame journey and the same discovery; and this one spoke with emphasis,\nand indistinctly, they said; and as, moreover, she was one of the pure\nants and very much respected, they believed her; and when she died\nthey erected an egg-shell as a memorial of her, for they had a great\nrespect for the sciences. I saw,\" continued the little Mouse, \"that\nthe ants were always running to and fro with their eggs on their\nbacks. One of them once dropped her egg; she exerted herself greatly\nto pick it up again, but she could not succeed. Then two others came\nup, and helped her with all their might, insomuch that they nearly\ndropped their own eggs over it; but then they certainly at once\nrelaxed their exertions, for each should think of himself first--the\nant queen had declared that by so doing they exhibited at once heart\nand understanding.\n\n\"'These two qualities,' she said, 'place us ants on the highest step\namong all reasoning beings. Understanding is seen among us all in\npredominant measure, and I have the greatest share of understanding.'\nAnd so saying, she raised herself on her hind-legs, so that she was\neasily to be recognized. I could not be mistaken, and I ate her up. We\nwere to go to the ants to learn wisdom--and I had got the queen!\n\n\"I now proceeded nearer to the before-mentioned lofty tree. It was an\noak, and had a great trunk, and a far-spreading top, and was very old.\nI knew that a living being dwelt here, a Dryad as it is called, who is\nborn with the tree, and dies with it. I had heard about this in the\nlibrary; and now I saw an oak tree, and an oak girl. She uttered a\npiercing cry when she saw me so near. Like all females, she was very\nmuch afraid of mice; and she had more ground for fear than others, for\nI might have gnawed through the stem of the tree on which her life\ndepended. I accosted the maiden in a friendly and honest way, and bade\nher take courage. And she took me up in her delicate hand; and when I\nhad told her my reason for coming out into the wide world, she\npromised me that perhaps on that very evening I should have one of the\ntwo treasures of which I was still in quest. She told me that\nPhantasus, the genius of imagination, was her very good friend, that\nhe was beautiful as the god of love, and that he rested many an hour\nunder the leafy boughs of the tree, which then rustled more strongly\nthan ever over the pair of them. He called her his dryad, she said,\nand the tree his tree, for the grand gnarled oak was just to his\ntaste, with its root burrowing so deep in the earth, and the stem and\ncrown rising so high out in the fresh air, and knowing the beating\nsnow, and the sharp wind, and the warm sunshine as they deserve to be\nknown. 'Yes,' the Dryad continued, 'the birds sing aloft there in the\nbranches, and tell each other of strange countries they have visited;\nand on the only dead bough the stork has built a nest which is highly\nornamental, and moreover, one gets to hear something of the land of\nthe pyramids. All that is very pleasing to Phantasus; but it is not\nenough for him: I myself must talk to him, and tell him of life in the\nwoods, and must revert to my childhood, when I was little, and the\ntree such a delicate thing that a stinging-nettle overshadowed it--and\nI have to tell everything, till now that the tree is great and strong.\nSit you down under the green thyme, and pay attention; and when\nPhantasus comes, I shall find an opportunity to pinch his wings, and\nto pull out a little feather. Take the pen--no better is given to any\npoet--and it will be enough for you!'\n\n\"And when Phantasus came the feather was plucked, and I seized it,\"\nsaid the little Mouse. \"I put it in water, and held it there till it\ngrew soft. It was very hard to digest, but I nibbled it up at last. It\nis very easy to gnaw oneself into being a poet, though there are many\nthings one must do. Now I had these two things, imagination and\nunderstanding, and through these I knew that the third was to be found\nin the library; for a great man has said and written that there are\nromances, whose sole and single use is that they relieve people of\ntheir superfluous tears, and that they are, in fact, a sort of sponges\nsucking up human emotion. I remembered a few of these old books which\nhad always looked especially palatable, and were much thumbed and very\ngreasy, having evidently absorbed a great deal of feeling into\nthemselves.\n\n\"I betook myself back to the library, and, so to speak, devoured a\nwhole novel--that is, the essence of it, the interior part, for I left\nthe crust or binding. When I had digested this, and a second one in\naddition, I felt a stirring within me, and I ate a bit of a third\nromance, and now I was a poet. I said so to myself, and told the\nothers also. I had headache, and chestache, and I can't tell what\naches besides. I began thinking what kind of stories could be made to\nrefer to a sausage-peg; and many pegs, and sticks, and staves, and\nsplinters came into my mind--the ant queen must have had a\nparticularly fine understanding. I remembered the man who took a white\nstick in his mouth, by which means he could render himself and the\nstick invisible; I thought of stick hobby-horses, of 'stock rhymes,'\nof 'breaking the staff' over an offender, and Heaven knows of how many\nphrases more concerning sticks, stocks, staves, and pegs. All my\nthoughts ran upon sticks, staves, and pegs; and when one is a poet\n(and I am a poet, for I have worked most terribly hard to become one)\na person can make poetry on these subjects. I shall therefore be able\nto wait upon you every day with a poem or a history--and that's the\nsoup I have to offer.\"\n\n\"Let us hear what the third has to say,\" was now the Mouse King's\ncommand.\n\n\"Peep! peep!\" cried a small voice at the kitchen-door, and a little\nmouse--it was the fourth of the mice who had contended for the prize,\nthe one whom they looked upon as dead--shot in like an arrow. She\ntoppled the sausage-peg with the crape covering over in a moment. She\nhad been running day and night, and had travelled on the railway, in\nthe goods train, having watched her opportunity, and yet she had\nalmost come too late. She pressed forward, looking very much rumpled,\nand she had lost her sausage-peg, but not her voice, for she at once\ntook up the word, as if they had been waiting only for her, and wanted\nto hear none but her, and as if everything else in the world were of\nno consequence. She spoke at once, and spoke fully: she had appeared\nso suddenly, that no one found time to object to her speech or to her,\nwhile she was speaking. And let us hear what she said.\n\n\nIV.\n\n[Illustration: THE GAOLER'S GRANDDAUGHTER TAKES PITY ON THE LITTLE\nMOUSE.]\n\n_What the fourth Mouse, who spoke before the third had spoken, had to\ntell._\n\n\"I betook myself immediately to the largest town,\" she said; \"the name\nhas escaped me--I have a bad memory for names. From the railway I was\ncarried, with some confiscated goods, to the council house, and when I\narrived there I ran into the dwelling of the gaoler. The gaoler was\ntalking of his prisoners, and especially of one who had spoken\nunconsidered words. These words had given rise to others, and these\nlatter had been written down and recorded.\n\n\"'The whole thing is soup on a sausage-peg,' said the gaoler; 'but the\nsoup may cost him his neck.'\n\n\"Now, this gave me an interest in the prisoner,\" continued the Mouse,\n\"and I watched my opportunity and slipped into his prison--for there's\na mouse-hole to be found behind every locked door. The prisoner looked\npale, and had a great beard, and bright sparkling eyes. The lamp\nflickered and smoked, but the walls were so accustomed to that, that\nthey grew none the blacker for it. The prisoner scratched pictures and\nverses in white upon the black ground, but I did not read them. I\nthink he found it tedious, and I was a welcome guest. He lured me with\nbread crumbs, with whistling, and with friendly words: he was glad to\nsee me, and gradually I got to trust him, and we became good friends.\nHe let me run upon his hand, his arm, and into his sleeve; he let me\ncreep about in his beard, and called me his little friend. I really\ngot to love him, for these things are reciprocal. I forgot my mission\nin the wide world, forgot my sausage-peg: that I had placed in a crack\nin the floor--it's lying there still. I wished to stay where I was,\nfor if I went away, the poor prisoner would have no one at all, and\nthat's having _too_ little, in this world. _I_ stayed, but _he_ did\nnot stay. He spoke to me very mournfully the last time, gave me twice\nas much bread and cheese as usual, and kissed his hand to me; then he\nwent away, and never came back. I don't know his history.\n\n\"'Soup on a sausage-peg!' said the gaoler, to whom I now went; but I\nshould not have trusted him. He took me in his hand, certainly, but he\npopped me into a cage, a treadmill. That's a horrible engine, in which\nyou go round and round without getting any farther; and people laugh\nat you into the bargain.\n\n\"The gaoler's granddaughter was a charming little thing, with a mass\nof curly hair that shone like gold, and such merry eyes, and such a\nsmiling mouth!\n\n\"'You poor little mouse,' she said, as she peeped into my ugly cage;\nand she drew out the iron rod, and forth I jumped, to the window\nboard, and from thence to the roof spout. Free! free! I thought only\nof that, and not of the goal of my journey.\n\n\"It was dark, and night was coming on. I took up my quarters in an old\ntower, where dwelt a watchman and an owl. That is a creature like a\ncat, who has the great failing that she eats mice. But one may be\nmistaken, and so was I, for this was a very respectable, well-educated\nold owl: she knew more than the watchman, and as much as I. The young\nowls were always making a racket; but 'go and make soup on a sausage\npeg' were the hardest words she could prevail on herself to utter, she\nwas so fondly attached to her family. Her conduct inspired me with so\nmuch confidence, that from the crack in which I was crouching I called\nout 'peep!' to her. This confidence of mine pleased her hugely, and\nshe assured me I should be under her protection, and that no creature\nshould be allowed to do me wrong; she would reserve me for herself,\nfor the winter, when there would be short commons.\n\n\"She was in every respect a clever woman, and explained to me how the\nwatchman could only 'whoop' with the horn that hung at his side,\nadding, 'He is terribly conceited about it, and imagines he's an owl\nin the tower. Wants to do great things, but is very small--soup on a\nsausage-peg!' I begged the owl to give me the recipe for this soup,\nand then she explained the matter to me.\n\n\"'Soup on a sausage-peg,' she said, 'was only a human proverb, and was\nto be understood thus: Each thinks his own way the best, but the whole\nsignifies nothing.'\n\n\"'Nothing!'\" I exclaimed. \"I was quite struck. Truth is not always\nagreeable, but truth is above everything; and that's what the old owl\nsaid. I now thought about it, and readily perceived that if I brought\nwhat was _above everything_ I brought something far beyond soup on a\nsausage-peg. So I hastened away, that I might get home in time, and\nbring the highest and best, that is above everything--namely, _the\ntruth_. The mice are an enlightened people, and the king is above them\nall. He is capable of making me queen, for the sake of truth.\"\n\n\"Your truth is a falsehood,\" said the Mouse who had not yet spoken. \"I\ncan prepare the soup, and I mean to prepare it.\"\n\n\nV.\n\n_How it was prepared._\n\n\"I did not travel,\" the third Mouse said. \"I remained in my\ncountry--that's the right thing to do. There's no necessity for\ntravelling; one can get everything as good here. I stayed at home.\nI've not learnt what I know from supernatural beings, or gobbled it\nup, or held converse with owls. I have what I know through my own\nreflections. Will you make haste and put that kettle upon the fire?\nSo--now water must be poured in--quite full--up to the brim!--So--now\nmore fuel--make up the fire, that the water may boil--it must boil\nover and over!--So--I now throw the peg in. Will the king now be\npleased to dip his tail in the boiling water, and to stir it round\nwith the said tail? The longer the king stirs it, the more powerful\nwill the soup become. It costs nothing at all--no further materials\nare necessary, only stir it round!\"\n\n\"Cannot any one else do that?\" asked the Mouse King.\n\n\"No;\" replied the mouse. \"The power is contained only in the tail of\nthe Mouse King.\"\n\nAnd the water boiled and bubbled, and the Mouse King stood close\nbeside the kettle--there was almost danger in it--and he put forth his\ntail, as the mice do in the dairy, when they skim the cream from a\npan of milk, afterwards licking their creamy tails; but his tail only\npenetrated into the hot steam, and then he sprang hastily down from\nthe hearth.\n\n\"Of course--certainly you are my queen,\" he said. \"We'll adjourn the\nsoup question till our golden wedding in fifty years' time, so that\nthe poor of my subjects, who will then be fed, may have something to\nwhich they can look forward with pleasure for a long time.\"\n\n[Illustration: THE MOUSE KING UNDERSTANDS HOW THE SOUP IS MADE.]\n\nAnd soon the wedding was held. But many of the mice said, as they were\nreturning home, that it could not be really called soup on a\nsausage-peg, but rather soup on a mouse's tail. They said that some of\nthe stories had been very cleverly told; but the whole thing might\nhave been different. \"_I_ should have told it so--and so--and so!\"\n\nThus said the critics, who are always wise--after the fact.\n\nAnd this story went out into the wide world, everywhere; and opinions\nvaried concerning it, but the story remained as it was. And that's the\nbest in great things and in small, so also with regard to soup on a\nsausage-peg--not to expect any thanks for it.\n\n\n\n\nTHE STONE OF THE WISE MEN.\n\n\nFar away in the land of India, far away towards the East, at the end\nof the world, stood the Tree of the Sun, a noble tree, such as we have\nnever seen, and shall probably never see. The crown stretched out\nseveral miles around: it was really an entire wood; each of its\nsmallest branches formed, in its turn, a whole tree. Palms, beech\ntrees, pines, plane trees, and various other kinds grew here, which\nare found scattered in all other parts of the world: they shot out\nlike small branches from the great boughs, and these large boughs with\ntheir windings and knots formed, as it were, valleys and hills,\nclothed with velvety green, and covered with flowers. Everything was\nlike a wide, blooming meadow, or like the most charming garden. Here\nthe birds from all quarters of the world assembled together--birds\nfrom the primeval forests of America, the rose gardens of Damascus,\nfrom the deserts of Africa, in which the elephant and the lion boast\nof being the only rulers. The Polar birds came flying hither, and of\ncourse the stork and the swallow were not absent; but the birds were\nnot the only living beings: the stag, the squirrel, the antelope, and\na hundred other beautiful and light-footed animals were here at home.\nThe crown of the tree was a widespread fragrant garden, and in the\nmidst of it, where the great boughs raised themselves into a green\nhill, there stood a castle of crystal, with a view towards every\nquarter of heaven. Each tower was reared in the form of a lily.\nThrough the stem one could ascend, for within it was a winding-stair;\none could step out upon the leaves as upon balconies; and up in the\ncalyx of the flower itself was the most beautiful, sparkling round\nhall, above which no other roof rose but the blue firmament with sun\nand stars.\n\nJust as much splendour, though in another way, appeared below, in the\nwide halls of the castle. Here, on the walls, the whole world around\nwas reflected. One saw everything that was done, so that there was no\nnecessity of reading any papers, and indeed papers were not obtainable\nthere. Everything was to be seen in living pictures, if one only\nwished to see it; for too much is still too much even for the wisest\nman; and this man dwelt here. His name is very difficult--you will not\nbe able to pronounce it; therefore it may remain unmentioned. He knew\neverything that a man on earth can know, or can get to know; every\ninvention which had already been or which was yet to be made was\nknown to him; but nothing more, for everything in the world has its\nlimits. The wise King Solomon was only half as wise as he, and yet he\nwas very wise, and governed the powers of nature, and held sway over\npotent spirits: yes, Death itself was obliged to give him every\nmorning a list of those who were to die during the day. But King\nSolomon himself was obliged to die too; and this thought it was which\noften in the deepest manner employed the inquirer, the mighty lord in\nthe castle on the Tree of the Sun. He also, however high he might\ntower above men in wisdom, must die one day. He knew that, and his\nchildren also must fade away like the leaves of the forest, and become\ndust. He saw the human race fade away like the leaves on the tree; saw\nnew men come to fill their places; but the leaves that fell off never\nsprouted forth again--they fell to dust, or were transformed into\nother parts of plants. \"What happens to man?\" the wise man asked\nhimself, \"when the angel of death touches him? What may death be? The\nbody is dissolved--and the soul. Yes, what is the soul? whither doth\nit go? To eternal life, says the comforting voice of religion; but\nwhat is the transition? where does one live, and how? Above, in\nheaven, says the pious man, thither we go. Thither?\" repeated the wise\nman, and fixed his eyes upon the moon and the stars; \"up yonder?\" But\nhe saw, from the earthly ball, that above and below were alike\nchanging their position, according as one stood here or there on the\nrolling globe; and even if he mounted as high as the loftiest\nmountains of earth rear their heads, to the air which we below call\nclear and transparent--the pure heaven--a black darkness spread abroad\nlike a cloth, and the sun had a coppery glow, and sent forth no rays,\nand our earth lay wrapped in an orange-coloured mist. How narrow were\nthe limits of the corporeal eye, and how little the eye of the soul\ncould see!--how little did even the wisest know of that which is the\nmost important to us all!\n\nIn the most secret chamber of the castle lay the greatest treasure of\nthe earth: the Book of Truth. Leaf for leaf, the wise man read it\nthrough: every man may read in this book, but only by fragments. To\nmany an eye the characters seem to tremble, so that the words cannot\nbe put together; on certain pages the writing often seems so pale, so\nblurred, that only a blank leaf appears. The wiser a man becomes, the\nmore he will read; and the wisest read most. He knew how to unite the\nsunlight and the moonlight with the light of reason and of hidden\npowers; and through this stronger light many things came clearly\nbefore him from the page. But in the division of the book whose title\nis \"Life after Death\" not even one point was to be distinctly seen.\nThat pained him. Should he not be able here upon earth to obtain a\nlight by which everything should become clear to him that stood\nwritten in the Book of Truth?\n\n[Illustration: THE BOOK OF TRUTH.]\n\nLike the wise King Solomon, he understood the language of the animals,\nand could interpret their talk and their songs. But that made him none\nthe wiser. He found out the forces of plants and metals--the forces to\nbe used for the cure of diseases, for delaying death--but none that\ncould destroy death. In all created things that were within his reach\nhe sought the light that should shine upon the certainty of an eternal\nlife; but he found it not. The Book of Truth lay before him with\nleaves that appeared blank. Christianity showed itself to him in the\nBible with words of promise of an eternal life; but he wanted to read\nit in _his_ book; but here he saw nothing written on the subject.\n\nHe had five children--four sons, educated as well as the children of\nthe wisest father could be, and a daughter, fair, mild, and clever,\nbut blind; yet this appeared no deprivation to her--her father and\nbrothers were outward eyes to her, and the vividness of her feelings\nsaw for her.\n\nNever had the sons gone farther from the castle than the branches of\nthe tree extended, nor had the sister strayed from home. They were\nhappy children in the land of childhood--in the beautiful fragrant\nTree of the Sun. Like all children, they were very glad when any\nhistory was related to them; and the father told them many things that\nother children would not have understood; but these were just as\nclever as most grown-up people are among us. He explained to them what\nthey saw in the pictures of life on the castle walls--the doings of\nmen and the march of events in all the lands of the earth; and often\nthe sons expressed the wish that they could be present at all the\ngreat deeds and take part in them; and their father then told them\nthat out in the world it was difficult and toilsome--that the world\nwas not quite what it appeared to them as they looked forth upon it\nfrom their beauteous home. He spoke to them of the true, the\nbeautiful, and the good, and told them that these three held together\nin the world, and that under the pressure they had to endure they\nbecame hardened into a precious stone, clearer than the water of the\ndiamond--a jewel whose splendour had value with God, whose brightness\noutshone everything, and which was the so-called \"Stone of the Wise.\"\nHe told them how men could attain by investigation to the knowledge of\nthe existence of God, and that through men themselves one could attain\nto the certainty that such a jewel as the \"Stone of the Wise\" existed.\nThis narration would have exceeded the perception of other children,\nbut these children understood it, and at length other children, too,\nwill learn to comprehend its meaning.\n\nThey questioned their father concerning the true, the beautiful, and\nthe good; and he explained it to them, told them many things, and told\nthem also that God, when He made man out of the dust of the earth,\ngave five kisses to His work--fiery kisses, heart kisses--which we now\ncall the five senses. Through these the true, the beautiful, and the\ngood is seen, perceived, and understood; through these it is valued,\nprotected, and furthered. Five senses have been given corporeally and\nmentally, inwardly and outwardly, to body and soul.\n\nThe children reflected deeply upon these things; they meditated upon\nthem by day and by night. Then the eldest of the brothers dreamt a\nsplendid dream. Strangely enough, the second brother had the same\ndream, and the third, and the fourth brother likewise; all of them\ndreamt exactly the same thing--namely, that each went out into the\nworld and found the \"Stone of the Wise,\" which gleamed like a beaming\nlight on his forehead when, in the morning dawn, he rode back on his\nswift horse over the velvety green meadows of his home into the castle\nof his father; and the jewel threw such a heavenly light and radiance\nupon the leaves of the book, that everything was illuminated that\nstood written concerning the life beyond the grave. But the sister\ndreamt nothing about going out into the wide world. It never entered\nher mind. Her world was her father's house.\n\n\"I shall ride forth into the wide world,\" said the eldest brother. \"I\nmust try what life is like there, and go to and fro among men. I will\npractise only the good and the true; with these I will protect the\nbeautiful. Much shall change for the better when I am there.\" Now his\nthoughts were bold and great, as our thoughts generally are at home,\nbefore we have gone forth into the world and have encountered wind and\nrain, and thorns and thistles.\n\nIn him and in all his brothers the five senses were highly developed,\ninwardly and outwardly; but each of them had _one_ sense which in\nkeenness and development surpassed the other four. In the case of the\neldest this pre-eminent sense was Sight. This was to do him especial\nservice. He said he had eyes for all time, eyes for all nations, eyes\nthat could look into the depths of the earth, where the treasures lie\nhidden, and deep into the hearts of men, as though nothing but a pane\nof glass were placed before them: he could read more than we can see\non the cheek that blushes or grows pale, in the eye that droops or\nsmiles. Stags and antelopes escorted him to the boundary of his home\ntowards the west, and there the wild swans received him and flew\nnorth-west. He followed them. And now he had gone far out into the\nworld--far from the land of his father, that extended eastward to the\nend of the earth.\n\nBut how he opened his eyes in astonishment! Many things were here to\nbe seen; and many things appear very different when a man beholds them\nwith his own eyes, or when he merely sees them in a picture, as the\nson had done in his father's house, however faithful the picture way\nbe. At the outset he nearly lost his eyes in astonishment at all the\nrubbish and all the masquerading stuff put forward to represent the\nbeautiful; but he did not lose them, and soon found full employment\nfor them. He wished to go thoroughly and honestly to work in the\nunderstanding of the beautiful, the true, and the good. But how were\nthese represented in the world? He saw that often the garland that\nbelonged to the beautiful was given to the hideous; that the good was\noften passed by without notice, while mediocrity was applauded when it\nshould have been hissed off. People looked to the dress, and not to\nthe wearer; asked for a name, and not for desert; and went more by\nreputation than by service. It was the same thing everywhere.\n\n\"I see I must attack these things vigorously,\" he said; and attacked\nthem with vigour accordingly. But while he was looking for the truth,\ncame the Evil One, the father of lies. Gladly would the fiend have\nplucked out the eyes of this Seer; but that would have been too\ndirect; the devil works in a more cunning way. He let him see and seek\nthe true and the good; but while the young man was contemplating them,\nthe evil spirit blew one mote after another into each of his eyes; and\nsuch a proceeding would be hurtful even to the best sight. Then the\nfiend blew upon the motes, so that they became beams; and the eyes\nwere destroyed, and the Seer stood like a blind man in the wide world,\nand had no faith in it: he lost his good opinion of it and himself;\nand when a man gives up the world and himself, all is over with him.\n\n\"Over!\" said the wild swan, who flew across the sea towards the east.\n\"Over!\" twittered the swallows, who likewise flew eastward, towards\nthe Tree of the Sun. That was no good news that they carried to the\nyoung man's home.\n\n\"I fancy the _Seer_ must have fared badly,\" said the second brother;\n\"but the _Hearer_ may have better fortune.\" For this one possessed the\nsense of hearing in an eminent degree: he could hear the grass grow,\nso quick was he to hear.\n\nHe took a hearty leave of all at home, and rode away, provided with\ngood abilities and good intentions. The swallows escorted him, and he\nfollowed the swans; and he stood far from his home in the wide world.\n\nBut he experienced the fact that one may have too much of a good\nthing. His hearing was _too_ fine. He not only heard the grass grow,\nbut could hear every man's heart beat, in sorrow and in joy. The whole\nworld was to him like a great clockmaker's workshop, wherein all the\nclocks were going \"tick, tick!\" and all the turret clocks striking\n\"ding dong!\" It was unbearable. For a long time his ears held out, but\nat last all the noise and screaming became too much, for one man.\nThere came blackguard boys of sixty years old--for years alone don't\nmake men--and raised a tumult at which the hearer might certainly have\nlaughed, but for the applause which followed, and which echoed through\nevery house and street, and was audible even in the country high road.\nFalsehood thrust itself forward, and played the master; the bells on\nthe fool's cap jangled, and declared they were church bells; and the\nnoise became too bad for the _Hearer_, and he thrust his fingers into\nhis ears; but still he could hear false singing and bad sounds, gossip\nand idle words, scandal and slander, groaning and moaning without and\nwithin. Heaven help us! He thrust his fingers deeper and deeper into\nhis ears, but at last the drums burst. Now he could hear nothing at\nall of the good, the true, and the beautiful, for his hearing was to\nhave been the bridge by which he crossed. He became silent and\nsuspicious, trusted no one at last, not even himself, and, no longer\nhoping to find and bring home the costly jewel, he gave it up, and\ngave himself up; and that was the worst of all. The birds who winged\ntheir flight towards the east brought tidings of this, till the news\nreached the castle in the Tree of the Sun.\n\n\"_I_ will try now!\" said the third brother. \"I have a sharp _nose_!\"\n\nNow that was not said in very good taste; but it was his way, and one\nmust take him as he was. He had a happy temper, and was a poet, a real\npoet: he could sing many things that he could not say, and many things\nstruck him far earlier than they occurred to others. \"I can smell\nfire!\" he said; and he attributed to the sense of smelling, which he\npossessed in a high degree, a great power in the region of the\nbeautiful. \"Every fragrant spot in the realm of the beautiful has its\nfrequenters,\" he said. \"One man feels at home in the atmosphere of the\ntavern, among the flaring tallow candles, where the smell of spirits\nmingles with the fumes of bad tobacco. Another prefers sitting among\nthe overpowering scent of jessamine, or scenting himself with strong\nclove oil. This man seeks out the fresh sea breeze, while that one\nclimbs to the highest mountain top and looks down upon the busy little\nlife beneath.\" Thus he spake. It seemed to him as if he had already\nbeen out in the world, as if he had already associated with men and\nknown them. But this experience arose from within himself: it was the\npoet within him, the gift of Heaven, and bestowed on him in his\ncradle.\n\nHe bade farewell to his paternal roof in the Tree of the Sun, and\ndeparted on foot through the pleasant scenery of home. Arrived at its\nconfines, he mounted on the back of an ostrich, which runs faster\nthan a horse; and afterwards, when he fell in with the wild swans, he\nswung himself on the strongest of them, for he loved change; and away\nhe flew over the sea to distant lands with great forests, deep lakes,\nmighty mountains, and proud cities; and wherever he came it seemed as\nif sunshine travelled with him across the fields, for every flower,\nevery bush, every tree exhaled a new fragrance, in the consciousness\nthat a friend and protector was in the neighbourhood, who understood\nthem and knew their value. The crippled rose bush reared up its twigs,\nunfolded its leaves, and bore the most beautiful roses; every one\ncould see it, and even the black damp wood-snail noticed its beauty.\n\n\"I will give my seal to the flower,\" said the Snail; \"I have spit at\nit, and I can do no more for it.\"\n\n\"Thus it always fares with the beautiful in this world!\" said the\npoet; and he sang a song concerning it, sang it in his own way; but\nnobody listened. Then he gave the drummer twopence and a peacock's\nfeather, and set the song for the drum, and had it drummed in all the\nstreets of the town; and the people heard it, and said, \"That's a\nwell-constructed song.\" Then the poet sang several songs of the\nbeautiful, the true, and the good. His songs were listened to in the\ntavern, where the tallow candles smoked, in the fresh meadow, in the\nforest, and on the high seas. It appeared as if this brother was to\nhave better fortune than the two others. But the evil spirit was angry\nat this, and accordingly he set to work with incense powder and\nincense smoke, which he can prepare so artfully as to confuse an\nangel, and how much more therefore a poor poet! The Evil One knows how\nto take that kind of people! He surrounded the poet so completely with\nincense, that the man lost his head, and forgot his mission and his\nhome, and at last himself--and ended in smoke.\n\nBut when the little birds heard of this they mourned, and for three\ndays they sang not one song. The black wood-snail became blacker\nstill, not for grief, but for envy. \"They should have strewed incense\nfor me,\" she said, \"for it was I who gave him his idea of the most\nfamous of his songs, the drum song of 'The Way of the World;' it was I\nwho spat at the rose! I can bring witness to the fact.\"\n\nBut no tidings of all this penetrated to the poet's home in India, for\nall the birds were silent for three days; and when the time of\nmourning was over, their grief had been so deep that they had\nforgotten for whom they wept. That's the usual way!\n\n[Illustration: THE DEPARTURE OF THE THIRD BROTHER.]\n\n\"Now I shall have to go out into the world, to disappear like the\nrest,\" said the fourth brother. He had just as good a wit as the\nthird, but he was no poet, though he could be witty. Those two had\nfilled the castle with cheerfulness, and now the last cheerfulness\nwas going away. Sight and hearing has always been looked upon as the\ntwo chief senses of men, and as the two that it is most desirable to\nsharpen; the other senses are looked upon as of less consequence. But\nthat was not the opinion of this son, as he had especially cultivated\nhis _taste_ in every respect, and taste is very powerful. It holds\nsway over what goes into the mouth, and also over what penetrates into\nthe mind; and consequently this brother tasted everything that was\nstored up in bottles and pots, saying that this was the rough work of\nhis office. Every man was to him a vessel in which something was\nseething, every country an enormous kitchen, a kitchen of the mind.\n\n\"That was no delicacy,\" he said, and he wanted to go out and try what\nwas delicate. \"Perhaps fortune may be more favourable to me than it\nwas to my brothers,\" he said. \"I shall start on my travels. But what\nconveyance shall I choose? Are air balloons invented yet?\" he asked\nhis father, who knew of all inventions that had been made, or that\nwere to be made. But air balloons had not yet been invented, nor steam\nships, nor railways. \"Good: then I shall choose an air balloon,\" he\nsaid; \"my father knows how they are made and guided. Nobody has\ninvented them yet, and consequently the people will believe that it is\nan aerial phantom. When I have used the balloon I will burn it, and\nfor this purpose you must give me a few pieces of the invention that\nwill be made next--I mean chemical matches.\"\n\nAnd he obtained what he wanted, and flew away. The birds accompanied\nhim farther than they had flown with the other brothers. They were\ncurious to know what would be the result of the flight, and more of\nthem came sweeping up: they thought he was some new bird; and he soon\nhad a goodly following. The air became black with birds, they came on\nlike a cloud--like the cloud of locusts over the land of Egypt.\n\nNow he was out in the wide world.\n\nThe balloon descended over one of the greatest cities, and the\naeronaut took up his station on the highest point, on the church\nsteeple. The balloon rose again, which it ought not to have done:\nwhere it went to is not known, but that was not a matter of\nconsequence, for it was not yet invented. Then he sat on the church\nsteeple. The birds no longer hovered around him, they had got tired of\nhim, and he was tired of them.\n\nAll the chimneys in the town were smoking merrily. \"Those are altars\nerected to thy honour!\" said the Wind, who wished to say something\nagreeable to him. He sat boldly up there, and looked down upon the\npeople in the street. There was one stepping along, proud of his\npurse, another of the key he carried at his girdle, though he had\nnothing to unlock; one proud of his moth-eaten coat, another of his\nwasted body. \"Vanity! I must hasten downward, dip my finger in the\npot, and taste!\" he said. \"But for awhile I will still sit here, for\nthe wind blows so pleasantly against my back. I'll sit here so long as\nthe wind blows. I'll enjoy a slight rest. 'It is good to sleep long in\nthe morning, when one has much to do,' says the lazy man. I'll stop\nhere so long as this wind blows, for it pleases me.\"\n\nAnd there he sat, but he was sitting upon the weathercock of the\nsteeple, which kept turning round and round with him, so that he was\nunder the false impression that the same wind still blew; so he might\nstay up there a goodly while.\n\nBut in India, in the castle in the Tree of the Sun, it was solitary\nand still, since the brothers had gone away one after the other.\n\n\"It goes not well with them,\" said the father; \"they will never bring\nthe gleaming jewel home; it is not made for me; they are gone, they\nare dead!\" And he bent down over the Book of Truth, and gazed at the\npage on which he should read of life after death; but for him nothing\nwas to be seen or learned upon it.\n\nThe blind daughter was his consolation and joy: she attached herself\nwith sincere affection to him; for the sake of his peace and joy she\nwished the costly jewel might be found and brought home. With kindly\nlonging she thought of her brothers. Where were they? Where did they\nlive? She wished sincerely that she might dream of them, but it was\nstrange, not even in dreams could she approach them. But at length,\none night, she dreamt that the voices of her brothers sounded across\nto her, calling to her from the wide world, and she could not refrain,\nbut went far far out, and yet it seemed in her dream that she was\nstill in her father's house. She did not meet her brothers, but she\nfelt, as it were, a fire burning in her hand, but it did not hurt her,\nfor it was the jewel she was bringing to her father. When she awoke,\nshe thought for a moment that she still held the stone, but it was the\nknob of her distaff that she was grasping. During the long nights she\nhad spun incessantly, and round the distaff was turned a thread, finer\nthan the finest web of the spider; human eyes were unable to\ndistinguish the separate threads. She had wetted them with her tears,\nand the twist was strong as a cable. She rose, and her resolution was\ntaken: the dream must be made a reality. It was night, and her father\nslept. She pressed a kiss on his hand, and then took her distaff, and\nfastened the end of the thread to her father's house. But for this,\nblind as she was, she would never have found her way home; to the\nthread she must hold fast, and trust not to herself or to others. From\nthe Tree of the Sun she broke four leaves; these she would confide to\nwind and weather, that they might fly to her brothers as a letter and\na greeting, in case she did not meet them in the wide world. How would\nshe fare out yonder, she, the poor blind child? But she had the\ninvisible thread to which she could hold fast. She possessed a gift\nwhich all the others lacked. This was _thoroughness_; and in virtue of\nthis it seemed as if she could see to the tips of her fingers, and\nhear down into her very heart.\n\nAnd quietly she went forth into the noisy, whirling, wonderful world,\nand wherever she went the sky grew bright--she felt the warm ray--the\nrainbow spread itself out from the dark world through the blue air.\nShe heard the song of the birds, and smelt the scent of orange groves\nand apple orchards so strongly that she seemed to taste it. Soft tones\nand charming songs reached her ear, but also howling and roaring, and\nthoughts and opinions, sounded in strange contradiction to each other.\nInto the innermost depths of her heart penetrated the echoes of human\nthoughts and feelings. One chorus sounded darkly--\n\n    \"The life of earth is a shadow vain\n    A night created for sorrow!\"\n\nbut then came another strain--\n\n    \"The life of earth is the scent of the rose,\n    With its sunshine and its pleasure.\"\n\nAnd if one strophe sounded painfully--\n\n    \"Each mortal thinks of himself alone,\n    This truth has been manifested\"--\n\non the other side the answer pealed forth--\n\n    \"A mighty stream of warmest love,\n    All through the world shall guide us.\"\n\nShe heard, indeed, the words--\n\n    \"In the little petty whirl here below,\n    Each thing shows mean and paltry;\"\n\nbut then came also the comfort--\n\n    \"Many things great and good are achieved,\n    That the ear of man heareth never.\"\n\nand if sometimes the mocking strain sounded around her--\n\n    \"Join in the common cry: with a jest\n    Destroy the good gifts of the Giver.\"\n\nin the blind girl's heart a stronger voice repeated--\n\n    \"To trust in thyself and in God is best;\n    His good will be done for ever.\"\n\nAnd whenever she entered the circle of human kind, and appeared among\nyoung or old, the knowledge of the true, the good, and the beautiful\nbeamed into their hearts. Whether she entered the study of the artist,\nor the festive, decorated hall, or the crowded factory, with its\nwhirring wheels, it seemed as though a sunbeam were stealing in--as if\nthe sweet string sounded, the flower exhaled its perfume, and a living\ndew-drop fell upon the exhausted blood.\n\n[Illustration: THE BLIND GIRL'S MESSENGERS.]\n\nBut the evil spirit could not see this and be content. He has more\ncunning than ten thousand men, and he found out a way to compass his\nend. He betook himself to the marsh, collected little bubbles of the\nstagnant water, and passed over them a sevenfold echo of lying words\nto give them strength. Then he pounded up paid-for heroic poems and\nlying epitaphs, as many as he could get, boiled them in tears that\nenvy had shed, put upon them rouge he had scraped from faded cheeks,\nand of these he composed a maiden, with the aspect and gait of the\nblessed blind girl, the angel of thoroughness; and then the Evil One's\nplot was in full progress. The world knew not which of the two was the\ntrue one; and, indeed, how should the world know?\n\n    \"To trust in thyself and in God is best;\n    His good will be done for ever,\"\n\nsung the blind girl, in full faith. She intrusted the four green\nleaves from the Tree of the Sun to the winds, as a letter and a\ngreeting to her brothers, and had full confidence that they would\nreach their destination, and that the jewel would be found which\noutshines all the glories of the world. From the forehead of humanity\nit would gleam even to the castle of her father.\n\n\"Even to my father's house,\" she repeated. \"Yes, the place of the\njewel is on earth, and I shall bring more than the promise of it with\nme. I feel its glow, it swells more and more in my closed hand. Every\ngrain of truth, were it ever so fine, which the sharp wind carried up\nand whirled towards me, I took up and treasured; I let it be\npenetrated by the fragrance of the beautiful, of which there is so\nmuch in the world, even for the blind. I took the sound of the beating\nheart engaged in what is good, and added it to the first. All that I\nbring is but dust, but still it is the dust of the jewel we seek, and\nin plenty. I have my whole hand full of it.\" And she stretched forth\nher hand towards her father. She was soon at home--she had travelled\nthither in the flight of thoughts, never having quitted her hold of\nthe invisible thread from the paternal home.\n\nThe evil powers rushed with hurricane fury over the Tree of the Sun,\npressed with a wind-blast against the open doors, and into the\nsanctuary where lay the Book of Truth.\n\n\"It will be blown away by the wind!\" said the father, and he seized\nthe hand she had opened.\n\n\"No,\" she replied, with quiet confidence, \"it cannot be blown away; I\nfeel the beam warming my very soul.\"\n\nAnd the father became aware of a glancing flame, there where the\nshining dust poured out of her hand over the Book of Truth, that was\nto tell of the certainty of an everlasting life, and on it stood one\nshining word--one only word--\"BELIEVE.\"\n\nAnd with the father and daughter were again the four brothers. When\nthe green leaf fell upon the bosom of each, a longing for home had\nseized them, and led them back. They had arrived. The birds of\npassage, and the stag, the antelope, and all the creatures of the\nforest followed them, for all wished to have a part in their joy.\n\nWe have often seen, where a sunbeam bursts through a crack in the door\ninto the dusty room, how a whirling column of dust seems circling\nround; but this was not poor and insignificant like common dust, for\neven the rainbow is dead in colour compared with the beauty which\nshowed itself. Thus, from the leaf of the book with the beaming word\n\"_Believe_,\" arose every grain of truth, decked with the charms of\n_the beautiful_ and _the good_, burning brighter than the mighty\npillar of flame that led Moses and the children of Israel through the\ndesert; and from the word \"_Believe_\" the bridge of _Hope_ arose,\nspanning the distance, even to the immeasurable love in the realms of\nthe Infinite.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BUTTERFLY.\n\n\nThe Butterfly wished for a bride; and, as may be imagined, he wanted\nto select a very pretty one from among the flowers; therefore he threw\na critical glance at all the flower-beds, and found that every flower\nsat quietly and demurely on her stalk, just as a maiden ought to sit,\nbefore she is engaged; but there were a great many of them, and the\nchoice threatened to become wearisome. The Butterfly did not care to\ntake much trouble, and consequently he flew off on a visit to the\ndaisies. The French call this floweret \"Marguerite,\" and they know\nthat Marguerite can prophecy, when lovers pluck off its leaves, and\nask of every leaf they pluck some question concerning their lovers.\n\"Heartily? Painfully? Loves me much? A little? Not at all?\" and so on.\nEvery one asks in his own language. The Butterfly came to Marguerite\ntoo, to inquire; but he did not pluck off her leaves: he kissed each\nof them, for he considered that most is to be done with kindness.\n\n\"Darling Marguerite daisy!\" he said to her, \"you are the wisest woman\namong the flowers. Pray, pray tell me, shall I get this one or that?\nWhich will be my bride? When I know that, I will directly fly to her,\nand propose for her.\"\n\nBut Marguerite did not answer him. She was angry that he had called\nher a \"woman,\" when she was yet a girl; and there is a great\ndifference. He asked for the second and for the third time, and when\nshe remained dumb, and answered him not a word, he would wait no\nlonger, but flew away to begin his wooing at once.\n\nIt was in the beginning of spring; the crocus and the snowdrop were\nblooming around.\n\n\"They are very pretty,\" thought the Butterfly. \"Charming little\nlasses, but a little too much of the schoolgirl about them.\" Like all\nyoung lads, he looked out for the elder girls.\n\nThen he flew of to the anemones. These were a little too bitter for\nhis taste; the violet somewhat too sentimental; the lime blossoms were\ntoo small, and, moreover, they had too many relations; the apple\nblossoms--they looked like roses, but they bloomed to-day, to fall off\nto-morrow, to fall beneath the first wind that blew; and he thought\nthat a marriage with them would last too short a time. The pease\nblossom pleased him best of all: she was white and red, and graceful\nand delicate, and belonged to the domestic maidens who look well, and\nat the same time are useful in the kitchen. He was just about to make\nhis offer, when close by the maiden he saw a pod at whose end hung a\nwithered flower.\n\n\"Who is that?\" he asked.\n\n\"That is my sister,\" replied the Pease Blossom.\n\n\"Oh, indeed; and you will get to look like her!\" he said. And away he\nflew, for he felt quite shocked.\n\nThe honeysuckle hung forth blooming from the hedge, but there was a\nnumber of girls like that, with long faces and sallow complexions. No,\nhe did not like her.\n\nBut which one did he like?\n\nThe spring went by, and the summer drew towards its close; it was\nautumn, but he was still undecided.\n\nAnd now the flowers appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but in\nvain; they had not the fresh fragrant air of youth. But the heart\ndemands fragrance, even when it is no longer young, and there is very\nlittle of that to be found among the dahlias and dry chrysanthemums,\ntherefore the Butterfly turned to the mint on the ground.\n\nYou see this plant has no blossom; but indeed it is blossom all over,\nfull of fragrance from head to foot, with flower scent in every leaf.\n\n\"I shall take her,\" said the Butterfly.\n\nAnd he made an offer for her.\n\nBut the mint stood silent and stiff, listening to him. At last she\nsaid,\n\n\"Friendship, if you please; but nothing more. I am old, and you are\nold, but we may very well live for one another; but as to\nmarrying--no--don't let us appear ridiculous at our age.\"\n\nAnd thus it happened that the Butterfly had no wife at all. He had\nbeen too long choosing, and that is a bad plan. So the Butterfly\nbecame what we call an old bachelor.\n\nIt was late in autumn, with rain and cloudy weather. The wind blew\ncold over the backs of the old willow trees, so that they creaked\nagain. It was no weather to be flying about in summer clothes, nor,\nindeed, was the Butterfly in the open air. He had got under shelter by\nchance, where there was fire in the stove and the heat of summer. He\ncould live well enough, but he said,\n\n\"It's not enough merely to live. One must have freedom, sunshine, and\na little flower.\"\n\nAnd he flew against the window-frame, and was seen and admired, and\nthen stuck upon a pin and placed in the box of curiosities; they could\nnot do more for him.\n\n\"Now I am perched on a stalk, like the flowers,\" said the Butterfly.\n\"It certainly is not very pleasant. It must be something like being\nmarried, for one is stuck fast.\"\n\nAnd he consoled himself in some measure with the thought.\n\n\"That's very poor comfort,\" said the potted Plants in the room.\n\n\"But,\" thought the Butterfly, \"one cannot well trust these potted\nPlants. They've had too much to do with mankind.\"\n\n\n\n\nIN THE UTTERMOST PARTS OF THE SEA.\n\n\nGreat ships had been sent up towards the North Pole, to explore the\nmost distant coasts, and to try how far men might penetrate up yonder.\nFor more than a year they had already been pushing their way among\nice, and snow, and mist, and their crews had endured many hardships;\nand now the winter was come, and the sun had entirely disappeared from\nthose regions. For many many weeks there would now be a long night.\nAll around, as far as the eye could reach, was a single field of ice;\nthe ships had been made fast to it, and the snow had piled itself up\nin great masses, and of these huts had been built in the form of\nbeehives, some of them spacious as the old \"Hun's Graves\"--others only\ncontaining room enough to hold two or four men. But it was not dark,\nfor the northern lights flamed red and blue, like a great continual\nfirework; and the snow glistened and gleamed, so that the night here\nwas one long, flaming, twilight hour. When the gleam was brightest,\nthe natives came in crowds, wonderful to behold in their rough, hairy,\nfur dresses; and they rode in sledges formed of blocks of ice, and\nbrought with them furs and peltry in great bundles, so that the snow\nhouses were furnished with warm carpets; and, in turn, the furs also\nserved for coverlets when the sailors went to bed under their roofs of\nsnow, while outside it froze in far different fashion than here with\nus in the winter. In our regions it was still the late autumn-time;\nand they thought of that up yonder, and often pictured to themselves\nthe yellow leaves on the trees of home. The clock showed that it was\nevening, and time to go to sleep; and in the huts two men already had\nstretched themselves out, seeking rest. The younger of these had his\nbest, dearest treasure, that he had brought from home--the Bible,\nwhich his grandmother had given him on his departure. Every night the\nsacred volume rested beneath his head, and he knew from his childish\nyears what was written in it. Every day he read in the book, and often\nthe holy words came into his mind where it is written, \"If I take the\nwings of the morning, and flee into the uttermost parts of the sea,\neven there Thou art with me, and Thy right hand shall uphold me;\" and,\nunder the influence of the eternal word and of the true faith, he\nclosed his eyes, and sleep came upon him, and dreams--the\nmanifestation of Providence to the spirit. The soul lived and was\nworking while the body was enjoying its rest: he felt this life, and\nit seemed to him as if dear old well-known melodies were sounding; as\nif the mild breezes of summer were playing around him; and over his\nbed he beheld a brightness, as if something were shining in through\nthe crust of snow. He lifted up his head, and behold, the bright gleam\nwas no ripple down from the snowy roof, but came from the mighty\npinions of an angel, into whose beaming face he was gazing. As if from\nthe cup of a lily the angel arose from among the leaves of the Bible,\nand stretching out his arm, the walls of the snow hut sunk down\naround, as though they had been a light airy veil of mist; the green\nmeadows and hills of home, and its ruddy woods, lay spread around him\nin the quiet sunshine of a beauteous autumn day; the nest of the stork\nwas empty, but ripe fruit still clung to the wild apple tree, although\nthe leaves, had fallen; the red hips gleamed, and the magpie whistled\nin the green cage over the window of the peasant's cottage that was\nhis home; the magpie whistled the tune that had been taught him, and\nthe grandmother hung green food around the cage, as he, the grandson,\nhad been accustomed to do; and the daughter of the blacksmith, very\nyoung and fair, stood by the well drawing water, and nodded to the\ngranddame, and the old woman nodded to her, and showed her a letter\nthat had come from a long way off. That very morning the letter had\narrived from the cold regions of the North--there where the grandson\nwas resting in the hand of God. And they smiled and they wept; and he,\nfar away among the ice and snow, under the pinions of the angel, he,\ntoo, smiled and wept with them in spirit, for he saw them and heard\nthem. And from the letter they read aloud the words of Holy Writ, that\nin the uttermost parts of the sea HIS right hand would be a stay and a\nsafety. And the sound of a beauteous hymn welled up all around; and\nthe angel spread his wings like a veil over the sleeping youth. The\nvision had fled, and it grew dark in the snow hut; but the Bible\nrested beneath his head, and faith and hope dwelt in his soul. God was\nwith him; and he carried home about with him in his heart, even in the\nuttermost parts of the sea.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PHOENIX BIRD.\n\n\nIn the Garden of Paradise, beneath the Tree of Knowledge, bloomed a\nrose bush. Here, in the first rose, a bird was born: his flight was\nlike the flashing of light, his plumage was beauteous, and his song\nravishing.\n\nBut when Eve plucked the fruit of the knowledge of good and evil, when\nshe and Adam were driven from Paradise, there fell from the flaming\nsword of the cherub a spark into the nest of the bird, which blazed up\nforthwith. The bird perished in the flames; but from the red egg in\nthe nest there fluttered aloft a new one--the one solitary Phoenix\nbird. The fable tells us that he dwells in Arabia, and that every year\nhe burns himself to death in his nest; but each time a new Phoenix,\nthe only one in the world, rises up from the red egg.\n\nThe bird flutters round us, swift as light, beauteous in colour,\ncharming in song. When a mother sits by her infant's cradle, he stands\non the pillow, and, with his wings, forms a glory around the infant's\nhead. He flies through the chamber of content, and brings sunshine\ninto it, and the violets on the humble table smell doubly sweet.\n\nBut the Phoenix is not the bird of Arabia alone. He wings his way\nin the glimmer of the northern lights over the plains of Lapland, and\nhops among the yellow flowers in the short Greenland summer. Beneath\nthe copper mountains of Fablun, and England's coal mines, he flies, in\nthe shape of a dusty moth, over the hymn-book that rests on the knees\nof the pious miner. On a lotus leaf he floats down the sacred waters\nof the Ganges, and the eye of the Hindoo maid gleams bright when she\nbeholds him.\n\nThe Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? The Bird of Paradise, the\nholy swan of song! On the car of Thespis he sat in the guise of a\nchattering raven, and flapped his black wings, smeared with the lees\nof wine; over the sounding harp of Iceland swept the swan's red beak;\non Shakespeare's shoulder he sat in the guise of Odin's raven, and\nwhispered in the poet's ear \"Immortality!\" and at the minstrels' feast\nhe fluttered through the halls of the Wartburg.\n\nThe Phoenix bird, dost thou not know him? He sang to thee the\n_Marseillaise_, and thou kissedst the pen that fell from his wing; he\ncame in the radiance of Paradise, and perchance thou didst turn away\nfrom him towards the sparrow who sat with tinsel on his wings.\n\nThe Bird of Paradise--renewed each century--born in flame, ending in\nflame! Thy picture, in a golden frame, hangs in the halls of the rich;\nand thou thyself often fliest around, lonely and disregarded, a\nmyth--\"The Phoenix of Arabia.\"\n\nIn Paradise, when thou wert born in the first rose, beneath the Tree\nof Knowledge, thou receivedst a kiss, and thy right name was given\nthee--thy name, POETRY.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nDALZIELS' FINE ART GIFT BOOKS.\n\n\nOne Guinea.\n\n_In a Superb Binding, richly Illuminated in Red, Blue, and Gold, uniform\nwith \"Birket Foster's Pictures of English Landscape.\"_\n\n\nA ROUND OF DAYS.\nDESCRIBED IN\nFORTY ORIGINAL POEMS\nBY SOME OF\nOUR MOST CELEBRATED POETS.\nAND IN\nSEVENTY PICTURES\nBY\nEMINENT ARTISTS.\n\nENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n*** Under the title of \"A ROUND OF DAYS,\" is given a collection of\nsubjects from every-day life of the most varied character, ranging\nfrom a picture of a Poor Mendicant to a picture of a Ball-Room in\n1865.\n\n_In Demy 4to., Chaste Design in Gold, or Morocco Elegant and Antique,\nL1 16s._\n\n\nHOME THOUGHTS AND HOME SCENES.\n\nIN\n\nTHIRTY-FIVE ORIGINAL POEMS\n\nBY\n\nHON. MRS. NORTON\nDORA GREENWELL\nJEAN INGELOW\nJENNETT HUMPHREYS\nA. B. EDWARDS\nMRS. TOM TAYLOR\nAND THE AUTHOR OF \"JOHN HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN.\"\n\nAND\n\nTHIRTY-FIVE PICTURES BY A. B. HOUGHTON,\n\nENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n     \"We predict popularity, and a deserved popularity, for this\n     production.\"--_Saturday Review._\n\n_Superb Binding, Designed by Owen Jones._\n\n\nBIRKET FOSTER'S\n\nPICTURES OF ENGLISH LANDSCAPE.\n\n(ENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL),\n\nWITH PICTURES IN WORDS BY TOM TAYLOR.\n\n     \"Here is a Birket Foster 'Gallery' of thirty pictures for a\n     guinea. Pictures so carefully finished, that they would be\n     graceful ornaments were they cut out of the books and\n     framed.\"--_Examiner._\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\n\n\n\nDALZIELS' FINE ART GIFT BOOKS.\n\nOne Guinea.\n\n_Elaborate Binding, full Gilt._\n\n\nTHE PARABLES OF OUR LORD:\n\nWITH PICTURES BY J. E. 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DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\nEIGHTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY A. W. BAYES,\n\nENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n     \"The selection comprises several Tales which it is supposed\n     have not yet appeared in any English Edition.\"\n\nSix Shillings.\n\n_Complete in One Volume, Extra Cloth Gilt, 750 pages, Crown 8vo.,\nbeautifully Printed on Toned Paper_,\n\n\nTHE VICTORIA HISTORY OF ENGLAND,\n\nFROM THE LANDING OF JULIUS CAESAR, B.C. 54, TO THE MARRIAGE\nOF H.R.H. ALBERT EDWARD, PRINCE OF WALES, A.D. 1863.\n\nWith a Chronological Table and Summary of Remarkable Events.\n\n\nMAPS OF THE BRITISH ISLES, AND TABLES, SHOWING THE ROMAN AND MODERN\nNAMES OF CITIES, TOWNS, RIVERS, ETC.\n\nFOUR HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL,\n\nDescriptive of the Manners, Customs, Dress, Architecture, Weapons,\nImplements, Furniture, Musical Instruments, &c., of the different periods,\ntaken from the most authentic sources.\n\nBY ARTHUR BAILEY THOMPSON.\n\n*** This work is so constructed as to be peculiarly fitted for School\npurposes; it is also, from the vast amount of useful matter contained\nin its pages, a most entertaining Handbook, and well suited for a Gift\nor Prize Book for the Young.\n\nFive Shillings.\n\n_Extra Cloth Gilt, on Fine Toned Paper._\n\n\nGOLDEN LIGHT:\n\nBEING\n\nSCRIPTURE STORIES FOR THE YOUNG.\nOLD AND NEW TESTAMENT.\n\nEIGHTY LARGE PAGE ENGRAVINGS BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL,\nDRAWN BY A. W. BAYES.\n\n_Extra Cloth Gilt, on Fine Toned Paper._\n\n\nA PICTURE HISTORY OF ENGLAND,\nFROM THE TIME OF THE ANCIENT BRITONS TO THE YEAR 1865.\n\nWritten for the Use of the Young.\n\nBY H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\nWITH EIGHTY ENGRAVINGS BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL,\n\nFROM DESIGNS BY A. W. BAYES.\n\nThree Shillings and Sixpence.\n\n_Extra Cloth Gilt, and Gilt Edges, on Fine Toned Paper._\n\n\nPICTURE FABLES.\n\nONE HUNDRED ENGRAVINGS BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL\n\nFROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY OTTO SPECKTER.\n\nWITH RHYMES FROM THE GERMAN OF F. HEY,\n\nTRANSLATED BY H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\n     \"It is difficult to say whether the designs of Otto Speckter\n     or the rhymes of Hey are most charming; the book is\n     exquisitely got up, and a marvel of cheapness.\"\n\n_Extra Cloth Gilt, on Fine Toned Paper_,\n\n\nTHE GOLDEN HARP:\n\nHYMNS, RHYMES, AND SONGS FOR THE YOUNG.\n\nADAPTED BY H. W. DULCKEN, PH.D.\n\nFIFTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY J. D. WATSON, T. DALZIEL, AND J. WOLF.\n\nENGRAVED BY THE BROTHERS DALZIEL.\n\n     \"We have not seen so nice a little book as this for many a\n     day; all the Artists have done well.\"--_Athenaeum._\n\nONE SHILLING EACH.\n\n_In Strong Boards._\n\n\nBEAUTIFUL PICTURE BOOKS\n\nFOR THE YOUNG.\n\nEACH CONTAINING\n\nEIGHT LARGE PICTURES PRINTED IN OIL COLOURS.\n\nBABY'S BIRTHDAY, AND HOW IT WAS SPENT.\nMARY'S NEW DOLL.\nWHEN THE CAT'S AWAY THE MICE WILL PLAY.\nTHE MISCHIEVOUS PUPPY.\nANIMALS AND BIRDS.\nTHE CHILDREN'S FAVOURITES.\nPICTURES FROM THE STREET.\nLOST ON THE SEA SHORE.\n\n\nGEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *","title":"What the Moon Saw: and Other Tales","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":146630}